...And Then There Were Two.

"The clock's running down..."
- Fountains of Wayne, "All Kinds of Time"

The original threesome that made the move to California was broken apart yesterday. Our friend returned to Iowa, leaving only me and my girlfriend to hold down the fort for the remaining two months of our lease. However, the two of us will be cutting our winnings and leaving at the end of July, in one month.

One month to go. That leaves a lot of unanswered questions to think about.

Have I done everything that I've come out here to do? Is there time to do everything that remains on the list? Will I ever get the chance to live in California again? What should I do with this final month?

A sadness has crept its way into my heart, seeing the apartment removed of all the roommate's junk, becoming empty and lonely in a way. Though we had our differences (many of them, in fact), she was still a third of the California experience. A third that is now gone. That's a third of the memories, a third of the days, and a third of the reason we came out here in the first place. It's a hard thing to deal with.

Our stay is ending.


This Entry In Song:
Jack Johnson - "All At Once"
Motion City Soundtrack - "Can't Finish What You Started"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

R.I.P: King of P.O.P.

"They lied when they said the good die young."
- Anberlin, "Godspeed"

It's true, not all of the good ones die young. Some die middle-aged. But Michael Jackson wasn't just one of the "good" ones, he was one of the great ones.

Everyone has a favorite Michael Jackson song. And the best part is, no one has to scour their brains to think of it. One millisecond after I'm asked the question, I can respond "Billie Jean." His music had that much of an impact on people even as young as me. At almost every wedding I go to, if the DJ spins one of his greatest hits, I move my way to the dance floor and do my best to imitate MJ. Moon-walking, crotch-grabbing, finger-snapping, the whole thing. Now...it will just seem too sad to do it.

With the upcoming tour, a lot of people thought Jackson was on his way to re-launching his career. I guess we'll never know. But I don't suppose that matters much. It may be better to realize that a lot of great musicians never get to see how much of a legacy they left. Michael Jackson got to see himself on top of the world. He lived 50 illustrious years, the majority of them as The King of Pop. He was and is a music legend.

He will be missed.

My final dance tribute to Michael Jackson:



This Entry in Song:
Michael Jackson - "Wanna Be Startin' Something"
Michael Jackson - "Billie Jean"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #11.

The TV show Friends is actually a lot more unique than most people give it credit for. I mean, seriously, could it be any funnier? Well...yeah, I suppose. But it's still a good watch, even after the 4 dozenth viewing.

A Politically-Charged Rant On Foreigners in America.

In this blog, you'll usually find me making paragraph-long jokes about celebrities or musing on slightly sentimental topics...but not today. Today I'm tackling something a little more serious and controversial: foreign people coming to America and pissing me off.

WHAT?

Yeah, I know, bare with me. Or don't. It's up to you, because you're living in America and have the freedom to click your way to another blog or go peak in on your neighbors next door doing it like coked-up rabbits instead. The choice is yours.

If you're still here, I'll issue a straightforward warning: you may agree with me on these things and you may not. If you don't, that's cool. (That means you're a dick...but whatever.) And just so you know, I'm not going to be one of those Southern prejudiced caricatures that screams "if you can't speak English, you don't belong in this here country!" at every off-white person he encounters. But, over the past few months, I've had my head shoved into the (at-times counter-intuitive) melting pot that is Los Angeles, and I don't always like what I see.

The population of "out-of-towners" in L.A. is mind-blowing. If I had to guess, less than 30% of the people that live here were born in America. That other 70% is very, VERY proud of their ethnic heritage; proud to the point where they refuse to learn English because it might "taint" their own cultural identity. Instead, these people will look at you like you're from fucking outer space if you can't speak their language. Like they're offended. That you can't speak Spanish in America. What...the...fuck?

If I go to Panama, and the Panamanians don't speak English, I think, "yeah, that's about right. Boy, I wish I'd stopped to learn a little of the native language before I decided to live here." It sucks, but it's fair. I don't think, "what a bunch of cocksuckers. Learn to speak English you idiots. [Scoff] Arrogant Panamanians." And yet, that's what I see happen nearly everyday in California.

Message to all foreigners: If you don't want to speak our language, or participate in our culture, or "American-ize" yourself too much, then stay in your own country. It's pointless for you to be here if you're not going to try grow as a person, and it's just plain rude to expect everyone to cater to your every whim because you don't understand what the hell is going on. Get over yourselves.

Drunken Cartwheels: An American Tradition.

