Nice Guys Finish Last

Midpoint Music Festival, Day One here

Midpoint Music Festival, Day Two here

Midpoint Music Festival - Day Three. Once upon a time, I thought it would be fun to be a music critic. How hard could it be? Go see a bunch of bands, listen to a stack of CDs, and write about why they do (or do not) rock. Cake walk, right?

After two nights of playing faux music critic, with non-stop barhopping and an entire afternoon spent listening to the stack of CDs I've either purchased or been given at the shows, I can safely attest it's not the dream job it seemed to be. All of the bands have started to run together (might be because of my affinity for Jeff Buckley/Nick Drake-tinged singer-songwriters, huh?). It took an entire pot of coffee on Saturday afternoon to get me motivated enough to edit the notes from Thursday night's shows. (Of course, that could also be chalked up to my lack of motivation about practically anything on a Saturday afternoon that doesn't involve sleeping and eating. Oh, and typing with caffeine jitters? Challenging.)

I arrived at Jefferson Hall as Remedy, the first band of the night, was starting. Unfortunately, so was the Pete Rose movie, and everyone at my end of the bar stared at the television like slack-jawed yokels as the opening credits played over footage of hit #4192 until a guy behind me nudged his friend. "C'mon dude," he remarked. "They're only gonna show this like a million more times." Point taken. Oh yeah, the band.

Remedy's "Dig It" description in CityBeat was listed as "Crowded House, a less glammy Poison, a lingering sense of déja vù." As odd as that sounds, it was pretty accurate. The singer did have a Neil Finn (albeit after a particularly long rough night) quality to his voice, and the hooks were catchy, with the strums of acoustic guitar melting into radio-friendly pop metal. They're one of those bands that, while I probably wouldn't rush out and buy one of their albums, I also wouldn't change the radio if I heard them on WEBN while driving home from work.

(Hee. Pete Rose is at the racetrack. Wonder what he's doing there? Wait, is that supposed to be Marge Schott? She's too tall and she's not smoking.)

As I headed down Main Street to Lava, I was accosted by a panhandler on a bicycle who, after I refused to give him any money, told me to "take my fat white ass home." And then he started asking me for money again. Um, dude? Let's use a little bit of logic here. If I wasn't going to give you money before you insulted me, what makes you think that I'll change my mind after you call me names?

My run-in with the panhandler made me late for the beginning of the Infinite Number of Sounds set at Lava. Guildenstern had recommended this band to me a few months ago, and they certainly didn't disappoint. Electronic noise rock band, accompanied by a video screen showing random images of buildings imploding in reverse, high-speed POV shots of highway driving, and cheesy sci-fi movies. (I swear I saw scenes from The Black Hole spliced in with the gorilla in a diving helmet from Robot Monster.) If schizophrenia had a sound, this would be it. (And I mean that in a good way, really.) The memories of the jerk on the bike and his comments towards me faded away as I watched a cheetah hunting a Thompson's gazelle in slo-mo, followed by a dramatic moment from a low-budget martial arts film.

The set concluded with a spoken-word story about stressed-out lonely cats being left alone in an apartment and peeing on everything, accompanied by drumming and high-pitched electronic droning. The video screen interspersed scenes of snow-capped mountains, tribal dancing, aforementioned cats, and Buddhist monks. Weird, not everyone's cup of tea, but strangely compelling. I was pretty much transfixed for the entire set. (And quite excited when I saw they were coming back to town in October.)

I stepped outside to get some air after the set, and ran into Jason yet again. Well, "ran into" might be an understatement. "He grabbed me by the shoulders, wide-eyed and awestruck, and announced, "I just saw the COOLEST band! There was this band called gaberdine at Crush and they sounded like Belle and Sebastian with a lower voice! and they had an electric cello! and an e-bow! and a kazoo solo! and they were just so cool!"

