Playing The Ponies

In Del Mar...lost $12.

Rock Heals (Re-Purposed: Apr. '04)

By: Jedd Davis

Jedd Davis wasn't feeling well when he went to a Breeders concert. Here's how he returned:

I woke up this morning after only a few hours of sleep with a headache and ringing ears. Rock heals, you ask? Yes. I no longer have the sore throat that prohibited me from swallowing for 4 days, and as a bonus, my nose is no longer a sputum spewing spigot.

It just goes to show you that mind and body really are connected. If when you get sick, you mope around and complain to others about how terrible you feel (which is what I usually do), stop doing that. Go do something that "well" people do, or even better, over-do it.

Live music makes you feel good. It scares the sick away with its fuck-offnes and showmanship.

So there you have it, my cure for the common cold. Live rock followed by a tin car before bed (that's Jack - with a splash of codeine cough syrup - over ice)

tin car. Rockin' it.

Dan Ho making law.

Dan Ho making law.

Craigs List Shopping (Re-Purposed: Dec. '07)

Jedd Davis found this post on Craigslist while searching for a Danish Modern table. He thought it smacked of tin car appeal.

I'm so mystified by the people who sell their crap on Craigslist. A few thoughts:

1) If I'm shopping for furniture on Craigslist, what is more likely?

A) I am incredibly wealthy and enjoy spending thousands of dollars on secondhand designer couches custom made for someone else.

B) I make 32k a year, drive a 14-year-old car, and just want to find a kitchen table that isn't covered in chicken blood. (HINT: THIS IS THE ANSWER.)

2) If you bought something new, and you're selling it, that means that
whatever you're selling is USED. Used things are worth LESS than new things. Not more! I know this is hard to grasp, so here's an example:

You bought a coffee table at Ikea for twenty dollars last year. You decide to sell it on Craigslist. Do not charge fifty bucks for it. We all recognize Ikea furniture. We know how much you paid for it. Used is not the same as antique. Most furniture, and especially Ikea furniture, does not increase in value.

Listen, you have had sex and eaten takeout and maybe even had an "accident" on that bed you're selling. If I wanted to pay four hundred dollars for a bed, I would get a new one, minus the sperm and urine.

3) Pictures. People are not going to drive out to Woodland Hills only to discover that your "Danish Modern" cabinet is actually from 1981.

4) Speaking of Danish Modern! Please, stop abusing the term. Danes everywhere roll in their graves in horror.

5) An antique is something that is over a hundred years old. Think about that for a minute. Is your 1971 bookcase an antique? No. No, it's not.

6) It's "wrought" iron, not "rod" iron.

Best of luck, furniture people. Keep the faith! The hundred-dollar bedframe of your dreams is out there somewhere, I promise.

this is in or around Dreamland

Letter To The East Coast (Re-Purposed: Apr. '04)

By: Ben Tiernan

Listen Dickheads,

You need to get over yourselves and accept that the West Coast is better than the East Coast. I’m sick of your snotty condemnation of my coastline. It’s rude, clichéd and ugly – like your mom.

The West Coast has no culture?

You, in your L.L. Bean - fuck you. We’ve got Hollywood. We make culture.

We’ve got technology. We make the media that proliferates culture.

The Ivy League is for pansies. Try Stanford. Try Berkeley; George Bush wouldn’t have lasted a week.

We can play your game. Can you play ours? The weather is unreal, everyone is beautiful, and the governor of California fights aliens, and wins.

Figure it out, jerks. The action is in the West.

"Thriller" As Inerpreted By A Filipino Prison

'Nuf said

Baseball Chatter

By: Ben Tiernan

I went to a Dodgers game yesterday and it was a blast, but when it comes to baseball and most sports I'm always a little ignorant of the rules. I know that chatter is an important part of the game and that banter from the fans is important.

As a fan in the bleacher within ear shot of the field you can say the players names with funny emphasis. For example, when yelling at Nomar Garciaparra you can say, "NOOOOOO-mar", or you can say it fast and shrill "nomar!" People tend to stay away from Garciaparra - I guess it's funny enough already.

You can also taunt the opposing team members about their stats. You can say, "Hey Sariano, you suck!"

I was not familiar with the various players records, so I kept my taunts to a topic within my general area of knowlege. I taunted Jacque Jones from the Cubs about his pants. Our seats where just behind right field, or left field - who can tell? - from which I joined in the jeering with my own brand of chatter.

Hey, Jones! Where'd you get those pants?
Hey, Jones! How much did you pay for those pants?
Hey, Jacque! Nice pants!

When the tide turned and The Dodgers took the league, I turned up the volume on my barbs.

Hey, Jones! How your pants now?

When the little boy in front of me turned to his father and asked, "Why's he talking about his pants?" I knew my work was done.

Globe Trotting

By: Ben Tiernan

Jill and I went to Croatia in September. Here is a posting I apparently wrote but never posted. It mostly concerns the experience of flying with airline Buddy Passes arranged by a far extended Hungarian family member named Gabor.
















Our flight to NYC was fine – early, cramped, etc. – but we arrived with relatively few hurtles to overcome and the flight was not hijacked.

I met Gabor for the first time face to face when we checked in at the gate. He was there checking people in with the same questionable customer service that he had employed when arranging my ticket for Budapest – a sort of purposeful nonchalance with a heaping helping of apathy.

Gabor seemed to know who I was before I introduced myself and also seemed not to care. I offered my hand and he shook it reluctantly and didn’t really ever look directly at me. He told me immediately, “You’re fine, you can board.”
“Great, thanks so much…do we need a boarding pass?”
“Not really”
“But how will we get on the plane?”
“Just get on”
“But doesn’t everyone else have a boarding pass?”
“Fine. I can print you a boarding pass if you really want one.”
“It’s not that I really want one, it’s just…”
“Here is your boarding pass. Have a nice flight.”

When Jill and I noticed that our seats were not next to each other I tentatively returned to the gate to ask Gabor what to do about it. When he offered that we should, “Just sit next to each other,” I didn’t raise any objections to the problems that might arise if we did. In stead, we just sat next to each other and it worked.

Gabor was not all curt indifference. Well he was, but he also put us in business class which I can heartily declare is better than economy class – or whatever it is I usually fly.

The plane was on the runway for two hours before lift off - because that is what airlines are want to do – and up in business class it was all steamed washcloths and mimosas. In the back I was whips and cattle prods as usual. At one point they came by with a cart of magazines and newspapers and being an international traveler of the business class capacity, I asked for the London Financial Times by name, “Could I have the FT.”

When it was time for wine we choose a nice clarot that the attendant who was boundless in his obsequiousness spilled all over Jill’s lap. This posed an ethical dilemma and we began to feel a bit like frauds because of the proportion and business-class earnestness of the response. The attendant was devastated by his blunder, and all the manpower of the flight staff sprung into action pouring mineral water on napkins, dabbing at Jill’s damp thigh and apologizing for the insult to us and our families. Jill was not happy that she had to cross the Atlantic in damp chinos, but when they offered to sacrifice an economy class passenger to appease our anger, we felt it was too much.

When we arrived in Budapest on Saturday morning, we found Kitty after a small search and we all drove together to her apartment in the Castle district. Budapest was beautiful as usual. We crossed the Danube on a beautiful suspended bridge and admired the parliament on the Pest side and the Citadel on the other. It was warm and bright, and when we commented on how pleasant it was Kitty told us that summer had been very nice but plagued by freak storms. A week earlier, a ferocious windstorm had started very suddenly felling trees and power lines and killing six people in the city. Just as quickly it died down and the weather returned to normal.

I had seen “An Inconvenient Truth” on the plane to New York, so I attributed the storm to global warming. In the past 650,000 years, which include a number of ice ages and hot periods, carbon dioxide levels have never been as high as they are right now by far, and global temperatures are directly related to carbon dioxide levels. Moreover, warmer sea levels mean stronger more sporadic weather. Cite melting glaciers; cite longer more devastating hurricane seasons. But I digress.

Shooting In Santa Monica

By: Ben Tiernan

Sorry I'm a few days late on this one, but there was a shooting on the corner of 21st and Wilshire on Sunday Night. This picture is of the police activity that followed. According to one witness that I spoke with, a young man was shot four times by the police. He may have had a gun and he may have shot it in a club before the police arrived.

Since this is a few days late, I'm sure some other site has the story straight by now.

My Dead Cactus

By: Ben Tiernan

This is my dead cactus. This cactus died so that I might live...in my office without a cactus.

