So it’s been a long while since my last post, but I assure you this was not by choice.

[If you’re not a Mac Nerd, or you just don’t care to see how the sausage of docmarvy.com is made, then skip down to the next set of brackets and start reading there.]

Beware the Upgrayedd

After waiting a couple weeks to see what bugs emerged and allow for patches and updates to be released I figured it was safe to move on up to 10.5 (Leopard, to you and me). I did so without doing the crucial research on some of my most-used software, primarily RapidWeaver. As you may have seen me mention before, Rapidweaver is the software I use to run docmarvy.com. It’s an efficient, easy-to-use app that is community-developed by a bunch of Mac developers and devotees. Because of some last minute sparkle magic Apple decided to throw into the official release of Leopard that varied oh so slightly from the early release developers version, a bunch of apps turned to poop. RapidWeaver’s most recent release (3.6.4) was one of those that went to poop town. So I was stranded, unable to update until 3.6.5 officially came out, which it did and you can know that for sure because you’re reading this now.

So, lots to catch up on because of my time on the digital beach. Lots and lots. Let’s dig in, shall we?

[Non-Mac Nerds Continue Reading Here]

The Stars Shine Bright in the Middle of the Night (clap-clap-clap-clap)...

So guess what. Sometime in the next 90-120 days I will be shaking the dust of this little town off my boots and heading South. Like, to live... as in, for the foreseeable future. Yeah. I know. I’m a little taken aback as well. But recent developments are beckoning me to Austin, Texas. Bush country. Ironic on so many levels.

Omaha, which has been my home for 33 years, unless you want to count the year I lived in Lincoln while going to UNL, is about to be “where I’m from” instead of “where I am.” Strangely, I’m okay with it. I had to wrestle with the decision for a long time. The ramifications of moving seemed impossible to even wrap my head around. Here I am, a guy who has achieved some level of acclaim as a local media scenester what with my comedy troupe and sporadic radio appearances. Omaha, has sort of become this extension of me and my personality. It’s my town and these are my people. But deeper thought on what that meant allowed me the freedom to reconsider. How much have I really accomplished here? And more importantly, what am I depriving myself of achieving by staying? I know the answer to the first question, but the answer to the second question I can never know, nor can I un-ask it. So there it is, gnawing at me. My brain is fully aware that it’s easier to stay, but my heart is telling me that I have to go. So sorry brain, this time I follow my heart.

Besides, I’ve been to Austin a couple times. I loved it. It’s a surprisingly progressive town in a state that’s known for shitkicking of both the country and western varieties. And you know me, I love dichotomies.

Here’s a list of positives about Austin. Feel free to continue the list in the comments section.

• South by SouthWest
• Huge Comedy Scene
• Culture out the wazoo
• the Maker Faire
• Legal public nude beach

I’ll offer more updates as I go through the process of packing, moving, relocating, etc. etc. Stay tuned. And if you have any hints for living in Texas, I’d really appreciate them. Please post in comments or send them to the Contact Me page.

Down South pt. 2

Amid all the insanity or relocating, packing, and trying to time things out so Cox doesn’t shut off my cable before the move (as they are notorious for fucking up anything and everything when it comes to customer service), I’m also going to be making a holiday trip to Tennessee to see my parents. Fingers crossed this is the last time I’ll have to go down before getting to go there expressly to help them move back to the midwest. They H-A-T-E Tennessee, and with good reason. Save for the fact that East Tennessee is beautiful with the Smoky Mountains and the abundance of lush nature surrounding you, the area is a touristy redneck nightmare. Picture Branson only more gol’durn mcguh-yuk-guh-yuk per square foot. If you remember a while back when Kathy Griffin started a minor controversy when she referred to her Emmy award as being her god? Yeah, well, my folks are dangerously close to the theater where a bunch of the Inbred Family Entertainment Singers - or something along those lines - ran a full-page ad decrying her heathen ways and claiming that if you want some entertainment of the Jesus-tacular variety then just come see them. Because there’s so much crossover between Kathy Griffin’s fan base and the average Larry the Cabledouche and their associated brood. Yeah. So there’s that.

How do I feel about Tennessee? In case you missed my post from a year ago October, which I believe is still up on the Weisenheimers Blogaverse, I do not love Tennessee. My reasoning can be summed up in the below photo.

Yes. That says what you think it says. Classy? You know it.

News Flash: I am old.

So I turned 33 a week ago Friday. If you’re reading this then you probably already knew that. In fact, if you’re reading this it’s pretty likely you were at the “bash” that was held at Flixx by me... in my honor. Kind of a Super Sweet 16 kind of thing only 17 years later and I didn’t get a car I didn’t deserve, nor did I behave like an entitled spoiled little yuppie larvae on the lead up to the event.

