Under Construction.

Does anyone read this thing regularly?

Well, it's going on hiatus until I can redesign and rethink. Needless to say, there haven't been many posts recently. Not to worry, though, because I still have a fuck ton of shit to say and complain about, but I'm just searching for the right context and chasm in which to throw my thoughts. Please stay tuned.

Also, I've had more than one friend tell me to post the shit I write for the Chicago Reader on my blog because they always forget to pick up a Reader, or can't find the time, or live in Cincinnati, or whatever. Aside from being a sad yet perfect microcosm for the dying newspaper industry, the request is valid because I'm always saying, "Hey, pick up the Reader, I wrote up so and so. They're kind of [ridiculous amalgamated genre tag] with some [obscure late 80s/early 90s hardcore band] influence mixed with [random, inexplicable drug reference].

So, here are links to some bands I've recently written up.

Sleepy Sun
Fang Island
Damien Jurado
Them Crooked Vultures
Black Breath
Los Campesinos!

I'll now leave you with the trailer for one of the most unintentionally terrifying films of all time, costarring the venerable 80s icon Jeffrey Jones and Marty McFly's mom.



The fact that Howard the Duck isn't fully revealed in the trailer makes it all the more frightening.

Coming, Going, and Lately.

I just got a haircut. It's short.

Carley Manning skips town next Thursday and heads back to the NKY (that's Northern Kentucky to you uneducated folk). Before moving to Chicago, I hunted her down at the Southgate House in Newport during one of her bazillion visits back home to inform her that we would be hanging out when I moved. We did. She stuck around for three years, and now she's rolling back. She will be sorely missed. That's my girl right there.

This is the last blog post you will see in this format. Shit is getting overhauled very soon courtesy of Adam McIver's brain. Soak in my novice, uneducated layout and design while you still can.

I haven't blogged in like a month. I really have nothing to blame for this. I often convince myself that I'm busier than I actually am. A lot of it has to do with the fact that I generally dislike sitting down, so I keep myself "busy" even while I'm hanging around my apartment. This often consists of doing random sets of pushups, cleaning my bike, listening to records while dusting, or fiddling around in my garage space.

I have too many modes of transportation and too little money. Something's gotta give soon (and I have a feeling it's going to start with a "mo" and end with a "ped").

Running is my therapy, and I've been doing it an obscene amount recently. That's not to say I'm depressed by any means. I've just felt the need to run more and more recently. Interpret that however you want. Actually, I can't wait to go running tomorrow because my hair's short again. Here's to not feeling like my flowing locks are creating a stupid amount of wind resistance and holding me back from reaching lightning speed.

Right arm half-sleeve-ish tattoo on its way. June 19th as a matter of fact. Better late than never (my motto always and forever).

Michael Short and Kenneth Roa are homeowners. I went back to Cincinnati over Memorial Day weekend to confirm. It's true. Each has bought a westside home with windows and working plumbing. My heart is swelling with pride and joy. All I want now is to see each of them cutting the lawn in a wifebeater, cut-off jean shorts, and flip-flops while sipping on a can of Budweiser. I can't imagine anything more majestic.

This blog post has no real theme, and I'm okay with that. Actually, I'm so okay with it that I just mentioned it. You know, like right HERE. Nothing better than a good ramble.

Ken Griffey, Jr. retired. It makes me sad that he never made it as a Red. It makes me sad that he was a walking injury. It makes me sad that the team crippled itself for years because of his contract. But in spite of it all, it makes me sad that he's not going to be playing anymore. Yeah, I'm blind and ignorant, but I don't give a fuck. I was and will always be a fan of Junior. So, check out Justin's blog post on Griffey and help him choose the right point of view concerning the Kid's legacy (if you know what's good for you, lean towards the sentiment I just expressed).

I've begun a quest to become somewhat of a beer connoisseur/snob. I expect to be good at it but never great.

Justin Bragg moves up here this weekend, and Heidi Bragg follows shortly thereafter. It's surreal to see this string of events come to fruition. It's literally been a year since these plans were lightly discussed and even joked about. Who knew that they'd actually materialize? My goal is to make them love this city, even though it wants to slap you around here and there.

Chicago summers rule and negate the winters completely and totally. Justin and Heidi will soon understand.

After two years of riding somewhat illegally, I finally procured my motorcycle license. It was a banner day in the Warwick household.

Don't look now, but the Reds are actually worth a shit (even though they're losing to the Giants as I'm typing this). It's painful that I haven't been to a game this season and even more painful that I'm not able to revel in the optimism and buzz enshrouding the city of Cincinnati at the moment. Baseball hullabaloo far exceeds football hullabaloo.

I'll be going on vacation in early August. I'm thinking Pacific northwest.

There's Bologna in Our Slacks.