It was a present, so I tried to care for it and not to kill it like I would if I had just found it or bought it on a whim. But this cactus was a mouse to my Lenny, and my caring was clumsy and overpowering.

I watered this cactus so that it might thrive, but alas it dwendled, and turned brown and leaned flacid on the potted, soil floor.

Santa Monica Pier

Grunion Did Not Run

By: Ben Tiernan

Yesterday, the LA Times and local TV news shows covered the seasonal California phenomenon called the Grunion Run.

Not to be outdone, today, Tin Car covers the Grunion Run, in an exclusive story.

Grunion are small, silvery shellfish that live off the California coast and at low tide, during the Summer and on a full moon, they throw themselves onto the shore to spawn. The early-morning spawning ritual is known locally as the Grunion Run, and people head to the beach to watch the phenomenon and maybe pick up breakfast.

The picture above show's the coastline today at 6:05am just off the Venice Beach pier, and it is unequivocal proof that today - the day after beaches were covered with silverfish getting down in funky town - the grunion did not run.

That's right, this dogged reporter woke up at 5:45am and went to the beach expecting to report on the 2nd day of "The Run", but only found a deep low tide and an empty beach. Sure there were runners: Dogs ran, people ran, but nary a Grunion ran.

Of course, Tin Car is delighted to deliver this exclusive story to it's readers, and show proof positive that this blog covers the stories that no one else dares to cover.

Boating

My brother, who is awesome, bought a boat last month. This is no ordinary Budweiser and Sea-do, drive to the bay in my Durango SUV with the Miami Vice theme song pounding in my subconscious kind of boat. This is a Heritage piece. This is a transplant from "Heart Of Darkness". This is a boat where one thinks about rivets. It's wooden, with a long snout and a big diesel engine with an exhaust pipe mounted dangerously behind the leather captains chairs. It is old with a beautiful patina, and begs one to throw on their topsiders and learn about shellac.

Here's Jill having a good time.

Country Fun

By: Ben Tiernan

Dave and Suzy called my cell phone while Andrew was explaining to me the various stages in the season when they spray grapes with growth regulators. Andrew had spent the morning driving around the vineyards checking on the progress of the work-crews, and assigning their stations for Monday morning. I’d accompanied him in the passenger seat of the truck tending to my hangover and trying to avoid situations where I might have to speak Spanish.

Dave and Suzy with a Glock

Dave and Suzy were lost, which was a very reasonable thing to be since Andrew lives among hundreds of miles of vineyards with no distinguishing characteristics to the untrained eye, and vast, unmarked country roads. I told them to pull over, so that we could come find them witch we did with surprising ease.

As a farmer, we, the city folk, like to exploit Andrew’s access to vast, open, untamed space and tap into the lawless wilderness with decadent abandon.

As evidence, we wanted to shoot guns. Andrew recently bought a .40 caliber Glock to protect himself against home invasion because his home had been invaded one night. He also had a shotgun that he carried around in the back of his work truck to shoot at little birds that eat grapes off the vine.

Access to these wholly foreign, but significant cultural icons was too much to pass up. First, we shot the handgun, which was disturbing for a while as I considered that the tool in my hand was engineered specifically to kill people. Then I realized that, with it, I was just like Jet Lee and I cranked out shells rapid fire with my only remorse that I was not wearing a black suit and I didn’t have a gun for both hands.

Andrew and Dave were both much better shots than I was and Suzy, who was a novice, took to the sport with natural aptitude.


Next, we shot shotguns, or rather we shot skeet. The best way to put it would be to say that Andrew and Dave shot skeet and Suzy and I shot shotguns at skeet, but I could tell that the skeet were never very concerned when Suzy and I were up. The take away from the skeet shooting was that there is nothing on this earth that makes you feel quite as viril as cocking a pump-action, 12-gage shotgun.

Another take away was that when they protected the right to bear arms in the 2nd Amendment, they probably didn't have me in mind. When I'm popping off caps at wine bottles, I begin to wonder if perhaps the NRA lobbys too effectively.

On The Farm

I'm in a pickup with a shotgun and Andrew.

La Tia Lupita's

Tacos for breakfast at a catering truck in Delano, CA. That's Tia Lupita in the corner making tortias. She runs a tight ship.

LA To Bakersfield

I'm driving from LA to Bakersfield to visit Andrew. There's a ton of traffic - it's Friday afternoon. Dave and Suzy are coming up tomorrow.

On the docket for this weekend: Rodeo, whiskey, and can racing. Can racing is a game that involves shooting a can over and over until it leaps so far away that your poor aim prevents you from hitting it.

I'm trying to get into guns.

Jill told me not to shoot myself. I told her that I wouldn't shoot anyone. She told me not to lie.

More Is More

Jill and I are engaged, but the details of the proposal, the champagne, and the love are all a little mushy and not really tin car quality material. A month of premarital bliss has transpired now, and I’ve rarely had an emotion that wouldn’t qualify as schmaltzy. The rights of marriage are not typically the topics that get tin car’s readership going, that is until today when Jill and I participated in the gluttony of wedding gift registration.

The tradition of registering for wedding gifts is a tumultuous and emotionally complex event with the primary emotion being greed, followed closely by entitlement, and aggression. This delicate mental state is pressed into action by primal impulses of consumerism that originate in the brainstem of the children of free-market capitalism who are old enough to fornicate and carry debt. Scientists have speculated that the registry impulse is related to the slightly higher-level impulse function to dry-clean jeans.

As a novice at marriage, I was unfamiliar with the customs of the bridal registry, so I’ve done my best to infer some basic rules to help fellow novices feel more at ease with the plunder.

Here are the rules:

1. Get while the getting’s good

The mores of our culture are set up to give you one good chance to demand that your friends and loved ones buy expensive bobbles for your home, and if you don’t take advantage of this windfall, you’ll never get a second chance.

2. If it exists, register for it

One of the biggest faux pas of a bridal registry is not to want enough shit. Wedding guests are required to buy you a gift by social laws that are older and more binding than congressional legislation, so it is imperative that there is enough shit on the registry for everyone to find a contribution. When you register, the question is not if you need a 6th crystal, fruit bowl or even if you want it. The question is can you tolerate it. Quantity is the issue here.

3. Believe you live in a mansion

You may live in a five hundred square-foot apartment that is questionably large enough to hold a bed and a laundry basket, but shop like you’re filling a Hapsburg palace.

While the building of the registry is afoot, there are some dangerous ideas that may come slithering into mind and these ideas are to be dashed to the curb so you can focus on “getting yours”. Here are some thoughts that may arise that are to be treated lightly and with indifference.

• That’s a lot of money to ask people to spend on a creamer.
• We can’t fit all this in our house.
• I’m really quite sure I’d never use that.
• Won’t people get mad at us for asking them to spend so much money?
• Are the dishes that we already have really so inferior to these dishes?

Don’t let these kinds of corrupting thoughts confuse the issue of engagement. Stay true to the tradition and register like a pirate claiming his booty.

Coffee & Bacon

Coffee and bacon are the cigarettes and whiskey of breakfast.

Hooky

Dan Ho's Birthday

We came to Chan Dara...and saw Phil Jackson. Dan was eager to kiss Phil on the lips - he pushes his Birthday entitlement to the limits, but Phil escaped unmolested. Dan picked up the bill which was awesome. I guess that's what you're suposed to do when you're over 30.

Dan does everything right. He even sent out a gracious follow-up email to all the people that attended.

I'm turning 30 later this month, but I don't see myself picking up too many tabs. Maybe one or two, but if your reading this and your coming, don't think your floating by on my dime all night, you freeloading hippie. But I'm really glad your coming.

Vinoteca Farfalla - Follow Up

It turns out that Vinoteca Farfalla is not in Silverlake. It's in Los Feliz...so they're used to the bourgeois. No problem.

Vinoteca Farfalla

At a new wine bar called Vinoteca Farfalla with Vic. It's in Silverlake so you know all the neigbors groaned when they heard a wine bar was opening up...so bourgeois. I like it.

Melissa And The Scientologists

By: Ben Tiernan


I have a friend named Melissa, and she’s awesome. Among her many incarnations of awesomeness, she’s the Managing Editor of Television Week which sounds pretty damned fancy to me. MSN, which is a cable network, also thinks Melissa’s awesome. That’s why they choose her to espouse on the topic of Scientologists and the media. Here’s a a video of Melissa doing her thing.