Sure, America is a great place to escape all types of persecution and we welcome the "tired...poor...huddled masses yearning to be free," but that comes with restrictions. You can't just come here to piss on our heritage and do exactly what you did in your home country (with better pay and benefits). Doesn't work that way. Granted, American flag apparel is not necessary (for anyone...ever) and you don't even have to know all of the state capitals. But being able to pronounce the president's name and having an English vocabulary greater than Hellen Keller is a must! They are pre-requisites, not options.

Please attempt to learn the basic words and phrases that are needed in important situations--like, I don't know, working and stuff. You can certainly come to America and you can absolutely take a job away from a lazy American who thinks that working at a McDonald's is below him but beating his wife and starving his kids is an Olympic event. That's fine. But if it's truly that hard for you to understand simple things like "how are you?" and "this isn't supposed to go in there" and "put that down before you hurt somebody" you may want to consider picking up an English dictionary to have some alone-time with. And you absolutely, positively, without a single doubt, should NOT hold a job which requires you to speak to customers over the telephone. That's just being silly and makes it seem as if you're trying to piss Americans off. We don't like it! (So...job well done?)

If you don't like this country, the people in it, and its culture, why would you want to live here? And if you're going to stick strictly to your own ethnic circles, speaking in your foreign language at all times, couldn't you be doing that back home? With people that do that same thing and won't get furiously annoyed with you when you think that "orange" is a number?

Just something to think about, foreigners.


This Entry in Song:
Anberlin - "Foreign Language"
Better Than Ezra - "American Dream"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Who Can Argue With a Free John Mayer Concert?

"I have been a douche at times."
- John Mayer @ Hotel Cafe on June 14th

A couple of nights ago, I had an experience that I can only define as "completely unique to Los Angeles." A friend had heard from a friend who had heard from his sister who had read on Twitter--yeah--that John Mayer was playing an impromptu set at the Hotel Cafe. Big whoop, right? But his Twitter note came with another descriptor: "5 dollar show." Annnnnnd, now we're talking. Because whether you like John Mayer or not, you're not going to pass up a $5 concert on a Sunday night. Especially when it's a hugely successful musician like Mayer. Because I may be a music snob, but I'm not a general retard.

As four of us stood in a line of at least 100--and growing--I contemplated the schematics of this situation for a moment. At 8:55 PM, John Mayer posts on his Twitter page that he'll be playing at 11:30 PM. At 9:33 PM, we find out about it. At 10:28 PM, we arrive at Hotel Cafe, in Hollywood. That means, in 93 minutes, John Mayer rallied over 100 people via the Internet to see him play a show on a Sunday night. At 10:29 PM, I start to re-evaluate my opinion about the usefulness and popularity of Twitter.

There was a cog in this little scheme, though, which turned out to be the patrons already inside Hotel Cafe at the time John announced his show. Once word crept in, those same people decided to stay, which meant that only a handful of us outside were getting into the already packed bar. And yet, we all held onto faith. On three separate occasions, a promoter/bouncer/manager/dipshit came out of the club to tell the line (rapidly lengthening to something of a riotous mob in line for a Harry Potter movie) that "the show is all sold out. No one else is getting in. So go home. Please." And each time, a few of the lesser fans would fall away, letting us inch closer to the door.

(Note: fans in this sentence relates to fans of cheap shit, and not necessarily John Mayer's cheap shit. Though it's possible.)

Photo Courtesy of Just Jared.

And then...the man arrived. The man who was advertising a "5 dollar show" was here to play that very same 5 dollar show. The coolest thing? He drove himself into the little back alley where we stood, parked his car beside the line, grabbed his own gear and headed inside, leaving his Porsche parked in a back alley...alongside a hundred star-struck fans. He must have had a separate guitar case for his balls somewhere in the back of that Porsche. Paparrazi flashes be damned if I didn't get a good solid glimpse of "that guy who played that song about bodies being wonderlands." Neat. But he didn't say a word to anyone, didn't look toward the general direction of the crowd, and didn't respond to my announcement of "fuckin' Twitter. Yeah!" What...a...douche.

Having witnessed Mr. Growley-Face mope his way into the venue, I was less concerned about seeing him play. My posse stood strong, though, and that meant that I did too. We stood that way for another half an hour after the show had started. In the alley, talking to the paparazzi. Fuck me. No, wait, fuck John Mayer. I doubted we would even catch him coming back out, let alone see him sing any chords. I'll tell you this, though, I was this close to peeing on his windshield wipers. Thankfully, after a few of the longer moments a person can have had passed, an incredibly pierced hostess came to let the stragglers hear the remaining Mayer-time. "He's not done yet, but I don't know how long he'll keep playing for." The crowd of now perhaps 14 scurried inside.