Nothing, and I mean not a single thing, turned out the way I expected it on my 33rd birthday. Not that I’m complaining, necessarily. Everything just sort of deviated drastically from how I had envisioned it. Everything was going reasonably well at first: took the day off work, slept in, went to the DMV and got my new license, lunch with George, pick up a kickin’ new birthday outfit, all was right with the world. Then this:

My beloved Grand Cherokee, shmooshed. It looks much more denty in person.

Driving home on Dodge Street I got thunked by a thoughtless, although well-intentioned, individual following too close and yammering on the phone. This is where the day started to go all wonky. See, I had made some big plans as to how my birthday Friday was going to go. It was in this flow-charty order: Sleep In > Go to the DMV > Lunch with George > Go to J. Crew and buy an outfit that I look great in even though my ass is broke > Drive Home > Clean the house and do all the laundry to free up the whole weekend > Take a disco nap > Spa preparations for birthday celebration including Aloe/Menthol Pore Refining Mud Mask and full body moisturization > Dinner at España > Greet a massive throng of my friends all partying their asses off at Flixx while I am alternately worshiped/fawned over/pawed at like the piece of man meat that I am > Still sober enough to function I go home for fevered - still drunk - birthday lovin’. The end.

Right at the “Drive Home” part, when I was rear ended and my Jeep got some creative new flame surfacing in the middle lane of Dodge Street at 2pm on a Friday, my train of events was derailed. That derailment, because of my A.R. personality, left me in a stankified mood. I was out of step the rest of the day The dinner at España was fantastic as usual. But after the fender bender weighed heavy on my mind due not just to the hassles inherent within but also because it kept me from cleaning, spa treatments and the disco nap I so desperately needed.

Worse yet in all of this, once the party got underway at Flixx, a friend who will remain nameless was apparently being needled ceaselessly by other members of the party. Then, evidently (although I honestly only have a fuzzy recollection of this due to 7 total Vodka/Diet Cokes in tall glasses and a shot of some candy flavored booze concoction) I said something that, taken out of context, would be considered to fall in line with that same topic of the needling. This was apparently the last straw for the unnamed friend who left in a huff and so far as I know remains in that huff to this very day. I began apologizing profusely for the misunderstanding via SMS message literally minutes after the unknown friend left the bar, to no avail. This downshifted my mood from merely “dented Jeep” crappy to out-and-out full-bore shitty. I drank a little longer even though both my brain and genitals were warning me against such action. Sure enough once the party emptied out and I went home it was a much shorter trip to dreamland and I missed my bus for humptown. So all in all the birthday, as I had imagined it, was a bust.

After all that I officially decreed that I would go back to the way I’ve been celebrating birthdays since my 29th. That is to say, ignoring it, pretending it’s not happening, not answering my phone, deleting the myspace comments of well-wishers, and generally hiding until it’s all over. Besides, who the fuck wants to celebrate 34? Bleah. Not me.

[Oh, and a side note to all Chiropractors who read the public record, please stop contacting me. I do not have whiplash. Stop writing me, stop calling me, and for God's sake go back to college and become a real doctor. Thank you.]

Despite my general sourness toward the whole getting older thing, here’s a few photos from the event:

Smoothness meets drunkness in a very unattractive pose.


Scofield, classy as ever, hobronto and myself making the exact same slackjawed pose.
The only reason I would ever post a picture like this is because through some trick of light
I ended up looking okay in it. (Apologies to Mike and Chris)


Noted local actor Brandon Higdem being possessed by the devil while I look
terrifically pear-shaped from this angle.


Monty getting inexplicably chummy with Terry. Shhh. Don't tell Melissa.
(Mostly because she would tell Terry to take him.)

So that’s what I’ve been up to during my blog outage. Now on to cheerier news.

Links

I ran across this amazing image aggregator site. Check it out if you just like cool non-sequitur pictures.

I mentioned Cinematic Titanic a couple posts ago. Gawker offers the case against. Salient point, but why shouldn’t we try to recapture the good old days?

So I heard this story [possibly NSFW] on Dan Savage’s brill Savage Lovecast. Same old story you always hear, about a small town Alabama reverend with a rubber fetish that accidentally does him in. Such is life.

I ran across these apeshit play kitchens for kids. Mind blowing. Prepare your wealthy offspring for a future of Sub Zero fridges and Viking 9-burner gas ranges and $500,000 Sweet 16 parties. I well up with so much hate when I see things like this. It’s nearly toxic.

