60, etc.
So unless you've been under a rock for the last day or so, you're aware that Barry Bonds launched his 60th home run yesterday in the Giants' victory over the dreaded Diamondbacks. Barry is the fastest to 60 homers ever; took him a mere 141 games. That's one bomb ever 2.35 games. If he keeps up that pace, according to my bad math, that means he'll end up with 69 for the season. Which he won't.
No way Barry will even smell nine more homers. Not in the midst of a pennant race. I predict lotsa 0-for1's and 1-for2's with three or four walks for the next 21 games. But they do open a set three-game set in Colorado tonight. Thin air + bad pitching + Barry just might add up to magic. ...
So the VMAs. I didn't see the whole thing, but what I did see was subpar at best. High points were few: the appearance of the King of Pop, Alicia Keys, Outkast, and, ummm, I guess that was it. Oh, and Moby. And Spike Jonze. But that was probably it.
The low points, at least of what I saw, were many: the (physical) appearance of the King of Pop, the Aaliyah tribute, Jay-Z, Linkin Park, J-Lo and Ja Rule, Jamie Foxx, I could go on and on, but I won't. Let's just say that it was exceedingly lame and leave it at that.
Or, if you just can't get enough of VMA-bashing, definitely check out the archived Fuck the VMAs live blogathon. Brilliant. They hit way more often than they missed, and mad props go out for the execution. Amazing all around. Am I bucking for inclusion in next year's live anti-VMA blog? Damn right I am! You know where to find me. ... ßßß
Fantomas & Atomsmasher @ Slim's
If you're looking for background music, or happy music, or summer day driving fast on the highway singing along music, avoid Fantomas at all costs. But if you're looking for a band that pushes the boundaries of music and noise, that combines free jazz and grindcore, Fantomas is for you.
With an ungodly early showtime of 8 pm, unfortunately we missed opener Atomsmasher, but arrived just minutes before Fantomas took the stage. Opening with "The Godfather Waltz," it quickly devolved from singer/multi-instrumentalist Mike Patton playing a plaintive melodica line into brutal grindcore. That pretty much set the tone for the evening.
Drawing heavily from their recent Director's Cut CD, Fantomas ripped through their bizarre free-jazz/experimental-metal interpretations of a dozen movie theme songs, and, sadly, "Flashdance (What a Feeling)" was not among them. But they more than made up for that by closing with a brutal medley of Lombardo-era Slayer songs.
And in between Mike Patton screamed, sang, yelped, conducted, and challenged his band to ascend to new levels of weirdness. Melvins guitarist Buzz Osbourne, his bizarre white man's afro defying gravity, coaxed otherworldly sounds out of Gibsons, while Patton manipulated his myriad effects boxes, keyboards, samplers, and theremin to add to the musical melange. At times it was hard to believe there were only four guys creating all that racket.
If you're anywhere near San Francisco, I urge you to check out the second night of this two-night run. Walk, crawl, drive, or fly to Slim's tonight. You may be disturbed, frightened, bewildered, or downright scared, but you certainly won't be disappointed. ßßß
Wax on, wax off.
So maybe karma does exist after all.
Now I don't usually go for that hippie astrology full-moon crystals and pyramids mumbo-jumbo, but the Giants game last night may have made a believer out of me.
My boss gave me his tickets for the Rockies game this past Friday night, so with Tracy out of town, I had Scoop Casey accompany me. The boss's tickets are amazing, Field Club level, complete with waiter service and access to the toney bars and restaurants and shit. Places they usually go out of theur way to keep me out of. Oh, and did I mention the seats are almost directly behind home plate? Yeah, so they're pretty damn good.
But then the humanity happened. Casey starts coming down with some insane variant of the West Nile virus and feels like hell, but not half as bad as I feel listening to the nonstop chatter of the 13-year-old font of baseball knowledge behind me. I swear the kid did not take a breath until the middle of the 5th inning. Just yammering to his mom and dad and no one in particular, random baseball facts and statistics that were invariably wrong. This is why I'm not having children.
And it gets worse. On Casey's right, two drunken buffoons roll up. I can describe them in two words: Raider fans. Those who reside in the greater San Francisco Bay Area will know exactly what I mean. Willfully ignorant, classless, foul-mouthed, drunk, and stupid. Not a great combination. And here I was thinking that we'd be kicking it with the wine and cheese crowd. Boooooooooo.
And then there was the game itself. Russ Ortiz surrendered 5 runs in the first, and there was no other scoring until the bottom of the 8th. Arrrggghhh. The only upside to the game was that the scoring in the 8th came courtesy of a two-run bomb by Barry Bonds. But other than that, the game was a complete wash, with the Giants losing 5-2.
But last night more than made up for all of that nonsense. First sign that all would be well: Mixmaster Mike was mixing behind home plate before the game. Of course no one knew who he was, but we parked ourselves behind home plate for a bit and watched him do his thing. He mixed and scratched and juggled between innings too, and we were treated to closeup views of his virtuosity on the Diamond Vision. That guy is class.
Then me and pal Ben made ourway to our regular seats in the shadow of the left field foul pole. We were joined by Laurie, the insane heckler woman who, according to Ben, bears an uncanny resemblance to Zero Mostel — you know, the guy who isn't Gene Wilder in The Producers. Anyway, she's got a voice like a bullhorn, and is always entertaining. But her brilliance was fully eclipsed by the two crazy Southies in front of us.
These guys were straight out of Central Casting, complete with the "Pahk the cah" accents. Unfreakingbelievable. They didn't shut up for the whole game, but they knew their baseball, rooted for the home team, and kept us all in stitches. "Little gappuh, Bahrry!" and "Hit it hahdah, Richie!!" was all it took for me to start rolling around on the ground. Incredible.
And then there was the game itself. Both starting pitchers were awesome, and it was close through 6. But the Giants went off in the 7th. Rich Aurilia hit his second homer of the night, a two-run shot, and Barry Bonds, not to be outdone, stepped up and whacked his 59th of the season. Incredible. That got young Jason Schmidt the win, the place went mental, etc. Robb Nen came in in the 9th to shut the door, and the Giants won 5-2. Then I went home to my wife, freshly back from vacation. Not a bad night. Not a bad night at all.
So yeah, that karma thing? Maybe it's ferreal after all. Well, I'm out. Gotta go read my horoscope and see what the rest of the week holds in store. ßßß
What I Did on My Summer Vacation
Nothing.
Well, that's not quite true, but I didn't do a whole helluva lot. This weekend consisted of spending lots of time with Kai (dope), hanging out tons with Mom (doper), and procuring tickets to several upcoming shows (dopest). Boom. A whole summer bereft of any interesting shows, and then three in two weeks. And then there's the Def Jux Records Showcase on the 19th. Gotta wait til the accountant's back in town to determine whether or not we can afford a fourth outing. ...
Things I didn't accomplish this weekend: sleeping, eating, cleaning, etc. Must remember to do these at some point. But Tracy's back tonight (bomb), and that generally means life will return to normal. She's my anchor in this crazy, mixed-up storm-tossed ocean we call life. Whoa. That was awful emo.
Not a whole lot else going on in this nape of the neck. Another Giants game tonight tonight (dope), Fantomas tomorrow night (doper), and Tracy returning (dopest). If you happen to be going to Fantomas, look me up. That's me over there on the left. I'll be the one in the back with the cute redhead, throwing ashtrays at the band. ßßß
Don't miss last week's brilliant insight.