So, the gang I run around with up here in Chicago has recently been taken in by old school 80s and early-90s cartoon theme songs. And yes, this of course involved a drunken night of scrolling through Apple TV and consecutively watching as many as we could find on the worldwide Internet computer web.

We grew up listening to these songs ad nauseum. They're seared into our brains. It seems unbelievable, but the tunes weren't candy-coated fluff, but actual songs, complete with 80s hooks and synth movements abound. I mean shit, Mark Mueller, composer of both the DuckTales and Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers theme songs, has had three Billboard top ten singles and a number one adult contemporary "hit" during his career (I'm not too sure an adult contemporary song should be called a "hit" in any fashion). Let's face it, Disney straight had its shit down in the 80s.

This post highlights the picks of the litter from my childhood (and maybe early adolescence). Enjoy.

DuckTales (1987-1990) - There's just not a better theme song. Check out the end of this post for cringe-worthy bonus material involving the singer of the original theme song, Jeff Pescetto.



 Chip 'n Dale Rescue Rangers (1989-1990) - I was always partial to Monterey Jack myself.



Tiny Toons (1990-1995) - Warner Bros. knew what it was doing as well. Early 90s after-school gold.



Animaniacs (1993-1998) - Another Warner Bros. vehicle. Legitimately witty. I watched this religiously, despite an awareness that I should be growing out of cartoons.



ThunderCats (1985-1990) - Infused with epic, flaming guitar solos. Uh, it's fucking ThunderCats.




He-Man & the Masters of the Universe (1983-1985) - I probably beat my little brother up after I watched this cartoon. You know, to prove my manliness and shit.



Muppet Babies (1984-1990) - I was never the biggest "live action" Muppet fan, but I know that I watched Muppet Babies regularly. This admission discounts the manliness that I previously mentioned.



Alvin & the Chipmunks (1983-1990) - This cartoon series was later raped by a couple of terrible live action movies. I'm sure a third is in the works. Stay tuned.



Bobby's World (1990-1998) - Howie Mandel has always been a pretty big shitbag. This was his show before he became a bald shitbag that wasted your time for an hour with some banker and a bunch of suitcases.




Bonus Junk: Some turd named Josh tracked down Jeff Pescetto and beat around the bush for about eight minutes before he finally asked him to sing the theme song from DuckTales. It's a little sad and painful.

Dark Lord Day.

I attended my first Dark Lord Day this past Saturday. If you're unfamiliar with this magical, alcohol-drenched pandemonium, it's a full day of beer euphoria presented by Three Floyds Brewery. Each year, the brewery unleashes its batch of Dark Lord, a Russian imperial stout sold for one day only. With the craft beer revolution in full force, friends have detailed the growth of this beer festival these past few years, and from what I was told, this year marked an exponential growth in attendees and just general pleasantry between craft beer snobs and advocates.

Now, I'm not going to feign to have vast knowledge about craft beer and the culture. To be completely honest, I'm still in the midst of learning. However, I do know that I enjoy beer, and I do know that I generally enjoy those who dabble in the production and promotion of hard-to-find brews.

Dark Lord Day only elevated my interest and subsequent passion for the pigeonhole of craft beer. A few friends and I arrived at the Three Floyds compound in Munster, Indiana around 2 PM on Saturday and were immediately bombarded by a behemoth line of Dark Lord enthusiasts. We assumed the massive line was for the purchase of Dark Lord (the beer has become so popular that you actually have to purchase hard-to-snatch tickets from the brewery's website in order to have a chance to buy Dark Lord). We opted to head into the brewery first to check out a scene in which there was no shortage of beer up for sale. Aside from Dark Lord, I was downing Three Floyds Alpha King (a favorite of mine), Samurai Gazebo (a delicious summertime lager), and Popskull (a hearty and robust collaboration with Dogfish Head).

But what made the festival so awesome was the uninhibited friendliness of the rest of the attendees. After checking out the compound and the stage area (oh yeah, the festival also boasts a solid lineup of bands for your entertainment), we settled in the line for our chance to get at the Dark Lord. The line was ridiculous (we waited in shifts for about three hours), but it didn't even matter. Other attendees troll the lines offering up their own beer for your tasting. Growlers and liters make their way into each nook of the festival as those with tickets patiently wait with their coolers, backpacks, and open arms to haul whatever they can pack away.

I semi-documented the day with my digital photo taking device. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, I got a tad tipsy as the day wore on and wasn't able to take as many photos as I would've liked. Regardless, here they are in absolutely no order whatsoever.

I'm an Adult (Maybe).

It's true that this past Thursday was my 29th birthday, and yes, it's also true that my 30th is hiding in the bushes around the corner waiting to pounce and stab me to death. So, in honor of my newly inherited age, I figured it'd be fun to subjectively list off some of the "adult" qualities I've inherited over the years, as well as many of the "immature" qualities I've maintained and cultivated since birth.