Rogue Poet

By: Ben Tiernan

I thought that I was a fan of William Blake. His “Songs of Innocence and Experience” is quintessential stoner lit, and he’s revered as an engraver turned self-taught genius poet – which appeals to me. His public artistic life had the flash in the pan characteristics of modern celebrity, but his art endured, and that’s cool too.

He was a rogue artist whose work was related to the late 18th century Romantics, but kissing cousins at best. His work was better suited for the French Symbolists who were popular half a century after he died. His personal engravings, and those he produced for his own publications are cerebral, symbolic and way out there – again, totally unique an cool.

Turns out, he’s too far out there for me. I just can’t get into him like I used to. His poetry seems simple and a little crazy, and his engravings give me nightmares.

I grow old…I grow old…, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

This is what I'm talking about. Scarry right?

Wage Slave

By: Ben Tiernan

While I was out having a few drinks with a friend, he told me a story about a coworker of his that travels most of the year for his job. This coworker is important to the organization and well paid, but the obligations of his position keep him on the road and away from his family.

One day, his young son asked him, “Dad, what’s it like living at the airport?” His son actually thought his father live at the airport. This makes me wonder, is his son a moron?

Good Song: Naked

Usually, I reserve something as trite as song sharing for my Myspace profile, because myspace is for desperate losers, but this song is so good...it's awesome.

Dig it...This person is naked. So what?

"Tsotsi" Not An Obscure Film

By: Ben Tiernan

Friends and acquaintances have informed me that "Tsotsi" is not an obscure film. I’d never heard of it before I saw it, and I really thought its cultural relevance ended at the inspiration for the game “Which Member Of Tsotsi’s Gang Are You?”

Apparently, it even won an Oscar – I believe it was for Best Movie Based On A Game.

Tin Car Gets 10 Page Views A Day

By: Ben Tiernan

Choke on that, New Yorker. Tin Car gets an average of 10 page views a day from as many as four unique daily visitors. That’s right, that’s four people that won’t be reading encrypted “Shouts And Murmurs,” or fancy “Goings On About Town”. Better not turn around, them’s Tin Car’s footsteps you hear behind you.

To those noble four readers who spend an average of 5 minutes and 50 seconds on the site, you are forward thinking and attractive. You are intelligent, well kept and expeditious. You are creative, moral and misunderstood. Tin Car understands you. Tin Car has your back.

To address Tin Car’s dismal readership, I’ve updated the promotional video with hip new music from “The Lonesome Architects”. Thanks to “The Lonesome Architects” for making beautiful music and for letting me use it, and thanks to David for giving them a call.

Here’s the updated clip. I entered it in a contest for videos under 1 minute to get some exposure. You can go HERE to vote for it. Four more votes can’t hurt.

Ancient Art

By: Ben Tiernan

It’s been a big music week for me: I saw the Black Eyed Peas tear up a charity dinner, I saw the Queens Of The Stone Age and I saw the Rolling Stones. First of all, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Fergie perform her hip-hop acrobatics to “Pump It” in a ball gown. The Queens of Whatever opened for the Rolling Stones, and I’m happy to say that the QOTSA rocked. What ever it is that I’d heard of theirs before was more manicured than the hodgepodge of sounds lost in distortion that erupting from stage Monday night. It was very cool.

I’d never seen the Rolling Stones live before. I’d caught a performance or two on TV at some major cultural events like the Super Bowl, and Live Aid, and personally I always thought their performances were a little lame. My experience with the Stones was that of ancient rockers cashing out on their once relevant rock anthems of youth and rebellion. Of course, I knew it was important to see the Stones, and I was genuinely excited, but my expectations were low.


It turns out that seeing the Rolling Stones live is like viewing a familiar masterpiece in person. It’s like standing in front of Michael Angelo’s “David” for the first time – you’re reaction is, “That’s awesome.” The analogy of Michael Angelo’s “David” and the Stones is particularly appropriate because their awesomeness is made even more impressive because they are so old.

Those skinny little Brits jumped around the stage like they were 45 years younger, and they sang everything. You don’t realize it, but every song ever recorded before 1989 is a Rolling Stones song. Beyond Satisfaction, and Jumping Jack Flash there is boundless world of songs that you learn at birth, and those are also Rolling Stones songs. I suppose I knew that old farts could rock too, but it was nice to see it proved.

WHICH MEMBER OF TSOTSI’S GANG ARE YOU?

By: Ben Tiernan

I saw a movie called Tsotsi this weekend. It’s a South African movie about a boy living in a shantytown who is a hardened criminal by his mid-teens. When he steals a car and shoots the owner he finds a baby boy in the back seat. It’s a lot like Savannah Smiles in pigeon Afrikaans.

Tsotsi is the leader of a gang of misfit thugs. Some are murderous, and some are happy go lucky, and while I watched the movie I thought that these were good modern archetypes. The thought led me to ask:

WHICH MEMBER OF TSOTSI’S GANG ARE YOU?

Choose which member of Tsotsi’s gang of delinquent man-boys you’re most like.

Tsotsi


Grew up on the streets of Johannesburg's shantytowns, making his home in abandoned drainpipes on the edge of these sprawling ghettos. Having lost his parents to AIDS at the age of nine he has no memory of his early family life. Tsotsi is the leader of a small gang, which is comprised of Die Aap, Boston and Butcher. He appears to have no moral or ethical problem with inflicting violence on anyone who stands in his way, and only tolerates his crew as long as they continue to serve his purpose.


Boston


Is much smarter than his companions. Unlike the other members of Tsotsi's gang, Boston is filled with an immense self-loathing and a hatred of violence. When drunk, Boston cannot control his tongue and constantly talks down to those he thinks are less intelligent than him.


Die Aap


Has been Tsotsi's loyal follower since childhood. He is big, strong and stupid but is happy to do as Tsotsi orders.


Butcher


Is the most bloodthirsty of Tsotsi's gang and thrives on inflicting pain upon others. Butcher has never known a moment of love in his whole life and is probably beyond redemption.


Let me know what member of Tsotsi's gang you're most like.

Nothing New Here

It turns out that Jedd, soothsayer that he is, already predicted the existential crisis I bitch about in “Little Boxes Of Life”. He wrote a paper about it three years ago called, “The effects of digital communication on face-to-face and voice-to-voice interaction; is e-mail a catalyst or crutch?” The title alone is longer than my whole post about the subject. Go to tin car Essays to read the paper.

Music Day: Have Rock Will Travel

By: Ben Tiernan

Time spent traveling on a train is pensive, philosophical time, or, at least it can be. For me, right now, I’m a bit hung over, and rocking out in my little cocoon of sound to a new CD from She Wants Revenge – which, by the way, rocks – and I’m en route from Solana Beach to Los Angeles. So, on the train I speculate about rock and travel.

It’s important to provide a sound track for travel…in life. People know this, that’s why there are millions of road-trip mixes. The association of travel and music is primal – there’s something basic linear about movement. Getting from hear to there paired with the fixed pace of footsteps or the wurr of engines simulates the basic sensation of the progress, and the steady reassuring tempo of a song.

Today, I like She Wants Revenge, which seems to be a self titled album. They employ satisfying bass-lines that lay footsteps to the wurr of my whisk up the coastline: punctuation to the sage and limestone blur to the east, and vast, steel ocean to the west. They have an 80’s, English, Mod thing going on if that can be said – I’ll have to check my lexicon with David and Tom. They feel English, and I think they even sound English, but everything I can tell from the liner notes, says they’re from Santa Monica.

Rock is the thing for modern travel. Hyper-speed progress leaves you no time to consider the your place in time and space. There is no consideration of the elements of the landscape: a tree, a house, and a fence. There is just landscape, and your place actually has nothing to do with the landscape because your place is in motion (relativity plays in here, I’m sure).

Rock always feels two steps ahead of me as my mind moves from chord to chord, rarely pausing and always quick-tempo. The elements blend as the tempo drives forward and there is no time for meditation. The state of the rock song is simply in motion.

I also have a new Eels CD: “With Strings Live, At Town Hall”. I haven’t listened to it yet, because She Wants Revenge rocks so hard.

Music Day: Self-Titled Albums

By: Ben Tiernan

Why do so many bands self-title their first album? It shows more than just lack of creativity, I think it shows lack of foresight and vision. What if they manage to pull together another album and that one rocks too? And what if they become rock idols after a few CDs? Don’t you want your magnum opus, your stake in the ground, your topper, your piece de la resistance to be the self-titled album?