I grabbed his shoulders right back. "ME TOO!" I extolled the virtues of Infinite Number of Sounds to him, then ran over to Crush to pick up gaberdine's EP at Jason's insistence. (I also picked up a copy of existaria's promotional CD while I was there, and after listening to it, regretted my decision to start the evening seeing Remedy. While they were a good band, they didn't really evoke a huge response in me. I had been a little scared off by the comparison of existaria to "Tori Amos and Mad Season" but fell in love with the instrumental acoustic sonic landscapes on the CD. Obviously I'd not expected to pick a winner with every set, but this was the biggest misstep on my schedule. Well, that and not choosing to see Messerly and Ewing, and it's rumored that their MPMF appearance would be their last. Oops.)

Next up - Coltrane Motion, another of the Datawaslost bands. Originally from Cincinnati and now residing in Chicago, the buzz must have been good on this band, as there were so many people crowded around the stage that I couldn't see the band. The indiefolkhoptronic thing didn't really rock my world for the moment (but I did like their song on the sampler quite a bit), so I decided to check out Staggering Statistics next door at Crush. Apparently everyone had the same idea at the same time as I did, because I encountered my first real line of the weekend, and ended up listening to half of the band's set while standing on the stairs.

The room was packed for good reason. While Greg Dulli may have received the sultry soulfulness in the break-up of the Afghan Whigs, John Curley certainly laid claim to the rock, and Staggering Statistics put on an impressive set. Impressive enough that they ran late, and threw my schedule off yet again. I snagged the band's CD and headed back to Lava to catch the first half of Hungry Lucy's set, which had already started (damn you, Curley! damn you and your rockin' band!).

When Johnny B introduced me to Hungry Lucy years ago, they seemed to be the stereotypical goth-pop band with female vocalist. Their music seems to have ventured further into the trip-hop realm, and the stage show's sound is lush and polished.

It was then that I made the biggest mistake of the evening. I chose to leave Lava in the middle of Hungry Lucy's set to return to Crush for Blackbear. ( I'm taking some consolation that Hungry Lucy will be playing at the same show as Infinite Number of Sounds in October. I am so there.) The venue was still pretty packed, and the band seemed to be having technical issues. After a few minutes of "I can't hear the violin" and "Can you turn up everything?", the band finally started to play. Their lo-fi electronic alt-folk is OK, but again, I wasn't really feeling it. Jason had promised that they would end the set with "Your Eyes, My Choir" (also on the Datawaslost sampler), and that he would be appearing in the chorus (shades of Polyphonic Spree, but without the robes), so I stuck around, chatting with John Curley by the merchandise table while I waited.

(Editor's note: I mentally wrestled over whether I should include this next paragraph. On the one hand, this is my journal, and I should be free to say what I feel about anything. On the other hand, I don't like using my posts to bash people personally. However, the person involved really irritated me and the encounter fits in with the underlying theme of this post. So here goes.)

In the middle of the Blackbear set, Chris from The Green Room came in, and I again congratulated him on the previous evening's set. He remarked that while he never was one to sing his own praises, he thought they sounded better than they ever had. It was all I could do to not laugh in his face. (It was true that the band had vastly improved; I wasn't going to argue that. But anyone who knows Chris knows that he has four main topics of conversation: baseball, weather, Rush, and why his band is better than any other band ever conceived in the Cincinnati area.) After saying this, he then proceeded to ponder the reasons why those "indie rock poseurs" preferred "crappy bands like this" to his. I tried to diffuse his tirade with a comment about everyone having their own opinions and tastes, but he was on a roll and continued to lambaste any band I mentioned. I wanted to point out that insulting your would-be audience and your peers doesn't lead to good word-of-mouth about one's band or a big take at the door, regardless of talent. Like the panhandler earlier that night, why would I be more likely to give up my hard-earned cash after you've insulted me?

