I finally got around to watching A Clockwork Orange on Sunday night. I borrowed the DVD from a friend months ago but neglected it. The movie was pretty cool and I wish I had watched it earlier, but it gave me quite a strange nightmare.

If you haven't seen it, don't worry, I won't give anything away. If you have, then you know that the main character is a Beethoven fanatic. He refers to Beethoven as "Ludwig van" and has his portrait on the wall.

The nightmare went like this: I was sleeping in my bed, in my room, in the house I grew up in. My bed was in the same place and so was the door. However, the rest of the house was completely different. The floor was wood, the walls were wood, and the hallway was lit by dim candles. In the dream, I wake up to the sound of a Beethoven piece being played on piano. It's very loud and sounds like it's being played live, as opposed to from a recording. The notes are choppy and it sounds like whoever is playing is very frustrated. Agitated and groggy, I climb out of bed to find out who the hell is playing piano in the middle of the night. I don't even make note that the house is all wrong, I just want to find out who woke me up. I walk down the hall and find the piano my parents have, the same piano I learned to play on. And who do I find but Beethoven himself, in a ghost-like condition cuz he's more or less transparent. Pissed, I glare at him and slam the keyboard cover down once, lift it up, and slam it down again. Then I sternly wag my finger at him. Without any exchange of words, I turn around and walk back to bed. As I'm lying down, I get a strange feeling, open my eyes, and see Beethoven's head rushing towards mine and it goes right through me, a-la Slimer in Ghostbusters. It scares the crap out of me and I scream (a real scream). The scream wakes up me and I realize I just had a nightmare.

Thankfully, I had to get up for work in 20 minutes so falling back asleep wasn't an issue.

My three-day weekend was spent in Austin where I lived with Rick for three days. Overall it went pretty well, though one sad and disturbing thing did happen. For the fourth, Rick, myself, and some friends went to Pace Bend Park outside of Austin where there's lots of campground space, a lake, and a 30-foot cliff to jump off of. Everyone said they'd make the jump at least once, but I was feeling ballsy so I not only jumped first, I jumped three times. The bad news is this: someone died jumping off that cliff the day after my friends and I were there. Here's a link from News 8 Austin.

Otherwise, the weekend was pretty relaxing. It started out Thursday evening when Russell introduced me to a great Mexican taqueria a minute from where we live. I went home and passed out for three hours, debated on whether or not to drive to Austin that night or the next morning, and decided I would be in Austin by midnight that night. I left the house at 10:40 and was at Rick's door at 12:00. Cruising up I-35 at 75 with the sunroof open and the windows down was a great way to start my Austin weekend.

On Friday, I got sunburned like a mofo and struggled to wear shirts for two days, but it was well worth it. I spent a lot of time at the Draughthouse too; i think i went three times (hmm, 3's again). On the first trip they were running a 'buy the beer, keep the glass' special for Murphy's Stout. The glass is sweet. I met up with Brian C. who's been in New Zealand and Australia for, like, ever. We played darts and discussed the essentials.

Friday night was Jenga/Taboo night- drinking was involved and spirits were running high (so were competitive natures). Saturday was lazy. I'm not sure what we did. I went to 6th Street Saturday night and met up with Brian M. and some friends. I have to say that after a few months of being a non-student, I'm not used to the bar-scene. Too crowded, too loud, too expensive. But i met some cool people and had some entertaining music conversation.

Sunday... uh, I had a huge breakfast (Juan in a Million) and chilled at Dan's place for a good long while. For some reason we had a pull-up competition. All I remember is Dan pointed at the pull-up bar and said, "Your turn". I got to see Orly and Thomas again which was also nice.

If you've read this far you deserve a trophy or something. Weekend updates are never terribly interesting. As a reward, keep a lookout for two spiffy upcoming posts: the uselessness of song lyrics and REM's Out of Time (articles not related).

I'm only four songs into the new Led Zeppelin DVD and I feel the need to post.

On Dazed and Confused, he completely goes off the charts. He gives himself an extended solo, and by solo, I mean to say that everyone else in the band goes silent. He deviates from the base melody so thoroughly that you'd have no idea what song he was in if you heard the solo on its own. But somehow, somehow, he ties it all together and the song is seamless.

Then he plays a solo performance of White Summer. Holy shit, I can't possibly imagine how he worked that song out. It sounds like he pushed every bit of songwriting convention out of his mind when he wrote that song. I think his eyes were closed, and he swayed in the chair when the rhythm picked up.

