Six Feet Under

Tonight's finale of Six Feet Under didn't really disappoint. After the last few episodes, I would almost glad that the series, one of my top-five shows, was coming to an end. It was just getting too hard to watch. As the season wound down, all the humor that balanced out the morose parts was drained, and each episode got more depressing than the previous. And the penultimate episode wasn't really depressing, just uncomfortable and really hard to watch. If it weren't for Entourage being on directly after it, I'd probably spend every Sunday evening terribly, horribly depressed. Moreso than usual, I mean.

But tonight's finale wrapped things up pretty well. In the Sitcom Finale Handbook, at least one of three things has to occur: A wedding, a baby being born, or, one of the major characters has to leave town, usually a East Coast to West Coast move or vice versa. SFU did not disappoint. What I was most curious about was how they would manage to end the series on a high note, or at least not something terribly depressing. But somehow they pulled it off. What was most impressive is that the ending was a montage of all the characters' future deaths, but it somehow all seemed very optimistic. It also, to me, lessened the effect of Nate's death, which had been the framework for the last four episodes, since you see everyone else's deaths as well. By lessen the effect, I s'pose I mean it just lessened the sadness of it, since you see all of them die. The only one that I felt got a raw deal was Keith, who was killed during an armed robbery of a armored car that he was riding in. It didn't seem right. Especially since the security company was apparently his own. If he owned the business, why would he also be driving the trucks?

I didn't quite know what to make if it as I was watching it. It seemed like just another episode. But for some reason now I can't stop thinking about it. I remember when the show first aired, I didn't give it much of a chance. I only started watching because there was no Sopranos and I needed something to watch on Sunday night. then we all got really into it, so much that some of my friends wouldn't even allow conversation while it was on. Still, it was often hard to watch. It made me really uncomfortable at times. I was never really excited to watch it, but I never wanted to miss it. I think of all the HBO shows that I've watched, I think I'll miss it the most. It was definitely the most real.

Magic Beans Not Accepted

So me and the (Literally) Little Lady strolled down to Pathmark this afternoon (another little benefit of unemployment). Pathmark, without question, is always a hassle, and I try to avoid it whenever possible. I usually ride my bike or, now that I have a car, drive over to Key Food in Park Slope, where they have a parking lot and much nicer clientele. So after a surprisingly pain free shopping experience (minus an interminable deli counter waiter that featured some not-so-good-natured bickering between two deli employees) we finally get to the cashier. We're just waiting for the guy ahead of us to pay. And the we wait. And wait. And then, oh, we waited some more. At Pathmark, there's often an additional step added to the purchasing process. A person will take a cart-load of goods up to the checkout, then, after a certain amount of goods have been purchased say something like "I don't want the rest," and leave the remaining goods behind. I'd never seen this before. But apparently it's very common here in the Brooklyn Pathmark. Anyway, the easiest step of the whole deal is the actual paying. So yesterday, we're waiting and waiting and waiting for this guy. So guess what? He doesn't have any money! Boo-ya!

So he searches his wallet a few times, goes through his pockets, goes back to the wallet. Then he starts flipping through this mini Bible he has, as if the Lord would suddenly make 20 bucks appear. Then he flips through the wallet again. It's brimming over with receipts, stubs, metro cards, bus passes, and just about anything else one would keep in his wallet- except money. And he keeps alternating between his wallet and his pockets, as if, just maybe, the eight time- bingo!- there's money! The most incredible thing about this was actually how long the cashier allowed this to continue. A good five minutes went by until a manager had to come over and tell him that, guess what? you can't have the stuff if you ain't got the money. I think his strategy was to just sit there and hope someone said "Oh, just get out of here, you old scamp!" I have to admit, by minute 5 I was thinking of just throwing 20 bucks at him just so I could get out of there. Earlier, LLL had overheard him telling another woman in line that he was a millionaire, and that he could take care of her and treat her real nice. Who knows? Maybe he's a millionaire and isn't used to carrying around cash. Maybe he doesn't know how the new-fangled economy works. Remember when George Bush couldn't figure out the grocery store scanner? So maybe this guy is just eccentric. or maybe he's just a fucking nut.

