If, as Jello Biafra once said, Bruce Springsteen is "Dylan for jocks," then The Hold Steady are "Springsteen for nerds." Reductive, yes, but prove me wrong. There's something very outsiderish about Craig Finn's lyrics -- oh, he was at the same party, but he had trouble holding his liquor and headed home early because, hey, it's New Years Eve and you know what that means -- Twilight Zone Marathon! The big, chewy guitars and occasional horns that mark the Boss' work are there, and there are people who are definitely born to run in the stories ... but Finn knows them, he's not one of them. As such, they are probably one of my favorite bands (and definitely my favorite live act -- apologies to Maiden) of the past 5 years.

Either way, here's fun video of them on last night's Letterman. I'm seeing them in LA on the 30th.

My daughter Nola started crawling today. The office is filled with colorful toys -- blocks -- balls -- wooden thingamajigs -- and she went straight for the menacing tangle of dull, black power chords underneath the desk. I heard a father refer to electrical outlets as "candy holes." No shit. You'd have thought everything electric in this house was filled with breastmilk, sugar packets and applesauce the way she was tearing off for it.

I am thrilled, of course, at the progress of her gross motor skills, but I am also exhausted.

Took a meeting yesterday (yes, you heard me, I 'took' a meeting. I can ignore the fact that I live in Los Angeles, or I can embrace it. Ride it out). The meeting is not the news -- the news is that after 6 and a half years of living here, I finally had a meeting at Nakatomi Plaza, the building from DieHard. The lobby and parking garage look very much the same. The building is actually owned by it's neighbor, 20th Century Fox, but I don't know anyone who calls it FoxPlaza. To do so would be an insult to arguably the finest action movie ever made which, after all, is a product of 20th Century Fox.

I came very close to not going to the meeting at all, but instead staying in the parking garage, getting high and listening to Christmas in Hollis.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Go to McDonalds today and buy one of their Iced Coffees. They're delicious. So delicious. They're like crack, in the sense that if I couldn't afford one I would seriously consider sucking dick for one.

But how can I endorse McDonalds, a corporate behemoth that makes people fat and is responsible for so much animal cruelty that this FatBurger fan finds them repellent?

Because Donald Wildmon and his American Family Association are calling for a boycott, for a really ridiculous reason. Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend. And because the Iced Coffee is really fucking delicious.

Here's the always hysterical Chris Kelly on the matter. My favorite joke in the in piece is just "R-Nz."

What's great about this country? We have bands that have good instruments (except the synth drums) who can cover a song as a halfhearted joke, record it in front of a small crowd of friends, post it on YouTube and I can find it.

Happy 4th, everybody!

George Carlin died last night.

My father came home sometime in, I want to say 1977, put on a new vinyl copy of FM/AM, and taught me everything I know about comic timing. The first joke is:

"I got fired from a hotel in Vegas for saying 'shit,' in a town where the big game is called 'craps'". It's some kind of double standard."

At age 6, I did not know what 'craps' were, I don't think I knew what a double standard was, and it would be 25 years before I first visited Vegas, yet I laughed out loud. George Carlin's delivery was that flawless.

This is a bit from the 80s, I think -- and it tears apart his favorite subject - language.


What a loss. A full life, to be sure, but if he could have just hung on one more year, he was supposed to accept the long overdue Mark Twain award this fall. A huge drag -- even Richard Pryor lived to accept it.

So I've recently realized that I listen to the Alkaline Trio more than any other band -- iTunes tells no lies -- which is fine. Their nihilist lyrics and whole blackclad gothpunk thing can be a little sophomoric for my tastes sometimes, but the tunes are fun to sing along to, and they hit the spot when I'm in an angry mood. Check out "From Here To Infirmary" or "Goddamit" for good melodic punk rock.

Then this happened:


Guys. Nike. Really? But hey, the new song is catchy as hell, I've done commercials for my share of evil corporations, etc, but damn. There's a part in the above video where Matt Skiba mentions that he doesn't get psyched about Christmas anymore.

Nike. Do Your Homework. Matt Skiba is a member of the Church of Satan.

So. At the end of the day, Nike collaborated with a Satanist for a new sneaker design. Wow. Punk rock.

So Weezer, whom I haven't listened to in easily 4 albums, are doing a small trip called the Hootenany Tour, where they released the setlist online, told people to learn the chords, and invited fans to show up with their instruments. The effect, well, it gives me chills.




Isn't that cool? Does that not give you hope for the future of music, even if the future of Weezer is kind of up in the air?

So. Maiden.

I have viewed Iron Maiden for years with a mixture of genuine affection and kitschy appreciation. As, I imagine, all high school graduates view Iron Maiden. Of the new wave of British Metal (Priest, Motorhead, etc.) Maiden are by far the hookiest and, as such, my favorite. But I'd never seen them live. I've seen very little metal live, save for an Anthrax show in 1991, when they invented rap-metal.

As it happens, Anthrax opened up for Maiden for both nights at the Verizon Wireless Amphitheatre in sunny and meth-laden Irvine, CA. Jamie and I missed most of the 'thrax, due to some shady advertising on the behalf of the venue (8PM show means the first band goes on at 7:45). But I caught Anti-Social and I Am The Law, and they were quite good, though I missed the goforbroke showmanship of old singer Joey Belladonna.

9ish. The lights in the venue dim. Transylvania by Iron Maiden comes over the speakers. Recorded. Blackness on stage. Following the entirety of the song, a travelogue appears on the screen -- Maiden on tour! Maiden playing soccer stadiums! Bruce Dickinson piloting the band around on private jet! This band is sucking its own dick before even showing up on stage! I LOVE IT!

Then the picture changes -- old footage of fighterpilots over the thick voice of Winston Churchill --
"We shall go on to the end.
We shall fight in France,
We shall fight on the seas and oceans,
We shall fight with GROWING confidence and GROWING strength in the air.
We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be.
We shall fight on beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds,
We shall fight in the fields and in the streets.
We shall fight in the hills,
We shall never surrender."
And the opening, muted riff of Aces High - unmistakably live -- pumps out onto a crowd that literally runs the gamut from 6 to 60. When the song really kicks in, there's pyrotechnics, and a stage set with sarcophagi as three guitarists seemingly charge the audience. Much to my chagrin, Bruce Dickinson does not emerge from the Egyptian coffins. But that's my last complaint about the show -- it was just relentless. Charming banter, perfect, crisply loud sound, my wife struck dumb by how much she was not bored and the set list? HIT, HIT, HIT, costume change so Bruce can come out dressed as a redcoat for The Trooper, HIT, HIT, Can I Play With Madness (my favorite, but clearly not a crowd favorite. I really embarrassed myself singing along, but I was so high on music, metal and two small pot brownies that it didn't matter), HIT, HIT, all 16 minutes of Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a devil that popped out during Number of the Beast, Jamie asks me if Maiden themselves know this is funny and I honestly have no answer, HIT, Powerslave with Bruce wearing some sort of (ancient?) mask, HIT, HIT and oh, shit there's a fire.

Up on the lawn, directly up the raked seating from us, some dipshits have started a bonfire. At first it seems stupid and harmless, but then they start lighting posters and throwing them down into the Terraces, where we're seated. I exchange annoyed glances with a dad who has brought his two sons. I consider briefly the instant and eternal rock cred that would be given to my daughter if she lost BOTH her parents at a Maiden show, but it just barely aint worth it.

Heaven Can Wait, of all fucking things, starts as we make our way to the side of the venue to avoid the fire. And the pot brownies kick in for reallyreals and I have to stop and hug the wall before we make it over to the stairs. I stay there for a moment in panicked euphoria, and then stumble off to the side. We stay there for Run to the Hills and Fear of the Dark, when a real, honest to God evacuation starts. The good people at the venue, efficient men and true, start a bucket brigade towards the fire. No fire extinguishers. A bucket brigade. Because, apparently, the show was in Deadwood. That's my cue. We head down to the Vendor Village at the foot of the hill, where I can hear the end of the set -- Iron Maiden, my other favorite song, and the crowd's elated reaction to Eddie's appearance.