(Man, none of this would've happened if I'd split the midnight set between Hungry Lucy and Freekbass. Unfortunately, Freekbass was playing at 1120, and the distance between the two clubs and the previous night's experience with the poor sound quality of the venue had soured me on that idea. Someday I'll see Freekbass again. Someday.)

I decided it would be best if I parted company with Chris before I felt the need to smack him in the back of the head, so I wished him well and headed back up the street. I had made a promise to the guys in Mary Ellis that I would come see their set, and I have always tried to be a woman of my word - especially to people who are nice to me.

The guitarist that I had met the night before greeted me at the door of RBC. "You made it!"

"Of course I did - I said I'd be here." I complimented him on the CD they'd given me the night before. (I'd had a chance to listen to it earlier that afternoon, and I was surprisingly impressed. Think Green Day without the angst. Mary Ellis is the happiest pop-punk band ever.)

"Oh, we're even better live," he assured me.

After the negativity I'd endured just a few minutes earlier, it was refreshing to see a band that was incredibly nice and had the skills to back up their claims of a good live show. The venue was only half full and people kept milling in and out, hoping to fit as much music as possible into that last hour, but the band played as if they'd sold out Madison Square Garden, grinning happily as they asked the audience for gum in between songs. Finally the band's enthusiasm was too much for me, and I tucked my notebook into my messenger bag to go dance with wild abandon at the edge of the stage. By far, Mary Ellis had the most earnest and heartfelt set of the evening. And the most fun, by a long shot.

Tonight, if anything, was a lesson in graciousness. Nice goes a long way in my book. In the same way, negativity goes even further, and will bias my views of you and your creative projects that I might patronize in the future. A bunch of guys from Wisconsin were nice to a complete stranger (and remembered who I was the next night) and looked as if they were having the time of their lives playing in a club in Cincinnati. Another band member felt the need to insult his musical peers, his fans, and my thoughts and opinions. If both of these bands were playing in different venues on the same night, guess which one I would go see?

But the evening had drawn to a close, and the bouncers were getting that anxious "please go home now" look in their eyes, so I decided to hit the road. There would be plenty of time to ponder the politics of pleasantries in the music business later. I had a weekend's worth of sleep to catch up on, thirty-something pages of notes to edit, and a stack of CDs to listen to. Wake me when it's time for next year's festival, please?

I'm with the Band (well, kinda)

Looking for Thursday night's recap?

Midpoint Music Festival, day two. Too much Moerlein + not enough sleep + frustrating day at work = cranky strung out Myo. I had hoped to have a few moments to start editing down last night's notes before I headed out for the evening, but it was not to be. And seeing as how most of the television shows I watch premiered this week, I had about five hours of various and sundry cop shows to wade through as well. (I foresee a lot of coffee in my future.)

I started my evening at Lava (yet again), drinking an overpriced watery Diet Coke and checking out Tristen Shields. CityBeat compared his music to Massive Attack meets Wilco meets Nick Drake, which seemed pretty accurate. (Poor Nick Drake. No one knew who he was for years, and now most people know him is "that guy who did that Volkswagen song.") My friend Jason was playing keyboards in this band, and Andrew from .andrew. was sitting in on guitar. (Apparently the Lava/Crush venues are home base for the Datawaslost collective this weekend.) I offered my congratulations to the band and picked up a copy of another sampler CD on my way out the door to 1120 for The Green Room's show at 10:00.

I wasn't really sure where 1120 was, to be honest. The map showed it near Barrel House, on the outskirts of the Main Street district. After wandering around like a complete moron for a few minutes, I asked the Barrel House doorman for directions. "Over there, " he pointed across the street to an unmarked brick building.

As I later found out, the two stages at 1120 were set up especially for the Midpoint Music Festival. (It looked like the building usually served as a practice space for bands.) The bar consisted of a hastily assembled assortment of wine, Jack Daniels coolers, and draft beer served from a cooler tap. (And for some reason, they were offering frozen margaritas. Seeing as how most bars I've frequented have considered blender drinks to be too much trouble, I was amused that this temporary setup had bothered to include them.)

