In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

Steph bit the dust on tonight's Survivor. I'm not so much upset that she's gone but that fat, useless Katie is still an active contestant. Stupid cunt.

I finally figured out who Steph kinda looks like: Mariska Hargitay from Law & Order: SVU.

Wife is in an aeroplane over the sea as I type. I wish her a safe and secure trip both coming and going. I wish I could've gone with. But I vowed -- yes, actually vowed -- that we would go to Europe this year (or early in 2006). Where? Germany sounds cool, as does England, as does the Netherlands, as does Sweden. Maybe we can do some combo tour. We'll see.

Out on the Tiles

The old lady decided to visit her old college roommate in Bloomington yesterday. Then he decided to follow her back here because a friend of his was in New Albany, Indiana and he thought he might be able to hook up with her later. Big mistake: The Kentucky Derby Festival is officially underway and Thunder Over Louisville went down yesterday. Putting it bluntly, downtown Louisville is a fucking mess each year during Thunder; they actually close down the interstates leading to and from the city. Getting to New Albany from Louisville, which normally takes 15 minuts max, is a two-hour project on Thunder.

(Also, it was freakishly cold in Louisville yesterday, so all the yokels who turned out for Thunder froze their redneck asses off. Suckers.)

So college roommate decided to hang with us instead. We went with the Restaurant Experts With Expensive Taste to the Alameda Bar & Grill, a joint we've driven by about 724 million times since we moved here but never tried out. It was really good. Their "Texas Bluebonnet" is a dead ringer for El Mundo's "Blue Mundo." I'd definitely go back again.

Our friends bailed after the meal so we went to Seidenfaden Cafe, our neighborhood joint, or as the Brits would call it, our local. Seidenfaden is a strange place: It's an "old man" bar most of the time, but late nights and weekends, all the little self-styled hipster kids like to hang out there -- most likely because the drinks are very reasonably priced and the bartenders pour stiffly -- but thanks to Thunder, it was much less crowded than it usually is on a Saturday night. Also, they got a new pinball machine (well, it's new for Seidenfaden), so when the wife and the roommate started in on the "Remember that time..." trips down memeory lane, I was able to amuse myself.

I'm Not Into Your Passport Picture, I Just Like Your Nose

The old lady is going to Germany for two weeks. I tried to get time off so I could accompany her, but due to work commitments , I can't go -- just like when she went to Japan and England and my boss at the time was an asshole and wouldn't give me time off. But I digress.

We keep our passports in a lockbox, which I hide because I'm squirrelly like that. Last night she says, "Get my passport out so I know where it is." I retrieved the lockbox and opened it. Naturally, my passport was there; hers was not.

So we spent three hours last night tearing our house apart, to no avail. In desperation, we Googled "U.S. passports" and it looked as if my wife would have to drive up to Chicago and pay an "emergency" fee to get a new passport made. By that point, it was past 1 a.m. We hit the hay.

When I woke up to go to work, my wife seemed awful damn chipper: Turns out she remembered that she had used her passport for ID purposes somewhere and she finally remembered where it was. It was a tremendous relief that she located it... but I still wanted to strangle her, just a little bit.

TGIF, Bitches

Am I a pervert because this image turns me on? Whatever it is you're protesting, sweetie, I support your efforts 100 percent.

...A flask of bourbon at our side, Motorhead's Orgasmatron blasting from the hi-fi

This cracked my shit up.

Media Overload

This past weekend was a consumerist paradise. In addition to the Xbox, I bought two novels (at half price), a new 331/3 book and the new issue of Mojo. I'm also trying to write reviews of the new Corrosion of Conformity CD, In the Arms of God as well as the upcoming CD from local artist Coliseum, Goddamage.

But wait, there's even more: Today at lunch I walked over to the EB Games in Fourth Street Live and bought used copies of Manhunt and SoulCaliber II.