How cool would that be if the White Stripes came out with a White Stripes album now? It would be like “This is the one. Rec my rod.” It would be the anointed album destined to tear a hole in the universe from which will poor the future of rock. Instead they probably blew the self-title card on some garage album that only David and Tom know about.

This may not be true, but I’m not going to research it.

Music Day: Hidden Tracks

By: Ben Tiernan

I also don’t understand bonus tracks or hidden tracks:

1) Why not just call them regular tracks? It’s not like they’re not on the album.
2) They’re never very good. They’re just more.

Music Day: Songs Or Tracks

By: Ben Tiernan

I don’t know why we have to call songs tracks, when they’re songs. I’m sure it has something to do with the magnetic strips and master reels and copyrights, but most people are neither sound engineers nor music industry lawyers. No one ever sings a track. I’m going to call them songs.

I'm No Luddite

By: Ben Tiernan

So this communing idea is a Romantic concept, but I think we all agree that there is an inverse relationship between the quality of experience and the amount of mediation.

(Someone should put a formula to that – the quantity of mediation – we can call it the mediation conversion: something like (Sense/Media Quality) x Shared Experience = Quantity of Mediation. I’d buy it.)

In any case, I’m just saying that shared experience and face-to-face communication is more satisfying than an IM.

I’m no luddite; I love my IM. I’m just saying.

Little Boxes Of Life

I don’t know what to feel about this life where my leisure is compartmentalized into an appointment format. Last night, I made jambalaya and hurricanes for some friends, this morning Jill and I went to breakfast with her friend from Philly and her new beau. Now, we’re off to San Diego for lunch with my mother. It’s all enjoyable, but the compartmentalizing of each experience makes me a little uneasy.

I worry that perhaps it is all disingenuous. The fusion of efficiency and meaningful human interaction feels counterintuitive. At work I have meetings with superficial objectives like, “let’s discuss the impact of the production timeline on the media plan. It will take one hour”. The objective of communing, however, needs fuzzy boarders.

Jill points out that I have very little free time so if I want to see the people I want to see, I have to carve out time for each of them. She’s right, of course, and the larger questions of work and leisure, life priorities, spending and getting all loom not far beyond this issue.

The roll of technology: cell phones, IM, email, on-line communities, personal media networks, etc. also play into the question: When we interact so efficiently does it lose meaning? With all this dialogue, do we ever commune?

The jambalaya was delicious.

Cosmic Silk

By: Ben Tiernan

Since I wrote Black Tie Formal about the 2005 Golden Globes, which was my first black tie event ever, I’ve had the opportunity to don my formalwear four more times. The attire is simple and appropriate – the kind of outfit you’d call a workhorse – and I like it because it was all off-the-rack stuff from Macy’s. I have a black suit, a black tie, and sleazy, Italian shoes buffed bright enough to guide ships in the fog. The suit is my tuxedo. There’s no bowtie and no cumber bun, but the traditional monkey suit seems old-fashioned and the shimmering silk necktie makes me feel in vogue.

There is something cosmic about that suit. Once I bought it I needed it. My brother got married and I needed the suit, some of Jill’s friends got married and I needed the suit; the Golden Globes came back around and I needed the suit. Andrew Eddy invited Jill and me to go with him and Lisa to a charity dinner and I needed the suit. It’s a hellofa suit. I’m wearing it later this month at an advertising event and next month in Seattle. Who knew you could go black tie in Seattle.

Here is a picture of me looking tense in my suit with some other people...



This flurry of black tie events makes me wonder – Is my suit a metaphor? Does the assumption of ownership cause the stars to align giving it purpose? Did my purchase of a formal suit somehow secure my brothers wedding? Does that fact that I own a black suit mean I will get invited to charity dinners, and industry events? How do they know?

Perhaps I should take this cosmic coincidence for a spin and see how it handles: hotel reservations in Europe with no plans to go – I’ll just see what happens. Porsches are awfully expensive these days, but maybe if I buy the keychain a Porsche will just manifest. I’ve never owned a company, but maybe if I start screwing people someone will just give me one.

I apologize if my stars aligning in anyway disjoint your stars. I promise I won’t be using them long. There is already a cigarette burn in my suit.

Awesomeness

I just made a Myspace profile, and it's awesome. It's so awesome that your computer may not be able to support all of its awesomeness. You may just see parts of the whole and due to your imperfect processing certain aspects may seem random, incongruous or even unfair, like when good people die.

The Second Coming

Jedd Davis weighs tin car against profesional achievement

It’s been a while since I’ve contributed to tin car. It’s been longer than I expected, too long. I’m not saying I’m disappointed in myself, or disgusted by my absence, I’m just saying. However, I have thought a lot about tin car, especially recently.

Things happened since my last rant. I got a new job. I like my job so much that I arrive earlier than I used to, and leave later. My job is so good, that I think about it all the time, and little else – sometimes even on the weekend. It’s so good, that I dialed up tin car and invited some friends to come over – you know, share the wealth. We all like it so much that we don’t even talk to each other, even though we sit within 4 feet of each other – that’s how great it is.

And that’s where tin car comes in.

Tin car is what’s good about life. Tin car is where you express your feelings about things that matter (to you, at least). Tin car is a place where you learn about others and yourself. Tin car isn’t a job, and your life shouldn’t be either.

Is it difficult to have both? A life and a job? You bet ya … especially when you don’t know what you want to be when you grow up. So instead of spending the limited free time you have in front of the television, take a deep breath, re-focus your energy on the people and hobbies that make you feel most alive, and remember that the good people at tin car are usually ready to get drunk at the drop of a hat, even if they do have to wake up earlier to go to work.

Viva la Tin car.

That's me in a hat 

Black Tie Formal

By: Ben Tiernan

This story, which is a story about the Golden Globes, requires a brief but very important introduction as a matter of background. Some months back, Jill and I broke up. As breakups go, it was relatively civil. We even made an attempt at being friends until I failed to return her cheese plate and failed further to return her calls. Immature and inexcusable on my part, but I can’t beat myself up forever.

Shortly after Jill and I broke up, by a stroke of smashing good luck, I met a wonderful, beautiful and talented young lady named Jill. Note that this is not some extended metaphor where the author uses two people to represent two aspects of a single character, or split our perception of one person. Nor does this represent a rebirth and rediscovery of one Jill. This is real life, and two totally separate but identically named Jills.

Please make yourself acquainted with Jill, and know that from here forward any reference to Jill refers to the new Jill. I will refrain from any pejorative nomenclature that may appear to decrease the previous Jill because it is not fair to her. She was a very nice person, with a lovely heart, who had, until just recently, a very nice cheese plate.

Jill is a journalist. She works for Variety, a trade magazine that covers the entertainment industry, and she was recently promoted to editor of the V-Page. We are all very proud. The V-Page covers industry parties and events, so now more than ever Jill receives invitations to hobnob with the A-List.

Last night, for example, I accompanied Jill to the Golden Globe after parties at the Hollywood Hilton. I live in LA, so star sightings are frequent occurrences. I’ve seen Danny DiVito eat ice cream in Santa Monica. I’ve seen OJ Simpson change a flat tire on Sepulveda. I’ve seen Sidney Pollack fold a napkin and put it under the leg of his table to stop it from jiggling at Starbucks in Westwood. I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen such volume of celebrity. You couldn’t spit without hitting an icon.

Our arrival to the event was inauspicious; the cab driver we’d hired to take us from the restaurant refused to wait in the lineup of town cars and limos inching forward and dropping people at the main entrance. Rather, he dropped us in a park across from the Hotel, and we had to walk - Jill and her two friends all in gowns – across Wilshire Blvd to the 76 gas station and then into the Hotel from the side entrance. Jill’s friends had their invitations, so security let them through, but our invitations were at will call, so we had to enter from the other side of the building. Getting there involved crossing over Wilshire Blvd. twice and Santa Monica Blvd. twice - a minor hassle made infinitely more difficult by our formalwear.

The final stretch took us through a sea of news vans. We stepped over wires and around satellite uplinks, until at last we arrived at the main entrance. The jaunt through the news vans did give me the opportunity to show Jill my name on the blue boxes, the ones my father made, that TV stations use to send remote signals from these kinds of events. I brag shamelessly when I pass a news van, but fuck it – my name’s on a blue box.