I thought to myself, "Self, I'm not paying 5 bucks to hear this newly-proven d-bag maybe play half of a song." And then the hostess said, "You don't have to pay. You can just go in." At least, I'm assuming she said the second thing, I'm not really sure because I was already standing 20 feet from John Mayer inside Hotel Cafe.

Dimly lit and intimate as all get-out, the inside of that place was cool beans. John was mid-solo in some bluesy little jam when I entered. Being a bit of a guitar nerd, hearing him bust out some cleanly-plucked blues ditties made me smile and like him just a little more, but not as much the story he was about to tell would. In between songs, he spoke to the crowd with a sense of humor--though, thankfully, not from his stand-up act--and introspection. These two things mixed in a coming-of-age story, wherein he admitted (wholeheartedly) to the small audience that he had been a huge douchebag in the past, and that he was working on it. In the same story, he told us not to be the "beta" to anyone else's "alpha," meaning that we should not take guff from people. He relayed the much-recounted TMZ segment, where Mayer came stumbling out of a bar with lipstick marks covering his face and slurring about how drunk he was, which--spoiler--turned out to be a prank. And while I had previously fallen on the side of the TMZ reporters who lauded Mayer as "lame" and "sad," the argument Mayer gave for himself was hard to counter. He said in plain terms that he had fun and no one should judge him for that. He did something he thought was enjoyable and then had a good chuckle over it. You can't get much cleared than that.

Photo Courtesy of Alejandro De Cruz.

I enjoyed his insightful musings on life, but that's not what I (hadn't) paid for! I (hadn't) paid to hear music! So he played some things old, and some things new, some things borrowed, and some things blue. And, fine, I'll just come out and say it: he was fucking goooood. He may not be Eric Johnson, but he's pretty damn solid. I want to share with you a small, lyrical snippet from a new, in-the-works song he played. It goes:

" Anything other than yes is no. Anything other than stay is go.
Anything less than 'I love you' is lying. "

Whether you like John Mayer or despise the very fingers he uses to play the guitar, you have to agree that those are words to live and breathe by.

After the show, he continued the slow dropping of his cape of douchi-ness and stayed to sign tons of autographs and take what felt like thousands of pictures. He defaced Emily's wallet (don't worry, she asked him to).

I walked into the alley behind Hotel Cafe a fan of cheap, live music and went home a pretty sizeable fan of John Mayer. I won't be asking him to autograph my genitals or see him star in a summer action movie anytime soon, but I think I'll consider picking up his next album.


This Entry In Song:
John Mayer - "Heart of Life"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Kyle Cease Gives Crowd Collective Swamp Ass.

"Does anybody here [insert question]? You're actually shaking your head no, like I should just look around at everyone and see which answer they're nodding. Like it's process of elimination. There's got to be a better way!"
- Kyle Cease, owning Emily at the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club

You may know him as Bogie Lowenstein in 10 Things I Hate About You (as my girlfriend does) or "the Slow Clapper" in Not Another Teen Movie. But I simply know him as "the guy who made my pants incredibly damp." He's Kyle Cease biz-nizzles!

I caught Kyle's show at the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club (recently opened at Universal's Citywalk) last night and have to say this: if you watch the following clip and don't laugh at it more than three times (once right away and two more times in the days following when you stop to reflect back on it), you cannot be my friend. Not now. Not ever.



That kind of rapid-fire joke spillage is usually reserved for 3-year-olds who haven't grasped the fact that their overuse of knock-knock jokes makes them sound even stupider than they actually are. But when Kyle Cease does it, it's funny (and way cuter than some asshole 3-year-old.) (Also, are you getting tired of parentheses yet? Because, really, I feel like I might be using them too often but don't want to stop...)

Last night I laughed so hard that I cried...twice. And I don't mean that thing where you're just laughing and tears are coming out, I mean actually, physically sobbing because the laughter was overwhelming. I left the Jon Lovitz Comedy Club with a joke-induced stomachache and very sweaty ass. I'm serious with this--my ass was sweating so bad that it may have looked like I peed my pants from behind somehow.
And that's the true benchmark of comedy: giving someone swamp ass from telling jokes.

Kyle Cease is highly recommended for fans of: jokes, joke telling, strongly-worded insults, grandmothers, comedy, pianos not really sounding like pianos at all, backwards hats, slow clapping, sideways hats, and beautiful tirades about inept parking garage attendants. And things like this...




This Entry In Song:
Fountains of Wayne - "New Routine"
Lionel Richie & The Commodores - "Easy Like Sunday Morning"


Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

How Hard Is It To Remember Iowa?

Iowa and Ohio should just merge to form Ohiowa, if for no other reason than so people in California will actually be able to remember where the hell I'm from.