(All this after I finally signed up for 401k at work, which means I'm taking home about $50 less per pay period.)

What this all really means, however, is that I have plenty of stuff to keep me occupied.

And yet I still feel as if I'm struggling to stay on top of the mundane shit like laundry, bills, lawn care, the litter box, etc. Oh, and this blog, for which I made time this evening. Thank God Monday is a slow TV night.

I need a 36-hour day.

Xbox Fever

Back in the day, I was a huge, no huge, no, make that HUGE fan of Doom and DoomII. An old girlfriend bought a PC in '96 and she generously told me that if there was any software I'd like to use on her new toy, she was more than happy to let me. A friend of mine who was a hardcore computer gamer told me about Doom and the rest is history.

Recently, id Software released Doom 3, which was billed as the biggest, baddest Doom ever in the history of the know and unknown universes. Unfortunately, to play this megagame at its highest potential, one's PC needs to be up to NORAD capabilities. Our crappy Gateway can barely handle it when I run MS Word and an internet browser simultaneously, so it looked as if Doom 3 was out of my reach until we got around to upgrading the hardware. Naturally, I started hinting to my wife that a new PC might be in order. For doing our taxes or something.

My wife, well aware of my tactics, figured out that I wanted a new game and offered a clever solution: She told me to just buy a game console. And since id had just recently dropped the Xbox version of Doom 3, I was all set. I bought the box and the game yesterday. Set up was quick and painless. I cracked open a Woodpecker, sat back and prepared to start blowing shit up.

Silly me. Have you seen the Xbox controllers? Jesus wept. I've seen commercial aircraft with more streamlined control panels. One lever moves your characters head, another moves his legs, then there's the D-pad, the four colored buttons (A, B, X and Y) and the two little ones that operate the PDA (see below) and the flashlinght, not to mention the triggers on the underside. Right off the bat, I'm at a serious disadvantage -- you see, I only have two hands. But I figure practice makes perfect and that with three or four hours a day of serious gameplay, heh heh, I'll be just as good as members of the Xbox's target demographic, i.e., 15-year-old cretins.

But then there's the game itself: In the first two Dooms, you shot at everything that moved and picked up any stray weapons, ammo packs, medical supplies and keys that you saw lying around. For the most part, it's mindless entertainment, but you do have to remember where certain doors and elevators and what not are to get to the next level. In the new Doom, there's 20 minutes of exposition and backstory that you have to wade through at the start of the game, which kills the momentum before it's even begun. Furthermore, your character is issued a PDA that you have to keep checking for clues, e-mails and other information, which is a pain in the ass. Finally, the game is fucking dark. Now, I know all about versimilitude and all that shit, but you need to be able to see what the fuck you're doing. Add all that up, and this "game" has turned into serious work, which pretty much removes all of the fun from the equation.

So after two hours of stumbling aimlessly, I gave up. I'm going to search for cheat codes on the web and see if I can "customize" this bitch so it's playable. And if I can't get the hang of Doom-fucking-3, there's always Red Dead Revolver or Manhunt.

The Idiot Box

We watch entirely too much television. We joke about it all the time, but that doesn't change the fact that we spend too much time suckling the glass teat.

(By we, I mean my wife and I, not the whole of America or anything like that.)

But do we stop? Aw, hell naw.

Here's a list of every show that we watch religiously, i.e., one or both of us is visibly upset if an episode is missed. Keep in mind some of the shows listed go on hiatus from time to time, freeing up valuable minutes for channel-surfing.

Sunday
The Simpsons
Arrested Development
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
The Sopranos
Family Guy (starting May 1)

Monday
Medium

Tuesday
The Amazing Race
The Shield

Thursday
Survivor
CSI

Saturday
The Venture Brothers

"But Vitamin J," you cry. "The shows listed above comprise a mere nine hours of TV viewing spread across an entire week. This puts your household well below the national average of 4.3765988 hours* of television watched per day."

If only. The programs named above are appointment TV. It's not as if the box remains unused on the off nights.

Here's a partial list of the crap one or both of us will sit through when our "main" shows aren't being broadcast. No, I won't provide links for these. Try Google.

Cops
Law & Order
Law & Order: SVU
The Office (British)
King of the Hill
The Life Laundry
Clean Sweep
Charmed
Fear Factor
The Daily Show
Chappelle's Show
Insomniac
King of Queens
The Surreal Life
Crossing Jordan
MadTV
Celebrity Fit Club
What Not to Wear (British)
What Not to Wear (American)
Good Eats

That's hardly a complete list; I just don't feel like poring over TV Guide and plugging any holes. We also use our Insight on Demand feature and watch reruns of The Sopranos, and I'm tempted to acquaint myself with Six Feet Under, to boot. Furthermore, I own the complete runs of Freaks and Geeks, Mr. Show and Strangers With Candy on DVD for even more television goodness.

We watch a lot of fucking TV.

But what compounds things even further is that among our little social circle, each of them has their own favorites that they try to cajole one or both of us into watching. And while I'm tempted to try Lost, Nip/Tuck, Desperate Housewives, Deadwood, Curb Your Enthusiasm, House and every other well-received program I've heard about, the line has to be drawn somewhere (a bold stance, I know).

(In my defense, I tried watching the newest Law & Order spinoff and both CSI offshoots, and they're all shitty in their own special way. I'm not a complete zombie.)

The point? How the hell should I know? While I don't subscribe to the theory that TV rots your brain, it certainly does eat up a large chunk of my precious free time.

*Obviously, I just made this number up.

Eating in Louisville

We rarely eat at home on weekends. Why should we? We can afford to dine out and when you go to a restaurant, there are no dishes to clear, no cooking implements to wash.

Friday, we went to Havana Rumba, a Cuban establishment in St. Matthews. Nobody in our party of four had ever eaten there before. Usually when we get adventurous at mealtime we end up regretting it, but we were all pleasantly surprised at how much we liked the food. I even drank sangria, which tastes like Hawaiian Punch mixed with red wine, neither of which I am very fond, but hey, when in Rome. The only sour note was Tony, who ordered a grouper sandwich (?) but pouted when it arrived, saying it was "good, but not what he expected." (??) Sorry, man. We'll go to Long John Silver's for you next time.

Saturday, we went to the Third Avenue Cafe. Again, a pleasant surprise. We went with a different couple this time, and they usually have very expensive tastes in restaurants. Both of them waited tables while in college, so they think they know everything about the food industry, and maybe they do, but usually when we go somewhere they have selected, I know I'm going to pay quite a bit for a pretentious, fruity meal that I won't finish and then I'll be in the La Bamba drive-through buying a chorizo burrito with avocados and extra jalapeno (keeps the mail moving, don't you know).

But anyway, Third Avenue: A long time ago, before we relocated here, I wrote an article about what to do in Louisville over a weekend. The magazine who tossed me this assignment put me and the old lady up in a bed & breakfast that was just up the road from the Third Avenue Cafe, so we had actually been there for a drink, but not dinner. We'd always said, "We should go back there sometime," but never got around to it until this weekend. Again, it was really good. Also, our waiter was something of a comedian, which can be extremely grating, but was highly amusing because he was so clearly getting on our friends's nerves. Other people's irritation = good times.

An Actual Ray of Sunshine

Nice weather today here in the 'Ville. Very pleasant.

Here's an interesting take on the papacy of John Paul II. Truthfully, I have no opinion one way or the other about the pontiff's deeds or legacy.

Thinking about seeing a movie this weekend.

Thinking about my reality TV shows, too. I overheard a few people at work discussing The Amazing Race. Last Wednesday's episode was dramatic as usual, with "The Brothers" getting the boot, an especially poignant event in light of the previous episode's circumstances -- they wrecked their Land Rover and seemed destined for Philimination but managed to catch up to the team of Deana and Ray at a Road Block, then beat them in a foot race to the Check-In. Suck on that, bitches.