We beat traffic. I miss the encore -- no biggie. Have you ever seen Iron Maiden? No? Terrible news, friend. You've never seen a rock concert. Next time I see the Hold Steady, or Ted Leo, or god help them Built To Spill, and they leave the stage dressed the same as they were when they started, I will politely applaud, hum along, maybe buy a shirt, and act as if I have been privileged to watch a rehearsal. But I will under no circumstances call it a "show."

ABOVE: a fan picture from roughly where we were sitting.

Here's the Naked Babies tribute to Sex and the City, written by a fine young American named Jordan Morris. Good luck sleeping tonight.

Sidney Pollack died last night.

Let me say first that Tootsie is one of my favorite films. It ages really well -- shoulder pads and all. One of the things that holds it together is Sidney Pollack, the actor. He stands as our -- the audience's -- surrogate, voicing our concerns ("You slept with her and she still thinks you're gay? That's not good, Michael.") It's a wonderful performance, almost as good as his fucking amazing job in Husbands and Wives. If you can handle the camera work and the unrepentant bleakness of it all, see his work. It's great. He will be missed.

Also in the news? Green Bombs! Thanks, Germany!

It's raining bullshit from the right. Listen, The Decemberists opened for Obama. If people didn't like Obama, they'd have left earlier. Colin Meloy wishes he could draw 75,000 people and play football stadiums rather than the Wiltern and similar large theaters across the country.

I love both acts, personally, but the rock concert does not outweigh Obama's appeal. Were that the case, The Decemberists would have done a lot better in last nights primary.

I've been writing a lot less about politics -- there are other people who do it better -- Daily Kos and the often laugh out loud Wonkette come to mind -- but once in a while, stuff like this comes down the pike, and I have to share it.

Here's Things Younger Than John McCain. It's ageist, reductive and eye-opening.

My father was as old as Spam. He kept a framed photo of a can of Spam on his desk. I am as old as Starbucks and Idina Menzel and the Attica Riots. What are you as old as?

I'm not proud of it. but this link literally made me laugh until I cried. It's juvenile, cheap, scatalogical and I had to stop halfway down because I thought I was getting a hernia.

Go Obama.

So the new Grand Theft Auto IV got a crazy good review in the Times. Which is pretty odd -- a video game getting ranted about in the paper of record? But there's a passing reference to something you can do in the "sandbox" of the game in your time off, and I became obsessed with it.

And here it is: Ricky Gervais' stand up set from Liberty City. It's really surreal ... namely because he's talking about obesity to a bunch of people who are, after all, sitting on their asses playing a video game.

God, I hate Pink Floyd.

That's not entirely true -- I like the first record with Syd Barrett, but it scarcely sounds like the same band that unleashed The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon and -- please kill me now -- The Final Cut on an innocent world. When Syd died, I went online and bought a bunch of stuff and REALLY dug it -- try Arnold Layne or Lucifer Sam if, like me, you think all Pink Floyd sucks. You might be surprised. There's a dark wit running through these songs, and they're each about 2-4 minutes long. Which you can't say about any Floyd song after Syd got kicked out of the band for being an acid casualty (by the way, RIP Albert Hoffman. In a perfect world, they'd serve nothing but orange juice at his funeral and the coffin would look it was breathing.) As if to mock Syd, the song they wrote in tribute to him, Shine on You Crazy Diamond, is an inexcusable and irony-free 13:30 long.

Why bring this up? Because Syd, like me, might have found it really fucking funny that Roger Waters has once again lost his flying pig.

Wow, here's something really interesting. You ever see Midnight Run? It's good, right? Straightforward, no bullshit mainstream buddy movie from that genre's golden age, the 1980s. Great performances all over the place, including one by Yaphet Kotto as Special Agent Alonzo Moseley.