"You're from Ohio, right?"
"No, but close. Different state, similar name."
"Oh, that's right, my bad. Idaho..."

Yeah, we might as well toss Idaho into the name combination, too. Make it a tri-fecta. It's going to save a lot of time and confusion in the end. So from now on, I'm referring to myself as an Ohiowaho-an.

Unless, of course, that's too hard to remember?


This Entry In Song:
Dar Williams - "Iowa (live)"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Wishing For Muscles While Sipping Protein Shakes.

"Pump it up until you can feel it.
Pump it up when you don't really need it."
- Elvis Costello, "Pump It Up"

I'm saying goodbye to being skinny, people. That's right. The fingers that are currently typing this will soon be replaced with muscular sausages the girth of The Hulk's penis. (Probably...I'm not an expert on the matter...just seems like it would be impressive...ya know?) So where a strong breeze may have pushed me off balance in the past, I will now be able to grab that wind by the testicles and toss it overseas where it belongs.

It's about more than just lifting weights, though. You gotta do more than just pick up some dumbbells and dance around with them in your hands, after all. That's why I'm not gargling with mouthwash, but pure protein whey. I'm injecting whole pieces of chicken directly into my pecs, baby. Six-pack? Please. I'm talking about Taco John's Six-Pack and a Pound, at the very least. In the coming months, if you look directly at my abdomen, your eyes will bleed the fat tears of the unfit. Getting excited? Just wait.

I offer a series of analogies to help you understand just how maddeningly ripped I am about to become: (1) my physique will make Hugh Jackman look like Martin Short in the cartoon version of Ed Grimley, (2) my arms will have to be separated into 2 different time zones--my triceps will be Central, my biceps Eastern Pacific, and (3) the skin on my body is going to become taught like a large rubberband being stretched to full length...by a hot piece of buttock meat. (Chew on that last one a little while longer. All right? Thinking of the image? Cool...then let's move on.)

Bottom line is this: God willing, I won't be mistaken for Mary Kate Olsen ever again. If anything, I'll have to beat fans of Lou Ferigno off with a stick. And by "stick," I mean an arm's length of muscle pulp. 'Cause that's what I do.

Well, that's what I'll do when I eventually make it down to the gym.


This Entry In Song:
Elvis Costello - "Pump It Up"
Muse - "Muscle Museum"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Rejected CRACKED Article #2.

Because you were totally asking for it, here comes another failed article from Cracked.com's wannabe writer:

*****
THE MOST IRONIC WAYS PEOPLE DIED.

A lot of people have died in silly, obscure, and even unbelievable ways. But it takes a real champ to go out in a way that can be considered truly ironic. These are the people who made Alanis Morrisette want to pen a follow-up hit and were ultimately the lightning rods for God's worst sense of humor.

• Red Foxx

The Jab:
After his days on “Sanford & Son” ended, Foxx returned to television many years later–he needed some time off to dedicate to his family and cocaine (70/30, respectively)–in a show called “The Royal Family.” The original name for the show was supposed to be “Chest Pains,” but producers eventually decided that it sounded too much like something associated with a gag Foxx used to pull on Sanford & Son. Either that, or producers peered into the future and knew that eventual confusion among viewers as to whether they were watching a show about Fred Sanford or Mike Siever would create a strange dip in the target demographic.

The Irony Blow:
A month into the show, Foxx died of a heart attack during rehearsals. Rehearsals for a show previously named “Chest Pains.” Now hearing Fred Sanford breathily gasp "Oh this is the biggest one I ever had! You hear that Elizabeth? I'm comin' to join ya honey!" is just sad.

• Mel Ignatow

The Jab:
Ignatow escaped a lengthy jail sentence when he was acquitted of murdering his wife. Due to something called Double Jeopardy, he was then unable to be re-tried for her death once certain proof was found against him. (This, coincidentally, was the same way Alec Trebec was aquitted of his moustache.) The aforementioned proof? A videotape showing Ignatow as the obvious killer wherein he had his wife bound to a glass coffee table.

The Irony Blow:
Any guesses as to how this cancerous mole died? Yeah. Fell through a glass coffee and cut himself up so much that he bled to death. Revenge is a dish best served with shards of itself lodged in uncomfortable places. (Hopefully his penis).

• George Story

The Jab:
In 1936, Life Magazine premiered. On the cover of the debut issue was a newborn baby by the name of George Story. The headline read: "Life Begins." Over the course of the magazine's tenure, it updated readers on Story’s life from the first time he got married all the way through his retirement, providing a detailed human profile of a single man. It was a beautiful way to tell the story of...well...life.

