Physics makes us all its bitches.

Wow, long time.

Since I've last posted, I've (a) moved out of Canada; (b) moved back to Lawrence, KS; (c) started teaching at KU, my non-alma-mater, but I like to think alma-mater-in-law, or rather ex-alma-mater-in-law.

I was a bit nervous, I have to say, about moving back here. Would I run into too many people from my high school years that I don't want to see, well, ever again? Would I return to my old bad habits, become the sort of dude that I'm not really all that proud of having been back in those days? The answer, it would seem, is no. Part of this is because I've changed, but part of it is also that the town has changed. Lawrence, you see, is a town that is permeated by the University--every inch of it has something or other to do with KU. So every four years or so the character of the town completely changes as the last round of students rotates out of Lawrence and back to the world.

Also, however, I'm noticing a number of things about the town that I would only have noticed after having gotten a little longer in the tooth. The Red Lyon, with its faux-British-pubness, now seems like a distinctly less cool place to hang out than the 8th Street Taproom, with its dark, simple, uncrowded atmosphere.

This bit of strange self-awareness came about a week ago, when I cajoled Madeline into accompanying me to the "Of Montreal" show at Liberty Hall. Now, a little history is in order. Liberty Hall is a grand old concert hall in the middle of downtown Lawrence, but it was also a prime destination for me when it came to taking in rock shows as a high-schooler. Liberty Hall was where I saw Urge Overkill, the Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Nirvana, Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, and a number of others I'm forgetting. One of the great things about Liberty, however, was that all concerts are GA and despite its size; the venue is also relatively intimate. Consequently, there is much clamoring before the doors open to get in prime position to snag a spot at the stage, mere inches away from the performers. I recall participating in this mad dash many times. So when it came time to go to the "Of Montreal" show, I followed protocol: we better get there way early so we can get a top spot.

But it was cold that night. I had a blazer, but still, not enough for warmth. Madeline was game to wait in line, but I could see that she was uncomfortable. So I said, screw it. We'll still be on the floor, and that will be fun enough. So we went and got a cup of coffee, and hung around in Liberty Hall's video rental outlet until the line started moving. We were a ways back. That's when it hit me: am I too old for this? Walking to the back of the line was like walking to the back of the line for a "just got my driver's license" convention. 16-year-olds abound. Am I too old? After all, I did decide to not wait in line for the sake of being a little warmer. Do I have to give up my rock-show cred?

It got worse. Liberty Hall is set up like this. When you finally get in the door you have a choice: enter the main hall on the floor, or go up the stairs to the balcony, which has seats. Looking at these two options, it immediately hit me that if I went down to the floor, I'd be standing for, like, three hours at least. It would be really loud, way louder than if I sat down on the balcony. Furthermore, memories of what being on the floor used to be like flashed into my brain: half-drunk idiots spinning around, banging into you. Tall jerks standing right in front of you rather than standing in a place that is more appropriate given their height. Stupid little boys "accidentally" groping the females in your party. Finally, it hit me: better go upstairs. Better simply admit defeat, brother: you are too old for this. This is a kid's game and you, at best, are a stone's throw from middle-age.

Waiting for the show I was disappointed in myself. I could see the kids down on the floor anxiously awaiting the band. I could see them hanging on every roadie's bump of the curtain, waiting for a clue that the band was just a few feet away. I was jealous. Here I was on the balcony. Pain free, of course, but somehow removed. There were some people around me, of course, but I felt like we were, I dunno, like the aristocrats sitting in their special seats, comfortable, perhaps, but not really engaged. At more than one point, I thought to myself: why did I even buy these tickets if I'm not really going to see the show?

But then the show started. It was powerful, moving. Lots of dance tunes and disco numbers. And that's when I noticed something very interesting. Looking down at the floor I expected to see the usual pushing and shoving, get-out-of-my-way angry mentality that usually characterized rock shows. But no: people were simply dancing. They were mimicking the words, jumping up and down, but in a way that was collectively joyful, rather than aggressive. And right then I had a realization: I am older. And I am too old for the floor. But that's ok. My generation of rock-show attendees had a heirarchical order built-in: if you weren't on the floor, you weren't shit. You didn't really care. But this group seemed simply content to enjoy the music and dance. And suddenly I felt glad I came. I could enjoy the music and be a part of the audience. It was as if the kids on the floor were welcoming me: we know you're older. We know you're in the balcony. But it's all good. Let's all enjoy this. Let's dance together.

