Oh Rex Morgan MD, you have the cure for the daily blues

My guess is that posting today will be light, as your trusty Barrelhouse editors had a few too many delicious malted beverages last night. But here's something to keep you entertained while we sleep it off: The Comics Curmudgeon.

This guy has plenty of devoted readers, but if you haven't checked out the site before, you really should. Where else are you going to find panel-by-panel breakdowns of Mary Worth, Gil Thorpe and Apartment 3-G? Is Curtis secretly penned by a fusty old Jew? Is Garfield's animator the laziest man alive? Will poor Ziggy ever catch a break?

Meanwhile, I think I can actually smell the booze coming out of my pores. Time to go throw up!

"Newlyweds" for the comically disaffected high school set

Somewhere, an MTV producer is salivating over the announcement that "punk" singer Avril Lavigne is engaged to "punk" band Sum-41's Deryck Whibley.

Their inevitable reality show will be just like Nick and Jessica's, only Avril and Deryck will of course claim to be doing the show ironically. They'll occasionally snarl at the camera, and they'll decorate their McMansion in "punk" furnishings from Urban Outfitters. Maybe they'll replace the "s" in Newlyweds with a "z."

Of course it should go without saying that Avril Lavigne embodies the spirit of punk music about as much as McDonald's embodies the spirit of healthy eating. If that focus group had gone in a different direction, Lavigne would be a flatter-chested Britney Spears.

Meanwhile, every time either one of these clowns uses the word "punk" in a sentence, my gag reflex kicks in, Sid Vicious rolls over in his grave, and Baby Jesus cries.

A song for all occasions

In my prodigious experience, there are very few activities in this world that cannot be enhanced by the accompaniment of AC/DC's Thunderstruck.

It's a hundred degrees and you've got a sweater on

To keep on our Music Day theme here at Barrelhouse: I've decided that The Promise Ring's Wood/Water — the band's last effort before, well, disbanding — is maybe my favorite summer album.

Something about the slow, jangly pace of the songs just seems perfect for the season of high humidity and moving around at three-quarter speed. It's accessible and easy to listen to but certainly not light or fluffy. It all sounds effortless, but in the very best sense of the word. Also, it's one of a small number of records (okay, CDs) I can put on in the car, listen to all the way through, and then listen to all the way through a second time.

Another summer favorite is Wilco's appropriately titled Summerteeth. The Barrelhouse editors have debated at great length about the best Wilco stuff, and while I'm usually one to defend their last couple albums, I still think this one's my favorite. I saw them play at the Merriweather Post Pavilion on Sunday, and they put on a great show. They also became the first band I've enjoyed more outdoors than I did indoors. Something about their music just seems like appropriate accompaniment for standing around barefoot in the grass of an amphitheater. Although I could have lived without the obnoxious high school kids behind us, who seemed more interested in trying to find people to buy them beer and talking loudly on their cell phones ("I'm at a concert! A CONCERT!") than in listening to the tunes. I'm still wondering what they were doing there. I'm guessing they got their dates mixed up and thought they were coming for the Three Doors Down/Staind show next month.

mp3 Morning: highlights from a lame, short run

Today is music day at Barrelhouse, and tonight is meeting night, which usually means that I try to get up early and go for a lame, waddling jog, since I'll be drinking many brooklyn browns tonight as we navigate the winding, drunken road that is the Barrelhouse Meeting (a glimpse behind the cheap plastic curtain: we meet in bars; well, a bar).

So last night I loaded up my mp3 player for a morning jog. I like to do this like Star Jones' first run at an all-you-can-eat buffet, grabbing anything that looks remotely interesting and stuffing it away with no regard to genre, taste, or the Nick Hornby rules for making a mix tape (which are, by the way, absolutely correct). Highlights from today's mix include:

Cold Gin, by KISS
I just downloaded this, I think after a few too many Pacificos on my patio. Man, its still a really good song. It's actually kind of interesting that KISS really was a heavy metal band. You kind of forget about all that, with the make-up and the posturing and the corporate rock dinosaur yearly "farewell" tour thing they have going. Some of those early songs are pretty heavy. And this one is basically about a couple that's only thing in common is cheap gin, if I remember correctly. What the hell where we doing listening to this shit when we were ten?

Cold Roses, Ryan Adams
Okay, so in another life (which we can call "college") I was kind of a deadhead, and I admit that I really liked the first two Ryan Adams records. Well, maybe I should say I really liked songs from the first two, mainly the ones that sound like Whiskeytown or the Band, but also some of the ones that sound like generic, jangly alt-country. But who knew he was such a deadhead? This is definitely his Dead Song (and the album has maybe five songs that could be outtakes from Jerry Garcia's cleverly named "Garcia"). Nice song, once you get used to the fact that Ryan Adams wrote a Dead song and then recorded it exactly like the Dead would have in 1970, with a guitar hook built for spinning, spaces in the middle for live nooodling and twirling and bong hits and veggie burritos and the whole scene.

Gangsters and Thugs, the Transplants
So this is Tim from Rancid, Travis from Blink 182, and some heavy metal rapper kind of dude. The first album was pretty great, kind of like Rancid songs (circa "Out Come the Wolves," big hooks, more Clash-y, less hardcore) with some slurry rapping in the middle every now and then. This one seems a little watered down, a little more poppy, with less slurry rapping and more whisper-y rapping. Maybe they all sobered up. Maybe Travis is too busy getting high and planning his wedding on that terrible MTV show, and Tim went introspective after Brody Armstrong left him for that redheaded dude from Queens of the Stone Age. Maybe when they sold one of the best songs from the first album -- Diamonds and Guns -- to Garnier Fructis shampoo everybody just said, ah, what the hell, let's just be a pop band with tattoos and a pedigree. I dont know. It's not a bad song, and the chorus -- "some of my friend sell records, some of my friend sell drugs" -- is pretty solid. All in all, I miss the guitars. I really miss the guitars. I guess this is Tim Armstrong's Sandinista period. Let's hope he gets through it and goes back to his London Calling period.

What's Golden, Jurassic Five
In a just world, Jurassive Five would be wildly famous and the Black Eyed Peas would be asking if you wanted extra foam on that grande skim cap. This song is fantasic -- funky and old school, but with enough of an edge to keep the Five from being some kind of Kurtis Blow revival act. And the best line I've heard in a long time: "we're tight like dreadlocks, or Redd Foxx and ripple."

Feel Good, Inc, by Gorrillaz
Goddam catchiest song of the year. Just try to get it out of your head. Go on, I dare you, try it.

What happens when people stop being polite

Maybe it's best not to admit to this, but here goes: I still watch The Real World. Though with this latest, Austin-based incarnation, I'm thinking it may finally be time to stop. Okay, so the time to stop was probably when I graduated from high school, or, at the very least, college. But I can't help it. At its best (or worst, depending on your perspective), the show is a perfect guilty pleasure. Plus, it's been on for so many years that it's become a kind of constant companion.

Does anyone else remember that first season in '92? Oh, how quaint it seems now by comparison: no hot tub or ridiculously contrived "job" for the housemates (back then, they had – gasp – actual jobs, or at least school, and thus had reasons for being in whichever town they were in other than groping each other on camera). In that first season it was still surprising when Kevin morphed into Angry Black Guy, or when the girls took off their tops on the Jamaican vacation, or when the White Southern Girl was accused of being racist and/or homophobic. Oh how I miss those sweet, innocent days!

Now it's all become so predictable. In those first few seasons (New York, L.A., San Francisco, even London, though maybe to a lesser degree) the show felt like a real experiment. Sure the final product was contrived, with MTV choosing to play up certain dramas and downplay others, or to fit each "character" into some easily digestible type. But there were still occasional moments of "realness." You could forget sometimes that there were cameras around, or that the cast knew there were cameras around. But starting with the Miami season, you really began to get the sense that these people knew exactly what they were getting into. Since then, it's like every member of the cast just goes ahead and stereotypes him or herself, to save MTV the trouble.

The newest cast is just the latest example of this. It's like they're on some sort of Amazing Race to see who can embody their given stereotype first. On the first day Token Black Guy shows up to the house wearing a huge Africa pendant and a Black Power tee shirt (I bet someone's gonna do something to make him angry!). The Whore With a Boyfriend She'll Definitely Be Cheating On prances around the house in her underpants and shows one of the male housemates her asshole (no, I am not kidding). The White Frat Boys high-five constantly and make a bet about who's going to "pull more ass" over the course of the season. The Girl With a Drinking Problem gets drunk and makes out with one of the Frat Boys, then the next night gets drunk and picks a fight with Token Black ("Don't you disrespect me!"). And everyone flocks to the hot tub like venereal disease to a Baltimore hooker. Yawn.

I also have to question anyone who still wants to be on this show. Sure you get to live in a cool house, but is it really worth it? The locals hate you (in the first Austin episode, one of the White Frat Boys got the left side of his face caved in when a local punched him outside a bar, requiring surgery). Your parents, and maybe even your friends, will probably disown you. And no one can still hold out hope that being on The Real World is going to make you famous as anything other than That Guy/Girl Who Was On The Real World. Is being a perpetual contestant on that godawful Real World/Road Rules Challenge show really such a prize? Then again, we seem to have entered an era where being Center Square is no longer something to be mocked, but something to aspire to; it's a "career choice" and not just what Vincent Price or Whoopi Goldberg fell back on when the movie offers stopped coming in.

Lordy, Lordy, Nate Turns Forty (and Alan Ball Can Bite Me)

So it's time to take out your Fonzie trapper keeper, open up the entry that says "Six Feet Under," and write down in the blank space next to Shark Jumped On: "6/27/2005, Nate Turns Forty."

Last night's show pretty much sucked ass. The worst part is it sucked ass in a lame, rote, predictable, safe, cruise-control kind of way, rather than a holy shit I can't watch this kind of way (such as last season's David Gets Abducted episode).

Nate turned forty, argued with Brenda about a new pregnancy, had a party with a lot of plot development, if not a lot of interesting plot development (you know the kind of party people have on TV dramas, the ones where each subplot gets gently nudged forward throughout the course of the party, where people sit in twos and Work Through Issues or at least Advance the Plot, kind of like Sixteen Candles without the Donger or American Pie without Stiffler), fought with Brenda, fought with Billy, and then fought with an embarrassingly obvious Bird Who Flew in Through the Window/Omen of Death.

Yeah, a bird flew into the house. Three times. It wasn't shocking or spooky or even interesting. It was just lazy, the kind of thing that would get edited out of a sophomore creative writing workshop in about five minutes.

The most interesting person on the show is now Nate's chubby, drunk high school buddy, who is kind of like a beer-addled, forty-ish Stiffler who has given up on everything except getting more beer and eying up his daughter's teenage friends. Everybody else is on cruise control, even Scruffy Crazy Billy, whose arc into medication-deprived crazy-ass depression was as predictable and lame as the fact that last night even pictured Nate thumbing through an old scrapbook in the family living room, as well as an enlightening talk with Dear Old Dead Dad.