Once we got past security, that’s where the famous people were. We passed Kevin Spacey as we entered and that was plenty for me, but in the enormous vestibule lingered a sea of recognizable faces. It was quite neat. I felt, somehow, very comfortable, almost like I was at a family reunion. I was a stranger among hundreds of people I recognized but didn’t feel comfortable talking to. They’d been in my living room for years and they had never made me tense before, so among them on Sunday night, I felt oddly at home.

People gathered in the entrance hall before they went up stairs to the parties. Each of the studios rented out a banquet room for the people associated with their projects. Jill and I were going to the Warner Brothers/In Style party, and the Universal/NBC party. I’m not sure how it all works, but it seems that every major media outlet is owned by another major media outlet. I think, in the end, they are all one company held together by a convoluted web of ownership deals and partnerships controlled entirely by Rupert Murdoch and Ron Howard.

Jill, who is relatively connected, introduced me to a few people she knew, and then we got in line to head up stairs to the parties. The line was ridiculously long, and I thought that they had a lot of gall to make real life celebrities que up like common rank and file. Further, the hotel guests had gathered at the bar and they were yelling at us…well, not me, but other people…famous people. Regardless of our collective celebrity, the line only grew longer.

It started as a rumor, a myth constructed to articulate our discontent. This line must indicate a larger crisis. How could it be that famous people were forced to stand around like Russians? Perhaps the Fire Marshall had shut the doors and they weren’t letting anyone else into the party. That must be it. The word spread like wildfire. Many people didn’t even need to be told. The myth had already surfaced in their subconscious. Turns out, it was true. We were locked out by the Fire Marshall – at least for the time being. The onset of this news was very exciting for me because I got to watch the short girl from 7th Heaven problem solve.

She decided to try her luck in line, but Jill, who had to cover the event, opted not to risk the line and pulled a man with a headset from the crowd. She introduced herself. The man introduced her into the ether of the headset, and in short order he took us to the front of the line. I can’t imagine a good way to describe the feeling of being pulled from a line of rich/famous people and pushed to the front. It was uncommon.

The front of the line, however, was a place of conflict. There stood century a security guard so devoted to his position that no force of nature and certainly no snotty events person would sway him. This guard would not let us in even at the pleas of our guide. The events person called for backup and a fast walking, fast talking young woman who also donned a headset came from inside. She beckoned us to follow her with ease and grace until the guard stretched out his arm, physically blocking our entrance.

The young woman yelled at the guard and insulted him, but he maintained that he would not let anyone pass until the Fire Marshall personally told him that it was OK to let people inside.

The pore little girl was despondent. She left us in the company of the guard for a few minutes and when she returned she pulled us away from the line and took us to a secret door around back. She was frustrated, angry and apologetic. I was impressed that Jill could cause anyone so much stress.

We were met at the back door by two more guards – now this is where it got good – and the guards reiterated that they could not let anyone in. While negotiating the terms of our entrance, the events person heard something truly very disturbing through her headset. She turned to the guards and said “Clint Eastwood is coming to this entrance. You are going to let him in, right?”

The guard said, “I’m not letting anyone in.”

The various levels of horror that I saw manifest on this woman’s face were rich and beautiful in their complexity and depth. At first I thought she might throw up, then I though she might faint, then I was certain that she would die. She clutched her radio and yelled into her headset that Clint was coming and they weren’t going to let him in. Terror rang clear and strong in her voice. She said, “Get Syd here now. Clint is coming. We need Syd. We need Syd!”

Just then, from around the corner came Clint Eastwood and four of his distinguished friends. They were engaged in amiable conversation. They meandered down the hall – a distance of about 40 feet – slowing occasionally to gesture or make a point.

As they approached the door, the young woman was nearly in tears. “He’s here. He’s here. Where the fuck is Syd?”

A man with thick black hair and a black suit appeared at the far end of the corridor behind Clint Eastwood’s entourage. He rounded the corner at full sprint, jacket flapping, hair tossed. He ran straight for us, and in a matter of seconds he passed the entourage and met us at the door. In the moment it took him to catch his breath, Clint Eastwood arrived at the door. They stopped their conversation for a half a second and looked at Jill, the two events people, the two guards, and me. The runner said, “These guys are ok.” The guards stepped aside. The Eastwood party continued their conversation, and Jill and I rode in on their coattails.

The party was wonderful. It was a lot like prom with an open bar.

Keep Hope Alive

By: ------?

Certainly, we are deeply wounded, but I still have many reasons to be encouraged: The left is more organized, better financed and more wide-spread than it has ever been; Alternative media is gaining power and influence; The idea that America can be a functioning empire has been seriously discredited; Together we have reignited a progressive movement that has grown rather quickly and it will continue to grow.

I know it is easy to despair right now, but I hope you don¹t. Here are my reasons why:

A CRITIQUE OF COMMON REACTIONS TO OUR DEFEAT:

DESPAIR
We have made a great deal of effort and it appears as if it hasn¹t paid off. But wallowing in despair will only diminish what we have achieved. Despair breads more despair and will only make our jobs more difficult when we are ready to fight again. And finally, despair will physically and emotionally weaken us, blinding us to the many ways that we can improve our lives and our world.

HATRED
Our hatred of ³red-state² Americans will only inspire them to continue thinking as they have been. Violent action will only create an equally violent reaction. The worst thing we can do is put ordinary Americans on the defensive. It can only serve to further polarize this nation. We have to find more common ground. We have to articulate our struggles in ways that everyone can understand: Protecting the environment can boost and sustain the economy; Lifting people out of poverty can reduce crime and increase productivity; Partnering with other countries and inspiring democracy through economic incentives instead of war can make our world safer. And so on.

APATHY
Apathy is probably the easiest reaction but also the deadliest. Apathy is blind to the beauty of the world. Apathy is the weakest state of being and we are fighting the strongest of enemies. The Republicans are so powerful now because they never resorted to apathy. They have been organized, methodical, patient and pro-active. But they have also been regressive and narrow-minded. We need to internalize these positive traits, reject the negative ones and continue fighting for progressive causes.

SHAME
The world is very puzzled by our vote yesterday. Americans are not envied anymore, we are pitied at best, hated at worst. Our president is an embarrassment but we still have many things to be proud of. Bush won, but it wasn¹t a landslide. We put up a good fight. We are a country at a crossroads. We thought we would ³cross the road² yesterday, but the transition is still happening. The American
Experiment is the most successful in the history of mankind. It will always be an experiment, shifting and rising and falling. But the idea of democracy and its manifestation in our Constitution are still very much alive. Also, we can be proud that there are a lot of great people in America. I¹m proud of everyone I know. We are engaged in life. We are creative and strong. We care about the world and it¹s people and we have fought hard.

FEAR
There is truly much to fear. I don¹t need to make a list. But fear is exactly the tool the Republicans used to con so many people. Fear makes us vulnerable to reactionary forces. Fear can physically and emotionally weaken us. Fear can also be a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Fear of being branded unpatriotic certainly blunted our ability to attack when it was appropriate. We must refuse to be subjugated by fear. Nobody really knows what¹s going to happen tomorrow, but if we fear tomorrow, we won¹t act today. We need to act without fear, or at least in spite of it.

HOPE
The only reaction that will do us any good is Hope. We need Hope to continue fighting. We need Hope to help us think of creative ways in which to fight. We need Hope to inspire others to help us make the world a better place. Without Hope we may as well just give up and jump in a lake. The world is too beautiful to give up so easily.

My biggest critique of Kerry is that he never offered a compelling vision of how the world should be. I think he was too cautious. He had very little to say about the post-9/11 world other than, Let¹s bring our allies back to the table. Leaders need to be visionaries.
Bush is a visionary and the only way to compete with a twisted visionary is to have a compelling vision of your own. We must continue to find ways to articulate our vision of how the world should be. And this should certainly including a more clear articulation of how we define our values and morals. The Right has been very good at choosing the words we use to describe the issues of our times. It¹s all doublespeak, of course, but it has been very effective. We need a set of clear, well-articulated visions for our country and our future.

We have realized today that we are in the middle of our adventure story when we thought we were at the end. Like the heroes of all adventure stories we are going to have to redouble our efforts, face our fears and call upon hidden reserves of power. We¹re going to have to intensify our challenges to our elected officials, the news media and the culture of fear and repression. We are going to have to build grassroots coalitions, pool our money and talent and maybe even run for office.
How can we all keep up (and increase) this fevered pitch of resistance for the next four years? We have to find whatever Hope survives within us and keep fighting. I know we will.

Democracy At Work

This is the best cause I know of. Please sign this petition to get rid of the front license plate law in California.