And all of a sudden, like, my whole life was put into a grand relief: here I am living in Lawrence, the site of my youth, but in a way that is different. In a way that is more fully a realization of who I am now. This town, like these kids, are welcoming at any age. There is now so much new to discover. Looking at these kids, I felt like the Grinch seeing Whoville singing even after all the presents were stolen.

And then it all came crashing down.

The final song "Of Montreal" played was a curious choice: "Smells Like Teen Spirit." And no sooner had they hit the big four-chord riff, were kids slamming into each other, pushing and shoving, getting into fights, looking generally angry and pissed-off. One of the dance performers, a female, jumped off the stage to crowd-surf. By the time she got back on stage, her silver wig had been ripped off, and torn, and she mouthed: "You fucking assholes!" and gave them all a collective double-fisted single-fingered "fuck you!" salute. By the time I made it out of Liberty Hall, I noticed more than one kid with a bloody nose.

Ah, you can go home again.

I just bought

a fucking house.

Sweet 'stash, man.

I think Daniel Day-Lewis should be given the Oscar just on the strength of this mustache.

Rest in Peace, Roy.

We're gonna miss ya'.

Come on, let us give your mind a ride.

I'm disappointed by the latest Radiohead album.

There, I said it.

This follows a string of, to my mind, disappointing albums. Speaking honestly, and not through rose-colored glasses, it seems to me that Hail to the Thief was a total disaster, a complete mess of an album. Amnesiac and Kid A were both, well, what they were, but to be quite honest, I didn't really like them as much as many other people did. They were ok, I suppose, but they felt like small albums. They did less with less, rather than more with less. That might be a good thing, but I myself didn't really get into it.

I think the conclusion that I have to come to is that, for me at least, Radiohead has entered the phase of being a band I once really liked, but who are continuing to produce albums far past their prime. They're a band whose new recoreds I feel obligated to purchase, mostly out of inertia, but whose output I recognize full well will sadden me.

This happens every once in awhile. I like to think that The Cure entered this phase with "Wild Mood Swings," although I liked their most recent album, and I actually think that if they keep the lean "Trilogy" lineup, their new record will be a significant step in the right direction. In other words, The Cure appear to no longer just be treading water. It's too early to make a judgment about The Flaming Lips, but their latest record is flirting dangerously.

Midnight Oil's turning point was after "Earth and Sun and Moon," (which is a freaking great record and, by the way, one of the most rotary-speakered albums I've ever heard). Prince's last great effort was "Diamonds and Pearls." Bowie entered this phase after "Scary Monsters," but as of late has appeared to turn it around (although I'm not authoritative on this point).

How about you people? Which great bands are going through the motions?

I get that feeling I had in my younger days.

Insofar as I'm a diabetic that often runs into bouts of hypoglycemia around the 4-5 o'clock hour, it's important to me to have available a wide array of delicious candy bars. In principle, these things aren't just wonderful snack treats. They're also life savers. I don't mean that they're LifeSavers. Rather, they prevent death.

Canada has some of the American standbys. They have Twix, which, it seems to me on reflection is perhaps one of the greatest of all. One can't do without the cookie crunch for too long. Also, they do, to my great joy, have the T 5. Except up here they call it the MAX 5. But Canada doesn't appear to have any standard Hershey's Chocolate bars. (The T 5 is Hershey's, but for some reason there are a bunch of the standard ones missing.) You know how some college campuses are Coke, some are Pepsi. Well, Canada appears to be Nestle as opposed to Hershey's. This deprives me of the Caramello, the Hershey's Special Dark, Symphony, and your standard Hershey's and Hershey's with Almond. The latter is a significant loss, it seems to me.