Full disclosure: I'm closer to forty than thirty, by far the oldest of the Barrelhouse crew. I have tendinitis in my achilles and hair has started to show up in my ears with disturbing, weed-like regularity. Nate's descent into American Beauty territory has no doubt kicked off some kind of That's Not Me detector/force field, the same thing that allows me to see gray hair in my beard and not get freaked out, the same thing that keeps me listening to hip hop and actually following TV shows that are shown on networks other than the History or Weather Channel.

Make no mistake, it does suck watching this show about how much its going to suck getting older, but I dont think that's the essential thing that bothers me about the show this season. I think the thing I'm offended by is the laziness. We've been on this ride for a long time and now its starting to look like the payoff is not coming. Anybody who stuck around for the second season of Twin Peaks is getting a familiar prick in the back of their neck right now.

Maybe Alan Ball is one of those guys with only one story to tell, and he strung us along for so many seasons of Six Feet Under, disguising the American Beauty just beneath the surface, with fancy tricks like dead people talking, crazy psychiatrists, and Lauren Ambrose. Or maybe I'm just getting old and cranky, and that bird thing wasn't as cheap-ass as it seemed to be. Nate did kill it in the end. Although that would probably get edited out of the sophomore writing workshop, too. Are you kidding, they'd say, he kills the Omen of Death? And then goes off to another day at the Funeral Parlor?

Nah, I'm not buying it either. I believe the Fonz has landed safely, and is giving us the famous Thumbs Up, people.

How to disappear completely

I saw the new Batman flick over the weekend, and while I don't have anything approaching a real review -- as we've established already, I'm not much of a comic book reader and am probably not the movie's target audience -- I do have one small beef. Not even with Batman, in particular, but with the superhero genre in general. And here it is: How come no one can ever guess the superhero's identity?

Batman actually treated this subject a little more delicately than most, I thought. Morgan Freeman's character, to his credit, figures out what's what pretty early on, as does Michael Caine's Alfred. Katie Holmes' character also figures it out, though somewhat oddly, I thought. Christian Bale (in the Batman suit) makes a comment harking back to a conversation he (as Bruce Wayne) had with Holmes a few days before. And that -- rather than the fact half his face is sticking out of the mask -- is what cues the "Aha!" moment for her.

I realize the dual identity thing is important to these stories. Everyone needs to assume that Superman is Superman and not wuss boy Clark Kent. Likewise Spiderman. But are we really to believe that, in the first Spiderman movie, Kirsten Dunst can pull off half of Spiderman's mask, make out with him, and still not realize it's her next-door neighbor? I've always found that one a little hard to swallow.

The best real-world comparison I can think of is Halloween. Let's say you're going out to the local bar to meet some friends, and you're dressed up as the Lone Ranger. When you see said friends, do you think you'll have to take off the eye-mask before they recognize you? Are they going to stand there staring at you and whispering amongst themselves: I don't know, Cathy, I mean it looks sorta like Stan -- same bone structure, the voice, that stupid soul patch he thinks is cool. But I can't really be sure unless I see the eyes. Yep, definitely gonna need to see the eyes.

The Great State of the Mac

Alright, so I'm in Montana for my job--that's my real job, by the way, the one that allows me to pay rent and eat. I've been doing a lot of business traveling lately and whenever I get to a new town I take a few minutes and listen to the local radio stations. Granted, with the massive Independence-Day-Spaceship-like omnipresence of Clear Channel it gets harder and harder to distinguish one place from the other based only on the music coming out of a boom box, but I still enjoy trying.

Anyway it's 11:30 P.M. local time and for some reason a radio station way down on the dial, somewhere in the 88s I think, is playing, what I believe is Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits. Even better, they're doing it without commercial interruption. Now don't get me wrong, I like a Linsday Buckingham guitar solo as much as the next guy, but it's a little odd. At first, when Rhiannon segued into As Long As You Follow, I thought maybe it was a mistake--the DJ threw it on and went to pooh and didn't get back in time-- but it's been going on for half an hour now. So far I've heard just out everything you'd expect to hear except Go Your Own Way and Tusk. I'm really holding out for Tusk. Damn that's a good song.

Don't say that you love me!
Just tell me that you want me!

I ain't no chick: In the interest of balance...

...please check out this and this. They're worth cash in the bank.

Press Release of the Week: Bring Back The B-Sharps

I'm sure people unfamiliar with Barrelhouse assume we're all making millions as journal editors and spend our days sunning ourselves in hammocks or drinking banana daiquiris poolside at the Barrelhouse Mansion. Ah, one day. The sad fact is that, for now at least, we've all got day jobs. One source of great unintentional comedy at my day job is that I get tons of press releases via email, most of which have nothing to do with the industry I cover. And some of which, at least as far as I can tell, have nothing to do with any recognizable reality.

So, herewith, what may become a regular feature here at the Barrelhouse: the Press Release of the Week. This week's winner: Barbershop-Style Singing: Not Just a Hobby … A Way of Life.

The gist of the PR blitz being engineered by our friends at the Barbershop Harmony Society of America seems to be aimed at contradicting the public's misconceptions about barbershop. See, it's not just a niche for fusty grandpas who think all the kids' music is too loud and offensive. In fact, the BHSA wants us to know, "fathers, sons and grandsons" all enjoy the rich harmonies and old-timey hats of America's whitest musical tradition. Maybe white America stole rock and roll, soul, the blues and just about every form of popular music from black culture, but barbershop is one musical style that's 100% Cracker Country.