The Irony Blow:
A few days after Life announced that it would no longer continue its publication, George Story died from heart failure. In its final issue, Story was featured in one last article. The headline read: "A Life Ends."

Now, I know what you're thinking: Wait a minute? His name was actually “Story?” And his life was featured prominently in the stories in “Life?” It's enough to make anyone call "bullshit!" But this sentimental tale is actually true. In fact, I would like to believe that somewhere out there is a man named Gary Cracked who will not only be high on cocaine 24/7, but who will also spend his days telling his friends about the 29 Most Awesome Ways a Robot Could Kill You until he finally passes away from looking at too many pictures of Photo-shopped boobies.

• J.I. Rodale

The Jab:
Famous for promoting a healthy lifestyle and organic foods, Rodale was the publisher of Organic Farming and Gardening magazine. He didn’t believe in pesticides, artificial fertilizers, fat, animal products, nicotine, caffeine, and basically anything else that has any traces of “yumminess” attached to it. I’m willing to bet that he didn’t believe in irony, either.

The Irony Blow:
On a 1971 broadcast of The Dick Cavett Show, Rodale participated in an interview wherein he bragged up the pay-offs of healthy living stating such soundbite gems as “I’m in such good health that I fell down a flight of stairs yesterday and I laughed all the way” and “I’ve decided to live to be a hundred.” Almost immediately after completing the interview, Rodale died in his chair of a heart attack. While I’d like to think that if I were host Dick Cavett, I’d be able to come up with a suitable one-liner, I’d assuredly say something like “it's not the first time I've bored someone to death!” Then I’d gurgle a bit and ask “is it hot in here or is it just this guy’s decaying body? Zing!”

That's probably why I don't have my own talk show.


*For less gruesome humor, check out my last rejected article about the worst online advice columns ever put into print.

Fast Fact #10

I sometimes stop to think about where I am today and wonder if it's real--living in California, that is. It just...it doesn't seem very "me."

Anatomy of a Rock Concert.

"In concert tonight, the bass drum was quick.
If you've got things on your mind, shake them off."
- The Faint, "In Concert"

Standing in line for hours and minutes and seconds too long, accompanied by die-hard fans and bandwagon jumpers. Protein bars and bottled waters, or a quick trip to McDonalds to satiate your growing appetite for live music. Thousands of people wearing the t-shirt of the band that they're going to see, while dozens of others don a design that loosely resembles something associated with the general idea of music. (A cryptic guitar logo, perhaps?) If it's a punk rock concert, you may be the oldest person within eyesight...and you're twenty-two years old.

Prepare for an opening band that takes themselves way too seriously but doesn't recognize that dreadlocks, constant spitting, and shoeless feet are not the key ingredients for "serious music." (A bassist that apparently moonlights as a snake charmer doesn't help, either.) Whether you're there for the headliner or for the supporting act, chances are, the rest of the audience will be split between the two. And whichever group you fall into, the people standing around you will more than likely be on the opposing team.

It's a rock show, so expect plenty of moshing/pushing/crowd-surfing/fist-fighting to be present. If you're anti-aggressive listening, front and center is probably not the place for you. And if you expect the insanity to let up during the ballads, you would be sorely (in the morning) mistaken. And since it's "today's" rock show, get used to the idea of flashing strobes of light coming from behind you instead of up on stage. Cameras, camera phones, and camera shoes (they're coming soon) will be abundant and constantly flickering. Speaking of the audience, there are usually a slew of variables that make it difficult to predict exactly how a concert will go, but there are three things that always remain constant: 1) no matter how early you get to the show, you will always be standing behind a towering brick wall of a human; 2) they will smell like a combination of piss and vinegar; and 3) there will also be someone standing directly behind you who is way too into the band and knows every word to every song...and thinks they sound better than the person being paid to sing in front of the audience.

One of these people is the reason your pillow will smell like death in the morning.

If the lead singer doesn't also play an instrument, he's going to fall into one of the following categories: microphone swinger, over-dramatic poser, or shoe-gazer. If he's the last kind of singer, expect to go home that night discussing how amazing the light show was or how the keyboardist "really knew his shit." Hopefully you get a showman, someone who knows how to rile a crowd up and also calm their asses down when they get out of hand. (Also hope for a stageman who considers spitting into an audience member's lungs a concert foul.)

I prooooomise not to spit into yoooooour mouth.

With any luck, you'll have survived the show without coming away on crutches and trying to guess whose sweat is all over your shoes. And if you're still able to hear the radio on the way home, you weren't at a real rock concert. Go back and try it again.


This Entry In Song:
Envy on the Coast - "Temper Temper"
Anberlin - "Godspeed"
Taking Back Sunday - "MakeDamnSure"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake