Google calendars & World Cup

I've been bugging out on Google calendars recently, and I found a really nifty one for this year's World Cup. Others: Bottom of the Hill shows (rock n roll!), Giants games (hey, batter), Dolores Park movie nights (bring: jacket, beer).

Alone in Houston

I put some new photos on my Flickr page recently. This one is from a recent trip to Houston. I took it while driving around (I believe it's called) The Beltway. The photo makes Houston seem empty, which, as I recall, is like the opposite of what it is. Especially the freeways. I don't recall more than a few moments when I wasn't sitting in traffic. Which makes me wonder: Did I really take this picture? How did it get into my phone?

Silver Jews / 27 goes into 50,000

In the Silver Jews song "Trains Across the Sea," there's a line that goes: "In 27 years, I've drunk 50,000 beers, and they just wash against me like the sea into a pier." That's 5+ beers a day from birth until your 28th birthday. If you start at 16, you're drinking a 12-pack a day to get there. (I didn't account for leap years, actually, so you'd have 2-3 days to let your liver recover during those 11 years).

Recently, I came across a diary I kept in 1994, the year I moved to California. I was clearly obsessed with the Silver Jews at the time, and I'd done a little math in the margin to calculate how I matched up to them, beer-wise. (I was 22 at the time). Shockingly, I found that I had to cram roughly 40,000 beers into the next 4.5 years. That's a little over one case per day, everyday, i.e. a true 24x7 sort of endeavor. Did I make it? Short answer: No. However, I did predict that I'd be getting there by the time I was 33, my current age. Am I there yet? In my estimation, no. Probably not, anyway. My revised calculations put me at the landmark somewhere around my 43rd birthday. I'm coming for you, Dave Berman! Watch your back!

Music / Sasha v Stephin

Stephin Merritt doesn't like hip-hop, which is fine, but he made the mistake of assembling a playlist for the NYT that included no black artists, thereby awakening playlist affirmative action policeman, Sasha Frere-Jones. Actually, SF-J has had issues with Merritt since 2004, but now he's throwing down and calling Merritt a "rockist cracker." Not to be confused with a "racist cracker," though he implies as much. The NYT nicely documents the origins and recent developments of the feud, and John Cook defended Merritt in Slate last week. What the blogosphere is saying: Jessica Hopper's tinyluckygenius (on Merritt's own role in fanning the, umm, flames), Jane Dark's Sugarhigh! (on the big picture).

Bike-to-work day 2006

Today is Bike-to-Work Day, which means that Market Street was slightly more alive this morning. As everyday is bike-to-work day for me, I would really rather see the "energizer stations" (PDF map of the Bike Coalition's coverage) out there during the winter, when the wind is howling, the streets slick, and the cyclists few in number, but still, it's nice to see a few more people out there dodging potholes and Muni tracks, and the snacks were tasty. Thx, SFBC.

TV / Wes Anderson's Amex ad

"Why would I put on a hat if my best friend just got blown up in front of me?" An excellent question posed by Jason Schwartzman's character in Wes Anderson's excellent Amex ad. In just under two minutes, the ad encapsulates the brilliance of Anderson's vision: it's filled with snappy dialogue, exquisite production design, and perfectly pitched non sequitors. It begins with a car explosion. Anderson shouts "Cut!", acknowledges that it's an ad ("Anyway, American Express ad"), and poses the question, "Making movies. How do you do it?" He then strides through a series of vignettes while attempting to give directions: "First, think up a good story," but he's then interrupted by a PA who wants to introduce him to the daughter of a man who loaned the a sportscar to the production. "Two, how do you tell it?" he says and then directs a propmaster to put a bayonette on a .357 magnum. "Next, there's your collaborators," while a PA is telling him that the producers won't pay $15000 for a helicopter rental. As he prepares for the next shot, he concludes: "You mix it all together and that's more or less it." Slate posted an admiring review yesterday.

Baseball / Bonds-ron

As Barry Bonds approaches Babe Ruth on the lifetime homerun list, he's getting a heckuva lot of ambivalent coverage: Veterans express ambivalence and skepticism (SI), even San Franciscans souring on the event (AP via ESPN), but baseball has seen worse, though not by much (ESPN). I figured I'd do some first-hand investigation this afternoon, so I rode down to AT&T Park during lunch. When Bonds came up to bat, there was the requisite "Bar-ry, Bar-ry," but even this seemed pretty half-hearted, like everyone felt that they kinda had to chant along. Cynical comments rippled through the crowd. It seems weird to say this, but maybe you don't have to like Bonds as a person to feel drawn to his achievement. Or, how about this: Maybe there's a whole different kind of enjoyment that one derives from watching villains break records? Whatever it was, it was definitely not 2001 all over again, when a Bonds at-bat sent palpable electicity through the crowd. In 2006, it's more akin to watching Enron execs lie their asses off in court.