Chris, the singer and bass player for The Green Room, was standing near the front door chatting with a few people, and it took him a few minutes of "who the hell are you, weird girl?" glances for him to recognize me. We walked over to the bar to get a beer as he told me that I was going to be surprised at how the band sounded. After seeing the band sporadically through lineup and style changes (with varying degrees of musical prowess - I actually watched the band break up onstange one night), I decided to withhold all comments until they actually played.

For the most part, the band sounded better than I've ever heard them play. They've become much more polished, and Chris has traded in the higher register whininess for a faux British sneer. As they headed into the 8 billionth version of "Winter of Discontent" that I've heard over the years, I noticed that they'd reworked it as well into a slower and more subdued song. This version fit the bitterness of the lyrics much more effectively.

Unfortuntely, the vast improvement of the band's sound was almost destroyed when Chris chastized the crowd in between songs, telling them to stop talking to their friends and move closer to the stage. (I later found out that the comment was directed specifically to one of his friends, but it still came off sounding kind of snotty, and it spoiled a bit of my goodwill towards the band. The fact that a small chunk of plaster got knocked loose from the ceiling midset and exploded as it landed in my lap didn't help matters any, either.)

After pelting the audience with 80s-styled mini buttons, Chris made a quick lap around the venue and ducked out to Rhinos for a drink. I hung back by the bar with his friend Joe (the one who'd been yelled at earlier) and waited for FLUTTR, the next band, to start.

FLUTTR turned out to be an Evanescence-type band from Boston with an electric cello and MIDI marimba, fronted by three cute goth girls. (Suddenly Joe seemed much more interested in the band once he saw the singer. Imagine that.) Unfortunately, the acoustics of the room were pretty awful, and most of the interesting parts of the music were drowned out by the guitar and drums. (I purchased their CD, and was quite glad that I did. They sounded 100% better on disc with proper mxing.) I made a mental note to recommend the band to Johnny B the next time I saw him, and headed over to Barrel House for the midnight set.

Barrel House was pretty packed, but I managed to find a seat at the end of the bar before the show started. I decided to get a pint of Red Legg Ale rather than a Moerlein for this portion of the evening, since drinking bottled beer in brewpubs is a crime against nature.

Noctaluca, compared to "Tim and Jeff Buckley, Radiohead, and Pink Floyd," turned out to be the most pleasant surprise of the evening. Where Stephanie's Id had made me want to listen to Fiona Apple's When the Pawn... last night, this band makes me want to go home, turn off all the lights, and listen to Jeff Buckley's Grace with the headphones on. Georgeous vocals, smooth and lush guitar. I rushed over to the merchandise booth in search of a CD. (Regrettably, nothing yet, but they're currently in the studio.) Jason Ludwig, the frontman for the band, had a solo recording available, and I purchased that as a consolation prize. (Good choice on my part. The album had been nominated for Album of the Year at this past year's Cincinnati Entertainment Awards and Jason had ended up winning Best Singer/Songwriter. See, sometimes I do have some good taste!)

I had really tried to plan to see bands that I'd not seen before (or in the case of The Green Room, not for a long while) this weekend, and with the exception of the 1:00 am slot, I'd managed to do so. The one "been there, done that" on my agenda was at RBC, and that spot belonged to Buckra. The dance floor in front of the stage was pretty packed, so I found a seat in the back where I could shake my booty on my bar stool and take notes at the same time.

(Editor's note: As I was browsing Buckra's website, I realized that the band was formed from the ashes of The Rottweilers, who were pretty ubiquitous on the local band scene back in the 90s. Duh. No wonder their groove had always sounded so familiar. I proceeded to smack myself in the head with my copy of "Bully Hater" for being so clueless.)