Please feel free to study each list and determine for yourself if it's appropriate and just for me to state that I'm 29-years-old. I mean, I'll stop if you feel like I'm insulting adulthood by being 29 at this moment in time. No worries, I'll understand. But if you do feel like my new age is justifiable, then I guess I'll be out tomorrow buying a new cardigan and finally learning how to play golf.

Adult

I maintain a nine to five job to some degree, meaning I work at least 40 hours a week.

I own a relatively expensive suit and several ties.

I run and exercise regularly.

I make my bed every day.

I dust.

I have impeccable credit and always pay my bills on time.

I have short hair and an expensive pair of glasses.

I take several vitamins a day.

I remember the last time the Reds won the Wold Series.

I own my own knife set and many other kitchen utensils, including an electric can opener.

I am not embarrassed to go out to eat with my mom.

I pretend to read the New York Times, just like every other adult.

I am generally debilitated by a hangover the next morning.

I remember the last time the Bengals were in the Super Bowl.

I generally spend at least $15 on myself alone when eating out.

I watch my diet and am careful to include vegetables, proteins, and what not in my meals.

I don't like PBR, and I truly think Budweiser is a good beer.

I have a coat rack in my apartment as well as a couch from Ikea.

I am obsessively punctual and own more than one watch.

I am meticulous about remembering all of my friends birthdays.

I am a good tipper and care about the specials at restaurants.

I make dentist and doctor appointments simply for checkups.

I can maintain a thoughtful conversation with anyone if it involves sports.

I read novels averaging over 300 pages.

I play fantasy baseball.

I don't understand your haircut because it's too damn complicated.

Not so Adult

I drive a '97 Honda Civic with a cracked windshield and a missing side view mirror.

I don't shower daily.

I wear whatever I want to work, primarily consisting of (skinny) jeans and t-shirts (several with holes).

I don't separate my laundry into color categories.

I still use my college ID for student discounts at the movies.

I have never bought a pair of pajamas.

I am single and not even remotely close to having a child.

I know I am too irresponsible to care for any pet.

I can eat an entire frozen pizza without even feeling challenged.

I don't own my own set of dishes or silverware.

I am reliant on my mom to remind me about daylight saving time.

I have a CD collection devoid of Built to Spill, Modest Mouse, and Beck albums.

I still use milk crates as a prime organization tool.

I want to get more tattoos.

I cannot grow any facial hair, ever.

I can skip town on a whim for vacation or camping without any real consequences.

I cook many of my meals in a toaster oven.

I have a job that encourages me to know a shit ton about music and go to shows for free (all the time).

I don't live in the suburbs.

I have never worn cologne and generally find coffee disgusting.

I will occasionally put potato chips on a sandwich because it's delicious.

I own too many pairs of sneakers and too few dressy, fashionable shoes.

I would play hide-and-seek, laser tag, or enjoy a moonbounce at the drop of a hat.

I spit constantly.

I have framed band posters hanging on my wall.

I have absolutely no idea why Two and a Half Men is the #1 comedy in America.

I love to curse at any appropriate or inappropriate time.

So, what's the verdict? I've offered up two solid lists here, and lord knows there's no gray area in the argument. It's either one or the other (now that I think about it, my lack of wishy-washyness probably could've been added to the adult side of things).

With all that being said, let's completely change gears and take a look at my motherfucking stellar fantasy baseball roster this season. That's a pretty fucking adult thing to do. Don't you think? You're goddamn right it is.

C Geovany Soto
1B Joey Votto
2B Dustin Pedroia
3B Ryan Zimmerman
SS Stephen Drew
OF Justin Upton
OF Carlos Lee
OF Andrew McCutchen
UTIL Ben Zobrist
Bench Denard Span
Bench Chris Davis
Bench Alcides Escobar

Pitchers: Tim Lincecum, Dan Haren, Tim Hudson, Matt Garza, Hiroki Kuroda, Gavin Floyd, Andrew Bailey, Brian Fuentes

Fuck yeah.

Fighting for Pages.

The Stranger's Eli Sanders recently wrote an absorbing feature on the San Francisco alt-weekly debacle that's been escalating since 1995 when Phoenix's New Times (now of Village Voice Media fame) decided to pit its recent purchase, SF Weekly, against the San Francisco Bay Guardian for absolute bay area supremacy. As you begin plodding through the sprawling column (weighing in at around 11,000 words), it becomes evident whom Sanders is siding with. His allegiance is obviously with the Guardian, which was founded in 1966 and has since been locked arm-in-arm with the ever-burgeoning city through decades of both progression and controversy. Whether you interpret it as such or not, Sanders reveres the Guardian as a San Francisco institution that quite frankly deserves better than to be undercut by a brash, uneducated entity with its eyes set on extinction, not coexistence. I agree with him.