(And it has to be said: Ray? Was a total fucking prick. He was -- and most likely, still is -- the embodiment of every cliche you can imagine regarding alpha males going through a midlife crisis. Plus, he had a tendency to regularly use phrases like "the competitive edge" and "will to win" with a straight face. And the icing on the cake was that ridiculous do-rag he always wore. I mean, dude: you're a fortysomething stockbroker from Ohio, not a cast member of Jackass. Have some fucking dignity.)

A Little Ray of Sunshine

I do some freelance writing here and there to supplement my meager income. When I started doing this, a long, long time ago, when I was younger and dumber, I really loved writing music and comic book reviews because it was a win-win-win situation: I got to inflict my opinions on the public, I got free CDs, concert tickets, comics and other promo swag and to top it off, I got paid.

I was eventually able to turn the freelancing into a full-time job editing a magazine, which eventually became six magazines. Again, I was insanely happy, because this was one of my ultimate fantasy dream jobs. Then I figured out that the publisher of the magazine -- my boss -- and I would never see eye-to-eye on damn near anything. So my dream job quickly became the shittiest job I've ever had -- and I've worked at McDonald's, so I know a shitty job when I have one. But I think I was still pretty good at it (editing the magazines, not flipping burgers) so I lasted three and a half years, which was two and a half years longer than I expected.

After that gig ended, I went back to the glamorous world of finance before we decided to move to Louisville. Thanks to my illustrious journalism career, I was able to procure a full-time "hard news" job as well as the freelance shit. But believe it or not, I take some semblance of pride in my work, and unfortunately, since I have to do all my freelance stuff during my "off" hours, I fear that the work occasionally suffers.

So why do I still do it? Because of the swag, mainly. Yes, I have sold out for promotional materials. I am one of the music industry's many bitches.

The moral of this story is, be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.

Go Cards

They lost.

I was at the Irish Rover last night with some friends (my "peeps," as the kids say) and in the bar, there were about 10-15 people watching the game. They were quite vocal during the game, but grew strangely quiet towards the end. At least they had the sense not to be dickheads about it as the Cards choked.

The Tribe Has Spoken

Damn. A full week has gone by since last I fed the blog here.

For those who were concerned, I recovered from my illness and made it to work the next day.

Well, Steph is still in the running on Survivor, but it's down to her and Bobby Jon of the pathetic Ulong tribe. I really don't see how it would be possible for the two tribes not to merge next week, but I would love to see how Survivor's producers would handle it if they didn't merge, because Survivor contestants cannot vote for themselves, so if Steph and Bobby John (he's from Alabama, hence the double name) were to go to Tribal Council, they could only vote for each other and there would be a tie. Would they have Jeff Probst flip a coin?

I also watch The Amazing Race, which I think is the purest reality show in that it's purely a meritocracy: the best teams go on to the next leg of the race, while the team that arrives at the current destination last is eliminated from the show. The social aspects that make Survivor such a crapshoot really have no effect on the outcome.

Meanwhile, the University of Louisville Cardinals basketball team is heading to a big championship game this weekend. Here in America, where priorities are nothing if not completely backwards, the local media is pretty much shitting themselves covering every asinine angle they can dredge up. One angle that does interest me, however, is what happens if the Cards pull it off and win the NCAA championship? Will all the loyal fans here riot and smash shit up? If they do, will it extend to my neighborhood? I sure hope not. But let's face it: The average sports fan? Is a fucking beer-swilling, dimwitted lout. I mean, what better way to show support for your favorite team than by flipping over a few cars and setting fires? Woo-hoo!

Here's hoping that the Fighting Illini beat the Cards Saturday so I don't have to find out how "enthusiastic" the local fanbase is the hard way.