Somewhere during the chorus of "Shake Your Baby Fat," a large man with twelve inch Liberty spikes stuck a CD under my beer. "You looked like you needed a coaster, he explained with a smile. The CD turned out to be for Mary Ellis, the band who was closing the night at RBC on Saturday. After chatting for a few minutes with the spiky-haired fellow, who introduced himself as Eric, the drummer, I soon found myself adopted by Mike and Don, two other members of the band and one of the members' girlfriends. All of there were incredibly nice folks and, after bribing me with a few promotional buttons, convinced me that I should finish out my weekend by coming to see their band. Being a sucker for friendly people and free stuff, I agreed and headed for home, grabbing my free Buckra ringer T shirt as I left. (See what I mean about the free stuff?)

Another night under my belt. I couldn't wait for the fun to begin again the next night. Well, after some much needed sleep, that is....

Midpoint, Main Street, and Myo

For a city that at times seems freakishly conservative when it comes to the arts, Cincinnati has a surprisingly diverse music scene. (That and our profilic past in the brewery industry baffles me to this day.) Once home to King Records, the city has produced its fair share of artists who made it to the major labels and some renown. Bootsy Collins. Afghan Whigs (and Twilight Singers). Ass Ponys. Over the Rhine. Throneberry. Not huge household names (well, except maybe Bootsy), but well known in their respective circles. Peter Frampton moved to Indian Hill a few years back. Mojo Nixon was a DJ on WEBN for a while.

(We're responsible for unleashing 98° upon an unsuspecting world, too. Yeah, we're to blame for Mr. Jessica Simpson himself, Nick Lachey. This is balanced on the great karmic scale of music by the presence of 97X, which happily returned to an internet format a few months after selling the radio frequency/physical station itself.)

Adding to the list of musical accomplishments, the city became host to Midpoint Music Festival a few years ago. As a music fan who has for years wanted to trek down to the SxSW Festival in Austin in hopes of discovering the Next Big Thing, this was an exciting development.

I'd kind of fallen away from the local music scene. My friends in bands started to get real jobs, get married, settle down. As we all got older, it became harder to get up in the morning after a long loud night at Sudsy Malones. And who had the money to check out 5 bands a week when the gas and electric bill was due?

I regretted losing that part of my life. So when faced with the opportunity to see a ton of unsigned bands from all over the place for really cheap, I jumped at the chance. (Besides, I figured it would get me out of the house and hopefully give me something to write about.)

The website for MPMF had mentioned the availability of a "three day all venue badge" at the conference registration table downtown, so after work on Thursday I came home, took the world's fastest shower, changed my clothes, and set off for the Crowne Plaza in hopes of getting there before registration closed at 7:00. I made it, plunked down my credit card, and was presented with my very own... neon yellow plastic armband. (Yes, the kind you can't remove intact after you put it on. So I was going to be stuck wearing this thing for the next 57 hours. Work is gonna love this.)

Not knowing what kind of crowds or parking situations to expect, I headed over to Jefferson Hall on Main Street to spread out my schedule and my CityBeat guide and plot my course for the evening over a beer. The schedule was overwhelming. 254 bands spread out over three nights and several venues (many of which I'd never been to) up and down the street. I highlighted a few bands in each time slot, making a backup plan just in case my first choices were not my thing.

While poring over the schedule and sipping at my Bass Ale, the stage manager - hi Tim! - for Jefferson Hall introduced himself and offered to get me a copy of the sampler. (He'd seen me scribbling in my notebook, and asked me who I was writing for; I explained my plan to write about the event on my website. Behold the power of the pen.) I thanked him, and set off for Lava to see sleepybird.

sleepybird had a lo-fi alt-folky feel to them which I quite enjoyed. They're a 2:00 am kind of band, the kind of music you listen to while sitting at a friend's apartment discussing world philosophies by candlelight after too many beers and cigarettes.

While watching the band, I ran into my friend Jason, who was playing with The Minni-Thins at 10:00 next door at Crush. I promised I'd come check out part of their set.

