Pet Cobra

The Good Dubya

Determined to have some fun in Dallas, I sought out people - right minded people - to tell me where fun in Dallas was to be had. First, a drive up the freeway - I'd spotted a Nordstrom on the drive from the airport, and that was my first stop. Nordstrom draws the people who know fun; there should have been someone there who could give me the lowdown. Straight to the Rail, where the young gay guy and young recently married pregnant gal both told me the same thing - the Dubya. Then back to my hotel, where the young gay guy at the desk reiterated what that Nordites said - the Dubya. (Some advice: when in some foreign city, always seek out the young gay hipsters - guys, get over your fears of being sent to the Blue Oyster Bar, there to serve as a virgin sacrifice to the Leather Gods; the gay guys will never steer you wrong. This, by the way, is what we call foreshadowing.)

Turns out that Dallas has a W Hotel, and Dallas' W Hotel has the Ghostbar. Further research on the Internets revealed that the Dallas Ghostbar is THE hot new bar, where the beautiful people of Dallas go, 33 stories above the Texas plain. Now, I don't kid myself - my hipster days are over, and I'll freely admit that my Vince Vaughnness long ago went from this to this. Still, I had one thing going for me: I'm a San Diegan amongst Texans, and that brings with it a certain swagger, knowing that despite the coolness that the Dallas cool think they possess, they are Charlie. And Charlie don't surf.

So. I pulled up to the W in my rented Rockford Files Gold Ford Focus (yeah, that's how I roll). Tuesday night at 8ish, and I walk in past the dozens of guys in black suits with earpieces, up the elevator, and onto the 33rd floor.

Pretty nice view. As expected, there were a number of good-looking people there, as well as a few older types - weel-heeled tourists and business travelers who looked somewhat confused by the presence of scantily clad bar girls - and one Californian flying solo, me. (For the duration of the evening, I was the only person in the bar that was there by him/herself. It was kind of cool; even a bit empowering - not many people, at least not many people who aren't diagnosed alcholics, can muster up the cajones to go to a bar without a wingman/woman/entire squadron.) The waitress began bringing me drinks, I chatted with a few people, watched the socio-anthropological rituals of the Meet/Meat Market Tribe, and began to slowly but surely get hammered (three, maybe four Red Bull and Vodkas on an empty stomach will typically have that effect). And just like that, it was 10:00, and it was time to go.

Then a funny thing happened. One of San Diego's morning radio offerings is AJ's Playhouse, and one of the DJ's is Hula. Hula and I are friends, having worked together for a few years at SeaWorld. And right as I was heading out, Hula was heading in to the bar, along with a few female companions. So it was a cool surprise, seeing an old compadre, and while the girls that he was with (the girlfriend of one of his radio co-workers and her friends, hello, I'm married, wanna see a picture of my kid?) went off to toy with the egos of the slavering single guys (which outnumbered the females at least 3 to 1; not good odds, poor bastards - a reminder of how much being single sucked), Hula and I drank a few more cocktails and went the distance, shutting the place down. It was a good time, hanging out, taking to various random Texans, listening to a weird mix of gangsta rap and 80's dance hits. 2:00 a.m., and I'm out partying. On a school night. In Dallas. So money.

(Epilogue: I somehow forgot that I had to be at a meeting at 8:00. As in 8:00 a.m. As in I woke up at 6:30 a.m., with an interesting hangover. You know how in the movie Hannibal, Ray Liotta gets his brain sauteed and eaten? I'm feelin' ya, Ray.)

ETA 3:43 CST, because it was the Ghostbar, not the Cloudbar. Perhaps I'm still drunk.

Why I Already Hate Dallas; Or, The Stars At Night Are Big And Bright Deep In The Heart Of Darkness

I'll tell you why. Because I had written a pretty goddamn funny post about my first 24 hours here in Dallas, but the shitty wireless service in this hotel timed out the connection as I was saving it, and I'm too tired and pissed off to try to recapture what I wrote, but trust me when I tell you it was good. I've only been here a day and a half and I'm already sick of this whole cracker-ass place. Along with that: The W stickers. They're everywhere. I drove past the George W. Bush Memorial Highway. Tonight, I ate dinner at a food court Chinese place; the combo plate was some sort of chicken, fried rice, and potatoes. Potatoes with the Chinese food. Charlie Sheen once said that someone once said that Hell is the impossibility of Reason. They both got it wrong. Hell is Texas.

For those about to rock...

FIRE!

I dig the kid's Metal Face. Actually, we've spent the better part of the afternoon listening to The Allman Brothers Band (I'm working from home today, as he's still on Measles Quarantine), and the boy actually managed to hang with Duane for about three minutes of "Jessica".

