All things shall be revealed

Disc #6 revealed its shiny face this morning, and boy is it a goodie: Keep It Like a Secret, by Built To Spill. I should have known for two reasons:

1. Beyond being one of my all-time faves (and I do mean ALL TIME--I don't like being boxed into any "top ten" corners, but I can almost guarantee that if someone put a razor to my throat this would end up on the list), the album's first track "The Plan" is the best way to start, well, anything--but especially a daytrip to Santa Barbara.
2. After spending quite a long time wondering "what the H happened to that album?!", my friend Cameron burned me a copy a mere 3 weeks ago. Of course.

With this cd changer thing all wrapped up like a Scooby Doo ending, I guess I'm back down to two Great Life Mysteries.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

A couple of weekends ago my friend Ashley and I were rocking the Best of the Bay party at the DeYoung (hooray for Nan Kempner and paper flowers) when we were hit on by the woman to the left of this text (and if you click no other link in this post, click that one). While I waited in line behind her to pay the parking machine she chatted me up about the event, thinking that it was an exclusive deal put on by the SF Bay Guardian for their customers ("I used to advertise with them"), and seemed sorry to find that it was actually open to the unwashed masses. She starts asking me pointed questions and, by the time Ashley came around with the car, she had a camera out to take our pictures. Why?

She runs a professional matchmaking service. And she had a client in mind for me.

Now I'm not here to discuss the merits of dating, or internet dating, or executive offline matchmaking, or blind dating, or speed dating, or mail-order brides. But I would like to discuss how I got into the position of letting a complete and totally sketchy stranger who wanted to set me up with older asian men take my picture. MORMON GIRLS ARE NICE. Perhaps too nice. Now maybe you're a Mormon boy who would care to take issue with this statement, but I'll leave you to that offline. All I know is I couldn't put off this woman, who was essentially a stand in for some awkward man out there, without feeling like a total jerk, so I gave her my least-favorite email address and let her take my picture. So did Ashley. I can't explain it.

I've been trying to imagine the potentially humiliating things that might result from this encounter and the list has gotten uncomfortably long. Do me a favor: if you find my picture in one of those ghastly "where is she now?" classmates.com pop-ups, please let me know.

It's all coming back to me now

It's been almost 3 years since my sister broke the CD changer in my car. It was midway through a day trip to Santa Barbara to go kayaking, and we were heading over to the Paseo to catch this new movie Garden State that everybody had been buzzing about (spawning the fun new adjective "brafftastic") when Rachel attempted to slip in a new CD and the whole thing went kaput. I never doubted the changer would break--CD changers ALWAYS break (there has to be some inherent design flaw), and I only have one because I bought my car used and the previous owner was lame enough to pay extra for it. After a short but painful period during which I was forced to rely upon radio in the car, I obtained a new iPod + FM adaptor and I've never looked back.

Fast forward to last Monday...

I get in my car to go to work and, upon ignition, notice a noise coming from the changer. It's the sound of the carousel scooting around to find out where it's holding discs, a sound the poor little H hasn't made for years. When it's through, I look at the display and notice that numbers 1-6 are lit up, indicating that the thing holds CDs. Of course I know it's holding CDs--they're the same 6 CDs that were ripped from my life 3 years ago, but the display hasn't recognized them since a couple of months after the changer first broke. Just for funzies I hit eject (and yes, I used to try this all the time, but gave it up after a year or so of no effect), select a spot and, Braff-be-praised, out shoots a disc! I hit eject again, and out comes another! Holy H! I end up getting 3 of the 6 CDs out that morning, but the rest remain stubbornly locked in changer purgatory.

Wait, though...the next morning, I get in my car and without even so much as looking at the CD player, out pop 2 more. Can you believe that?! WTH?!

What's most fun about this whole thing is remembering that the changer-breaking episode occurred shortly after a trip to Rhino where I had purchased several new albums. I'd listened to them each maybe once before I lost them to the changer's inevitable demise. I could remember what 2 of them were, but the other 4 have remained a mystery. Until now.

This all has a very time capsule feeling to it, so I now present to you the albums I was listening to back when Garden State was in the theaters:

1. Early Recordings, Quasi
2. Veni Vidi Vicious, The Hives
3. a burned Black Eyed Peas album I lifted from my brother
4. Want One, Rufus Wainwright
5. A Ghost is Born, Wilco
6. ?

That's right. All but one disc came out and I can't for the life of me remember what it is. And it's still in there. Any guesses what it might be, faithful blog reader? Point your mouse over to the comment section and let's hear it...

Potty Mouth

There's a line from "Meet Me in St Louis" that goes a little something like this: "There's the H to pay if my family ever finds out I called long distance."
What's that?
"I said, there's the H to pay if my family ever finds out I called long distance!"

In an attempt to curb our potty mouths, Alisa and I are inserting "H" for all swears. Allow me to illustrate:

H, man.
What the H?!
That's H'ed up the H.
Holy H.
You H H.
H no!
You H'in H H'er, you H'ed my H!!

I think it's been pretty effective so far. Feel free to give it a spin.

Shorty McShort Short

One recent Saturday I arose mid-morning to pay bills and watch a mix of cartoons and cooking shows. Since I'm only willing to pay for the very lowliest basic cable (which includes local channels 2-13, two redundant espn's, a Christian network, TBS, TNT, and about half a dozen foreign language stations) I have to settle for PBS cooking shows instead of their flashier Food Network rivals--truth be told I actually prefer Jacques Pepin to Rachel Ray, but to each their own. Anyway, at the tail end of Lidia's couscous episode, I was assaulted by this totally wretched Gloria Estefan PBS ad. I felt simultaneously betrayed and physically ill, and decided I wanted to share with my faithful readers (thanks Mom for reading this aloud to the rest of the fam--that makes about 9 then...) PBS' previously grand tradition of outstanding ads.

I spent many hours back in KBYU's master control watching a spot we called Shorty McShort Short (at one point the big whigs in Springville actually had to tell us to stop inserting it into the on-air interstitials). I want you to see it--I myself am aching to watch it right now--but it's nowhere to be found. I spent some serious time on this and am tremendously disappointed, but I won't cheapen it with a flawed description. May I please offer this in its place (a close runner up for what I inserted most into the playlist--I dare you to watch the pregnant mother and daughter, about 50 seconds from the end, at 3 in the morning when you're cold and alone and not cry your own eyes out).

Rock and Roll

It's been awhile and there's lots to talk about, but I don't want to waste any time with civilities so I'm just going to get to it...the second greatest moment of my life occurred two weeks ago: LIVE BAND ROCK AND ROLL KARAOKE!!! While I was down home for the 4th of July (what's more American than Claremont? Nothing. Nothing.) I found out from my friend Ben that this was going down at a bar in Long Beach while I was in town, so 63, Dale and I went to check it out. Hopes were high, and I was in no way disappointed. Here I am, somewhere in the middle of my performance of "Borderline" (I can think of only one other time when I've been caught anywhere close to this happy on film, and that was my second day in Italy, eating gelato on a street median near the Vatican--did you know they let you choose three kinds!?!?). Ben--the blond head in the bottom right corner--sang a smashing "Jump" (no matter what he thinks, I jumped every time), and Dale used his patented manyell to rock "Sister Christian" (motorin'!). 63, poor dear, had some decision-making issues and ran out of time, but life is full of second chances and I look forward to hearing his "Where the Streets Have No Name" one day soon. LIVE BAND KARAOKE is so awesome that writing about it makes me have to pee my pants a little. Here are the ways it tops your mom's karaoke:

1. the band is so loud you can't hear yourself, so when it's over you have no idea whether you were on tune--you only know that you rocked.
2. if you lose the rhythm or don't know when to come in, a member of the band will help you out for a bit.
3. you still have all the words in front of you, but they're on paper so no one has to watch them go by with a cheery but incongruous digital background that says "Happy Birthday!" or "Aloha!"
4. you're on stage with a whole band (Mr. Mister Miyagi was a 5-piece) so you don't have to worry about being the focal point.
5. it's like seeing a live band, so everyone is on their feet singing along instead of sitting at tables and casually appraising you, and...
6. it fulfills all your rock'n'roll fantasies.

I can't stress to you enough, dear reader, how fab this felt. As much as I love regular karaoke, I always have lingering feelings of foolishness and regret after an appearance--but LIVE BAND KARAOKE only left me feeling like the prettiest and rockin'est girl at the party. If you're in LA, please go (and tell me about it later). For those of you in the Bay, I've been doing some research and may have found a karaoke band in the Mission that plays every second Saturday--I'll pass along the info when I've got it. For now, go forth and rock.

BEST SUMMER EVER

I have a new policy.

I spent last summer in LA doing an internship at the California Science Center (where you can experience my handiwork right now). Before I began, however, I drove cross country with my friend Corby to move him to upstate New York where he is--even now, as you read this--mowing several acres of lawn for Academy Award winner Timothy Hutton. Sometime on our second run through Tennessee (we had to backtrack three hours from Nashville to Memphis in order to see Graceland--totally worth it) I got a call from my bumbling and irate landlord informing me that the girl I had found to sublet my place was certainly NOT allowed to live there, meaning I had to pay rent all summer for a place I wasn't living in. Poo. (By the by, Norman just sold the place...may the golden era of parking in the driveway and laundry after 9pm begin!).

When I got to LA, Renee, Joey, and Sandra graciously allowed me to stay on their couch for free during the weekdays (bless you all! i wish you much joy with the new season of SYTYCD--may it get better each time you rewatch it). Renee and I, finding ourselves under the same roof for the first time in six years, had decided that summer 2006 would undoubtedly be the BEST SUMMER EVER.

I can't speak for Renee, but I think summer 2006 certainly holds up with the best of them. And in the spirit of its success, I've decided on a new policy. Every summer shall henceforth be referred to as the BEST SUMMER EVER. Now, I know all you nitpickers and "best-of" listmakers out there will shudder at the thought of equally weighting all summers, but that's just not the case. Does it wrongfully diminish past summers to endow current summer with expectancy and hopefulness? I think not. The BEST SUMMER EVER is the summer you're in, and I'm in summer 2007 which, eleven days in, is indeed the BEST SUMMER EVER. My cruiser agrees, and she urges you to do the same.