Does this shit happen at Whole Foods in Manhattan? I love Brooklyn, but I don't think this happens many other places. It's the combination of the guy going to a store with no money and the cashier just standing there, slack-jawed, seemingly not caring if the guy produces any money or not. While she seemed mildly put out, it seemed like it was a break to her. She didn't say a goddam word. Of course, the cashiers never say anything to you at all. I can get by without a greeting or a thanks, but it really irritates me when they don't even tell you how much you owe and can't be bothered to say one goddam word. And I'd have to believe that this guy's scam has worked before, or else he wouldn't even have tried it, or stood there so long waiting for money or charity to appear.

One of the funniest signs in Pathmark is the "8 Items or Less" sign over the express lines. It's purely decorative. I never thought they'd need one reading "Money Required to Purchase Goods."

I feel a bit bourgeois and snobby complaining about this stuff, as if I'm better than other people. Then again, I can say confidently, that, yes, I am better than other people. At least some people. Like this guy. Sure, I don't know his story or the circumstances behind his tale of woe that would lead him to this point, but I have to think if I were in a position where I needed something and didn't have any money, I'd at least resort to stealing. At least there's a proud history of thievery, and some cleverness behind it. Just standing there pretending to be looking for money is totally pussy.

This used to be my playground

So I'm at my parents' house in Pennsylvania. Being unemployed, I decided to take some time off (from what, I don't know) and come home for some home cooking, central air conditioning, and tax-free clothing purchases. I also decided to take up golf again. So I borrowed my brother's old clubs on the way out of NYC, and hit the driving range almost immediately after getting home.

It's a little amazing how much my good hitting at the batting cages has translated into better hitting at the driving range. I decided to go the next day as well, with plans on going to an actualy golf course for the first time in maybe 12 years the next day. About halfway through a large bucket of balls, I looked down at my right thumb, and noticed a giant indentation. A big hole was there, with all the skin pushed down into a little pile. This was sort of horrifying. Plus, I was only halfway through the bucket of balls, and I was deterimined to get my money's worth, so I kept hitting until it was just about physically impossible to keep hitting. It didn't hurt that much at the time, but I knew i'd be paying for it later.

So later in the afternoon I went for a run up at the high school track. After about a mile, I said "fuck it" and instead walked around the old school grounds. Just down the hill from the highschool was my old junior high, and just down the hill from that was my old elementary school. There's been a ton of construction in the past 12 years, so large parts of the landscape or unrecognizable. I walked down the the grade school playground and decided to play around on the jungle gym and/or work out a bit. After a few pull-ups and dips, a decided to try the monkey bars. I can't remember the last time I was on monkey bars, but back in the day, they were my thing. Seriously, I could get across them pretty damn fast. Not the fasted in the class, but still close. I don't know if you've tried monkey bars recently, but sister, i got some news: it's fucking tough. I could not believe how difficult it was to get across, even skipping three bars at a time. When I tried to go one bar at a time, i nearly gave up. I know I'm carrying more weight now than when I was 10, but I'm also much stronger, so I figured proportionally, it'd about even out. Uh uh. Very disappointing.

The worst part about the whole playground thing was that after the monkey bars and the dips, I looked at my hands. Not only did I pop a blister I didn't even know I had, but the blister was then filled with tons of rust from the jungle gym. Mmmmmmm...tetanus. So then I had to go home and perform a little home surgery, peeling back the skin, cutting some skin off, scraping underneath one layer of skin to get all the rust out. A real and literal pain. And of course now, despite all the bactine and neosporin, the wound is pink and infected. You really can't go home again, even at home.

The H Spot

A little over a year ago, the Atlantic Terminal opened for business right down the street from my apartment. The main attraction was and is Target, which to my dismay has not become an entirely hopeless quagmire of retail despair that almost every other store in Brooklyn becomes. The 8 items in the express lane is still strictly enforced, for example. Anyway, over the past year, more and more stores have opened, including Cold Stone Creamery, Starbucks, and Chuck E Cheese. Your staple suburban American mall stores. The most recent addition is the restaurant Houlihan's, a seemingly more upscale chain restaurant, maybe trying to be a notch about TGIFriday's, Applebees, the Olive Garden, etc. When I first saw it, it looked like just another souless mall restaurant. I couldn't imagine going to a mall to eat a meal or go to a bar. The whole concept just sounds really weird. So Friday night, on a lark, Miss Charming Melodee and I thought it'd be fun to check it out. So we recruited Matt and our friend Carly, and the four of us, after some prodding, headed over to Houlihans.

So we go to the second level of the Atlantic Center, right next to Target and Rockaway Bedding. There are still some people dining, drinking fancy and ridiculous looking drinks, eating chicken wings and what have you. So we get a table for four and dive right in. And you know what? It was totally awesome. I'm not kidding. Houlihans may be my new favorite place. Just the menu alone kind of sold us on it. It was just really well done. Clever, without being too clever. First of all, it was about 20 pages, and bound in a metal binder. It's weird saying that a menu had a certain attitude, but this one did. And the attitude was "Hey, you're in a cheesy restaurant, and you came here for cheap drinks and comfortably generic bar food. So this menu is full of cheap drinks and comfortably generic bar food. Sit. Enjoy. Also, there are no street signs, animal heads, or sports team pictures on the wall, no vaguely ethnic menu, no gimmicky names." I'm shocked to say it, but it was pretty much exactly what I want a restaurant to be. So I had a liter pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea for $6.25. Miss Charming Melodee had three mini martinis. And we ate nachos and chicken fingers, and they were delicious. And at the end of the night, the total was less than $50 for all four of us. God, I love big corporations and their low, low prices.

Also, the menu had a suggested playlist. It featured the Shins, Iron and Wine, Spoon, the Postal Service, and the Flaming Lips. The description reads "We draw from indie pop, modern soul, adult alternative, plus light electronica and underground hip hop to bring you a contemporary sound that radio tends to overlook in favor of formulaic top 40 mainstream hits." OK, so that's trying too hard to be hip. But at least the musical choices were for the most part good.

I feel like if I'd stayed in my hometown, this would be the kind of place I'd go all the time. You know what? I may just go there all the time. I'm not sure what that means, but honestly, it was the most fun night out I'd had in a while.

Balls!

Unemployment, Business Day 14.

Lot of baseball today. Woke up and realized that most ball games were in the afternoon, so I watched the Phillies take on the Cubs for most of the afternoon. A close game, Phils win 6-4. Toward the end of the game, I decided to leave the house. Hopped in the car, went down to Coney Island to hit some balls in the batting cages. I had the Mets game on the radio on the way down, and the broadcasters were mention the increasingly heavy rain out at Shea, which worried me that the rain would move south to Brooklyn. Never happened, and I had a very leisurely time in the batting cages. They were empty, and I had free reign over whatever I wanted to hit. I mixed it up between fast and medium baseballs, hitting from both sides with varying degrees of success. For a lark, I stepped into the cage labelled "fast" and "curve." I didn't know which coin slot controlled which machine, so I put a token in and hoped for the curve ball. First ball blazed right by me before I even realized what happened. Two more swings and complete misses, and I considered just walking out. I noticed three young japanese kids looking at me. I didn't know whether it'd be more embarrassing to just walk out or to swing and miss at 14 balls in a row. They were coming at 85 mph, which some major leaguers don't even throw. Admittedly, the bad major leaguers, but still. Eventually, I got into a bit of a groove and hit about 7 in a row, all but one the opposite field, meaning I could barely catch up to them. the one I hit up the middle stung my hands something fierce. But I was pretty pleased with myself, sticking in there and doing better than I thought I would, showing a bit of determination. And really, here on Unemployment (Business) Day 14, that's all I can really hope for when I wake up every afternoon.

E6 like it's 1999

Last night I attended the "reunion" tour of the Olivia Tremor Control, the grand poo-bah of the now-defunt Elephant 6 collective. I was told after the show that it was the first time since the 1999 tour that they've all been onstage together. I'm often surprised what shows sell out in New York. When I first moved to New York in 1999, one of the first shows, if not the first show I attended was the OTC at the Knitting Factory, and it was pretty sparsely attended. And the Knitting Factory is a much smaller space than last night's venue, the Bowery Ballroom. So now, six years later, OTC are selling out two shows at the Bowery. Anyhow, the first time I saw them, I hadn't really even heard of them. Now, several of my favorite bands are/were former Elephant 6 bands.

My main impression of the show was that it must be an absolute nightmare to be the sound guy for an Olivia Tremor Control show. There are at least 9 people on stage, and at least 2/3 of them play at least three different instruments. At one point, it seemed like everytime I blinked, someone was playing something other than what they were playing pre-blink. One second the bass player is rocking away, the next he's wailing away on the clarinet. Still, it somehow all comes together. It was a good mix of out-there "psychedelic folk" and more straight-up pop. Some of the songs are teeter on cacophony, but there's always something that keeps it all together. It's like a three-note melody, and then 10 layers of shit over it. Then again, when they want to sound really tight, they do that well too. I definitely appreciated it more than six years ago. It just felt good to be there to witness the whole thing.

Probably the highlight of the night for all involved was the appearance (emergence?) of Jeff Mangum, creative force behind Neutral Milk Hotel. He came out in the middle of a song early in the set, to the raucous applause of those who recognized him. He sang a chorus, started crying, sang a bit more, saluted the crowd, and walked off stage. His story is really one of the greater mysteries in indie music. He makes a good record, then a historically great record, and basically falls off the face of the earth. Actually, he went to Bulgaria I think. Anyway, In the Aeroplane Over the Sea has almost attained mythic status due to his reclusiveness.
At the end of the show, Mangum came out and sang the encore, and seemed much happier. Actually, he seemed almost angry. He "playfully" shoved around bass player John Fernandez, but this consisted of throttling him, throwing him around by grabbing his hair, and then tackling him. I was really hoping the Neutral Milk Hotel would just come out for the encore since 3/4 of the Aeroplane lineup was there. No such luck.
All in all, a pretty good show. One of the rare shows where even though I didn't know most of the material being played, I wouldn't have minded if the show went longer. Nice to see so much E6 love. Honestly, if they just put together an E6 tour, they'd be rolling in dough. I'm pretty sure a tour of OTC, NMH, Apples in Stereo, Beulah, and Elf Power would sell out most places they played. Or they could just play a week in New York. Neutral Milk Hotel alone could probably play a week straight and sell out. Alas, it's not 1999 anymore. Really seemed like it last night though.

And...we're back.

Unemployment, Day 18.
...Well, actually, if you count business days, it's only Day 12. And that's not so bad, right? I mean, a guy needs some time to get his bearings, adjust to a new sleeping pattern, file for unemployment, etc.

A recent observation- Here in Ft. Greene, the gentrification has been slow but steady over the past couple of years. Without saying whether or not I think this is a good thing or a great thing, I think I've indentified the most accurate- and unexpected- indicator of gentrification: the tennis courts. Over in Ft. Greene Park, I play tennis almost every day. Anyone playing there is supposed to have a permit, but I've been playing two years without one. Anyway, the permits cost over $100 dollars. Last year, there was almost never any sort of Parks official checking for permits, at least during the weekdays, and I could just go play anytime I wanted to. Now, 14 months later, even on the weekdays there are long waits for tennis courts, and at least one Parks person is there all the time, checking permits and assigning court times. Basically, the courts are swarming with all sorts of players of various ethnic varieties, body types, and skill levels. But just about everyone is decidely upper middle class. You'd have to be to pay that much just to play tennis. While I am all for the conversion of the neighborhood toward the upper middle class, this is quite an unexpected and unpleasant side effect. I'm beginning to fear that next year I may actually have to dish out the 100 bones to play tennis like everyone else.