PETITION

In My Old Age, I'm Not As Interactive

By: Ben Tiernan

For the moment, I have a job in advertising, and in my capacity as an advertiser I have to listen to network executives sell their programming lineup for the upcoming season. These presentations are called Up-Fronts, and the idea is that, once exposed to the new programs, all brands will clamber in and line up to run commercials on Paul and Gorrax - It's Will And Grace meets Deep Space Nine.

These presentations usually kick off with a lot of fanfare, but it is rare when my senses are so accosted by sound, sight and overwhelming personalities that the experience closely resembles trauma.

Last week Fuse Network came into our office to tell us what they've done, and what they're going to do. Fuse is a cable music network, so naturally they generated a little hubbub. For my taste, they went over the top. They handed out noisy little PDAs and flashed seizure-inducing images on the screen. Through the sound system, they piped Brittney, Fiddy', and Chingy, and at the helm an animated chubby man in a suit effused over ratings. To thoroughly confuse me, they brought a gospel choir into the room. They sang and clapped and danced around while the chubby man yelled and images of thongs and skateboards flashed on the screen. I felt sick.

Through the cacophony, I heard that we were engaged in a contest, and that clues were forthcoming. The prize - the PDA in our hand. I wanted the PDA, so I hunkered down and tried to listen. Soon, a video began to play of a small Asian man singing a Rickey Martin song poorly. Pictures of things flashed on the screen. These were the proposed "clues", but to what? What was the contest? What was the puzzle?

I was flabbergasted and angry because I wasn't going to win a PDA. In a room filled with dozens of television and advertising executives, I was surely the smartest one, but there was no way I could win if I didn't know the rules. How did they know what we were doing? Maybe they didn't. The music blared, the small Asian man jerked on the screen, the gospel singers danced, and the chubby man bounced at the head of the room.

The PDA said BUZZ IN, so I did. I pressed the face of the hand-held, and the music stopped, the video stopped, the gospels singers stopped, and the chubby man went ballistic. “Who buzzed in? Who knows the answer?”

“I did.”

“Tell us. What's the answer?”

All faces turned toward me- eager anticipatory faces, caught up in the fervor of the moment.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded.

The man was clearly upset. “Just follow the clues. FOLLOW THE CLUES!”

“But what do the...”

It was no use. Before I could finish, the music was back up, the video was rolling, and gospel singers swayed in their gowns

Men – the new women or “when did I become a Republican*”

Jedd Davis is a man, with man needs …

I just read an article in the New York Times called "The Bachelor and the Dust Bunny". It brings to light a recently published how to book for single men on keeping house called "Clean Like a Man: Housekeeping for Men (and the Women Who Love Them)". A 53-year-old advertising copywriter, who recently separated from his wife, wrote it. Well, bravo to this creative chap for capitalizing on the very en vogue emasculation of men, and taking it to the next level. Not only are men being cast away by silly psycho-marketing touts to that gender purgatory "metrosexual-ville," apparently, we have begun drinking the kool-aid. We are now writing books, FOR OURSELVES, on how to be better women (granted, it is in the absence of woman that this tome becomes required reading, but I'm not liking the trend here).

Let me try to break this down with a little history. Once upon a time – I don’t know, call it the 50’s – men worked all day, had a drink (or many) when they arrived home, and found a little time to pro-create on the weekends between sports telecasts. There was no question of whether or not this was proper male behavior, or “male behavior” at all – it just was.

Then in the sixties, it all started going to hell. Hippies, with their long hair and poetry and blah blah blah, came on the scene in droves. Ok, many macho men throughout history had long hair (did you see Lord of the Rings?), and true, many poets are sissies, but it’s hard to beat the 60s if you’re trying to hit the long-hair, poet, sissy trifecta. So into the early 70s, we have these girl-men whining about the war and demanding change via sit-ins. I’m not saying Vietnam was a good idea, I’m just saying long hair is not a prerequisite for protest (yeah, I know there’s symbolism with the long hair, just make pretend that I’m not really a smart guy, and that I’m allowed to completely dismiss a huge cultural movement in the US because I write for tin car).

So here we are in the early-70s and it’s starting to look good for men again with Tricky Dick in office conspiring and being all paranoid – now that’s a real man (if he only knew, like the Democrat presidents, that you could also add sex to that mix, he probably would’ve remained in office). But then in 1976 it gets all screwed up again as Jimmy Carter takes the White House. Am I blaming Jimmy Carter for metrosexuals? Why not?!

Thank god for the 80s. We get two world-class cocksuckers throwing their balls around on a global stage, with the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Men are back! Thanks Mikhail and Ron! Michael Douglas in Wall Street – are you fuckin’ kidding me? That’s what I’m talking about – manly men. But again, just as it’s heating up, men are accused of being too manly. Bush I embarrasses men by not finishing the job in Iraq, and ponytails start appearing again (I suspect some were tucked into baseball hats for years).

The nineties were interesting. Grunge was manly, but everyone had long hair again. Clinton, legend, was able to put it all together – soft on the outside, bastard within. Mix a little social reform with some minor wars/ass-kickings and voila, men just “are” again, like the 50s, and it’s grand. That guy really was the smoothest cat ever.

That brings us to the millennium. The last election gave us a choice between a sissy or a cowboy, and either way, men everywhere were going to lose out as a result. The cowboy went so off the charts, that society rebelled by turning the everyman into a woman. Even the Braun Towel guy is a sissy now. So, remaining men, let’s make a pact, right now, that we won’t talk about body scrubs, conditioner or spa treatments (even though we enjoy them so). We won’t write books for each other on how to clean the house. We won’t even share recipes, unless they involve cooking meat on a grill. From now on we’ll just go to work, have a few drinks, and make up stories about the sex we’re not having because there just aren’t any good women out there.

*The political views expressed in this article in no way represent those of tin car, which is generally moderate to liberal.

Lupe's Exodus

By: Ben Tiernan

Lupe inspected the play of shadow and light on her brother’s ashen face. She imagined a great fire in the distance casting red flashes across the trembling boxcar then drowning the room in shadow. The crimson morning sun revealed the nimbus of wild poinsettias as they passed her window. The air was still and thick with golden dust.

The year was 1919. Lupe was eight years old. Carranza ran the post revolutionary government, and Lupe, along with her brothers, Carlos and Condi; her oldest sister, Virginia; her sister Chayo; and fourteen other children from Culiacan were en route - north - to the United States boarder. At the head of this youthful army was Lupe’s mother, Beatrice.

Lupe watched her brother Carlos quietly. His eyes were closed and his blond hair fell across his face. The windowsill supported the weight of his head, and his slight body jerked as they crossed over the rail ties.

Carlos had been out all night with the other young men, and he was extremely tired. Beatrice scolded Carlos when he arrived at the train station happy and disheveled. She chastised him for his drunkenness and for jeopardizing their departure. Carlos suffered the tirade and winked at Lupe who peeked from behind her mother’s dress.

After the scolding, Carlos disappeared again. A throng collected as the children of the region awaited the train. The revolution had separated many families, and young children were joining their parents who had settled in the States, and older children were striking out to find work and prosperity.

Lupe’s oldest brother Leocadio was twenty, and he would stay back and tend to the ranch. He and Carlos had come under fire from bandits and revolutionaries while riding fences. The revolution was over, but there was no stability and the threat of violence to Beatrice and her children had driven them from their home.

Lupe bravely triumphed over her fear of the train. A fierce tremor preceded its arrival followed by a deafening cacophony of squeals, bumps, and thunder. Finally, out of a ragged cloud of ferocious steam, emerged the engine which struck Lupe as frighteningly biological – a steel Titan.

Inside the boxcar, she became ecstatic and completely overcome by the novelty of train travel. Everything about it was uncommon, modern, and exciting. Lupe believed that the elegance of her exodus set a precedent for her new life in the North. She waited in the car while Beatrice corralled children and fretted over Carlos who was still lost in the throng.

At last, the trumpets blazed, and a chorus of young mariachis stepped forward from the crowd. They were Carlos' gang of friends, and he stood proudly by them as they serenaded Beatrice and her travelers. Leocadio and Carlos stood side by side while the mariachis sang, until Carlos loaded the last of the traveling chests, and took his seat across from Lupe.

Beatrice cried and accepted the good fortune and gratitude of the families who gave their children into her charge. She held Leocadio until his pride gave way and he succumbed to her embrace. When she boarded the train, she carried a heavy wooden jewelry box filled with silver – enough, possibly, to finance their new beginning.