One such pale face, Mark Fortino, likes barbershop so much he's forced his entire family to get involved, assuring his children years of expensive counseling:

"Mark Fortino, lead in the 12th Street Rag quartet, had no musical training when he walked into a meeting of the Heart of America Chorus in Kansas City, Missouri, 21 years ago.

"'People cannot believe how much fun it is,' he said. 'Those previously unfamiliar with barbershop are quickly drawn in by the 'ring' of the barbershop chord. If someone likes to sing, they owe it to themselves to go to a practice and experience the camaraderie and supportive atmosphere.'

"…Mark's entire family is involved in barbershop. The Heart of America Chorus includes his brother John; their two sons, 12 and 10; his brother-in-law Jerry; Jerry's 13-year-old son; and Mark and John's dad Ron.

"And, the beat goes on. Wife, mom and grandmother Mary attends all rehearsals and is an active member of the chorus' support group, The Heartbeats. This family involvement is repeated in chapters all across America.

"'Although most of our members lack formal training and do not read music,' said John Fortino, 'they have learned to create an incredible sound. They haven learned their musical trade in the Society.'

Evidently, there are also contests for this sort of thing. Someone please contact Christopher Guest post-haste:

"'When I joined a barbershop chapter at age 12, there weren't many young Barbershoppers,' said Jim Kline of international champion quartet Gotcha! and a Barbershopper for 44 years. 'Our Society enables singers to continue singing after their school days in a group other than a church choir. It's a way to keep singing and the fellowship is unbeatable.'"

So there you have it. Barbershop: Not just for the old folks anymore. Up next week -- Unicycles: Reliable Transportation or Public Menace?

Fletch (also) Lives!

This is BibleLand from "Fletch Lives" brought to life. It's too good to be true!

Come on. You remember the second Fletch movie, right? The one where he inherits the dilapidated mansion in Louisiana, moves south, and almost gets shot by Hal Holbrook. It was classic. Granted, not as classic as the first Fletch in which he stumbles upon a drug ring, runs afoul of the law, and almost gets shot by the guy from Animal House, but good none the less. In fact, the ride at Bibleland that re-enacts the Great Flood saves Fletch's life. It almost made me want to believe in God.

With God As My Campfire

Mike, I take your scary vacation outpost and raise you one....

On vacation with the Flanders family

I guess everyone has their own ideas about heaven. In mine, it's a place where there's lots of good live music, free beer and all the Snowballs and Andy Capp Hot Fries you can eat. My own private hell, meanwhile, would be an endless vacation at this place.

See, it's funny, for about a minute, until you realize it's a real place. And that there are probably lots of people who'll pay good money to go there. And then, once you've had that realization, it's scary. Very, very scary.

Hal Jordan lives!

Yesterday, after a lapse of about ten years, I started collecting comics again. Part of me is happy about it. Another part feels I’m getting back together with someone I know is wrong for me.

My initial association with the DC and Marvel universes ended much like a doomed long distance relationship. I didn’t have proximity to a good comic store in college so getting together with Batman and The New Titans got complicated. I couldn’t just drive down the road to pick them up so my inclination to seek them out decreased. Money was tighter, too. I had to eat, right? And drink. Did the price of comics really fit into that equation?

Besides, I was suddenly surrounded by these big, beautiful books I’d never read. That they lacked pictures and that people went to school to study them was, I admit, part of their appeal. They were more sophisticated than the shit I’d read in high school, more alluring. They made me feel smarter. So, for better or worse, sometime around the middle of my freshman year I gave up on dealing with comics once and for all.

I can’t say why I decided to get back into it. Maybe it’s all the movies coming out that primed the pump. Maybe it’s the new Green Lantern title—they’re even resurrecting Hal Jordan for it! Or, and this might be a bit closer to the mark, maybe it has something to do with the fact I’m getting married, getting older, changing, and I have some unexplainable urge to bring a bit of my 17 year old self along for the ride.

Chris, I hope it’s one of the first two.

It was funny how easy going back was. In ten years the stores haven’t changed much. They still smell like an odd mixture of plastic and heavy paper. Also, everyone in them still freaks out when a pretty girl enters, as evidenced by the reaction to my finance. Granted, she was wearing a shirt that made it incredibly obvious she was, indeed, a girl, but the sidelong glances even made me uncomfortable. We agreed that she can wait outside next time.

So now I’m starring at the first issue of the newest Green Lantern title, wondering when I’ll read it, wondering what I'll think of it when I do. What if I love it? Can I still be co-editor of a somewhat respectable literary magazine? (Calm down, I said somewhat.) What if I hate it? Have I really changed that much in ten years?

Only one way to find out. I’ll let you know how things turn out.

Apparently, I read like a girl

Thursday is for all things bookish here at Barrelhouse, whether that means other lit mags, novels, story collections, comic books, whatever. So here's a little something that's been stuck in my craw lately.

Earlier this year, after finishing Audrey Niffenegger's book The Time Traveler's Wife, I remarked to a female friend about how much I'd enjoyed it. "Really?" she said. "Hmm." She was quiet for a minute, like she was trying to decide whether to say whatever was on her mind or just let it drop. Finally, she said "It's just kind of funny. I don't know any other men who liked that book."

Hmm, indeed.

"No, no," she quickly said. "That's not a bad thing. I mean, you're just more sensitive than I would have guessed."

Why is it that being called sensitive always feels like getting kneed in the balls? Maybe it's not such a bad thing, really. Is the alternative better or worse? Would I rather be mistaken for an insensitive meathead, the sort of man who calls women chicks and throws things at the TV during sporting events; or some sort of Nancy boy, the kind of man who listens to Death Cab for Cutie and likes to cook and isn't afraid to talk about his feelings? Frankly, neither was exactly true, but neither was exactly not true, either.

This rather emasculating conversation came back to me this week because I'm about three-quarters of the way through Curtis Sittenfeld's Prep, which I've been enjoying quite a bit (although I must admit, I'm enjoying it in a should-this-feel-like-a-guilty-pleasure? way). And if The Time Traveler's Wife is a girl book, then Prep is a capital-G Girl Book.

And this has all got me thinking about the books I used to read as a kid, when I was first falling in love with books as an escape from the real world and also, somehow, an immersion in it. I read my share of Hardy Boys mysteries, and those mindless sports/adventure books aimed at pre-teen boys (all of which have a sort of eerie fifties mentality of gender relations, with their brawny manly men and jiggly blonde cheerleaders). But I also read every book in the Judy Blume catalog, and those are the ones I remember most clearly. So maybe I've been reading like a girl since the very beginning.

In the end, I have no real idea what it means to read like a boy or a girl (or a man or a woman) or what types of books might be considered mannish or girlish. There are any number of "chick-lit" books and Harlequin romances clearly aimed at women, just as all sorts of Tom Clancy/Richard Patterson-type books are clearly aimed at men. But I don't want to read the books in either of those categories any more than I want to be poked repeatedly in the eye with a sharp stick.

What about more "literary" books? Whether I enjoy reading something or not seems to have very little to do with the gender of its main character, or of its author. Sure, there are things about the life of Prep's protagonist (a teenaged girl from the Midwest transplanted to an East Coast boarding school) that I can't relate directly to my own experience. But there are also plenty of things that are immediately familiar – the insecurities of adolescence, the unnerving cliquishness of high school, the ways people talk or don't talk about money. And who says reading books is about finding characters that look or act or think exactly like you?

Or maybe I'm just protesting too much. If anyone needs me, I'll be curled up on the couch with a pint of Ben and Jerry's, a Sarah McLachlan CD and the latest Sweet Valley High book.

With your feet on the air and your head on the ground

Last week I saw the Pixies in concert for the first time. It was both awesome and a little bit odd: seeing a band I listened to all the time when I was younger, now come to life on stage and proving themselves to be three-dimensional human beings, not just fuzzy liner-note images.

If my teenage years were a movie, the Pixies would have provided the score. (Actually, if my teenage years were a movie, it would have never gotten the green light – too many well-worn mopey teenager clichés, not nearly enough gratuitous violence, pretty much no sex.) When I was in the 8th or 9th grade, I got a homemade tape from a friend who had a Cool Older Brother: Surfer Rosa on one side, Doolittle on the other. Listening to it for the first time, I thought: What the fuck is this nonsense? But the Cool Older Brother was definitely cool about music, and cool about girls, so I figured I'd better keep listening. And at some point I got it (the music, not how to be cool: I've never quite grasped that one). And pretty soon I never wanted to listen to anything else.

At last week's show, I could close my eyes and almost see the shaggy-haired ninth-grade version of myself. There I was trying to play the drum part to "Gouge Away" in the room over the garage (I compensated for my lack of musical ability by making what I figured were appropriately surly faces and pounding the drums as hard as I could). And there I was again, this time getting smacked in the back with a dodgeball in gym class. Hey look, it's me again, not talking to any girls!

My only complaint with the show was that it could have been louder. But that's not the fault of the Merriweather Post Pavilion sound system, I don't think. Just that, to me, the Pixies are a band that's best listened to at ear-splitting levels. When I first started driving (at 15, because this was in South Carolina, where driving laws are still based on the need for farmers' children to operate heavy machinery), I kept that Pixies tape in nearly constant rotation in the car. Driving to school, I'd notch up the volume, bit by bit, until the speakers were rattling and threatening to give out. Then I'd forget to turn the volume down when I got out of the car, so that after school, I'd start the car up again and nearly piss myself at the noise. How was I ever listening to something so loud? I'd think. But then, on the drive home, I'd ratchet it up again, little by little, until it was even louder than before.

Anyway, the point here is that the concert was great. If you ever get a chance to see the musical heroes of your youth play live, I'd highly recommend it (unless the musical heroes of your youth were, say, Kajagoogoo, in which case it might be best to let sleeping dogs lie).

And, incidentally, the ninth-grade version of myself thinks the 28-year-old version of myself is a total tool.

Hot Town--Summer in the City

I think music is the Wednesday topic at chez Barrelhouse so let's get down to it.

It's summer in DC and currier bag nation can hardly contain itself. Ted Leo at the 9:30 tomorrow, The Medications' CD release party at the Black Cat on Sunday, Wilco and The Roots at Merriweather Post on Monday. The list goes on and on. However, nothing combines the words summer, music, and DC like the Fort Reno concert series. It's one of my three favorite things about living here (the other two being this and this).

Now a lot of people are probably asking "What exactly is Fort Reno?" Well, at it's most base, Fort Reno is a little stage in a field in NW DC where a bunch of different bands, generally of the independent persuasion, play for about three hours every Monday and Thursday night from mid-June to mid-August. It's free, as in no admission, so if you live in the area and are so inclined, you can see nearly twenty free shows every summer. Granted, I've never heard of half the bands playing -- do I lose my indie rock club membership card for admitting that? -- but that's part of the fun. I can't think of another city where taking a chance on a rock band doesn't cost five or ten bucks. In addition, Fort Reno allows community conscientious organizations to hand out information and recruit new volunteers during performances. The only draw back is the no booze rule -- this is after all the city most identified with the term straight edge -- but the shows usually wrap around 9:30 and there's a couple of bars in the area you can hit-up afterwards.

Fort Reno really is wonderful thing. If you're near DC check it out. These bands work really hard and as far as I know they don't get paid anything except the love they get from the audience so get out there and pour it all over them.

Give credit where credit is due

People are always talking about how Survivor started the reality TV craze, or maybe The Real World. But how come no one ever gives a shout-out to the true creator of the genre, Battle of the Network Stars?

Where else could you see a dunk tank competition that was basically just a glorified wet tee shirt contest? Where else could you see Kristy McNichol run an obstacle course, or see Scott Baio go toe-to-toe with Jimmy Walker and Telly Savalas in a tug o' war?

And how come no one's thought to put those original episodes on ESPN Classic? Or at least Nick at Nite?

Whither American Insulters?

When you want someone insulted on primetime TV, why do you have to import Limeys to do it? Simon Cowell can dress you down with the best of them, sure, and now we have the Hell’s Kitchen dude to toss off one-liners such as “You’re not a quitter, eh, well you’re not a chef either” in a Cockney accent. Don’t we have any downhome American degraders? Besides, who says that talent evaluaters need be real people? I think the next reality show should be about aspiring bartenders with a celebrity panel featuring Al Swearengen of Deadwood, Sam Malone, and Isaac of Love Boat.

Swearengen: (growling) What is this tripe? You go**amned co*****er, you corpulent mud-encrusted cattle f***ing piece of sh**! Serve me this swill again and I swear to God that I will take my shotgun and personally perforate your pecker and feed what’s left of it to the pigs! Now say that three times really fast, go**amnit!!

Sam Malone: Geez, I don't know, this drink is limper than…

Isaac: Abandon ship!

The Good Ol' Idiot Box

Tuesday is TV day here at Barrelhouse (yes, we know, again with the alliteration. We're like a bad radio morning show around here, with Two-For Tuesdays and Wacky Wednesdays). Anyway, I know I'm not exactly climbing out on a limb by saying this, but if you're not watching the new episodes of Family Guy, you really should be.

As excited as I was when they decided to put this show back on the air, I was also a little apprehensive. After all, it had been a while. Would the old writers have moved on? Would the show have lost some of its irreverent energy? Well, let me tell you: it's still thirty straight minutes of awesomeness. If anything – and a couple months ago, I wouldn't have thought this possible – it's even better than it was before.

The downside to Family Guy's brilliance is that it makes The Simpsons, which comes on just before it, look a bit tarnished and stale by comparison. I suppose The Simpsons, much like Saturday Night Live, may have, by its success, precipitated its own demise. Obviously The Simpsons paved the way for other cartoon shows for adults, like Family Guy and South Park, but now those newer shows have kind of left the torchbearer in the dust. It also doesn't help that The Simpsons is constantly competing against its own back catalog. With the show's syndicated episodes in heavy rotation, it's hard not to compare and contrast.

Although it's probably unfair to compare The Simpsons to SNL. Despite hardcore Simpsons fans' nearly constant chorus of "Worst episode ever!" even on its lamest day the show makes me laugh, at least a little. Which is more than I can say for about 80% of what's on TV these days. And it's definitely more than I can say for the latest incarnation of SNL, which makes me wish they'd just cancel the show already and be done with it. One of my favorite SNL skits of all time was the one in which Chevy Chase and Richard Pryor go toe to toe with racial epithets. Can you imagine SNL having the balls to air that sketch today?

Instead we get sketch after sketch lamely parodying other TV shows (Take that, America's Next Top Model!). Or attempt after attempt to create the kind of "winning character" that will score the writer and the actor a movie deal (and who can blame them? What thespian wouldn't want to follow in the footsteps of Night at the Roxbury?)

The best barometer for SNL might be election season. The show was created, after all, in the great Lampoon tradition of taking potshots at authority. During the last couple election cycles, though, it's become painfully obvious how far the once-mighty has fallen. Is the best Bush joke you can come up with the one about how he don't talk so good? Is the most cutting-edge Kerry humor the stuff about being a flip-flopper? Here's a good litmus test: if the jokes you're making on SNL are the same ones my mom forwards me via email, then you've gone down the wrong path.

Luckily, every time an old standard falls by the wayside, some new young buck is standing by to carry the torch. So maybe SNL sucks now, but The Daily Show is pure comedy gold. Maybe The Simpsons no longer seems so daring, but every Sunday at nine we can watch a talking dog sip martinis and make passes at his owner's underage daughter, a baby with a British accent touch a black man's hair to see what it feels like, and a big fat man get kicked in the nuts. God bless America!

Tom Cruise Saves the World

I think we've decided Monday will be Movie Day here at Barrelhouse. Movie. Monday. Get it? Yeah, we know. But hey, we're not smart, so we can use every helpful mnemonic device we can get. So, to kick off Mega Movie Monday Madness (too much?) how about a flick that doesn't come out for another nine days but which I'm already conflicted about.

There's a part of me that really wants to see the new War of the Worlds remake. It's an entertaining story, and with the studio throwing $150 million at it, I'm sure the thing will be, if nothing else, visually stunning. Sure it won't be much of a "think piece," but with my brain fried from summer humidity and too much booze, I'm like every other moviegoer between late June and early September: just give me something pretty to look at for a couple hours or, failing that, a few dick and fart jokes.

