True Story: In my sophomore/1st junior year of college, I took an upper-level photography class. I had taken the intro course, learned the nuts and bolts, and decided to continue on, in the hopes of getting laid. Because that’s what art is for.

Second year, my classmates became significantly distilled. Earlier, we were just a disparate group of people, basically paying to be taught a hobby. Now we had weeded out the tourists, and everyone’s artistic personalities were allowed to flourish, for better or for worse.

It was a colorful bunch, most notably the guy I thought of as ‘Dark Jimmy’. He had the brooding artist rap down cold. I remember him to be quietly intense, always jotting down notes about f-stops and who knows what in his stupid moleskine (full disclosure: I like moleskines now. Back then, my 19-year old skate punk brain was like, ‘Ugh. Get a legal pad, faggot.’). He was one of those people that instantly annoyed me based on nothing more than the way his face worked, and I never found reason to think otherwise. Vindication came with our first portfolio assignment. This guy’s turn comes up, and he sets up a series of black and white photos of cold cuts, arranged to look like vaginas, nailed to pieces of driftwood. He tucked some hair behind his ear while half-muttering some lame justification about feminism and commercialization and other bullshit he made up, and while our professor nodded in acceptance, the class dominatrix (yup) gathered her photos of herself in Victorian dress posing in a cemetery (yup),  walked up to Dark Jimmy, said ‘fuck you’, spit on one of his photos, and walked out.

Years later, I would see a photo of David Foster Wallace for the first time and be struck by his resemblance to Dark Jimmy. The same stringy long hair wrapped in a ridiculous doo-rag. The same wire frame glasses. Basically, the whole stupid face complete with that awful week-beard. Far be it from me to hold one man accountable for another man’s terrible taste and lack of ability, but… I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em.

I have tried to understand why everyone has such a hard on for Wallace, oh Lord how I have tried! My experience in trying to read Infinite Jest was as though Wallace was jacking off the English language and blasting me in the face with 1100+ pages of word jizz. I thought perhaps I was biting off more than I could chew, and an earlier book would prove to be the Rosetta stone I needed to understand just what the hell this goofball was saying. Brief Interviews with Hideous Men had its’ moments, but on the whole, seemed no less indulgent or incomprehensible. I’m just not part of the tribe.

It seems like Wallace is the sort of author ‘kind of’ smart people like, because he provides them with the illusion of being ‘very’ smart. The same way certain dudes listen exclusively to Captain Beefheart demos, or the entire concept of molecular gastronomy, Wallace’s books have the effect of creating a wholly separate plane of cultural elitism wherein you don’t enjoy so much as you accumulate XP. It’s just another example of this bullshit intellectual brinkmanship that’s ultimately responsible for creating authors like Wallace and his post-mortem, Mad-Libs-in-a-duffle-bag book and its’ Jonestown jack-off cult of apologists. It’s a vicious circle that has metastasized into a self-sustaining organism that has apparently learned how to cheat death, Wyld Stallyns-style.

My wife (rapidly becoming my favorite critic) put it wonderfully: “I majored in literature. I’ve read a lot of great literature by great authors. This (Wallace) ain’t it.” Seventeen words, cutting through the bullshit like a diamond made out of lasers. And here it’s taken me just over six-hundred just to tell you I’ll never read The Pale King.

Wakka Wakka. You ass.

SCORE: The Pale King gets a 0 out of 5, based on purely moral grounds.

Appearance: Tony Danza yellow, with loose head that disappears almost immediately

Smell: sweet wheat, with hints of Belgian malt fruitiness

Taste: WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT.

Mouthfeel: slightly thicker than your average lager, still pretty thin

Drinkability: decent

Hey Shiner, we need to rap serious for a minute. I’m a big fan of yours, and I’m sure you appreciate all the money I’ve given you over the years. But lately, it’s become a real chore to keep being your bro. You square-head weirdos need to get your shit together.

Here’s the thing: outside of the basic Shiner Bock, only every fourth or fifth seasonal beer/special edition is worthwhile. At this point, they might as well change their name to Danny Ainge Brewery.