When Jason had warned me that The Minni-Thins were a "bit different" than sleepybird, he wasn't kidding. Loud, aggressive power punk, with hints of The Pixies thrown in for good measure. Fun, if you're in that kind of mood. I wasn't, and ducked out after three songs.

Back at Lava, .andrew. had taken the stage. Described in the "You'll Dig It If You Dig" tag of CityBeat as "Nick Drake, Crowded House, a choirboy gone slightly wrong," both the bartender and I were impressed by his set. No CD yet, but he swore he was working on it when I talked to him after the show. (Oh, and he was very nice, which goes a long way in my book.)

Stephanie's Id from Asheville, NC was up next. I hadn't seen any out-of-town bands yet (well, sleepybird is from Dayton, but that doesn't really count), so I decided to stick around to check them out. Good choice. If you threw Fiona Apple's When the Pawn... in a blender with Portishead and a vibraphone, set it on frappé, and served the resulting mixture in a swanky jazz lounge, you'd have a pretty good idea of what they sounded like. There's not a mainstream radio station in the world that would have any idea what to do with them, but there should be.

I headed back up the street to Jekyll and Hyde's to check out Idle Mirth, and ran into Dave from The Green Room on my way. I assured him I was coming to see them Friday night, and he tipped me off that his wife's band LovelyCrash was playing at Neon's around the corner. I promised I'd check out the end of their set.

Idle Mirth, billed in the "Dig It" description as "Portishead, Hooverphonic, Fiona Apple" proved to be (in my opinion) none of the above. The singer had a lovely voice, but it was completely drowned out by the guitar and drums. It may have been a bad mix or an issue with venue acoustics, but I wasn't feeling it and headed for Neon's after a few songs.

I unfortunately only got to see the last two or three songs in LovelyCrash's set, but I was pretty much blown away by them. CityBeat described them far better than I could ever attempt to: "The Breeders and Scrawl beat up the Bangles while the Ronettes fashionably look on and spit. Later, the Cramps come over and tell their surf guitar friends to stop by as well and everybody gets drunk on Cosmopolitans and Gran Marnier. Gorgeous harmonies, catchy hooks and memorable lyrics, bass and drums that'll kick your ass. I'm out of metaphors. You get it. Go see 'em." I hadn't realized that Beth was in the band (or that she had previously been in Perfect Jewish Couple), nor did I have any idea that Jen (Dave's wife) could sing. I awarded them my "Band to Watch" award of the night, and bugged Jen about the upcoming CD after the show.

As the night drew to a close, I stopped back at Jefferson Hall to say goodnight to Tim and apologize for not seeing any of the bands there that night. (Most of the bands there seemed to be of the more mainstream rock genre, and none of the bios really appealed to me.) He shrugged. "Hell, I don't care. You're here. You're seeing the bands, and you're covering the event." (I explained to him that I only had a handful of readers, and one of them was my mom. "Eh. Still doesn't matter," he responded. Tim is my new best friend this weekend.)

I took inventory of the evening as I repacked my messenger bag for work the next day. 11 pages of notes, four CDs (I purchased sleepybird's no flood, Tim gave me the official MPMF sampler, and I'd wound up getting a couple of two-song samplers from patientZero and Tuesday Conspiracy.), five stickers, one promotional matchbook, one promotional postcard. Not a bad take for the night.

Oh, and one neon yellow armband that I was going to have to conceal with a long sleeved shirt the next morning. Sometimes it's hard to be this glamorous.

Ow, My Head

(I apologize in advance for my drunken liberal ramblings. What follows is a very one-sided and opinionated recap of George W. Bush's acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention, originally sent as an email to non-TV-havin' Roger Mexico, with editorial comments by Captain Morgan.)

(WARNING! This entry drops the F-bomb a lot. I get worked up when I've had a drink and watch political stuff.)

(Yes, I always talk to Roger Mexico with little-to-no capitalization. I'm a rebel like that.)

