Violent Agreement

My esteemed colleague Robin notified me of a new Transformers: The Movie trailer.

To speak colloquially, shit looks hella tight. The 1080p HD version is worth the extra buffering.

While no one is questioning his acumen for eye candy, there’s been a lot of belly-aching amongst some hard core Decepta-fans that director Michael Bay’s style-over-substance style is not worthy of channeling the biblical gravitas the Transformers lore deserves.

I, on the other hand tend to agree with this gentleman’s thesis:

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Attached please find a Bruce with a nuclear bomb

So while the reality is, given Mr. Bay’s rap sheet, the movie’s storyline may not end up rivaling Batman Begins or Spawn, it’s kinda unfair to expect transforming robots to tug at our heartstrings.

Their fingers are way to big for that.

Blondes have more fun

Had some hosting issues. Fixed them. Other still remain.

Specifically, I still have no idea how to throw a dinner party.

Manually changing my DNS settings

It works on so many levels

See also:

I, like any other red-blooded, flag-burning American like to accessorize my diet with a healthy variety of homegrown and foreign-born-but-naturalized sandwich breads.

White, wheat, dutch crunch, hearty Italian, sourdough, pita pockets: they all have unique folkways and morays in their approaches towards sandwich integrity and flavor integration and all are welcome in these United Starches of America.

However, a previously-obscure loaf has suddenly achieved Wonderbread-like mainstream infamy, and thus I feel compelled to launch a probe into what I can only suspect is a campaign funded by the shadowy and dangerous Ciabatta Cyndicate.

“The Slipper” has humble roots, starting as a popular local bread around many regions throughout Italy.

Ciabatta (aka “The Slipper”) as a young boy in Sicily, before a life of crime.

His (ahem) “rise” to power begins innocently, as a seemingly singular addition to Jack In The Box’s traditionally quirky burger innovations:

Exhibit A: “The GodFather”

And then Wendy’s was given a combo deal they couldn’t refuse, jumping into the fray with their own thinly veiled cover operation for the Notorious L.O.A.F.:

Exhibit B: The Frescatta Boys.

And then, this week, during primetime’s greatest TV show, I witness an ad for the proverbial sesame seeed that just might break this bun’s back:

Exhibit C: TGI Friday’s Smoked Brisket Dip. On Ciabbata. It’s be-u-tiful.

I don’t know what to make of this other than a sandwich. Maybe turkey. With some dijonasse and pepper jack.

Developing story… so stay tuned for more, um, developments…

…on ciabatta.

Sound of one head exploding

Part of The Crazy Joey Collection

This weekend I e-stumbled onto the solo efforts of The Team frontman Clyde Carson.

Hyphy has been percolating for years now, and while numerous artists (most notably E-40, Too $hort and Mistah F.A.B) have kept the momentum going strong, I subscribe to the theory that the Bay needs a new fresh-faced ambassador with the killer-crossover appeal to take us from buzz-worthy to new hotness.

At first glance, I can see why some think this cat is the droid we’ve been looking for.

Too hard for radio

Some reasons to believe:

He recently signed to The Game’s Black Wall Street label (Capitol). Game recognize game, in the bay mayne.

His new radio-friendly track “Two Step” is allegedly a ghost-written Dre Beat. Sounds a little too close to 50-Cent but it’s catchy and illustrates his versatility.

His rap name is Clyde Carson. No salutations, no acronyms. Just Clyde Carson thank you. In terms of precedents, Clyde “The Glide” Drexler was sweet.

Mr. Carson is the founder and CEO of the actual Hyphy Juice. So he’s a bidness man who knows how to market and distribute Hyphy-flavored packaged goods.

Don’t grapple and drive.

So go peep his myspace page and report back. Aside from “Two Step”, be sure to check out “Who’s Next” and esp. “Hood Stomp.” The video for the latter is bonkers:

Wait ’till you see a Mill Valley sideshow

So if and when you hear shockwaves when his album drops this summer, you can say you skimmed it here third.

Godspeed Clyde.

See also

See also

So yesterday was the 2nd Annual Pillow Fight Club here in SF, which now having occurred n+1 times (where n≥1) makes it an official Valentine’s Day tradition. I think Mayor Quimby held a press conference this morning to formalize the occasion.

An example of ‘flash mob’ phenomena, it was apparently sparked by an anonymous mastermind who posted these simple instructions to craigslist:

1) Tell everyone you know about PILLOW FIGHT!!!
2) Wait for the Ferry Building clock to strike 6:00pm
3) Don’t hit anyone with out a pillow (unless they want it)
4) Don’t hit anyone with a camera
5) Don’t even think about using this as an excuse to remove the tag.*

The outcome? Funny you should ask, I was totally just about to tell you brah:

Over 1000 pillow-wielding Sucka Free Citizens engaging in a mass of exploding plumes of feathers that was really, really hard to hate on.