HEFASSWEIZEN

And I LOVE Shiner Bock. It’s so ubiquitous, I almost don’t have a choice, but beyond that, it really is pretty excellent. I think really good, local(ish) brewing is often taken for granted, but it’s actually rather exceptional that we’ve got the option of a Shiner at literally EVERY bar in the state. And I’m really stoked that they’re willing to experiment and turn out so many specialized varieties. But I’d be infinitely more stoked if they knocked the schedule down by even just two beers, and used the extra time to make sure they were putting out a consistently great product.

So here’s the 102, the latest anniversary beer. Each year, to celebrate the brewery, Spoetzl throws a new style out there for a few months, and then it’s gone forever. Every so often, they may tweak the formula, and re-release it as a another special edition (like Shiner Black), but essentially, when it’s gone, it’s gone. The 102 is a double wheat pale ale, which I immediately got a big boner for. I was certain this was going to be the one to break the trend of lackluster anniversary brews; I haven’t found one I really enjoyed since the 96.

Disappointment set in instantly. The 102 pours up a pale, translucent yellow color, the same as your run of the mill frat beer. For a beer claiming to be double wheat, I should have chunks of Wonder bread floating in my glass, but for some inexplicable reason, the 102 is a filtered wheat beer. It smells pretty good; lotsa wheat for sure, but also some high fruity notes. Take a drink-it’s a total wheat bomb. Nothing but wheat. Wheat in totality. All holes filled with WHEAT. And not in a hefeweizen way, where there’s a latent sweetness, and citrus-y hops balancing things out, and lots of depth and character and all the other things that make you want to continue drinking. The 102 is basically a super wheaty, slightly chewier Budweiser.

The bottom line is this: the 102 isn’t awful, but who gives a shit? Why in the world did they filter this? Why didn’t they build it off the back of their hefeweizen? Why won’t they release the Kosmos on it’s own instead of making me buy the awful beers in the family reunion pack to get it? WHY WON’T YOU LET ME LOVE YOU?

SCORE: Shiner 102 gets a 3 out of 5.

FOR THE NERDS:

Appearance: dark, motor oil black, with a dense mocha colored head

Smell: smoky dark chocolate with molasses underneath

Taste: 70% cacao dark chocolate, mellow malt undertones, resolves to coffee notes with a dry finish

Mouthfeel: viscous and syrupy without being too heavy

Drinkablility: ultra-high

SHIT GETS REAL:

TOTALLY AMAZEBALLS.

This thing is absolutely astounding. A few years back, taking a trip to London, I got to taste some U.K. Guinness. Granted, it still wasn’t 100% native Guinness, but it was pretty damn close. I thought I was hot shit. Turns out, I didn’t know dick about fuck when it comes to truly fantastic stouts.

The Abyss comes in a standard size bopper, sealed with black wax. A total pain in the ass to get into, but please believe that it’s more than worth it. Once you pry the wax off, you’re rewarded with this:

To be honest, my first taste was a little underwhelming. My expectations were set high from my bro Charlie Fingers about this thing, so I went in anticipating a highly religious experience. First impression: good, but not magical. Second impression: LOOKS LIKE IT’S TIME TO TAKE MY SHIRT OFF AND SING ‘NIGHT MOVES’.

If I had stupid cash to burn, I’d have no hesitation trying to cook this down into an ice cream topping. Imagine Hershey’s syrup, except with booze in it, being squirted into your mouth out of a unicorn’s horn. It’s slightly thicker than your average stout, without being too syrupy or a chore to try and drink. It hits you off the top with an intense, smoky dark chocolate that gives way to a slightly sweet espresso taste that finishes dry in the center of your palate. They age it for about a year in oak barrels, which seems to be turning into a trend lately. Most of the time, I find the wood to be too upfront, but perhaps because of the craziness happening in this beer, the oakiness slips right into the undertones of the flavors, and turns out really, really wonderfully. A little bit of the alcohol pops out on the back end (this fucking thing is 11% ABV by the way), but it scoots off pretty quick. I was shit-hammered halfway through, so this is not a beer to be taken lightly. Supposedly they brew this with licorice, but I couldn’t taste it. And since I can’t stand licorice/anise, consider that my highest endorsement.