Alrighty, on to song five.

Jewel has let loose. After spending years as the mainstream folk queen of the pop scene (whoa), she’s busted out of her traditional role and assumed a Britney Spears-ish persona. She’s got a new pop record, a new pop image, a new pop video, and a new pop fake-n-bake tan.

Where did the sensitive songbird go? Where did her clothes go? Why on Earth did she team up with a razor manufacturer for an advertising deal? There must be an explanation. Rob Walker, author of the above linked article, says:

It’s possible to overlook the mild hypocrisy of Jewel poking fun at a musical and video style by basically copying it and adding a half-hearted wink. But how to explain writing a song that tells us all to resist the total marketing mentality all around us, promoting it with a video that satirizes advertising, all the while urging us to just be ourselves — and then licensing that song to a consumer products company for a huge sales campaign?

Crazy.

Check it, yo. I saw the cheesiest license plate on Thursday.

I was driving out of my complex and saw a new burgundy Mitsubishi Eclipse pulling in. The license plate read “JIGGAS” and had one of those faux-chain link frames.

Before you go chuckling to yourself about the absurdity of the whole set-up, consider the racial implications present in it.

I’ve been listening to some brash music to wake me up during my five-minute drive to work every morning. Lately it’s been Summer Romance by the New Bomb Turks. It works out well because I have to pull out onto the I-10 access road to get where I need to go, and sometimes the cars are hauling ass and I have to punch the gas to keep from getting clobbered. It’s a daily ritual.

A White Stripes mix a friend made for me ages ago has also found residence in my cd changer. There’s one song called I'm Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman that tends to do the trick.

The only problem with this brash music thing is that the drive is a measly five minutes, and by the time I get to work, I’m pumped up and ready to go. Go sit in my cubicle, that is.

In other news, I had a great time at the Saucer last night. Chris recently finished the 200-beer program and we’ll be celebrating his achievement on Wednesday. We're all very proud of him..

The Zeppelin dvd I got is pretty amazing so far. The rest of disc 1 rocks, but disc 2 is kind of spotty. The first tune, Immigrant Song, is a total let down. The film style is all shaky and it hardly looks like they’re playing what you’re hearing. And in later songs, Page tends to go on self-indulgent solos that don’t feel right.

But let’s face it. Page is a grandmaster. How the hell can I complain.

My group at work was treated to an afternoon at Dave & Buster’s today. We got a fajita buffet and two hours with a pool table, though most people spent the time eating. After sufficiently stuffing myself, I played a couple games of pool and came out 1 for 2. I won the first game by default and lost the second ‘cause I played horribly. The food was good and I enjoyed hanging out with my co-workers in a non-work environment. It’s always good to know the people you work with think about more than work and like to drink beer and hang out and be goofy.

Being goofy seems to be a prerequisite for working in software. I find that my co-workers are advanced versions of me. Smarter, funnier, goofier (if it’s possible), and more experienced.

We had the area reserved from three to five in the afternoon. Everyone but myself, two contactors from India and Nepal, and my project manager left at five. We played shuffleboard for an hour and head a great time. I’ve played shuffleboard before but never knew the rules and never knew what the hell I was doing. This time, my project manager showed us how to play and it instantly became competitive. Concentration focused, voices raised, beers emptied.

I soon developed a deep appreciation for the game of shuffleboard. It takes a very light touch. It’s as challenging a game as you can have indoors. And best of all, it only gets better with alcohol.

Next time you have the opportunity to engage in a game of shuffleboard, I highly recommend you give it a shot. It’s like darts, only a lot safer.

I had a pretty good weekend in Austin. There was a band practice Friday afternoon and a trip to 6th Street that night. I haven’t been barhopping in, well, years. It was more fun (and more expensive) than I remember. I met up with some friends for birthday festivities. One of said friends just finished her first year of law school and said she didn’t think she’d be ready for real life in two years. Shit, I’m not ready for real life right now.

Saturday was a lazy day. That night, however, was a special treat for me. I went to the Elephant Room with a bunch of old college buddies. The Elephant Room is a jazz venue in the basement of a downtown high-rise in Austin. I don’t get to see live music that often and I get pumped for any shows whatsoever. The jazz group we saw was lead by a singer that is giving Andres vocal lessons. She did a great trumpet impersonation. The strange thing was that she was more drunk than she should have been and was cracking up at every funny face the bass player made. She spent a good portion of the set doubled over in laughter.

Sunday was mostly spent at Chris’ house drinking beer and eating hamburgers in celebration of his birthday. And the weekend. Happy Birthday Chris. It was a great way to end my Austin weekend.

Things went downhill from there.

I spent Sunday evening ironing shirts, folding laundry, and doing dishes. And since I failed to drag my lazy ass to the store, I have no food.

On the bright side, I just got back from Pint Night at the Flying Saucer and I’ve got Johnny Cash on the stereo. I should be alright. Johnny's here to make sure my buzz doesn't go to waste.

Last, but not least, there are pictures! I got a digital camera and tested it out on my friends. See the link on the left under "pictures".

Chris sent me an article today that affirmed my faith in the goodness of Americans. Well, some Americans, at least.

Back when I first saw The Big Lebowski, I filed it away in the “Best Movies Ever” category in my head. The years passed and I deprived myself of His Dudeness’ humor. Then, a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a golden opportunity: Best Buy had the DVD for $10. I snatched it up and watched it that night. Oh, the memories.

Every character in The Big Lebowski is worth quoting. There isn’t a bad line in the entire script. White Russians, bowling, and male hair clips (see picture) are given the credit they deserve.

So imagine my excitement when I read about the real Dude. Yes, there is an actual Dude out there, bowling like his life depended on it. And two guys threw a Lebowski Fest at their local Louisville bowling alley for the hell of it. This year, the 2nd Annual Lebowski Fest attracted a grand total of 1400 people over two nights of bowling and screening. Somebody get these guys a trophy.

Or a movie deal?

There will even be a “Lebowski Fest” documentary. I’m so there.

In my quest for to learn more about Lebowski, I found the dude’s house website. Information abounds. New shit has come to light.

I’m finally making headway in the Mabel Stark book.

A memorable anecdote: she trained lions as well as tigers. In an act she was performing for the Barnes Circus in 1916, she and an old, tired lion were lifted 45 feet into the air on a wooden platform. Cables and pulleys took care of the mechanicals while Mabel sat on the lion’s back and fireworks went off all around them. The act had been practiced many times before, but never with an audience. The lion got spooked and Mabel had to calm it so as not to plunge to her death. When they finally got down, Mabel hooked the leash around the lion’s collar and began walking. The lion didn’t budge. Instead, it swiped at her forearm and stuck its claws in her flesh. It did not maul her, though. Not yet at least.

Lions supposedly do not have control over individual claws in the way we have control over fingers. This lion, however, lifted three of its claws out of her arm and dug its pinky all the way in, slowly pulled it down her arm, and removed the claw at her wrist. It then led the way off the platform and into its cage.

In the book, Mabel concedes she probably deserved it, and was glad the lion didn’t rip the arm off.

Chris sent me a link to what is perhaps the one and only stress-relieving website in existence. You can pop bubble-wrap, virtually. I recommend the ‘manic mode’

For some reason, as soon as I read the article in the San Antonio Express-News, I thought of the cologne commercial for Obsession. Today’s post is about obsession and what it can do when you have too much money. Mel Spillman, a San Antonio courthouse clerk, was caught stealing from the dead and using their money to fund his weakness:

When someone died in the county and the body went unclaimed, Spillman’s job was to track down the rightful heirs. If there were none, he was to bury the body, liquidate the estate, and turn over whatever assets were left to the county. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he took what the dead left behind, and claimed it as his own.

Ferrari’s emblem is a prancing horse, and Spillman had dozens of horses in all shapes and sizes. There was even a two-sided Sphinx. There were Ferrari paintings, drawings, tool sets, tool lockers, chairs, banners, flags, posters, jackets, shirts, models, magazines, spare parts, and every other officially licensed Ferrari product.

Yet more odd was his collection of Renaissance furniture. There were rows and rows of antique tables, stands, dressers, chests, chairs, and sofas. It seems his fascination with the fine Italian automaker extended to fine European furnishings.

There were two SUVs and a Harley, but those weren’t as interesting as his other purchases. I stumbled upon Spillman’s cd collection. This was perhaps my favorite part. Spillman was a fan of: Steely Dan, Fleetwood Mac, Dire Straits, Robert Plant (but not Zep?), Steppenwolf, and other 70’s rock acts. Also present were the Hootie & The Blowfish debut and the ubiquitous Nevermind. His music selection alone makes me question his mental health.