Tryin' To Reason With Hurricane Season

The rumors turned out to be mostly true; we did, in fact, take some time off to travel to a warm location, there to stay at a big hotel and not work. The warm location being Boca Raton, Florida, "warm" being somewhat of an understatement. But was it a vacation?

It was a nice time, for the most part. South Florida is a trip, a culture clash of Californian proportions, where NBA stars and Cuban exiles and Jamaican expats and Jersey mobsters and good ol' boys and Jerry Seinfeld's parents hug the coast. There are boats everywhere, the ocean is as warm as a HoJo's jacuzzi, and any doubts one has about the veracity of Jimmy Buffett's claims vanishes with the first bite of ropa vieja and the first sip of an icy cold mojito. There was a moment...7:30 a.m., the sun having just peeked out over the shockingly clear ocean, me bodysurfing an extra warm and extra salty and extra turquoise wave, where I think I fell in love with the place, just a little; I pictured myself, older and and grayer, sitting on the bow of my weathered 26 foot cruiser, drinking my Green Label each day.

Was it a vacation? Well, there's the kicker. A vacation, according to me, is an occurance after which one is much more relaxed, recharged, revitalized, re-anything. I still feel exactly the same as I did before stepping off that plane. Actually, no, not true; there are a couple of knots in my neck and shoulders that weren't there before. That's because we had to take Lucas to the ER the second night we were there (which, if you read DadCentric, you already knew); mumps, it turned out, and the question "who the hell gets mumps anymore?" gave way to "why the hell did the kid have to get mumps on the first goddamn vacation we've managed to swing in six years?" (Not a question directed at the kid, not at all; aimed more at who or what decides these things.)

Oh, well. Whining and bitching is for whiny bitches. We're heading up to beautiful Morro Bay for Labor Day Weekend, which will be nice. Here's hoping the kid doesn't pick up SARS while we're there.

Top 5 Most Overrated Bands EVER

My man Tony inspired me here: specifically, his riff on Knopler v. Clapton. I don't dislike Clapton, but off the top of my head I can name 5 guitarists who were/are technically better and aesthetically more pleasing than Clapton (who gave us his best stuff during the Cream days, IMHO). The man is overrated. Which really set me on a tear. Here's my take on the most overrated rock bands; again, not sayin' I dislike 'em per se (in fact, I like all of the bands listed), but perhaps the pedestal is a bit too high.

5. Sublime. This may be a local issue, but you can't listen to an alternative station between here and Santa Barbara for more than two hours without having to suffer through "Santeria" or "Wrong Way" or "Bad Fish". Sad story - Brad Nowell, OD'ed on smack leaving a wife and kid (not to mention that fucking dalmation that inspired at least 1/3 of their songs) behind. Yes, it was tragic. No, Sublime doesn't deserved to be mentioned in the same breath as The Specials, The English Beat, Bad Brains, or (FUCKING BLASPHEMY) Fishbone because of it. They wrote some catchy white boy reggae tunes, sandwiched between a lot of shitty pseudo-punk songs.

4. The Who. This has nothing to do with the fact that "The Who" (i.e., Daltrey and Townshend) are releasing an album of sorts this year. Townshend was loud, he jumped around on stage, he broke his guitars, he wrote a good rock opera. Keith Moon was a crazy drummer. Roger Daltry had a couple of good shrieks in him. The argument that they were the progenitors of modern punk falls pretty flat; take away Moon's frenetic drumming and you have...The Kinks.

3. The Dave Matthews Band. ATTENTION. ATTENTION ALL COLLEGE STUDENTS AND 20-SOMETHING YEAR OLD SKINNY WHITE CHICKS WHO THINK YOU'RE PART OF SOME COUNTERCULTURE MOVEMENT BECAUSE ONCE A YEAR YOU DROP $75 AND DRIVE THE BMW THAT YOUR PARENTS BOUGHT YOU UP TO IRVINE AND WATCH DAVE WHILE RIDING A GOOD BUZZ COURTESY OF THE TWELVER OF HEINKEN YOU DOWNED IN THE PARKING LOT. SMOKE SOME WEED AND EAT SOME 'SHROOMS AND LISTEN TO A DEAD/PHISH/UMPHREY'S MAGEE CD AND REASSESS YOUR WHOLE DEAL.

Seriously, I often wonder if the guys from the Spin Doctors sit around and say to themselves "Fuuuuuck. If only we'd thought of hiring a mediocre fiddle player."

2. This was actually the tough one. I'll keep it short. Springsteen. Why? Because who comes to mind when you think of the artists that modeled their sound after Bruce and Co.? That's right. This guy.