All in all, with no hyperbole, I can say that this is one of the top three beers I’ve ever had in my life. Deschutes has released this once a year since 2006, and I look forward to this upcoming year’s batch, because this shit is GONE right now. If you do manage to find some, buy as much as you can. Consider prostitution.

SCORE: The Abyss gets a 5 out of 5.

I like to think I’m a bit of an expert on breakfast cereals.  It sits on the shortlist of things in this plane of existence that I truly love, and ever since I was young, I have cultivated what I consider to be quite a discerning palate.  Now, I’m not one of these jags who knows the intimate history of when they went from 60′s Trix Rabbit to modern day Trix Rabbit, and other assorted breakfast ephemera, but I did spend many years in a state of mild apoplexy because no one I knew seemed to acknowledge the existence, much less the clear superiority of Boo Berry to the other monster cereals.

Suck my sugar bear, you gay zombie nightmare.

As I get older, my tastes invariably have moved away from the ultra-sugary syrup clusters I preferred in my youth towards more old-mannish fare, but every once in a while, I’ll get a bug up my ass to take it back to ’88 and get something totally devoid of nutrition and heavily glazed.  Here’s the thing:  I work in a hippy-dippy grocery store, where we don’t carry name brand anything, unless you consider Crunchy Jimmy’s Beet Soda to be a brand name.  Since I don’t like to carry a change of clothes in my car to go grocery shopping, 9 times out of 10, I will just pick stuff up as I leave work.  This works out okay for most things, but cereal is not one of them.

One of the most important life lessons you ever learn (usually in college, when you are dirt-ass poor) is that some foods are just fine to buy as a generic brand, and some are just NOT.  Ketchup needs to be made by Heinz, american cheese needs to made by Kraft (or possibly Velveeta), and virtually any cereal outside of shredded wheat needs to be the proper brand name.  Otherwise, shit just ain’t right.  At work, I often don’t even have the option to get something ‘like’ the cereal I want.  It’s logical that Hole ‘n’ Oats will be at least a reasonable facsimile of Cheerios, but if I’m in the mood for Lucky Charms, are Gorilla Dribblers going to satisfy me?  Unlikely.  It is at this nexus of realities that I found myself a couple of weeks ago, longing for Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch and making my best educated guess that Peanut Butter Puffins would do the trick.

Peanut Butter Puffins are decidedly NOT Peanut Butter Crunch.  Not.  Even.  Close.  The first thing I noticed about them:  each individual Puffin is (approximately) the size of a testicle.  These things are huge.  And pointy, which admittedly, is not something you usually hear about testicles.  So the first hurdle to overcome with Puffins is a basic size-to-mass ratio problem.  Once you get them in your mouth, you discover there’s not much peanut butter flavor, and in fact, not much flavor at all.  Puffins are very lightly sweetened, which is not a bad thing at all, and are also wheat-free/corn based, also not bad in and of itself.  But most if not all of us have grown up on super sweet corn and/or rice based cereal, so when you get hold of some shit where you can actually taste the base ingredient, it’s off-putting to say the least.  Finally, and perhaps most damning, no amount of time sitting in milk will ever soften up a Puffin.  These things will remain crispy shrapnel long after your body turns to ash in the mouths of our future cybernetic conquerors.

In all seriousness, the thing that motivates me to get out of bed and begin my routine most days is the anticipation of my morning bowl of cereal. I look forward to it the way some people look forward to their first bump of cocaine of the day.  I ended up throwing out almost half a box of Puffins because I couldn’t face the bottomless hellscape of gnashing through yet another goddamned tureen of these misery nuggets.

Thanks for nothing, retarded penguins.

]]> http://www.checkitbro.com/2010/09/peanut-butter-puffins/feed/ 2 http://www.checkitbro.com/2010/08/rush-beyond-the-lighted-stage/ http://www.checkitbro.com/2010/08/rush-beyond-the-lighted-stage/#comments Wed, 01 Sep 2010 01:59:06 +0000 Dave http://www.checkitbro.com/?p=559

Let’s be honest: you either love Rush, or you totally hate them.  I have never met anyone who thought they were ‘okay’, and if I did, I would kick them in the butthole for lying to my face.  Thomas Dolby is ‘okay’.  Molly Hatchet is ‘okay’.  And Wings will always be superior to the Beatles.

Me?  I love Rush SO HARD.  I also love music documentaries.  This movie is basically Jewish Christmas for me.

I don’t know what that means.

This is a really well produced flick.  It packs a surprising amount of footage and information into it’s two hour(ish) running time.  You get a really good rundown of their career with all the major albums (2112, Hemispheres, Moving Pictures, etc.) and their lesser (everything post-’81, Caress of Steel) getting comparable attention.  It also gives a good overview of their personal lives, being raised by wolverines in the Canadian wilderness.  The most inexplicable and fascinating piece of footage is an archival film of Alex Lifeson telling his parents about his dropping out of high school.  I don’t know why in the world this was being filmed, but it’s a lot of fun to see one of the blandest rock dudes ever as a petulant 17-year old.

Lots of random rock dudes pop up to talk about how rad the band is, and it’s kind of cool, but I don’t know that I buy Billy Corgan creaming his pants over Fly By Night.  Most everyone else has some sort of logical link through their music, though.

Like most docs of this ilk, it serves mostly as a fluff piece, made for fans, but it also could function nicely as an introduction to the band if you or some other guy you know want to explore their ouevre.  Because chicks hate Rush.  That’s a fact.  The only women who like Rush are their mothers and wives, and this movie almost goes out of it’s way to reinforce that.  But honestly, I wouldn’t want to date a girl who was totally into Rush.  Or Slayer.  I know dudes who would/do, and it’s not a good scene.

I caught this on cable, but it’s also available right now as a DVD and Blu-Ray, with something like 2-3 hours worth of extra performance and footage, and I bet that’s pretty tits.  The main flick is so good, it even makes a case for mid-period/new wave Rush, that even the dudes in the band don’t like.  All in all, a totally worthwhile movie.

SCORE: Rush: Beyond the Lighted Stage gets a 4 out of 5.

Fuck all 20 of you.

Seriously, it’s 2010.  Get your shit together.

SCORE: Having a vanity license plate gets a 0 out of 5.

So, a while back one of my wife’s friends recommended this book to her, and said recommendation was then passed along to me.  Ordinarily, this is not a book I would ever even consider reading, but the wife seemed to enjoy it, and it’s rare that she will read/watch/listen to something and feel compelled to share it with me.  Our tastes in things just run completely contrary to each others.  She likes Janet Jackson and En Vogue;  I like Lightning Bolt and Miles Davis.  One of her favorite movies is White Christmas; I like that internet video of one kid hitting another in the head with a shovel.  So if she feels like there is some benefit I could take away from this, even with her very specific knowledge of my expansive catalog of dislikes, then I feel like I owe it to her to give it a whirl.

That being said, I didn’t hate this book, but it’s also too problematic to actually like.  Here’s the basic setup:  You’ve got Mack, the protagonist.  His youngest daughter is kidnapped and murdered while the family is on vacation at the lake.  The family grieves for a couple of years, until a note from God shows up in the mailbox one day, asking Mack to meet him for a weekend at the shack where his daughter was taken.  Not the worst premise, right?  A dozen different authors could have taken it in a dozen different ways, but our lot is to be stuck with William Young.  I’m sure he’s a very nice dude, but the writing could charitably be called piss-poor.  My wife listened to the audio book, and I bet that softens a lot of the awkward language and syntax, but this book is a classic example of message over style.  The Shack is self-published, and it shows.  This thing has clearly never seen the crimson tongue of an editor’s pen, and the claim at the end that it went through three “major” re-writes is dubious at best.  Or it just started life as a TOTAL MESS.

The author working on the first draft (artist's rendering)

But here’s the rub:  if you can manage to get past the headache inducing anti-style Young engages in (I’ve taken to calling it ‘Junior High Gothic’), there is some pretty heady philosophical stuff in the back half of the book.  Two-thirds of the book is spent in and around the titular shack, with the holy trinity in human form kickin’ it with Mack.  There’s some mild racism going on when you first meet the team.  God takes the form of a big black woman, who slips in and out of a ‘mammy’ patois, Jesus is described as “… Middle Eastern” whose “…features were pleasant enough, but he was not particularly handsome”, and for some inexplicable reason, the holy spirit is a tiny Asian lady in gardening togs.

Now it starts to get weird.  Ostensibly, this is a Christian-oriented book; that’s certainly who it’s being marketed towards, and all initial signs point towards this idea.  Young however, seems to all but reject any kind of mainstream religious doctrine, and instead cherry picks his own theology and hangs it across a vaguely Judeo-Christian framework.  At several points, he explicitly has God state that he/she doesn’t care for organized religion or church, at least the way we’re running things.  Which speaks to another thorny issue: God is transparently used to simply voice Young’s own opinions and beliefs, which while understandable, is still pretty ballsy.  Bruce Cockburn figures more heavily into the story than he probably should, not to mention the strangely (in)significant knowledge of how collard greens give you the shits, which manages to earn a callback near the end of the book.  Granted, these are probably the two strangest examples, but I think you get the idea.

On the other end of that however, this presumption to use God as a mouthpiece leads to some interesting ideas.  In the world of The Shack, God tacitly endorses a system of anarcho-syndicalism, which in it’s own crazy way, makes sense.  God explains to Mack that in the perfect plan, there would be no need for law, that it is in fact man’s need for control over identity that led to the creation of law in the first place.  The thrust of all this is in service to the core belief that you must give up your life to God, and relinquish control.  It goes far, FAR deeper than I am doing here, but suffice to say, there is quite a bit of intriguing philosophy to be had if you’re willing to invest the time.

To be sure, there are other problems.  The framing device is unnecessary, the pacing veers between stilted and reckless, and the language becomes so knotty at times it can seem like Young is just banging on the keys in the hopes that once he hits a certain quota of letters, the plot will automatically get itself back on the rails.  But if you can maintain an open mind, and are willing to put in a little effort, there are some interesting, valid ideas hidden within a surprising amount of subversion.

The Shack gets a 3 out of 5.

• Avocado California Roll and Sushi (2430 S Interstate 35 E):  This place is not too bad.  I would say if you are looking for an entry-level place, this would be a good place to go.  It’s certainly not what I would call authentic, but if you’re looking for a for-reals sushi experience, you should probably stay at home and learn how to make the shit yourself.  Avocado has a pretty aggressive menu of weird rolls, so it’s a pretty safe bet that anyone can find something they’ll enjoy.  They even offer a California roll with fried chicken stuffed inside it, which I’m not ashamed to say I ate the hell out of.  The service is good, and the space is nice, though they are in one of the worst imaginable spots, real-estate wise.  If you didn’t know where it was already, you’d probably never know it was there.  But definitely worthwhile.

Yup.

• Keiichi (500 N Elm St):  The good-this joint is totally legit.  The menu changes daily depending on which fish is currently awesome.  Keiichi gives you the most honest sushi experience you’ll find pretty much anywhere.  The bad-pretty much everything else.  Seating is limited to 10 people.  Service is balls.  And I don’t know about you, but I feel like an asshole after paying $15 for a spicy tuna roll, and then have to share an eating space with drunken lawyers out having ‘salaryman night’.  But if you’re into that, go to Keiichi.

• Royal East Asian Cuisine (1622 West University Drive):  Royal East looks ghetto, and it kind of is, but it is also tied with J Sushi for my favorite place.  It’s really a Korean restaurant that also does a little sushi, but it does it all really, really well.  Nothing suffers.  The service is hands down the best service I’ve ever had in any restaurant.  The head dude in charge (Collin, I think? The white guy who meets you at the door.) knows EVERYTHING about EVERYTHING on the menu, and even got me to re-try sake after a previously disastrous experience.  It was totes good.  The sushi menu has a nice variety without being totally balls-out, and it’s always been super-fresh and tremendous.  The traditional Korean offerings are also way good and prepared with flair.  Slightly pricey, but worth the money.  Also, my secret record shop spot is conveniently located next door.  OR IS IT?

• I Love Sushi (917 Sunset St):  I don’t understand why people have such a boner for this place.  Truly awful.  Squishy is their mission statement.  Please do me a personal solid, and don’t go here.

• J Sushi(1400 S. Loop 288):  My personal favorite for the past couple of months.  J Sushi is pretty new, nestled on a strip corner next door to a Buffalo Wild Wings, but don’t let that fool you.  The worst thing I can say about this place is that it has a vague sports bar vibe, in that they consistently have ESPN on the giant TV over the bar, but the sound is never on, so it’s never intrusive.  The space is huge, with plenty of seating both at tables and at the bar.  Service=quick and attentive.  Most of my experiences here have been lunch, where they offer a gigantic bento box for round-eyes.  Every bit of it is terrific, and you have 7-8 different ways to customize it.  Along with Royal East, my highest recommendation.

Bear in mind I’m probably leaving some places out.  Also, I passed on any grocery store sushi.  While I hear that the university Kroger makes some respectable rolls, I’ve been burned one too many times on deli sushi.

Score(s): Avocado gets a 3/Keiichi gets a 3/Royal East gets a 5/I Love Sushi gets a 1/J Sushi gets a 5 out of 5.

Are you kidding me?

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

SCORE: The trailer gets a 4 out of 5. My boner gets a 5 out of 5.

Predators is totally rad.  Let’s just get that out of the way.  If you have even an inkling of wanting to go see it, you should.  It’s without a doubt the best action movie I’ve seen in the past five years.  I can’t imagine anyone leaving this movie dissatisfied, unless you’re a girl.  Girls will HATE this movie.  It’s not high art, that’s for sure, but if you walk into the theater, you know exactly what you’re in for.  Here’s the rundown of good and bad.

GOOD:

• It’s fucking awesome.
  
• It doesn’t mess around with plot. The original was all but plotless, and you get slightly more story in this movie, but that’s like saying folks from Alabama are more racist than folks from Boston.  Either way, Puerto Ricans lose.  What?
• It totally ignores Predator 2. I barely remember seeing Predator 2, so I can’t comment on how good/bad it is, but Predators is really the proper sequel to the original.  In the same way Aliens expanded and flipped the formula established by Alien, this movie blows the original concept wide open.
• It’s filled with callbacks/homages to other bad-ass movies. One of the first major action beats is a callback to the original Predator.  There are bits of Alien/Aliens, The Dirty Dozen/Seven Samurai, hell, there’s even a scene straight out of Zatoichi.  It’s like the producers just filled the script full of “Wouldn’t it be crazy?” action sequences, and actually got to film it.  At one point, I was honestly expecting there to be a scene where a Predator had to walk across a room of broken glass barefoot in order to be tied to a bomb with Samuel L. Jackson.
• The cast is great. I knew going in about a couple of the actors who make up the group of humans picked for the hunt, and was super pumped about seeing Machete having a Tijuana knife fight with a Predator, but there were a couple of surprises that turned out really well. It’s a cool conceit to have such a diverse group of BAMFs with such disparate ass-kicking skill sets.  I was even on board with Adrian Brody as a legit action hero.  Even the actors I didn’t know all played really well in each of their parts.  And honestly, the Predator actors were all better than Van Damme in the original.  There, I said it.
• The surprise end credits song. The movie ends on sort of an vaguely bleak note, but as soon as the credits hit, it’s a nice reminder that you’ve just had an awesome time at an awesome movie.

THE BAD:

• One of the first deaths is bullshit. I won’t ruin it for anyone, but the second member of the party gets killed way too quick for my tastes.  There’s no reason why another character couldn’t have been substituted, allowing him to become more of a major player.  Although the best line of the movie would have had to been thrown away.  Speaking of…
• There is a disappointing lack of quotable lines. The first Predator was eminently quotable.  “If it bleeds, we can kill it.”,  “Get to the chopper!”, etc.  There’s not really anything that meme-worthy in Predators, although I have already bought the domain for dieyouspacefaggot.com.
• The CGI is a little lackluster. For the small details and the creature effects, it’s absolutely fine, but the big effects are a little wonky.  Minor quibbles though.  I’ve never personally seen a 10 story fireball, so maybe that’s exactly what it’s supposed to look like.  Also, the predator dogs look great.
• It’s absolutely predictable. As soon as the party is assembled, you will immediately know who will survive until the end, and which character will have the big secret.  Still a lot of fun to watch everything unfold, though.

I could go on for pages, but you already know if this flick is for you or not.

MY PRESIDENT IS ONE UGLY MOTHERFUCKER.

Predators gets a 5 out of 5.