The Chicago Reader (my alt-weekly and employer) has gone through similar trials and tribulations since 2007 when it was bought by Creative Loafing, a small alt-weekly chain owned by Ben Eason that attempted to branch out by purchasing both the Reader and the Washington City Paper and ultimately failed (well, Eason failed when he went straight bankrupt). Creative Loafing is still in tact, however, minus the Eason clan and is now owned by its once largest creditor, Atalaya Capital Management. The Creative Loafing alt-weekly chain consists of papers in Chicago, Washington D.C., Atlanta, Tampa Bay, Charlotte, and Sarasota. Since Atalaya won the chain in an auction in August of 2009, Creative Loafing has been an ever-changing beast, adding and subtracting publishers, marketing gurus, and CEOs.

Sounds pretty confusing and boring, huh? Well, maybe it is, but the parallel I'm trying to draw between Sanders' column is that these institutions (and mind you, the Reader is a 40-year-old Chicago institution) are beginning to get undercut, regardless of their reputations. Is it right? No. Do these fluff-driven, chain-building conglomerates give a shit? No. Whether it's internal or external, it's damn frightening and the publishing industry is weak and cracked enough to let them weasel in. The fight may come, but it often means taking a few good pops to the jaw.

Make sure to read The Great West Coast Newspaper War by Eli Sanders. It's fantastic.

This One Isn't About Sports.

I know you don't read my sports posts. I know you don't care that I find sports to be the epitome of physical competition, infinitely fascinating, and a blanket solution to social disruption and prejudice. I know this. It's cool. So for this post, I think I'll recap my trip to California (mainly in photo form). Nothing too over-the-top. You know, just a nice and quick non-sports-related post with pretty photos. Everyone loves pretty photos, right?

Last weekend (March 3-7), Michael Short (Shorty) and I journeyed to San Francisco, California for a long overdue vacation chocked-full of fancy hotels, sunshine, staring at crackheads, good eating and drinking, scenic drives up California Route 1, Alcatraz visits, and solid hangouts with San Fran friends. It really was a delightful time. Emily Williams, an accommodating ex-girlfriend-turned-good-friend (a rarity, I know), played the part of "This is where we should eat because it's delicious, and I love it" for the trip. She pretty much ruled and directed us to little nooks of the city that I had never visited before. She gets a gold star.

Other friends harassed on the trip included Ryan Garrett, who turned 29 during our stay and valiantly took it upon himself each night to drink 47 gin and tonics and hit on anything that appeared to have breasts. He's swell and entertaining. And although the hangouts were sadly limited, we also enjoyed time with one Jason Crase and a true Cincinnati westsider in Jennifer Paff.

Anyway, here are some of my favorite photos from the trip, along with a little commentary (none of which has anything to do with sports):

Emily and Jason on the first night we got there. We ate at Katana-Ya and then headed to this endearingly shit dive joint called the Nite Cap. Emily knew the bartender who upon being told that she had friends in town asked, "Why the fuck did you bring them here?"

That lighting was completely by accident, but let's just act like I did it on purpose anyway. The other gentleman in the photo is Emily's boyfriend, Graham. Everyone is watching these dudes:

Phantogram. Decent shit electro-duo with a doofusy, aging scenester who found his golden ticket when he enlisted a dreamy, hipper-than-thou female singer. Heard this story before? Artsy projection and light show guaranteed.

The next series of photos was taken during my and Shorty's drive up the much-gushed-about California Route 1 on Thursday. You know what I'm talking about, that curvy road along the Pacific Ocean that shows up in every Audi and Mercedes commercial. I was definitely most apprehensive about this part of the trip because I'm the one that really pushed to do it. I mapped it all out, rented the car, and everything. Given, Shorty's about as easy going as they come, but I was still relatively nervous about the day crapping out. Luckily, the weather ruled, and so did I for planning such a spectacular day of touristy bullshit (commentary unnecessary).


During the day on Friday we visited this heap:


Alcatraz! I mentioned Sean Connery (The Rock) and Clint Eastwood (Escape From Alcatraz) at least three separate times because I think I'm fucking hilarious. Probably the most touristy thing we did, but who gives a shit? It's goddamn Alcatraz. Audio tour highly recommended.

Photos from what became a marathon of a Friday night, including a Nobunny show.
Saturday included some shopping, burritos, and music, but to be honest, I got tired of taking photos and decided to ditch my fancy new camera at the hotel. We did however check out what remains of Sutro Baths.

And there you have it. Definitely one of my better vacations. Now, I get to prep myself for Justin's five-day solo visit beginning this Wednesday. Oh, goodness gracious is it ever going to be a romp. I plan on having my camera in hand throughout much of it, so expect another photo blog very soon. I know everyone loves those.