As the train pulled away from the station, Lupe heard the mariachis play her favorite waltz: Las Barcas De Guiymas.

My Kingdom For A Horse

By: Ben Tiernan

The Tiernan family is an old and respected clan whose majesty and charity have benefited countless women between the ages of 18 and 25.

The family fortune, true, is the foundation upon which is erected a Byzantine edifice of relations, in-laws, and illegitimate children, but this was not always the case.

We were a poor and meager tribe until a wealthy landowner took pity on my great-great-grandfather, Butterwinkle Tiernan, and bestowed upon him a thoroughbred horse as a replacement for my forefather's blind donkey - a beast whose incontinence was beginning to take it's toll on the landowner's prize hedge of roses.

Butterwinkle was overjoyed by the gift, and decided to name the steed after his beloved girlfriend. He dubbed her "The Sure Thing".

Butterwinkle spent the next six months training and conditioning The Sure Thing for the race season. The mare showed promise and Butterwinkle believed he stood to make a great deal of money once the race season began.

A week before The Sure Thing was to race her first race, Butterwinkle found his thoroughbred on the floor of her stable. Her eyes were glazed over and she lay incapacitated. Distraught, Butterwinkle brought in a specialist who discovered that The Sure Thing had colon cancer, and had to be put to sleep.

Saddened and defeated Butterwinkle made arrangements to have The Sure Thing put down. The veterinarian returned three days later with drugs to euthanize the race horse, and found that miraculously the cancer had gone into remission.

Of course the cancer scare had disqualified The Sure Thing from the race, but with the cancer in remission, Butterwinkle reentered his thoroughbred into the derby. At post time, the odds against The Sure Thing were ten thousand to one on account of the odds-makers misinformed suspicion that The Sure Thing was dead.

Apparently, the recovery was full because The Sure Thing went on to win the race by a nose and make Butterwinkle Tiernan filthy rich in just seven furlongs.

The moral of the story: Don't look a gift horse in the ass.

Checkout Vigilante

By: Jedd Davis

Now that the supermarket strike is over here in Los Angeles, I’ve started grocery shopping like a normal person again. At least that’s what I thought. As it turns out, normal people no longer know how to pay for their groceries. Seems they picked up some strange checkout behavior at Savon or Rite Aid. Or maybe it’s all the weird organic food they’ve been eating from Whole Foods or Wild Oats. Whatever it is, boy is it disheartening.

To get everyone back on track, I’ve developed a shopping list (he he) of things to ponder on your way to the supermarket, before all the neatly stacked cans and shiny produce hypnotize you into thinking you’re really an idiot.

Don’t write checks

Forget exact change

If you are waiting in line, you probably know you are eventually going to have to pay the cashier (unless you’re that guy in LA who tried to sneakily stroll out of the supermarket with a cart full of food). Stop reading The Globe headlines about how Osama turned himself in to comfort his lover, Saddam, in prison, and get your cash or ATM card ready

Watch the cashier scan things in, so you don’t have to check your receipt to verify that you saved 12 cents on that can of tuna (if you’re over 55 or wearing those weird sunglass/eye shields, you are exempt from this, the rest of us will just have to suck it up)

Don’t talk on your cell phone. This way, you can guarantee that the last thing you think before you float up to heaven won’t be “I can’t believe it was a can of cranberry sauce to the temple.”

Of course, some blame has to rest with our democratic society that champions choice, and breeds technological innovation (and it’s wicked stepbrother, impatience). Surely technology killed the express lane. Back in the day, “under 12 items” could probably be covered with cash money. Now everyone is using ATM or credit cards so they can fly to Katmandu for free in 7 years (business class). That’s a bummer, so I have some suggestions for the supermarket industry, since I doubt people will adopt the above anytime soon.

Have a cash only lane. You can even combine it with the express lane – bonus!

Make a better machine to handle ATM or credit card payment. You zap everything else with that laser gun, surely you can just zap the back of my card

Cashiers should keep telling me to have a nice day; it always makes me feel like you really care.

Auto-Neurotica

I've decided not to get a car because I can't afford the payments. I don't consider life without a car much of a set back. The commute on the bus is fine, I can still get around the city in cabs, and there is one less thing in my life that can catch fire.

There is the added benefit of not paying tons of money for things that I'm not sure exist. I paid hundreds of dollars to have my alternator adjusted and it was still antisocial.

The only problem is that girls don't like it when I don't have a car, and I worry about what girls think. You see, I'm not really a take it or leave it kind of guy. I'm more like, take it or I'll change for you.

Jedd Davis needs his morning coffee. Here’s what he has to say:

"I feel like everyone is taking crazy pills!"

I'm considering including that tid-bit in my e-mail signature because I find myself believing it more and more each day.

Why are things so difficult? Better yet, why do people have to make things so difficult? You know who these crazy pill-popping evil-doers are. I'm not talking terrorists here, or even hippies for that matter. I’m talking about people who don’t know how to stand in line at the coffee shop. I'm talking about the person that hoards the entire milk bar and taste-tests his coffee for 10 minutes. Dude, I'm standing next to you, jonezing for my
morning brew - move over. Or better yet, the guy that picks a register and creates his own line, instead of getting in line with the rest of us – c’mon guy, we’re not all standing there waiting for Santa Claus.

I find little infractions of this sort maddening. Are these people really that clueless? You can see the crazy pills working in their eyes. You just know you're supposed to hate them.

To me, common sense is a way of life - make that, the way of life. To not adhere to common sense is, well, senseless. Pardon me for pointing out the obvious; I’m really not looking to establish common ground here. It’s certainly not a kum baya let's all get along thing, so I'll just say, "step aside, I want my coffee."

- Jedd Davis

I'm so timely it's uncanny.

Check out this article in today's Washington Times.

I have to admit that I don’t know very much about what is going on in the world of political talk radio. College radio and cartoons compose the vast majority of my media intake.

I do know that Rush Limbaugh was hopped up on prescription drugs, and I have to say that I can’t blame him.

It is entirely possible that the talk show I heard this morning on AM radio is an anomaly. It is very reasonable to assume that not every political talk show on AM radio espouses fear and hatred. If they did, that would be horrific, right? If they did, that would be a social disservice worthy of a criminal mastermind.

With limited exposure to this genre of radio, what I heard shocked me. Is this the voice of the right? I hope not. This is the voice of fear, vitriol and ignorance. Through the radio, I heard groups marginalized, ideals blasted and lifestyles attacked in a way that I haven’t heard since I left the confines of schoolyard fascism.

The commentator was belligerent, unequivocal, prejudice, and, surprisingly, a woman. Every topic apparently called for the brutal unsympathetic, irrational attack of a zealot, but these were not religious fundamentalists. These were Republicans. (I’ve always considered Republicans people who would rather lower personal taxes and spend less on social programs. According to these people, Republicans are vicious barking dogs - foaming bigotry and xenophobia at the mouth.)

The program I heard covered quite a few issues of domestic policy: how the government intruded in the lives of poor people buy giving them welfare, how irresponsible it was to be poor, and how poor people choose poverty over wealth.

They also covered foreign affairs: According to this program, Europe opposed the war in Iraq because Europeans are frightened and womanish. That was the main point. The second point was that the frightened and womanish Europeans are too limp-wristed to fight in a war that might upset their Muslim minority - I never new that. I thought it had something to do with opposing preemptive strikes against countries that posed no imminent threat.

Beside that, I think America proved that it is far more dangerous to upset us than any religious minority. We proved that when we stonewalled Europe when it came to Iraqi development contracts, or, for that matter, when we took over Iraqi for looking at us sideways.

The commentator concluded the discussion of foreign policy with this statement of fact: “before the end of our lifetime, Europe will be a Muslim continent.” The subtext, of course, is that Europeans will finally be wearing dresses.

I jest, but this type of media is very frightening to me. This media is hate propaganda. In a single commute, I heard Europeans slandered, poor people insulted, and Muslims attacked. I also heard the Bush administration revered as the paragon of modern governance. I thought that we were all pretty set on the idea that the Bush administration lied to the world in order to take over a country that posed no real threat, and that they have a strange preoccupation with gays, so I was pretty surprised to hear them protected so fervently.

I get surprised a lot, like when Schwarzenegger was elected as Governor, or when we actually went to war with Iraq. These things surprise me because they are not the acts of a few nuts; they are the acts of a population. I never really understood it, but after this morning I suppose that I am closer to it.