1. Nirvana. Here's why. Lo these many years after Cobain's death, reports of his influence are greatly exaggerated. Listen to bands today, and who do you hear? The Replacements. The Descendants. Soul Asylum. The Velvet Underground. Big Star. The Kinks (that earlier reference wasn't a diss - no Kinks, no White Stripes.) The Stones. AC/DC. Zeppelin. The Clash. Nick Drake. Richard Thompson. Black Sabbath. The Band. George Clinton and the P-Funk All Stars. Hendrix. Cream. Queen. Pink Floyd. Bob Marley. The Skatelites. Neil Young. The hype that Cobain couldn't deal with...well, it's too bad he didn't tough it out. The band put out two good albums, a mediocre studio swan song, and a live acoustic suicide note (listen to their excellent "Unplugged" album, and you'll realize that Kurt had probably already made the decision to kill himself - the song selection is downright eerie). They made punk somewhat more accessible, but in the end, it's still confined to alternative and college radio. (Not that that's a bad thing.)

There it is. Bring on the sticks and stones.

I'll Try Not To Shoot J.R.

For the first time in my working life, I get to travel outside the state of California for work-related purposes. I'll be in Dallas from August 28th through September 1. I know very little about Dallas, other than it's hotter than an armadillo's ass on a...a...fajita skillet? Isn't that a Texan saying? This site wasn't very helpful. So if you have tips, suggestions, or would like to meet me at Gilley's for a round of Shiner Bocks and a ride on the mechanical bull, feel free to put your thoughts in the Comments.

The Five Greatest Albums Ever Recorded Ever

I wasn't going to do this, but far too many of my blogging friends are doing their top 100 best albums ever thing, and frankly (and I say this with nothing but love in my heart for all of you) their choices are downright questionable. Here then are the (irrefutable! Irrefutable, I say!) top 5 albums ever recorded.

5. Night Ranger (Self-titled debut album). This supergroup had the 3rd greatest lead singer/bass player ever - Jack Blades. And yes, they were a supergroup - the guy that played Larry on Three's Company was their drummer, and Michael O'Donahue played the keys. Their music still speaks to us today - you CAN still rock in America. Oh yes.

4. Asia (Self-titled debut album). I remember the exact moment that I figured out that the cover painting - the dragon chasing the giant pachinko ball - actually spelled out A-S-I-A. It was 2:45 p.m., October 20, 1998. And John Wetton - 2nd greatest lead singer/bass player ever. (No, Kip Winger and Sting fans, your boys do not make the list.)

3. Kansas - Leftoverture. I know what you're saying. "Jason, how can this be a better album than Point Of Know Return?" Four words: "Carry On Fuckin' Wayward Son".

2. Blue Oyster Cult - Fire of Unknown Origin. Yes, it was the album that inspired the SNL skit that in turn inspired every blogger in the universe to cop Bill Simmons' More Cowbell trip. But it also gave us such classic tunes as "Joan Crawford" ("Joan Crawford has risen/From the grave!").

and the greatest album ever...

Boston, self-titled debut album. This was close - honorable mention must go to Rush's 2112, and Geddy Lee? The Greatest Lead Singer/Bass Player Ever - but Boston wins thanks to Tom Scholz's bombastic guitar playing (I'll pause while "Foreplay/Long Time" gets stuck in your head and you air-guitar it out) and singer Brad Delp's magnificent 'fro and frequent use of the word "mama".

ETA 8:17 PM PST: My crack team of interns informs me that Night Ranger's first album was, in fact, entitled Dawn Patrol. My confusion stemmed from the fact that Night Ranger actually have a song entitled "Night Ranger". Thus they'll be on my next Music List post - "Top Two Bands With Songs Named After Themselves". Number one - Bad Company.

Watch Out, The World's Behind You

Sunday morning. Last night was our 6th anniversary. Holy shit dude, 6 years. (I actually wrote those exact words on the card I gave to Beth. I'm quite the Casanova.) We went big - did a couple's massage at the Torrey Pines Lodge, and had a late dinner at the joint where it all began, The Prado. (Bit of trivia - at our wedding reception, my grandma told me that she and my grandfather had their reception in the very room that we had ours.)

So six years into it, things are going swimmingly. We are contemplating a Major Life Change - Beth is very, very close to telling her company to piss off and do the WAHM thing, which I happily support. These days, time is moving at a head-spinning pace; for one of us to have a bit more control over how that time is spent would be a boon. We've both been feeling a bit restless, I think, eager to try new things and as Beth put it, work on that rope.

(To that end, I picked up some new stuff: a block plane, a handsaw, two Surforms, and this. Buying the blank this week. It's on.)