There's two things holding me back from War of the Worlds, though, and the first is Tom Cruise. Cruise isn't a bad actor: I liked Risky Business and Top Gun as much as the next testosterone-addled adolescent male. He was great in last year's Collateral, and even more impressive in Magnolia. Even 1983's Losin' It has its moments.

But with his recent, well-publicized escapades, Tom Cruise has finally reached that crucial tipping point where I can no longer separate Tom Cruise the Actor from Tom Cruise the Completely Batshit Scientologist. I don't think I could sit through War of the Worlds without muttering jokes under my breath about e-meters and the evils of modern psychiatry (and come on: the alien jokes will pretty much write themselves).

Please note that I'm refusing to comment here on Katie Holmes, as Dave so eloquently did last week. I'm hoping that particular national nightmare will soon be over and it can become another thing we choose never to speak of again, like Bob Dylan's Christian phase or Saved by the Bell: The College Years.

Anyway, the second thing that's holding me back from War of the Worlds is Spielberg. The man's done some great work, of course. But he keeps insulting our collective intelligence by tacking on these awkward "I have a message and am now shoving it down your throat" endings that make me want to impale myself with a sharp stick.

At the end of Saving Private Ryan, did we really need the Tearful Visit To the Graveyard for us to understand what the movie was about? And let's not even get started with the clunker of an ending Spielberg tacked on to AI.

For a movie that's supposed to be about invading aliens, the sappiness potential of War of the Worlds seems high – never a good sign for a Spielberg flick. Cruise's character is a down-on-his-luck everyman who just might save the world. Dakota Fanning plays a prominent role (Spielberg + precocious children = me throwing up in my mouth). The entire Future of The World is at stake.

Still, I'll probably go. This summer I'm living in a house with no air-conditioning, and it's nice and cool inside the local megaplex. And War of the Worlds has to be better than Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, right?

Does Kris Kristofferson have the same accountant as Willie?

Why else would he be on my TV screen, on the same stage as Russell Crowe and his 30 odd foot of grunts, letting the Aussie actor butcher "Me and Bobbi McGee"? On PBS, no less! (I realize it's a repeat)

You Can Dance If You Want To

When the history books take a look back at the fall of the American Empire, they may very well peg last week as a key downward turning point. No, not because of casualties in Iraq, or the controversy surrounding Gitmo, but because of this almost unbelievable fact: last week's television ratings leader was Dancing With the Stars.

Now, look: I know it's summer and almost everything is in reruns. But Dancing With the Stars? Really, America? Apparently the second episode of the show scored 15.1 million viewers. That's right, 15.1 million. Let's pause for a moment so we can all ponder the image of 15.1 million Americans lying supine in their Barca loungers while Trista the Bachelorette attempts to do the cha cha. Okay, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

When I saw a promo for Dancing With the Stars a few weeks ago, my first thought was that it was one of those annoying Geico ads, but alas, it's a real show. (Incidentally, if it hadn't already been featured in a parody commercial, I'm almost positive Tiny House could be successfully pitched to one of the major networks right about now.)

Of course, the "stars" in Dancing With the Stars should really be set off by scare quotes, because the lineup includes such D-list celebs as the aforementioned Trista, some soap opera actress named Kelly Monaco, Peterman from Seinfeld, and Joey McIntyre (that's right: Joey McIntyre. I wonder if there was a debate at ABC over whether he was a better fit for the "star" or "professional dancer" category, since it's really no more of a stretch to say that a former member of NKOTB is a "professional dancer" than it is to claim him as a "star.")

Apparently these were the best people ABC could get for the show, as Stephen Baldwin, Keisha Knight Pulliam and both of the Coreys were unavailable. Of course, with Evander Holyfield in the lineup there's at least the slim possibility that Joey McIntyre will get punched in the mouth.

According to the show's website, Dancing With the Stars was already a big hit abroad under the unwieldy name Strictly Come Dancing. I'm going to assume that's either a bad translation or the original show was German.

The website goes on to explain Dancing With the Stars' "broad appeal": it offers viewers "dazzling costumes, dancing, celebrity gossip, behind-the-scenes training and contemporary music performed by a live 15-piece band." Um, yeah. So it's sort of like The Mole: Celebrity Edition meets Lawrence Welk?

I suppose the real draw of the show is America's love affair with elimination-based programming and phone-in voting. But what's next? Figure Skating With the Stars? Watermelon Seed Spitting With the Stars? If only someone could line up Drunken Lawn Darts With Paris and Nicole. Now that's a show I could get behind.

Uh Oh! It's Magic!!

For some reason that song by who know's who is ricocheting through my head right now.

The recent release of Batman Begins reminds me of the time when I was 4 or 5 and my mother bought me some Underoos. I wanted Underoos like nobody's business and finally she went and got some. She had them behind her back and said "I got you some Underoos" and I jumped up and down with glee but then she showed them to me: they were Batman Underoos. I sighed and otherwise expressed intense disappointment, perhaps stomping my feet or something, because they were not Superman Underoos. So as punishment my mother denied me use of these Underoos for the day, but not before saddling me with a sense of her intense disappointment at my ingratitude. I think later that night she relented and I paraded around the house in Batman's underwear with a blue towel pinned around my neck, striking poses on Ottomans and whatnot to the delight of my fawning relatives (I was the first grandchild).