(Transcript of speech here, if you'd like to follow along. I cannot believe I just linked to that site, but it needs to be made public, right? Not that it will make my drunken rantings make any more sense.)

(The FBI is reading my journal right now, aren't they? Hi, guys! Welcome! Check out the Rhino Cam!)

(This is an awful lot of comments in parentheses, don't you think?)

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so, i guess it's obvious that i'm drunk or a masochist or both.

i'm watching w accept the republican nomination at the rnc. if i wasn't talking back to the television, i think my head might explode.

jumpin' giant jesus on a pogo stick (which is being built a few miles away... must tell you 'bout that sometime...)! to reiterate a much cliched slogan, i love my country, but i fear my government.

ok, he's talking about simplifying the tax codes. has this man ever filled out his own 1040. no, because math involving more than two digits confuses the chimp.

gah... health insurance... must not throw tv out window. where the fuck's the rum?

ownership society? we're all in debt, moron! and still he blathers on... oh, crap. no, not the personal savings social security. more rum.

don't fucking talk to me about education reform, w. i deal with these people every day. cough up the bucks. tests ain't the answer to everything.

oh, crap. he just attempted spanish. i shudder at the pronunciation errors.

oh great. more tests at a higher level in math and science. where the hell's the money???

the delegates scare me. and he just plugged his web address.

ah, and now we start the mudslinging... i don't think i have enough alcohol in my apartment. oh, good god, now he's started in on family values.

"unborn child" reference: 10:38 pm

faith-based charities. marriage is sacred between one man and one woman blah blah blah liberal judgescakes. defense of marriage act <> conservative values. ow, my head. where the fuck is the rum?

tara-ism. don't get me started. cheesy 9/11 plug. rah rah rah go usa! (and the crowd joins in.)

yeah, pre-emptive strikes rock, w. you want to be the full-time war president, don'tcha?

hey! protesters! yay, protesters! you go with your anti-war selves! (as i sit comfortably on my couch, grinning like an idiot.)

blah blah. we killed a lot of people. and because of OUR clear moral decsions, we rule. did he just mention "weapons of mass destruction"? good god man. drop it, already.

i feel like i'm in church. this man is preaching to me. and i ain't buying what he's selling.

can i just comment on the special stage built for him? george w. bush in the round. what. the . hell? this is NOT a rock star president.

MUST BUY COPY OF FAHRENHEIT 9/11 ON FIRST DAY. michael moore may be biased as hell, but at least it's a sign of moral sanity. up is down here, people.

HOLY CRAP! was that britney spears? what the hell?

(and then i get distracted looking for a confirmation on the britney sighting. damn, i'm a loser, but i want to make sure i'm not completely insane. c'mon fametrackers!)

generations will blah blah blah. um, generations will be paying off the debt you created.

w attempts a bit of stand up comedy. um, no.

another 9/11 plug. more sad war stories. and morality. and liberty. and character. (dear george, please call lila lipscomb.) and, oh have i mentioned 9/11 yet? (glamour shot of rudy guiliani)

oh my. he's paraphrasing the bible. or the byrds. a time for sadness, a time for struggle, a time for rebuilding. And now we have reached a time for hope. to everything, turn, turn, turn.

um, what about the unemployment issues? outsourcing? WHERE'S THE MONEY COMING FROM, IF YOU'RE NOT RAISING TAXES? guess we'll leave that as a not-so-happy inheritance?

ow, ow, ow, my head. will staying up until midnight to hear john kerry's midnight ohio rally make me feel better, or only make my head hurt worse?

aw, tom brokaw is saying bye-bye to his last political committee. kinda sweet. i've always liked tom.

must go reaquaint myself with captain morgan. and start worrying about november.
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And, now that I've sent an email that will put me on that scary liberal watch list, I suppose I'll watch that subversive David Letterman and go to bed. My job as an American is done.