But Canada has some candy bars that the US doesn't have. What follows is a description and assessment of the various Canada-specific bars that American's don't have access to:

1. The Aero Bar.


The wrapper makes it seem like it's going to be more like the Nestle Crunch bar, right? (Another bar I haven't yet seen in Edmonton.) WRONG. It's SO not like the Crunch bar. Rather, it's basically a milk chocolate bar with holes in it. That's right. Holes. There's more air in this thing than chocolate. There's like, an ounce of chocoloate, three ounces of air. Or something like that. (I'm not so good with the "ounces".) This bar is a rip-off of gigantor proportions. A rip-off's rip-off.

2. The Sweet Marie.


We don't have the Baby Ruth bar up here. But we do have the Sweet Marie, which is basically a BR but with a few changes. The Sweet Marie is less crumbly. The chocolate is more malleable or something. Anyway, I think that's a plus. But the BR's inner coating is, ironically, sweeter than the Sweet Marie. The Sweet Marie seems like a more sophisticated, travelled, worldly Baby Ruth.

3. The Coffee Crisp.


I genuinely like this bar. It's basically some wafers coated in chocolate with a very slight coffee flavor. Not much more to say about it. A solid bar. It's no MAX 5, but it'll do.

4. The Mr. Big


This bar is pretty big, I mean, it's big in the sense that it's long, but I don't really think it weighs any more than any of the other bars, except for the Aero, which weighs about as much as it's own wrapper. But I think that the Mr. Big is a genuine advance in candy bar construction, and am surprised that something like this hasn't yet been seen in the US. Basically it's a Baby Ruth, elongated, with a long rice-crisp center, rather than a gooey caramel center. It's my favorite so far, I think. Again, no MAX 5, but then again, what is?

5. The Caramilk


Basically the reference point for the Caramilk is the Caramello. They're both cubes of chocolate filled with milky caramel. But for my money, the Caramilk beats the Caramello hands down. One reason: several sets of small cubes rather than one set of big cubes. The best thing about this particular candy bar construction is the experience of biting down on each individual cube. You only get to do that four or five times with the 'mello. The 'milk gives you something like nine or ten.

6. The Wunderbar


This one was a bit of a mystery the first time I had it. I was thinking that it would be more like a Butterfinger, which I also haven't seen north of the border. But no! It was a gooey bar through and through. There wasn't any solid construction to hold it in place. Caramel and peanut butter on the inside, chocolate on the outside. A decent bar, but not my favorite. Good in a pinch.

Now I should say that just because I haven't seen a bar yet doesn't mean they don't have it here. It's possible I just haven't been looking. But I am suprised at the lack of candy crossover. Canada has some good innovations, but some significant missteps, as well. The Aero bar will go down in history as one of mankind's biggest debacles, like the Vietnam War or New Kids on the Block. But there are some upgrades.

Unfortunately, Canada hasn't yet caught up to the dark chocolate craze. However, there is one version of the Kit Kat bar that is "noir," but I'm not sure if they have that in the states yet. Without a symphony or a "Mars Special Dark," you dark lovers are in a bit of a pickle up here, or at least when the 4-5 o'clock hour rolls around.

Why, why, why, Delilah?

It was a long, long trip.

It takes quite a while to drive from San Diego, California to Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, T5K 1P4. That's for damn sure. If you don't believe me, just try it yourself. Somewhere in the middle of Utah you'll realize that you're in for one whale of a trip.

So the Bassett and I started out on a Tuesday. The plan was to make it to Las Vegas by lunchtime, and begin our little two-day mini-vacation. The trip up to Vegas was surprisingly pleasant, in retrospect. We had planned on making use of some of the various audiobooks we had obtained, and the first day was taken up with a substantial bit of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." Which I must say I enjoyed more than she did. It was read by the author, however, so that was a nice touch. It was a mite creepy, however. After all, the guy's dead.

It's a funny thing, driving to Las Vegas. It's basically driving five hours through solid desert. Only occasionally, surrounded on all sides by the desert, is a sprawling patch of green, some golf course, or some planned retirement community. The first thing that going to Vegas does is make you realize how ridiculous some of the developments are in terms of water use. Yikes.

Anyway, you'll know when you're in Nevada. No kidding. Here's you. You're driving in the car passing the Nevada/California line right....now. To your left and right you will see two gigantic casinos, with three more in the distance. They don't look all that glitzy, but they sure are huge. And I'm not kidding. Literally, I think the casino floor ends about 16 inches from the California border.