Couch Potato

Lord, I love me some reality TV. Last night's Survivor was yet another heartbreaker. I'm rooting for the Ulong tribe, and they pretty much suck ass. They have yet to win an immunity challenge, which meant that after last night's Tribal Council (I feel so dorky typing that out), they were reduced to three members down from nine since the first episode. I always tend to pull for the underdog in any given situation, but I also have a TV crush on Ulong's Stephenie. I thought I'd hate her, but she's grown on me. I also thought she was unattractive -- her features are kind of manly, especially when her hair is pulled back, which it usually is on the show -- but now I think she's pretty cute. Must be the lack of clothing. Gamewise, she's very determined, reasonably low-key and she appears to be playing the game well. Let's hope she's not promptly voted out once the two tribes merge.

She'll Bartend Your Party

Kings of Leon were at Headliners Monday night. We saw them at Phoenix Hill Tavern back in 2003 and they were pretty good, so what the hell? We went. I like the Kings but I don't love 'em. Their debut EP Holy Roller Novocaine was killer; the debut album Youth & Young Manhood was every song from the EP plus a bunch of songs I didn't care for and their latest, Aha Shake Heartbreak was also so-so. But free tickets is free tickets. Or so I thought.

Well, apparently, the Kings, or their tour manager, or somebody, thought that Louisville was on Central Standard Time, which it certainly is not. So the Kings were running at least an hour behind. It's rock 'n roll, which isn't necessarily punctual, but c'mon: They didn't take the stage until 10:50 p.m. They probably should've been wrapping up by then. And I know I'm showing my age, but it was a Monday night and I had to go to work the next day. Nevertheless, things eventually got off to a great start because they opened with "Molly's Chamber," my favorite song of theirs and also the song featured in a new Volkswagen commercial. They played well, especially bass player Jared Followill, who was rocking a beautiful Thunderbird. But since we'd been at the club since 8:30, and we're old, remember, we only made it through eight or nine songs before we split.

Sorry, guys. I'll catch you next go 'round.

Don't Monkey With My Business

Here's a review I wrote for a painstakingly straight news organization. Accordingly, I couldn't use the excessive profanity that seems to exemplify my writing style. However, I've inserted a few comments in red that I judiciously left out of the "official" version.

Back in their '80s heyday, Duran Duran was seen as something of a joke: An MTV-concocted bunch of pretty boys posing and preening through video after video with no real musical substance behind them.

How times change. In the present day -- the era of Ashlee Simpson -- Duran Duran now seem positively venerable. After all, they wrote their own material, played their own instruments and were able to perform live without cheat tracks. Although the group never actually disbanded, Duran Duran was reduced to a core of two original members -- singer Simon LeBon and keyboardist Nick Rhodes -- after the other three left at various points. Guitarist Andy Taylor and drummer Roger Taylor (no relation) were the first to split; bass player John Taylor (again, no relation) left a decade later. As with most bands, the original line-up was the best. As with most bands that break up, a reunion seemed inevitable, and it finally happened for the Durans last year. A new album (Astronaut , Epic Records) was recorded and the newly reconstituted band hit the road.

The tour made a stop in Louisville Sunday night, and judging the reaction of the sold-out Palace Theatre, the reunion is an unqualified success. Drawing heavily upon their hit-littered past without neglecting their new material, the Durans played a tight two-hour set that kept the crowd on its feet for the duration. However, due to a family illness, Andy Taylor had to fly home to England, so one Dominic Brown handled guitar duties. The show must go on.

The big '80s hits ("Hungry Like the Wolf," "A View to a Kill," "The Reflex") got the biggest responses, but many people new the lyrics to newer tunes like "Want You More" and the risqué "Bedroom Toys." In fact, they opened the show with "(Reach Out for the) Sunrise," as if to say, "We're not just a nostalgia act, folks."

