Disgusting.
$130 for a ticket!
(On phone.) Tom. I got there right at 10:00 and all they had was seats in the back. And they were ONE HUNDRED THIRTY DOLLARS EACH. So I said fuck it.
(Hanging up.) If I was a U2 fan, like Tom, I would be on the ground crying because my band is not only putting out crappy records, but they are also screwing their fans.
Yep, no more ‘band of the people” I guess.
Poo-2. FuckYou2.
I remember when U2 used to play for FREE.
Those days are clearly gone.
I bet the Pope doesn’t even charge that much.
The Pope charges?
OK, well, not the Pope.
Celine Dion charges that much. Also Madonna.
Celine Dion doesn?t count. I wouldn’t pay $10 to see her, even if she had a real fire-breathing dragon on stage.
I’d probably pay $130 to see Frank Sinatra.
Frank Sinatra is dead.
EXACTLY.
Elvis! I’d pay that much to see Elvis.
Or the Beatles!
I’d pay that much to see Macca at the Red Square but only if they threw a plane ticket to Moscow in.
You are not British. Please stop talking like a British person.
I reckon it’s OK to talk like a British person, if you aren’t trying to fake an accent, like Madonna.
I wonder if when Madonna gets hammered, she lapses into a Cockney accent?
Blimey. What a thought.
STOP TALKING LIKE A BRITISH PERSON.
Let’s not forget you paid $500 to see Radiohead once.
Yeah, but that included gas and a hotel room in L.A.
Those were the early days of ebay, I don’t think they had the “Buy it Now” feature at that point.
Let’s not forget that it was that ticket that eventually lead to me living in Venice. I wouldn’t be the renowned authority on Venice bars if I hadn’t bought that ticket.
That $285 dollar ticket.
Radiohead didn’t charge that much, the holder of the ticket did.
Radiohead wouldn’t screw their fans like that.
We are treading in potentially boring material here.
Speaking of British people, I wonder if you can be Prime Minister if you are Irish?
Bono as Prime Minister. Maybe that’s why he shook George Bush’s hand!
He wants to be more than a pop star, that’s pretty clear.
In the words of Jeff Tweedy: “What you once were, isn?t what you want to be, anymore.”
Now he is just a world figure raping his fans with high ticket prices.
Yes. Let’s not get into “How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.”
Complete and utter crap.
That has got to be the boringest record ever. Who are they trying to kid?
Don’t forget, most people are sheep.
You’d have to be a sheep to buy that piece of crap.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of sheep right now.
Good, they should take the piss if they bought that stupid, boring record.
Take the piss? You can’t stop talking like a British person, can you?
So I wonder how many piss-taking sheep are going to spend $500 on ebay to get one of those tickets?
Lots of forty-something clueless fucks will, you can be sure.
I think you are running the risk of pissing off a lot of forty-somethings right now.
Remember that Prince concert where all the people starting cheering because they thought the opening act was Prince?
Yes, I’d imagine the same crowd will be at the U2 concert.
Hey, I bet a lot of them will get laid for the first time in a long time, that night.
Hey, now that I think about it, I’d pay $130 if I could get a seat close enough to see Adam Clayton’s package.
Row 8?
That would probably do it.
You’d have to be like, in the pit to see Bono’s package!
I think you are running the risk of really pissing off Bono here.
Yeah, but not Adam Clayton, and he is the only U2 who matters.
Just because of his package?
Pretty much. A better meaning for “what a fucking dick.”
I use to really love “The Unforgettable Fire.”
Pretty much everything since has been Pretty Forgettable.
Na ah. What about that other record? The huge one? I used to listen to it all the time.
Joshua Tree.
Oh yeah. I think I traded that one in for a Pearl Jam record.
What about Zooropa?
Zooropa? Snoozeropa is more like it.
In the words of Johnny Rotten, “fucking boring, Sidney! Exterminate! Exterminate!”
That wasn’t Johnny Rotten, that was a movie about Sid Vicious.
Yeah, but it is fun to say that. If you are totally into talking like a British person, that is.
In the words of the Super Furry Animals: “move you, buy and sell you, terrorize you, mass destruct you.”
U2 ought to listen to “Phantom Power” so they can hear what a good pop record is suppose to be like.
“Flaunt you, disconnect you, cluster-fuck you, we will crush you.”
Well, I am not sure what it all means, but it sure sounds good.
All the sheep heard that tiny bit of the U2 record on that Ipod commercial and thought their record was good all the way through.
And only that tiny bit was OK. Even the rest of the song sucked!
Sellouts.
Yep, they can’t go around saying they aren’t sellouts anymore.
Um, anyone who shakes George Bush?s hand?
You’d shake it.
No I wouldn’t.
Yes you would.
No.
Yes.
Don’t you know it is impossible to win an argument with yourself?
Whatever.