Flashforward to earlier this year. Witless Protection comes out, featuring an FBI agent named Alonzo Mosely, who is fucking played by Yaphet Kotto. And now there's a lawsuit! Universal is suing Lionsgate for using the character's name and likeness without permission. And I love Lionsgate -- they bring me Mad Men, last years hands down best show, and Weeds, (ditto the year before) and they cut a deal with the WGA during the strike.

BUUUUUUUUUUT here's why I'm for the plaintiff on this one: I really like Midnight Run. And I fucking hate Larry the Cable Guy. I know it's trendy for big chardonnay sipping liberals like myself to hate LTCG, but I really do. That douchebag poseur wouldn't know how to write a hard joke if he ate the Friars Club with ranch dressing and washed it down with a jar of Country Time. I hope the case breaks him, and I hope Yaphet Kotto walks away unscathed.

You kids like the MySpace? Huh? Head on over to mine for a glimpse at my reel! Now online, so everyone can see me play Amber Tamblyn's geometry teacher! That coupled with the Egghead. song makes my MySpace page the work of a lunatic narcissist! GOOD EATIN'!!!

So Obama gets awarded the Dick Move of the Week by Jon Stewart -- and it was a dirty trick, but it's also pretty funny.

In 2004, Michael Moore registered voters by giving out Ramen Noodles on a college campus. We could have inspired Democrats on the Ithaca College campus by handing out Milwaukees Best, one-hitters and birkenstocks with any registration. I salute Obama for reaching out to bland frat boy voters by handing out Dave Matthews tickets. Balls in your court, Hillary -- to lure back the same audience, might I recommend giving out rohypnol next time Barack speaks?

Behold: CLINT BLACK DOES STANDUP!!!

Despite the well-placed loofah callback, it really just sounds like a much more articulate George W. doing jokes. So he sells them, sure, I've heard worse delivery, but Boy are those jokes as funny as Bush's "i'm looking for the WMD's under my desk" bit from a couple years back. Still, though, it's better than other country singers who have tried stand up. Take for example: Charlie Louvin ("Is it hot up here or am I just in a very real, very visceral hell?"), Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison ("Anyone here from out of town?") or Charlie Pride ("And white people tend to walk like THIS!")

Look, it's late.

Saw Diary of the Dead today. Even a lesser Romero movie is better than ANY HORROR MOVIE TO COME OUT OF JAPAN OR BE ADAPTED FROM A JAPANESE SOURCE. And this one is pretty good. The last image alone is gonna keep me up tonight, and it contains the first "using a defibrillater to fry a zombie's brain" set piece ever. Two Half Eaten Thumbs Up!!!

Is it because I'm going to see Iron Fucking Maiden on my 37th Fucking Birthday?

Yeah, I thought that might be it. The Somewhere Back In Time Tour (covering their brilliant 80s material ONLY) rolls into sunny Irvine on the 30th of May, 2008 A.D.

Iron Maiden break all of my rock rules -- their songs are really long, they take themselves really seriously, and they sing about the plight of the Native American. Yet I have always liked them -- my friend Elios made a mix for me when I was 13, and despite all of my above beefs, the songs are catchy, Bruce Dickinson has a great voice, it is nigh impossible to not air guitar along with their faux-classical histrionics, and I am, ultimately, quite retarded.

Exhibit A for the defense: Can I Play With Madness? It mentions prophets! And it's nowhere NEAR the only mention of prophets in their catalogue! And the video? HOLY SHIT! Their Mascot appears in the sky over the ruins of a Gothic Cathedral! The late Graham Chapman plays a mean Authority Figure! HOW JADED ARE YE THAT DO NOT WEEP?!?!?


Did I mention which birthday it was? You're asking me: John, you're going to see an 80s metal band on your 37th birthday in Irvine, CA. Is there any way you can make this seem like more of a pathetic midlife crisis moment?

How about this: the whole thing is paid for with redeemed American Express Reward Points. Hey there, 23 year old hipster who's going to the concert for the kitsch value! SUCK ON MY PLATINUM BUSINESS CARD!!!