Overall, the band looked good, although middle age has thickened the waistlines, and none of the members appear to have had any obvious plastic surgery. (It's gotta be said: LeBon kinda resembled William Shatner -- sorry, girls.) John Taylor was wearing a skirt, while the rest of the band was more conservatively attired. LeBon seemed to get winded a few times during "Hungry Like the Wolf," and his vocals were mixed conspicuously low, but midway through the set, everything evened out. Taylors John and Roger provided the muscle, proving that a good rhythm section is a good rhythm section, no matter the musical genre.

Giant video screens were used to good effect, featuring close-ups of the band, graphics and even short films, the highlight of which was an anime-style cartoon featuring the Durans gruesomely battling ninjas and giant monsters during "Careless Memories," culminating in LeBon's animated doppelganger destroying a building labeled "Endangered Music Industry" -- a swipe at the band's former record label, EMI. Another highlight was the near snuff film that served as the backdrop for "A View to a Kill," portions of which were downright disturbing. Who knew the Duran boys were such perverts? One wonders what the former teenyboppers made of all the bondage and mutilation on the big screens -- something to think about in the minivan on the way back home to St. Matthews.

The encores of "Girls on Film" and "Rio" ended things on a suitably high note. Duran Duran put on an impressive show, demonstrating how bands with 20-year careers can mix the old with the new.

Setlist:
(Reach Out For The) Sunrise
Hungry Like the Wolf
Planet Earth
Want You More
Union of the Snake
What Happens Tomorrow
Come Undone
I Don't Want Your Love
A View to a Kill
Astronaut
The Chauffeur
Ordinary World
Save a Prayer
Bedroom Toys
Nice
Notorious
The Reflex
Careless Memories
Wild Boys
encores:
Girls on Film
Rio

Addendum: Me, I was pleasantly surprised by how good Duran Duran was last night. Good show, lads! I was pretty indifferent to them the first time around, although they always had hot chicks in their videos (whatever happened to the actress in the "Rio" video?), but every woman I ever dated, including the lucky one I eventually married, loved Duran Duran, so having their greatest hits in the CD collection was a no-brainer.

New Day Rising

One of the defining moments of my callow youth was when I decided, on a whim, to purchase Hüsker Dü's then-new LP Flip Your Wig. This would've been in 1985, when I was a junior at Bosse High School. I had always fancied myself something of a music aficionado, but by entering the uncharted waters of underground rock and independent record labels, I took my tastes to a new level. Previously I had spent much of my parents's hard-earned monies primarily on heavy metal and progressive rock albums, but some new wave had crept into the mix and I had also started reading Rolling Stone magazine, whose record reviews were a tad more sophisticated than the ones found in Circus and Hit Parader. In other words, I was ready.

In retrospect, it was highly fortuitous that Hüsker Dü were the gateway to this musical epiphany, because 1) they were so fucking good and 2) they were highly prolific, so there was lots of stuff in the back catalog for me to discover, which I did, most eagerly. When pressed, I'd say that the mighty Zen Arcade is my favorite album by the band, but there will always be a soft spot in my pitch black heart for Flip Your Wig.

Which brings me to Bob Mould, Hüsker Dü's guitarist and vocalist. After the band broke up in 1988, Mould's career was the one I followed most closely (no offense to drummer Grant Hart, who was just as important to the Hüsker sound as Mould... and is also gay) (I guess I should also mention that Greg Norton played bass). Bob's output since then has been up and down. His first solo album, Workbook, was a phenomenal creative triumph; its follow-up, Black Sheets of Rain, was kind of a dud. C'est la vie. However, Mould's worst album is more often than not 100 times better than most other performer's finest work.

Around the time Mould was launching his new band Sugar -- this would've been 1991, 1992 -- he was outed by Faith No More keyboard player Roddy Bottum in an interview in The Advocate. Now, I wasn't a regular reader of that magazine, being heterosexual and all, but MTV News ran a little segment on Bottum's quote and obviously, I had to see it for myself. I ran down to the short-lived Readmore book store in the Ross Center and bought that issue and, sure enough, there it was. Bob Mould was gay -- I mean, if it was in print, it had to be true, right?

Now, I grew up in Evansville, Indiana, a conservative small town. Loathe as I am to admit it, that atmosphere and my upbringing shaped many of my attitudes. To wit: My buddies and I regularly called each other "homo," "queer" and of course, "faggot" much more frequently than we ever addressed each other with our Christian names. Amusing, because I didn't even really know what a faggot was until I was in high school. Personally, I had nothing against "the gays," but I certainly didn't understand them and I was certain I had never met any.

But lo and behold: Here's Bob Mould, this talented songwriter, this monster guitarist, this paragon of indie cred, and he's a homo. It really opened my eyes. I'd never met him, of course, but I felt that I knew him. I certainly looked up to him. I mean, I didn't start donating money to GLAAD or anything, but my attitudes toward homosexuals became more enlightened. So when I read about the discriminatory amendments to state constitutions that the willfully ignorant majority of Americans are voting into law, I always remember my own youthful ignorance and wonder what would happen if, say, a NASCAR driver or a pro football player or some other "manly man" were to come out of the closet. Maybe some of these hillbilly halfwits would change their minds.

Doubtful.

How did this celebration of my first punk rock record purchase turn into a rambling discourse on tolerance and all that shit? I'm so gay!

Erin Go Bragh

It's St. Patrick's Day. You know what that means: Stay the fuck away from all the "Irish" bars in town. The asshole alert will be at RED.

I use quotation marks around Irish because there are a few watering holes here in Louisville that might as well bill themselves as "Canadian," "Hungarian" or "Japanese" for all their Irish authenticity. Around here, if you've got Guinness, Harp, Smithwick's and Bass on tap -- or any combination thereof -- you can call your establishment an "Irish pub."

Having said that, I do enjoy the Irish Rover and Molly Malone's, although Molly's lost serious cred points from me when they stopped carrying Woodpecker and replaced it with Hard Core last summer. For non-cider drinkers, that'd be replacing Harp with Killian's Irish Red -- it's close, but no cigar.

Anyway, the reason I like these two pubs? Because they've got authentic Irishmen (and Irishwomen) on staff. It's the little things.

Antics

Interpol played at the Brown Theatre tonight. Good stage presence, tight playing, overall a really great show, although Paul Banks's voice seemed a little raw -- and he isn't exactly the world's finest vocalist to start with. Carlos D. looks like he takes himself way too seriously, but I couldn't take my eyes off of him the whole set. He's a rock star, plain and simple. Sam Fogarino? Short.

Q and Not U opened, and the contrast was hilarious. Interpol had to have picked them to open this leg of the tour to make them look better: After seeing the three schlubs in QaNU, dressed in whatever came into the Goodwill that afternoon, their beer guts hanging over their trousers, greasy hair flopping about as they did the absolute worst dancing ever, it was hard stifling the giggles. Putting it differently, QaNU looked as if they all had body odor. If their material had been awesome, they would have transcended the handicaps listed above, but their all-too-mediocre art-noise was tedious and uninspired.

But hey, I got in free because I wrote a preview of the show, so I shouldn't complain... although that's never stopped me before.

Inspiration

Death May Be Your Santa Claus comes from a song on Mott the Hoople's album Brain Capers (1971). Quoth Stephen Thomas Erlewine on the All-Music Guide: All these changes are evident from the moment Brain Capers kicks in with the monumental "Death May Be Your Santa Claus," a phenomenally pile-driving number that just seems inevitable.

What he said. Amusingly enough, the phrase "Death May Be Your Santa Claus" appears nowhere in the song's lyrics.

Death May Be Your Santa Claus is also a movie, accordingto the Internet Movie Database, but I have not seen it.