Argh. I just wrote a Really Long Entry and it is all gone. Somehow, some way, some Hamptons Inn Business Center Void. All gone. FUCK.

Anyway I am halfway into my trip and I won’t go all lyrical this time except to say I have been listing to OK Computer over and over, and a little Sonic Youth and plenty of Wilco, also the Arcade Fire. I have to on these long trips and I think of CDs I might make for a current crush, while vineyards and the ocean pass by in a blur.

I am tired and refreshed at the same time. Can’t really figure that one out.

Yesterday I was in my hometown and went to the bar in the harbor where I once spent some time as a Harbor Rat. This is what you call kids who live on boats. I lived on a three masted schooner and I hated it, though I do have lots of interesting, also beautiful, memories of that time. Behind the bar was a guy I played with as a young Harbor Rat. Odd, to see him hassling his employees for being late at the age of 39, thirty-odd years later. He was like, don’t you remember how great it was growing up in the harbor? I was like, fuck no. I was at the age where I needed my own room, also a shower. Also, I remember totally torturing that guy. There are these giant hooks on the pier, that swing over the water to pull the crates of fish off the fishing boats. We (me, my brothers, and the other Evil Harbor Rats) would be like, hey, grab onto this hook! And that guy would always do it. We would then swing him over the water and let him dangle there for awhile. I can’t really understand why my old harbor friend, now tending bar at his family place, doesn’t remember all those times hanging on a hook. Instead he remembers the good times, like trying to hook seagulls with your fishing pole. A different kind of torture.

I sometimes think about moving back to my hometown. The streets and smells and people are all ingrained in me. And my current home is sort of like my childhood home, without the fog, with added palm trees. It’s kind of cool to go to a bar where the bartender is someone you tortured as a child and the waitress is your best friend from the fourth grade. And that when you talk to them you remember things that happened a long time ago, when you don’t normally remember what happened yesterday.

And now I am going to save this, in case it slips away.

I am heading out tomorrow on a two-week journey, my usual January journey up the coast, the final stop being the Unified Grape Symposium in Sacramento, a trade show overrun with not only winemakers but also cellar rats and vineyard workers. One of the coolest thing about this show is, some of the seminars are presented in Spanish, because, hello, who do you think tends the vines in this great State?

First though, I am spending the weekend in Arcadia, and hitting the Santa Anita racetrack for two whole days with my friend Nancy. She has never been to the races before. I LOVE Santa Anita… it’s a world-class track. This weekend, it’ll be clear skies, we’ll be able to see the normally smog-obscured mountains, and drink some overpriced Pinot Grigio at the Uber-bar there. Someone won the pick-six today, so there is no carryover, but heck, who am I kidding? I’ll be lucky to win one race.

My grandparents saw Seabiscuit run on one of their first dates. My mom told Nancy, never bet on a sweaty horse. I will always bet on the horse with a foodie name. Learned my lesson at Del Mar last summer when a longshot, Habanero, came in and I didn’t bet on her. That was (in a long history of racing fuck-ups) the stupidest bet I didn’t make.