Take this really hilarious little lovability quiz. It's a hoot.

And finally... HILARIOUS iStockphoto random pic of the week. My dear lord, what on earth would you use this picture for? Please put your great ideas in the comments.

That’s all for now, kiddies. My love to you all, whether you're pissed off at me or not, and even if you didn’t show up to my party at all *ahem, Matt*.

Huzzah.

Hey Gang,

Sorry I've been silent for so long.

I'm working on a mega post that will explain everything... the silence, the upcoming life changes, the car accident, the mystery trip, the birthday party where I end up making everyone feel awkward and horrible and totally piss off someone without intending to do so and the compromising photos of me, a goat and Geraldo Rivera. It's all going to be in the next post, with pictures (of the birthday party, not of Geraldo so long as he pays up).

In the meantime, follow this link to one of the greatest moments in live TV in recent memory. It is safe for work, so long as you're allowed to watch stupid shit at work.

Huzzah.

P.S. And apologies to everyone I recommended watching the 2girls1cup video to, and also apologies to my eyes for seeing it. It makes Tubgirl look like a Christmas card photo.

Holy. Shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I am having a multiple nerdgasm.

In case you missed it, because it's certainly been flying below the radar, Joel Hodgson, Trace Beaulieu, Josh "Elvis" Weinstein, TV's Frank Conniff, and Mary Jo Pehl are reuniting to make:

Yes, my children. It is the second coming of MST3K. It has been... reborn. With the original crew.

I could cry right now.

Read all the deets here.

Huzzah.

(thanks to Defamer)

Oh, BTW, I put up a few posts at once. Nothing special, the Rilo Kiley review below, then the post on PowerPoint and the guy from Meatballs, but since I wrote 'em a while ago but just posted 'em today they archived in October. If you get the RSS feed then you don't need to know this.

Also there's some new MegaMeme.

And a new Band of the Month (BOTM).

FYI.

Huzzah.

Is it possible that Rilo Kiley is the smartest band on the planet, or have they done something so insanely stupid that it could be mistaken for genius? And is “lite rock” the new “indie rock”?

I got a copy of Under the Black Light with my expectations set about where they’ve been since I first heard Rilo. Jenny’s pretty voice over some listen-able alt-rock melodies. With the exception of a handful of tracks I was never moved one way or the other by the Rilo phenomenon. One thing was certain, they had carved a nice little niche with their audience and didn’t effect anything resembling a difference.

From left to right: The Pretty One, The Plain One, The Twee Elfin One, and Donald Fagen of Steely Dan

Which is why Under the Black Light has thrown me for such a loop. It’s wildly overproduced with disco flourishes and moments of earnest 80’s adult pop sounds. Upon the first listening I thought it was some kind of avant-garde “fuck you” to their fan base, but perhaps what’s actually happening is Rilo Kiley’s bid to shift the alt-rock paradigm. Maybe, just maybe, they’re trying to change the flavor rather than placate the popular taste. It’s a bold move to be sure. Let’s face it, major-label indie rock is a horse with three broken legs. It either emerges soft and underdone (in the bad way, like a preemie, not the good way, like soft chocolate chip cookies), or wonky and inaccessible.

I can see how Spin magazine asked “Is Rilo kiley the new Fleetwood Mac?” I initially scoffed at the seemingly superficial comparison, seeing as how they’re a band rife with sexual tension and bubbling hurt feelings, but now I think I know what they really meant. The new album isn’t merely a nod to Mirage-era Mac with the Buckingham-esque layered vocals (Dreamworld), pad keys and lilting mowtown fades, instead it’s practically a cover-album of Mac B-sides that were never written.

Rife with 80’s breezy soft-rock riffs and runs, Under the Black Light pairs like a tawny port to pot roast with the Christine McVie solo album tracks I recently downloaded. Don’t believe me? Log on to iTMS and sample the tracks yourself.

The stand-out track for me is Smoke Detector, which flirts with a pretty insane concept of an indie rock song spawning it’s own dance. Something OTHER than just shoegazing. It’s easy to picture a precisely choreographed video to go along with the song where a whole dance floor of adorable Jenny Lewis clones wildly wave and blink “doing the Smoke Detector.” (Take THAT, Feist!)

If you love Rilo, then you’ll have to measure your response to the album and possibly refer to this chart gauging Jenny’s rising skirt hemlines to the de-listenability of the band. If you were numb to Rilo up until this point, but have a welcoming ear for the Buckingham-Nicks-era Fleetwood Mac oeuvre, then this may just be your time to jump.