Finally, after passing more desert, and even more signs for various crappy magicians you could see at the Monte Carlo, you arrive in Vegas. I have to say, driving on the 15, I was less than totally impressed. I expected to be blown away as soon as I got into town, you know, "Vegas, baby, Vegas!" But it wasn't like that at all. Mostly it was a bunch of urban sprawl that eventually led you toward a biggish town, that eventually led you to some hotels on your right. Didn't blow me away.

That is, until we got off the interstate, and on to Las Vegas Boulevard. We exited on Tropicana, which is at the south end of the strip, intent on driving the strip on our way up to our hotel, the Sahara, which is at the north end. Really, these things are huge. These hotels, I mean, wow. The first one we saw was New York, New York. And jeezus, it is really gigantic. Roller costers, huge towers, impressive. The MGM Grand is across the street, and, well, despite being the largest casino, is somewhat less towering than NY, NY. Driving up, you eventually see all the famous ones, including the new Wynn, which has, I must say, rather gorgeous architecture. Finally, we got to the Sahara (and I do mean finally, because it took us about a half and hour to go 3 miles on the strip). We got our room number, and decided to go for lunch. We knew we wanted to have lunch at the Hofbrauhaus, which I knew was over by the MGM Grand. So we decided to take the Vegas monorail to the MGM, go to lunch, go back to the MGM to pick up our show tickets for that night, and then head back to the Sahara.

Boy, when things go wrong.

So we get to the MGM. We walk out. I hadn't really gotten a whiff of the Vegas heat just yet. But it was big. BIG HEAT. It must have been something like 110 degrees. But, according to the map that I saw, the Hofbrauhaus was just right behind the MGM, so I figured, it'd be a hot walk, but short. Boy was I wrong. We're walking along Tropicana Avenue, or Boulevard, or whatever, and we are finding that, well, we don't see any Hofbrauhaus. There's a cross-street. No beer steins. I ask the gas station attendant, he points me further east. So we keep walking. And walking. And walking. Basically, we walked at least two miles in the punishing heat, not knowing precisely where we were going, because apparently, the HBH is nowhere NEAR the back of the MGM Grand. Finally we get there, drenched in sweat, and tired as hell. Red-faced. Keeling over from heat-stroke. Nothing cures that like a liter of beer, which we drank liberally, along with some decent saurkraut and sausage. So, I have to say, on this trip to Edmonton, things started off badly.

But they got better. We took a cab back to the MGM, got the tickets, and went back to the Sahara on the monorail. We just relaxed for a few hours, I paid a few bills, and then we took the monorail again to the MGM. Got out, and looked for dinner. Ate at the Wolfgang Puck grill, made it to the theatre and took in Tom Jones.

Tom Jones.

Wow. What a show! It was in a really small theatre, and we were close to the front. To be honest, it took him a few songs to really get into gear, but when he did, it sounded like his voice hadn't aged a day since 1964. Basically it was a rundown of his hits with a few newer things mixed in. He did "Delilah", "You Can Leave Your Hat On", and a bunch of others. He didn't do "Thunderball," though, at which I was disappointed. Brought the house down with "Kiss" as the finale. It was basically an hour and a half. Good show. A decided lack of panties, however. Oh well. One thing I could have done without was his encore kickoff, "I Like the Way You Move." You know. That song from all the commercials? Eh, but I guess you have to keep the material fresh for the younguns. And by that I mean young people, not young guns.

After the MGM, we went to New York, NY and had a little pizza. The Bassett played some video poker. I had some drinks. We eventually headed back to the Sahara, and more drinks and some gambling. I dropped 20 bucks at the craps table.

The next day we took in the strip. Here is a rundown of the casinos we saw:

Harrah's
The Venitian
The Mirage
Caeser's Palace
The Bellagio
Monte Carlo (where I won 37 bucks playing craps. Apparently, I am the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo.)
Paris

We also went back to NY, NY for a few drinks and some appetizers. We then proceeded to Paris, where we hung out and gambled a little (I won 10 bucks each at Roulette and Blackjack). We ate dinner at their buffet (which was really cool), and hung out in a piano bar for awhile. The piano bar basically consisted of two dudes with prop baby-grand pianos and circa-1990 keyboards set on top of what would have been the keyboard were it a real piano. (Pointer dudes, real pianos don't come with pitch and mod wheels.) But I forced them to play "Suffregette City" and "Carry On Wayward Son." They only screwed up about 25% of the songs. I was saving the serious gambling for the Sahara, because they apparently have the best gambling on the Strip. If by "best" you mean, "fastest at which I lose money," you're basically right. I started off playing craps, and won about $25 bucks, but lost back $50 at a different table. Lost $15 at Let it Ride, but made a bit back moving to craps. Basically, I broke even for the trip, which was nice, considering I figured I'd lose about $100.

After that gambling spree, the sleaze of Vegas was catching up to us. So we hit the Mandalay Bay breakfast buffett on our way out of town, and they kissed Vegas goodbye. It was an enjoyable stay for the most part. If you get a chance to see Tom Jones, I say do it.

Driving that day was through the rest of Nevada, some of Arizona, and Utah. To be quite honest with you, there was basically nothing particularly remarkable about the drive. Some mountains, I guess. But I expected hairpin turns. I expected to have to dodge gigantic boulders. I expected to run right off the freeway, use my car's moonroof to somehow simulate a parachute and inform the Bassett at the bottom that I'm a loner, baby. A REBEL.. None of that happened. I honestly can't remember where we stopped for lunch, even. The best part of that day was listening to "Right Ho, Jeeves" on the old iPod. A really, really great story. Absolutely hilarious. I recommend it in every possible dimension. As audiobooks go, I don't think you'll find a better one.

Ogden, Utah that night. The next day, pushing on through Idaho to Great Falls, Montana. That drive was actually quite nice. Idaho is surprisingly beautiful along the 15. I expected Montana to really win the scenery sweepstakes, but it had nothing on southern Idaho.

Lemme tell ya' a little something about Great Falls, Montana. The Bassett suggested that we go downtown to find a place to eat. But as far as I could tell, downtown had just been hit by one of those space-age nuclear warheads that doesn't destroy any buildings but shuts off all the power and disintegrates all living things. I mean, the place looked like a ghost town. I had no idea where I was going, and no one to ask for directions. No cars, no nothing. I felt like putting on a dress and running through town carrying a shotgun and the head of a local mutant I found charred by the side of the road while searching for the juice. So we get to the address of a restaurant. I'm skeptical that we'll find anything but corpses inside. But no! As soon as we open the door, we realize that this place is jumping! There's an irish band playing, people are singing along, beer is flowing liberally. We order buffalo burgers. Who knew? One minute, you're convinced that it's Red Dawn, another you're singing along to some sea chantys over a patty made from the hide of a near-endangered species! What fun!

Took off in the morning for the Canadian border. The funniest part of the trip was seeing a father and son in a motercycle and sidecar combo. The pass through the border was fairly unproblematic. I got myself a temporary worker's permit, and there I was, in Canada. Which, if you're driving through Alberta, is one of the most boring places on Earth.

Trip lessons: Las Vegas: fun. Tom Jones: pantiless. Dale-at-gambling: so-so. Wodehouse: excellent. Great Falls, Montana: possibly supernatural.

Someone's listening in.

I'm at Rebecca's, a coffeehouse in South Park.

Some douchebag won't quit playing songs from 'Kid A' on the out-of-tune piano.

I'm going to have to leave Rebecca's soon.

Coming soon: a post about my day with Monopoly in LA, and the Police show.

Something deep inside of me is talking through the gloom.

My Bowie obsession has now reached dangerous levels. With my recent purchases of "Diamond Dogs" and "David Bowie: Stage" (which, by the way, is awesome), I now have a near-complete collection of Bowie's classic 70s records. And I'm really listening to nothing else these days.

The interesting thing, though, is that for the first time in a long time I feel like I'm learning something new about music and how it can be played and written when I listen to this stuff. As Math Rock is fond of pointing out, "Station to Station" has excerizes in phenomenally interesting phrasing. Consider the "Once there were mountains..." bit in the song "Station to Station". Also, the chorus in "Stay". Sweet.

No Prince. No Maiden. Just Bowie, all day long. I'm not wearing glitter yet, thankfully.