I was looking for something to do tonight and decided I needed some live music. I looked up a jazz club, but it was downtown and I didn’t feel like dealing with the traffic and parking. So I searched for rock and discovered that The Suspects were playing at a nearby lounge called Jewel’s.

The Suspects is (was, actually) a Houston-based ska band that was pretty well known in ska and punk circles. Since I had never seen them, I was pretty excited to finally have the chance to see them, all for the low price of $5. I shower, race out of the door, get lost, and finally find the venue. Upon walking in, I see a bunch of cheesy-looking tired old guys playing covers. I had the following conversation with the super-cleavage bartender girl:

me: this is The Suspects, right?
scbg: yeah.
me: I thought The Suspects was a ska band.
scbg: what? what’s that?
me: (pause) never mind.
girl down the bar with pink hair: the Suspects are a ska band, or they used to be. There’s The Specials too.
me: yeah, exactly.
pink hair girl: this is another The Suspects.
me: yeah, no kidding.
scbg: (blank face)

I chugged my beer and split. I don’t know how a bunch of old guys can get off calling themselves The Suspects.

I checked The Suspects’ website and they broke up in 2002. Damnit.

Having spent two years living in Moscow and experiencing the sights, sounds, and smells of vodka country (not all good), imagine my surprise when I spotted a beer called Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout at Central Market today. For all I knew, Russians only drank grain or potato alcohol strong enough to fuel an airplane, or at least a car. Never have I heard of Russians drinking much beer, especially stouts.

First, let’s talk about the beer itself. It’s black as night and froths with foam resembling burnt Guinness foam. It had more punch than Guinness too, though not as much as Anchor Porter. But that isn’t saying much since Anchor Porter is a completely different animal, though stout-ish in its own right. Alcohol content was pretty good. I can get a buzz off of most Belgian, Dutch, and German beers when served in pints. The Rasputin Stout left its mark, though not as pronounced as others. It sat as heavy as your average stout. Overall, a good beer, and even better if you’ve got some borscht or cabbage soup lying around. (You know those Russians and their cabbage soup…)

From a historical perspective, this Rasputin character is quite a mystery and seems least at home on a beer label. And might I mention that this beer is a product of California… it’s not shipped from the land of the Volga.

Rasputin was somewhat of a quack. He was a sorcerer/magician/certified yahoo who lived in 19th and 20th century Russia. Young Aleksey Romanov was a hemophiliac and suffered from bleeding spells that left his family, and doctors, perplexed. Enter Rasputin. History indicates that Rasputin was able to stop Aleksey’s bleeding, so mother Alexandra hailed him as a holy man. Because of this trust, Rasputin was able to gain access to the bowels of Russian politics and apparently became chummy with Tsar Nicholas. He was eventually found to be suspicious (what took so long?) and was fed a poisoned meal. He survived. They shot him, and he throttled the guards. He was beaten, bound, and thrown in the river Neva. When he was found, his bonds were broken and his lungs filled with frozen water.

Turns out there really isn’t much factual relation between this stout and Rasputin. Sorry folks. But there is one link, as described on the beer’s packaging:

Contrary to what the name suggests, Russian Imperial Stout was originally brewed in 18th Century England. The name evolved as the Russian Imperial Court developed an early appreciation for this big, intense brew and provided an eager export market.

No posts lately because my PC has gone MIA. It won’t start up. At all. The power comes on but it doesn’t do anything else. I took it to the shop and we’ll see what they say.

Otherwise: I have an embarrassing story to tell. I usually have popcorn with some friends at work in the afternoon and today was no exception. One of the guys keeps a stash of microwave popcorn in his desk and I took one of them out and asked how much time it would need. “Three and a half minutes,” he said. I ambled off to the microwave, set it at 3:30, and went to watch the news in the lounge. When I got back and removed the popcorn, it was smoking like a sonofabitch. I looked around me and noticed water sprinklers on the ceiling. I freaked, left the kitchenette, and walked around the lounge with a smoking bag of popcorn. The building fire alarms went off and the PA announced as much. A rent-a-cop walked up and told the guys on the other end of the walkie-talkie that it was a bag of popcorn, took my popcorn, and released me.

I returned to my area (reeking of burnt popcorn) and was promptly laughed at. The jokes will last for weeks. “Ha, he doesn’t write code anymore; he can’t even work a microwave.”