Ho ho ho, my little bloggers, and a merry Christmas. Just got done with pseudo Christmas at the Cabin with the Browns, and a fun and very alcoholic time was had by all. My wife’s in trouble, because I’ve fallen in love with another woman – my niece Haley, who’s cuter than a bag o’ puppies – and also because she doesn’t listen to me (I’m not gonna get into it, but suffice to say the majority of the stuff she gave me fell into the “what the fuck?” category!) but all in all, was an excellent time. I’m really digging having a family again – given how fragmented and clusterfucked the Edmunds clan has been since Mum and Dad died, it’s amazingly… comfy to have loved ones around this time of year. Alas no snowboarding this season, thanks to a @!#$@# cold dragged up with me, and that probably worked out, since it seemed like Liz was on a mission to ride JB no matter what he did. Their Xmas eve (eve) powder day turned out to be less than a half day, so dropping $50 each on lift tickets, and being forced to come home early probably wouldn’t have sat well with me (it didn’t seem to with Jeff) but it’s all good in the end.

Having come down the mountain on St. Stephens Day (Christmas Day is celebrated a day early in the Brown clan, to accommodate Liz being able to get down to go to her family’s on Christmas Day, which is something of a bummer) we prepped for my first foray to the Fillmore. Tracee, JB, Liz’s brother James (good bloke, liked hanging out with him), and myself (no Liz, she abstained, needing some away time) headed into the city to check out the Reverend Horton Heat, Hank Williams III, and Nashville Pussy. And bloody hell – I’d never been at a venue that dripped musical history like this one. The show aside (Nashville Pussy were okay, Hank III cancelled, and the Rev rocked), I was blown away by the Fillmore. The sound was a LOT better than the Warfield, but most of all I was gobsmacked by the poster rooms, featuring 40 years of shows. Just walking through those rooms for a half hour, imagining being at some of those gigs was surreal… Led Zeppelin, Jefferson Airplane, The Who, Hendrix, Johnny Cash, Clapton, and of course the house band, the Grateful Dead all graced the stage there.

It’s definitely a spot I wanna head back to in the coming new year…

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Now playing: Reverend Horton Heat – You’ve Got A Friend In Jimbo
via FoxyTunes

Well, a week at the ol’ stompin’ grounds came and went, and now am back on the left coast. Which is, of course, the right coast. If ya know what I mean.

Don’t get me wrong. As much as it pains me to say it – as much as it sticks in my craw, I do miss DC. A little. I miss my friends – Frigo, Chinchilla, Osa, Seany, Bengus, Richard and Ingrid, and yes, even the reclusive Fookie. And it was nice to see/know that they all miss me (Hey, I have feelings too!) as demonstrated by not having a night to myself while I was there. It was pretty bittersweet seeing all the old faces each night, and even to hear that others are moving away now since I was (apparantly) the only reason they stuck around. (Hah!) Lou’s pondering a move to Seattle, in an attempt to get a gig with the new MLS franchise – and I think he’d do wonderfully well there (he’s also chasing down 2 former Black Cat chicas whom he THINKS he has a shot at, haha), Ben and Jackie are out of there (destination unknown), Osa’s off to New York, and Frigo’s on the verge of accepting a job in Charlotte, NC. (Which would make him thoroughly miserable, and he deserves much better than that.) Even Richard and Ingrid, stalwarts of DC, are on the fence now about where the future will take them, and mentioned that since we moved, California got a lot more appealing. The upshot of all of this? If I disliked DC as much, imagine what it’d be like without those folks there.

Eek!

But the point of it all was work. I endured the NASFAA Christmas party (an alcohol-free potluck dinner where the association provides the turkey, and we all have to bring sides, held at lunchtime in the conference room, before going back to work) and said goodbye to Dallas, the outgoing president. It’s funny – as much as I may rag on my job, there’s a man who’s heart and soul was that association since before I was born, and he did some amazing things there. But now, there’s new blood coming in, and I got to meet the two candidates for his job. Whomever gets it is bound to shake things up – and here’s hoping one of those ways isn’t dropping telecommuters…

Another word on property buying.

So when we lived in DC, the estate agent we used to sell the condo annoyed the shit out of me. He truly did. He accepted our listing, told us we had to paint and fix some things up before we moved (which we did), called us the day we got here to tell us he found some other issues with the place, but not to worry, he took care of them, and he’d just bill us after the house sold. He hosted one open house (well, he didn’t – he went to a conference, so his wife hosted it) and it sold in five days after he called us to confirm an offer, and told us to just flat out accept it without countering. And then we never heard from him again (which was awesome when our power of attorney was wandering around DC with no idea where he was supposed to be.)

This was my only experience with an estate age… sorry, Realtor. (You’re in America now, G. Learn the lingo.) Therefore my opinion was set. They’re lazy, greedy, and in reality do feck all but eat a fat percentage.

Then we met John Adlam. We’ve been working with John now for a few months and if Douchebag in DC was one extreme, John’s the other. He’s knowledgable, he’s blunt, he’s in our corner. In two instances, we’ve been willing to move forward on houses that he’s stopped us on. As opposed to just taking his commission check and running, he’s convinced us to walk away from money pits, bad situations where we were just making snap decisions. He’s put up with our flip-flopping, our indecisiveness, our flat out terror of spending ridiculous amounts of money, or pickiness, and anything else I could think of. If I were in his shoes, I’d have taken me out back and beaten me with a hose by now, but he bears it all with good grace, and good humour.

So if you’re in the market for a house in Marin, there’s two things I have to say. First, you have my deepest sympathy. Second, to make a daunting and difficult task of finding an affordable home here much easier and pleasurable, give John a call, and tell him the bald Irish guy sent ya.

So the trailer for the new Batman movie, Dark Knight, is showing before the IMAX release of the new Will Smith flick, I Am Legend. Some enterprising young chap snuck his camcorder into the cinema, and snagged footage.
Add to My Profile | More VideosMmmm. Mucho tasty!

Christ, this blog has become a way of letting people know that there’s nothing going on. And yet another week of that here in glorious San Rrrrrrrafael. Head down and working, that’s about it. No new developments on the housing front, which we sort of expected coming up to Chrimbo, and I’m off to DC tonight for a week.

I did come close to lobbing my Mac through a window this past week tho… I made the upgrade to Leopard, but discovered that Quark 6.52 doesn’t like it. So had to downgrade back which has caused all sorts of problems. Which I eventually fixed, but a dumbass moment from me saw me bollix it completely (I changed the ownership of the hard drive from system to me, but stupidly clicked the “apply to all contents”) so now a format and reinstall of everything awaits me when I come back. Although I did have work order the Quark 7 upgrade, so first I’ll try hopping back to Leopard and doing that instead.

Anyways, that’s the current ska – we’ve been so busy with work, we haven’t even gotten pressies or cards in the post to Ireland and Scotland, which is shameful on our part – I’ll be expressing everything out when I get to DC in the morning…

I’m a graphic designer. I love art. More of a modernist, but I appreciate it in all it’s forms, even ancient Mesopotamian sculpture. But not this much!

It’s 3.25 inches tall. It’s really old – which is all fine and well. But is it worth – wait for it – $57,000,000?!?!

When I think about this sort of money being splashed on something like this, it annoys me. When I think about friends of mine who are working their arses off, living month to month, and never getting a leg up.. when I think about folks in New Orleans who are living in absolute squalor, since the government can’t give two shits about them… when I think of kids here and all over the world going to bed hungry at night – and what $57,000,000 could have done for them, it annoys me. Would it have solved the world’s problems? Course not. But that sort of cash could have built a substantial new housing estate in New Orleans, and given some needy people a home for the holidays. Lynne Cole of RISE International says you can build a school in Angola for $12,500. So for the money some bloke spent on an ounce of stone, he could have built more than 4,500 places where kids can learn and… well, be kids.

Nope. Instead he has a wee statue he can put on a shelf, look at, and think “Ooo, ain’t I cool!” Or maybe he can donate it to a museum (take the tax writeoff) and have a little plaque next to it saying “Donated by Mr. X.” and think to himself “Ooo, ain’t I cool!”

Or he could slip me and Trace some of that so we can get a @#$#@ house!!!

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Now playing: Beastie Boys – In 3’s
via FoxyTunes

Stunning show last night at the Warfield Theatre in the City. Tracee, Jeff, and myself headed off to see John Butler Trio as well as local Oakdale boy, Brett Dennen. Jeff was the man who turned me on to John Butler in the first place when he recommended Sunrise Over Sea to me something like two years ago, so it was rather karmic checking out the show with him coming along. John Butler’s music isn’t only bloody amazing to listen to, but it carries significant weight. His lyrics are about love – but not the same sort of whiny bullshit prepubescent love you hear in Volume 34 of the Grey’s Anatomy Soundtrack. Nope, JB3 preaches love for one another, our fellow man, and our planet. Something lots of people have lost sight of.

Chippiläñga and myself checked out JB3 at the 9:30 Club in DC last year, and were blown away. So we showed up with high expectations – and we weren’t disappointed.

First things first. Little known to us, you can’t drink your beers at your seats, so we got to chug our $6 minicups in the foyer, while listening to Brett Dennen’s set kick off. But it’s completely fine to chong out or munch plates of chicken wings. I guess the two kinda go hand in hand, and the free contact buzz was something of bonus, I suppose. But as stoned as the majority of the crowd were, their high was nothing compared to that of Brett Dennen, who seemed to perform his set in a rather fucked up state. Which may have also been something of a bonus – I’m not a huge Brett Dennen fan, feeling that his tunes all sound the same, but I developed a new respect for him after hearing him live.

But just like the show in DC, all memories of opening acts and how good/bad they may or may not have been, were wiped away as soon as JB3 took the stage, and proceeded to blow the roof off. Even with my earplugs in, I noticed that the sound wasn’t as good as the 9:30 Club – which I later discovered was down to their sound engineer. (Check this article out, and I’d have to agree with her – although she’s a bit over the top.)

But they still rocked their fucking socks off. Peaches & Cream was the only notable absentee from their setlist (which was a bummer – they had the whole 9:30 Club chanting the chorus in perfect unison at the DC show) but they did play my beloved Ocean (which is so good, I now pause as I seek it out in iTunes), and made up for Peaches & Cream by bringing Brett Dennen (and his bannana. Don’t ask.) and his gang back on stage for a jam version of the Beatles’ Come Together. as well as a mind blowingly haunting acoustic version of Fire in the Sky.

All told, they were on stage for 2 hours, and that’s not including Brett’s hour long shennanigans. If he’s coming to your town soon, buy tickets, and buy ‘em now.

Excellent stuff! And excellent seats too – see if you can spot the Ubermick and crew:

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Now playing: John Butler Trio – Ocean
via FoxyTunes

As a bloke comfortable with the onset of old age (c’mon, you remember being 5 years old and thinking how old teenagers were… imagine 34???) I can hearken back with the best of them at “the good old days”. Ahh, you young folk. I remember when all this was fields, I had to walk 50 miles through the snow barefoot to school every day, and watching Ireland consisted of Packie Bonner booting the ball upfield to Niall Quinn, who knocked it down for Aldridge, and there ye are. And you know what? We were glad of it.

I had the benefit of growing up during Ireland’s golden years – when qualifying for a major tournament was a regular occurrence under Jack Charlton. Unfortunately, that benefit is now something of a curse. Y’see, up until 1988, the only thing you could count on from the national team was that they’d be shite. Heartbreak and disappointment were the hallmarks of the Irish footy fan. Then Big Jack came in and changed that. He was like that one amazingly beautiful and intelligent woman that comes into our lives, making us wonder what we did to deserve them, before disappearing in the inevitable breakup, and the return to normality.

Alright, that’s a bad example – yes I dated a model once, and a rather gorgeous architect, but am now married to the one of the greatest women in the world. But Ireland hasn’t been so lucky. Jack was followed by a string of managers who’ve done nothing but disappoint, and have reminded us that Ireland’s not a great national side going through a bad patch, we’re a historically mediocre footballing nation who punched above our weight for a decade or so.

Why am I bringing this up? Well, I just discovered over on the good oul’ Irish Independent that Don Givens and Don Howe are charged with finding the next gaffer for the national team. God help us.

What’dya reckon Don? What about that Brian Clough lad? I think he’s dead, Don.

“We are delighted that we have found two extremely credible football men known throughout the game for their honesty and integrity. They will leave no stone unturned in their efforts to ensure that we get the best person for the job.” crow the lads at the FAI. My arse. You found the only two people willing to sign on to your dodgy panel, since everyone knows that it’s going to be bloody difficult finding a world-class boss who’ll accept the terms on offer from the cheap bastards in Merrion Square, especially with the poisoned chalice of the England job on offer. (Poisoned as it might be, at a reported £6 million a year on offer, I’d cheerfully take it and be the subject of hatred for 2 years!) So far the only candidates on offer are Terry Venables, and… um… Graeme Souness. Given that both Dons worked with El Tel before, I wonder where their recommendation will go.

Just a couple of weeks ago, he made the announcement that “‘football people’ — from outside the FAI — would be responsible for the appointment” and now the current U-21 boss is tasked with the charge of finding… his next boss? This is greasy little John Delaney at work again. Public opinion in Ireland seems to be against the appointment of Venables, but in a few weeks, when John-Boy hires him, he gets to point at his “panel of experts” and say “Wasn’t me, mam – they made me do it”. The head of the FAI, completely unwilling to shoulder responsibility – again. Just a year ago, this was the man who vehemently defended Staunton to the hilt, before running for the hills and pleading the fifth during Stan’s rather poorly-handled dismissal. (Mutual agreement. Yeah, right.) And just like the days of Brian Kerr, when the knives were out for the Dublin man, and Delaney looked on, hands raised as if to say “Hey, nothing to do with me!”

And so, Ireland will head into another qualifying campaign with a new boss, promises of a bright new day and a return to the Olé-olé, inflatable hammer days of Jack Charlton. Again. And just like it’s been before, you can’t help but feel like it’s just wallpapering over the cracks. And in 3 years time, after uncomprehensible draws and losses to poorer opposition, John Delaney will point to the two Dons and say “Wasn’t me.”