I am a little bummed I am not going to see the Arcade Fire in one of their many SoCal shows this weekend. Especially because I listen to their record constantly, and dream their music when I am asleep. But oh well. Nancy, the Golden Globes, and a take-out pizza will make me forget what I am missing (hopefully.)

It’s going to be a riotous weekend, and from there I hit the road and head to the Central Coast, working all day and then at 4:00, having a taste or two. Working up there doesn’t suck.

Next weekend, am taking a class with the famous Diva up in Sonoma. After that there will be a Slowtrav party, always a good time. I’m heading down to my hometown after, will chill with my brother Jay and his wife for a day, then start working again.

The weather is fantastic. I am hoping for no more rain. I am SICK OF RAIN. No more rain, please. For awhile there, it was reminding me of Venice, where in March 2001 it rained every single day. Only here, palm fronds might fall on your head, instead of decaying plaster.

I’ll try to write from the wine-soaked road.

I am totally exhausted. I think it is because in that other universe, the nighttime one, things are a little crazy. I think I am dreaming constantly. I woke up Sunday at 3:00 AM in a total cold sweat panic attack. I can’t remember what I was dreaming, but knowing me, it was something totally insane.

This morning, I dreamed about pain, because I was in pain. It?s a female thing. I was in pain all night and then was dreaming about the pain. Even though I am very good at self-medication, I hate to take painkillers. I don’t like aspirin or motrin because for some reason I think it is harmful to me. So I just suffer. But try to take away my wine and I will bite your hand off. I know, I am really weird.

So I had crazy dreams laced with pain.

In one dream there was a little girl of about seven, the fictional daughter of a mysterious friend, who had these crazy feet. Her feet were huge, and ugly. They looked like the feet of a fairy-tale witch. I said to her, “dang, you have big feet! What size are they?” And she said size 5, but they were way bigger than that.

J Lo was also in my dream, and she was upset about something so everyone was walking on tiptoes around her. She was having a conniption fit because she wanted some Pozole. In my dream J Lo’s current role was as a Mexican waitress, who always, after her shift, went to another Mexican restaurant to eat Pozole, still with her Mexican waitress costume on. Then she always complained about her meal. This was J Lo’s role, within a role, within my dream.

Later I think I was walking with J Lo, the girl with the crazy feet, and some other people really far to get a meal. For some reason we were walking five miles on a crappy road. And I was in major pain, so I was like, this is not cool. Then some dude hurt his leg and was leaning on me, and I was like GET OFF ME DUDE, IT FUCKING HURTS! Then a streetcar pulled up and we all got on, thanks god.

After that I woke up and took some Aleve.

But what does it all mean?

I’m having a little bit of a hard time, er, moving into the new year. It’s already January 4th and before we know it it will be Valentine’s Day and then Bastille Day and then Halloween and then, it will be this day again.

I don’t remember it being like this last year. I think it is this heaviness that is covering the whole world. I remember when Princess Di and Mother Teresa died like the same day or same week or something, and right after I was feeling uber-crappy, and my mom said it was because half the world was in mourning for those two women and that energy was affecting everyone. This feeling is like that feeling, times 800.

The ocean, eating people. I think the earth is really pissed off at us right now, and who can blame her?

I’m not one of those people who jumps on the diet and exercise bandwagon January 2nd and this year, I seem to have even gone in the other direction. I am stuffing my face with whatever is around, trying to drink all the wine and eat all the chocolate at once instead of saving some for tomorrow. If I don’t watch it I’m not going to get that mystery guitar player I’ve been wanting (it’s even a mystery to me, so don’t start guessing quite yet.)

Everything moves on though, so maybe I will finish all the candy tonight, and tomorrow the sun will come out and I can walk up the hill, and look down at the ocean and still love it. We’ll see.