In any case, I think it interesting that even at age 4 that I was convinced that Superman was so much better than Batman. I imagine that my only point of comparison besides cartoons was whatever my friend(s) had at the time. I think they, or he, I don't know, how many friends are you supposed to have at age 4 or 5? had Superman Underoos.

Obviously Superman could take Batman with his superhuman, otherworldly strength and X-ray vision, but today it seems Batman has triumphed in the public eye--are there any further Superman sequels in the mix?? I wonder if today's 4 year olds are cognizant of the cultural zeitgeist and prefer Batman over Superman because of his inner anguish and tortured humanity.

The Stars: They're Just Like Us (When We Were Twelve)

So Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes got engaged after having dated for two months. Where to begin? I'm sure this topic will be covered ad nauseum today and through the weekend, through the marriage and the honeymoon and the rumors and the eventual, inalterable conclusion in ugly, public divorce, so maybe not beginning would be the best approach. But its too late for that -- I've already typed in the title.

It all just strikes me as kind of sad and stupid, like something I might have done in the eighth grade. Actually, maybe seventh grade.

If I had access to money and Oprah and, indeed, Katie Holmes or the seventh grade equivalent of her, its very likely that I may have publicly courted her, jumped up and down in the middle school cafeteria, pointed my chocolate milk to the stars and shouted "I love Katie Holmes or the seventh grade equivalent of her!" Perhaps, if things were going well and I thought there could be a future with this seventh grade girl, I would have assigned a minion from my strange cult to follow her and provide instructions in the ways my strange cult ("I'm sorry Katie, that's just not how we do things in the KISS Army -- it's GENE with the tongue and PAUL with the star and the pout and the whole drag queen/rock star thing happening...").

I might have even asked her to marry me, taken her to some exotic place (like, say, the Williamsport Mall, or the Harrisburg Mall, or maybe even Hoss's Steakhouse on route 15) and gotten down on one knee and done the whole bit and really, really believed that this was the right thing to do, that I was old enough and mature enough and we knew each other well enough to actually be married.

Maybe. When I was twelve.

But I'm not anymore and neither are these two morons.

Oh, and by the way, Tom, in the interest of concluding this entry on a seventh grade level: I've seen her naked.

You want a piece of my heart?

Dave, I see your REO Speedwagon and raise you one Loverboy. Specifically, their seminal 1981 anthem "Working for the Weekend."

Everyone's watching … to see what you will do. Everyone's looking at you, oh.

This stupid song has been kicking around in my head for the past couple weeks, ever since I went back to working in an office for the summer. I'll tell you one thing: there's nothing like suddenly realizing you're humming Loverboy on the elevator to make you feel like the world's biggest wanker.

Everyone's wondering, will you come out tonight? Everyone's trying, to get it right, get it right.

This song always makes me think of those fantastic 80's movie montages. Johnny Climbs the Corporate Ladder. Chip Learns to Box. Everyone Pitches in To Clean This Mess Up Before Mom and Dad Get Home From Vacation.

I think the movie montage for "Working for the Weekend" should follow some mid-40's tile salesman as he transforms into a weekend warrior. You know, mousses up his comb-over. Sprays on a little Drakkar. Practices his "How YOU doin'" look in the bathroom mirror.

Then we see him behind the wheel of his freshly washed Dodge Stratus, cranking the shit out of Loverboy while he rolls to the local TGI Friday's.

Everybody's working for the weekend! Everybody wants a little romance. Everybody's going off the deep end. Everybody needs a second chance.

"Midnight Blue" would also be somewhere on the soundtrack. And maybe a nice Journey ballad.

Get Behind Me, REO Speedwagon

Taking the lead and assuming that Thursday is music day here at Barrelhouse: Behind the Music, or whatever we're going to call this.

Worst song ever to be stuck in your head: "Time for Me to Fly" by REO Speedwagon.

I know this because that song is stuck in my head right now. It has been, off and on, for about a month now.

"I've been a-round for you, I been up and down for you..."

Goddamit. Get out of my head, Kevin Cronin, with your whiny nasally singing style. Damn you with your catchy sappy-ass song that I memorized all the words to when I was fourteen.

"You got me stealing your love away 'cause a-you never geeeve it..."

What the hell does that mean, anyway? Stealing love? Sounds like something that could get you locked up for awhile. I believe Michael Jackson stole some love, with the help of the old jesus juice, of course. I believe Mike Tyson spent some time in the big house for stealing some love. Whose love is Kevin Cronin going to steal, anyway, other than maybe Bryan Adams or those guys from Soft Cell.

"I make-a you laugh, and you make-a me cry..."

All this despite the fact that we spent a portion of last night talking about Cheap Trick and their annoyingly catchy and yet somehow acceptable catalog of 80s semi-hits, as well as the public unveiling of my Bob Dylan Sings "Beth" by KISS concept karaoke project.

"You said we'd work it out, you said that there was no doubt..."

Damn you, REO, you bastards. I don't even know if that song is "Time for Me to Fly" or some other drippy mid-tempo nasally REO song about not getting laid or getting dicked over or whatever. And double damn you to my moron friend Jeff, who played "Time for me to fly" three times in a row on the jukebox at Dan's Cafe about a month ago.

I believe it is, indeed, time for me to fly-yiiiiiii-yi-yiiiiii....time for me to fly."

First Post

The first post: a momentous event. Someday we'll look back and think, wow, we were really, really drunk when we decided to start that blog portion of the journal. We paid a bar tab of $131 and then KEPT ON DRINKING. That's what we'll say. Or something like that.