(I tried and lost. Badly. The hating I mean. I tore some fools UP with Excalibur.)

Highlights included: couples expressing their love for one another with smacks upside the domepiece, little kids getting in the mix with young adults who exhibited skills suggesting experience in more traditional combat, indie rockers laying wood on stock brokers, and no one getting stabbed.

Don’t say we didn’t warn you

*Psych! Fake mattress tag joke up in this piece!

Last night my favorite punk band (and Favorite Band Ever Award nominee) Swingin Utters played a gig at Slim’s here in their hometown of SF.

To use a technical term, they fucking rocked.

Pensive Utters

Aside from the show itself, which got me riled up enough to scurry through the mosh-pit for a couple laps (and yes, I almost threw out my back) highlights included some great early 80’s Black Flag and Flipper tour footage during intermission, and an archetypal Neo-Hippie holding his own in the pit…IN BIRKENSTOCKS!!! Only in the Bay Area. According to my score card, he was actually the most punk person there. Don’t trust the Russian judge.

The Utters were on the Official Motion Picture Soundtrack to much of my high school and college days, and while the ‘currency’ of their style has been eclipsed by more façonnable sounds & scenes in recent years, it was refreshing to see them in top form, sticking to their guns with part-time drunk and full-time working man’s punk rock.

In an independent music landscape ravaged by the tyrannical rule of tragically ironic hipster bands whose expressions of protest and dissent often sound more like the meows of wet kittens than roars of hungry lions, I can only hope the data points of last night’s solid turnout to see the Utters and the reunion of RATM suggest a forthcoming tectonic shift in Rock N’ Roll back towards its ass-kicking/name-taking heritage.

Here’s to all things $wingin: utters, pendulums and sexually-liberated suburban couples alike.

Punk rock is SO 1976-1998.

Recently a local judge upheld an injunction filed by the City of Berkeley against UC Berkeley from breaking ground on its Memorial Stadium Renovation plan.

While the judge cited seismic safety concerns as the primary reason for issuing the injunction, the most vocal resistance to the plan stems around protecting a grove of old Oak trees that will need to be cut down to accommodate the expansion. To that end, a group of local environmental activists took to tree sitting in said Oaks to prevent the University from breaking ground, until the cops snatched their crops.

Go Ewoks!

Being the son of two inner circle hippies, a Cal alum and an armchair conservationist, I am all about protecting our natural resources from the voracious appetite of development. But I have a hard time respecting the arguments of this effort for several reasons:

1. It’s short sighted. While these trees are beautiful and important, there are much larger, wider-reaching environment issues at stake. And while it won’t fully replace them, the University plans to plant young Oaks in their place around the stadium (although the exact #s are in debate).
2. It’s selfish. A convenient cause celebre for knee-jerk activists to feel good about stretching their underused protest ligaments without thinking about the larger positive impact of a new stadium:
3. A better stadium = a better football team = more exposure and $$$ for Berkeley to continue to lead and innovate in all aspects of human achievement, including environmental conservation on a GLOBAL scale. And football.
4. Patchouli is probably not good for the trees. I think the living Oak ecosystem would benefit in the short term from our furry friends giving them some photosynthesizing-room and conducting the protest and debate in traditional human environments.

Probably not a stop on the recruiting tour

See Also.

There are some basic great things in this world: your first cup of coffee in the morning, the first step into a strange woman’s bedroom, a sip of cold gatorade when you are spent (or hung as a mule), waking up early only to discover you can sleep for 5 more hours….and the list goes on. But nothing is as sweet as watching the Tarheel blue run all over the panzy-ass dukies. Maybe it is watching the faces of the future leaders of america (read: future coporate attorneys, sports agents and money managers) turn from hope to pure pain. Perhaps its knowing that they will get as depressed as a child on anti-depressants as they remove all that paint they applied to their faces in the weak hopes of a victory. Maybe it is joy in realizing that, in a nation where public schools get the shaft, private schools can still get their asses kicked from time to time. I couldn’t begin to describe what the underlyiing satisfaction is anymore than I could explain a David Lynch movie or why Lord of The Rings isn’t catergorized as gay porn. However, there were millions who were in pure joy the other night as the buzzer sounded.

Some people think basketball is just a ball going through a hoop. Well, I suppose it is. But if that is true, than music is just sound and few would argue that a beeping garbage truck holds the same meaning as a Jimi Hendrix song. The point is there are times when something as insignificant as who puts a ball through a hoop more transcends its objective meaning. UNC v duke is one of those times. Or maybe it is simply that I enjoy watching Duke’s best player, Josh McRoberts cry (yes, cry) upon getting his fourth foul (note: you need five to leave a game). Perhaps I like watching Greg Paulus self-destruct and make the lasting image of Steve Wojabitchski seem like Grant Hill in comparison. Basically I hate Duke and so does anyone who didnt go there. “And the lord said let there be light. And behold, there was UNC beating the piss out of Duke.”