In other news, I just watched the new David Mamet-penned movie "Edmond". It was an interesting movie. But what was more interesting than the movie itself was the marketing for the movie. In particular, I mean the blurbs and descriptions of the movie that appear on the DVD box. Here's my internal dialog:

Me: Hmm..."Edmond". Never heard of it. Oh, it's Mamet. That's ok, I guess. "House of Games" was good, but the rest of his stuff is, eh, ok.
Box: A heart-pounding thriller!
Me: Thriller, eh? Maybe. But I'm not yet convinced that it's really a thriller.
TURN BOX OVER
Box: This year's must-see thriller!
Me: This one might turn out to be a thriller, but I want something that's definitely a thriller.
Box: William H. Macy gets caught in a web of sex and murder in this suspenseful thriller by David Mamet.
Me: MMM. I see. Sex and murder. Maybe it is a thriller.
Box: Deception is in the air in this pulse-pounding thriller!
Me: Is this really a thriller? I don't know...it does have Julia Stiles. Are you sure it's not a dance movie?
Box: Special Features: Anatomy of a Thriller with David Mamet
Me: Well, if it's in the special features....but I don't know, I'm still not convinced that this movie is a genuine thriller.
Box: Aspect Ratio: Widescreen. Runtime: 82 minutes. Genre: Thriller.
Me: AHA! Well, if it's says it's really a thriller, that's good enough for me.

Turns out that "Edmond" is not a thriller. Duped again.

If you're gonna die, die with your boots on.

Ah, San Diego.

On days like today, it's pretty hard to imagine that in about five months I'll be living in Canada. That's right, jerks. Though I did get two job offers, two awesome job offers, I decided to take the one north of the border. But it's a bit strange on days like today - 75, sunny, gorgeous. It's hard to imagine that in half-a-year's time, I'll get one of these days, well, every other year? Maybe? In San Diego, they're basically three of these bad bouys every week.

So the day I took the job, I sent out a message to a bunch of friends informing them of my decision. Basically, I had been thinking about that email since the day I saw the job offer - how it'd be so funny and stuff. Eh, it wasn't that funny. I hope I didn't take the job just so I could send out this sort-of, mediocre, email. We'll see. I think I didn't, but I did think it was gonna be really funny, especially to a certain group of people. A bit strange, though. A bunch of people responded and that was really nice. Several, however, including a certain person to whom I was once married, haven't so much as made a peep. What gives? If Lonny "Bass" White responded, why couldn't these others? Just kidding. I didn't send it to Lonny. Ah, Lonny.

I know I haven't been posting much recently. I've been letting the stress of the job market wash over me. Now there's a new realm of stress: tenure. I guess I should probably have a month or so to relax before I start sending out articles, but I decided to send our three in the last week anyway! That makes a total of four I have under review right now - one that's been over 10 months in the review process. Sucky! Screw you, Nous!

Anyway, the move to Canada is going to be something of a hassle. I have about a bajillion dollars in student loans, controlled by a US agency that expects to receive US dollars. I, however, will be getting paid in Canadian dollars. (Stands to reason.) Anyway, how the hell is that going to work? Do I really need to open a bank account at the Royal Bank of Canada? (Although that would be damn sweet - the Royal Bank. Ha! Sure as hell beats Citizen's Crank, or whatever I had when I was in Boston.) Ah, monarchy.

When looking back on the job market, what will I remember most? It's hard to say, of course, but one strong possibility will be: Iron Maiden. Surprising, I know. But listen here. I was basically hooked on Maiden while I was filling out my applications, especially Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. I remember specifically listening to that sumbitch on repeat while I was writing the seventy-or-so cover letters for these dang applications. To keep my energy up during interview season (don't make fun of me, please; you do weird shit, too) I listened heavily to Powerslave. (I also bought The Number of the Beast, but that one didn't do it so much for me. Maybe it's Clive Burr. Who knows.) I don't have anything like a "Saturation" relationship with The Beast, but I sure did listen to a lot of Maiden while on the market. I wonder if that will stick out, you know, when I listen to "Aces High" ten years from now: "Oh, I remember that crappy application to Cal State Long Beach!" We can all thank Matt Barr for that one.

Ah, metal.