Please people, don’t hate.

This just in . . .
The notorious laptop thief David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme was shot as he left a movie house matinee. The shoot out rained bullets on the dapper thief.


New Flash...

David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, the Hollywood desperado, Americas favorite bad-man was see running down Wilshire Boulevard after fleeing from a firefight with the authorities. In mid flight, the criminal with a flare for fashion ducked into a local bistro where, according to one patron, he paused for a martini before dashing through the back door leaving a trail of blood.


This just in . . .

Police, using hounds to follow the scent of blood hit a dead end when they entered a Roman-style bathhouse. Using any resource he had available, Fromme proved his nickname was earned as he eluded the dragnet once again. Said Officer Mulroney, "We just don't know where he went." It seems laptops and young women are in danger once again.


News Flash...

The Kalamata Jewels, considered by many to be the most valuable collection of precious stones in the world, and three laptop computers were reported missing this afternoon in Los Angeles. Tiffany and Company, charged with protecting the jewels while in transit from the Isle of Rhodes to their new owner, the South American platinum heiress Isabella Diablo, claims that the gems have vanished into mid air. The only eyewitness, a statuesque blonde with pouting lips and huge blue eyes, was found outside the Tiffany building with disheveled hair and smoking a cigarette. Her only statement to the authorities: "He was good."

This just in . . .

A haute couture male fashion store on Rodeo Drive has reported to police that a man that fits the description of 'Slippery Silicon' Fromme hoodwinked the sales staff out of $30,000 of clothes and accessories. Said the clerk on the scene, "One minute he was here shopping with I don't know how many hot tomatoes and the next they were all gone. I can't figure it." Although eyewitness accounts of the man are vague, police suspect Fromme because a piece from the Kalamata Jewels was found in the cash register. This fits with Fromme's M.O. of never stealing high fashion.

New's Flash...

A dashing young financier, CIA and Interpol believe to be the notorious laptop heist mastermind David "Slippery Silicone" Fromme, has surfaced in South America. At the head of a guerilla army and dressed to the nines, the international playboy-superthief has stoked the revolutionary fire of the people. "The revolution is here!" Fromme sang with elan - and with Isabella Diablo, the heiress with the mostest, on his arm, this overthrow is fated for love. Coup d'etat for two?

Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.

In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.

Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.

Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.

In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.

When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.

Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.

Here’s something new. A story about my grandmother.
In 1943, just outside of Oakland, California, in the community of Richmond, Guadalupe Duran brought down a baseball bat with full force onto the head of her young husband.

Lupe, as she was known, was petite and hot-tempered, and at age of 28 she was already the mother of four. She was an immigrant from Culiacan, Mexico, and her unfortunate husband, Charles, was a dazzling California-born playboy.
Lupe was 13 and Charles was 16 when Lupe’s family moved from Pasadena to Northern California. Charles made regular trips from Pasadena across California's Central Valley on the second weekend of every month to visit Lupe. At 14, Lupe married Charles, who, with the wisdom of 17 years under his belt, had a car.

Fourteen years later, on a hot and windy summer night, Charles was out philandering. He was notorious for it, and he was, as it happened, very good at it. He had majestic presence, and women adored him. Charles dressed and spoke well; he was serious and funny, strong and passionate. His hair, well coiffed, was resplendent with Brill Cream, and in a certain light, his profile resembled that of Clark Gable.

In the past, Lupe had thrown plates and swung her arms at her adulterous Don Juan. The smell of perfume and alcohol had driven her into hysterics on countless evenings and on countless bleary-eyed mornings. This time, however, the cheating was systematic and deliberate. It was ritualized in its neglect. It was an affair.

When Charles surreptitiously crept through the kitchen door, Lupe’s mood was murderous. Lupe screamed at Charles in her native tongue, damning him with strange and perverse curses. Because Charles was gentle, her soaring pitch escalated unchecked.
Charles, it was true, had been seeing the blond girl that hung around their bar. The girls called her Goldie. Her pale skin and her platinum hair were an anomaly, an eye-sore, and a threat. It was also true that Goldie was pregnant with Charles’ baby, so when Lupe reached for the bat and took it to her husband, she swung righteously.
The beating was rather one-sided; Charles was not violent. He was corrupt. Lupe, on the other hand was virtuous, but extremely violent.
She was also vindictive. When the police arrived, Lupe triumphantly had Charles arrested.

Why the police arrested Charles, and not Lupe, can only be attributed to the officers’ sense of self-preservation. At 5'2" and just over a hundred pounds, Lupe was more dangerous than a gang of hoodlums. The arrest was an act of mercy for both Lupe and Charles.

(with spelling corrections)

I don't have a car, and I'd like one. At first I was a concerned because I don't have any money. It seemed to me that if I can't afford something like, oh, I don't know, food, that a car worth thousands might be a bit out of my reach. This turns out not to be the case. The banks don't seem to mind that I don't have any money in my checking account, and if it doesn't bother them, then it doesn't bother me.

My second concern was my credit rating. My credit is so bad that when I tried to sign up for one of those credit management services they wouldn't accept my check. When I was 18 I drove a fresh new credit card into the ground. After college, I defaulted on a student loan for a full year, and just recently, I apparently bounced a co-pay to my dentist - a $50 bill that landed on my credit report.

No one cares! These banks are run by monkeys. People are clambering over themselves to give me money. I went to one of those car loan sites where they find you the best rates, and I've been approved for so many loans that I could buy a house. Suddenly, I'm a fat cat.

Now, as I take the bus to work, it's a shopping trip. I look out the window at the passing traffic and turn my nose up at cars that I don't feel fit my self-image. I don't really think that I am Ford Festiva kind of people. '91 Jetta? Nice, but does it communicate how deeply concerned I am about Tebet? How about a BMW? I don't think that I'd buy a BMW, not because of how much it costs, but because I can't afford it.

Now, I'm looking at a Volvo. I like it because it is European, which is all class, and because it conveys a certain restraint in the vast consumption that I am clearly capable of because I am driving a Volvo. I am also considering an Audi which does the same thing.

I'm a bit amazed by my vanity. I take the bus and yet an '82 Corolla feels below me. Even a newish Honda feels too generic to gel with my specialness. This is the kind of thinking that got me onto the bus in the first place. Step one is to admit that you are powerless before really great stuff. Step two is believing that a power greater than yourself will get really great stuff for you, and step three is to turn your life over to really great stuff as you understand it.

I, of course, have already reached step 12 where I get to help other people understand why good enough isn't.

Jedd Davis wants to know what's next. Here's what he has to say:

We all know that bling bling is now blah blah, so my question is, what the hell are we supposed to get excited about next? Middle-aged women don't bat an eye when a car rolls down Montana Ave. blaring hip-hop. For Christ's sake, Snoop Dog is a Muppet on Crank Yankers! How are our children going to rebel? Gansta Rap - dead. Teen drug use - plummeting. Teen pregnancy - down. Teen suicide - well, I guess there's hope. This whole disney-fication of america select-an-identity thing is going a little too far. Everyone looks the same, straight out of a magazine - I guess that advertising stuff does work after all, my bad. Everyone already shops at the gap, and now it appears, with the death of bling bling that you'll be able to get your gangsta gap on too from brands like sean jean, rock-a-wear, etc., who want to dress it up for the grown-up hip hoppers.

Who wants to give it up for being an individual? Is that even possible anymore with such an emphasis on "public living"? The answer is yes, and the truth is in the written word. I wasn't thinking this in the beginning of the post, but Tin Car will set you free. Be an individual and contribute to Tin Car. Contribute to freedom. (how's that for
advertising?).

- Jedd Davis

Jill, my girlfriend and spiritual leader, asked me, "If we can make big chocolate cakes, why can’t we make Champaign?" That’s right! Why can’t we? I say we can.

I turn my back on people who say, "you can’t do that." I thumb my nose at people who tell me, "Sir, that’s for women", and I drop my pants and moon tyrants who claim "that’s illegal."

The last time some one told me that I couldn’t do something, do you know what I told them? I asked if I could at least watch.

No longer will the norms and mores or our oppressive society, rife with its left-turn-only –signs, restrict us. Who does it think it think it is, Mr. Oppressive Society? A bully, that’s who.

Next time you’re up at 6am, whacked out on Campari and Valium, don’t blame the liquor store because you can’t get a bottle of bubbly. Defy the naysayers and brew your own, and pass the barbs once more round.

Sometimes, there are heroes: people who extend themselves to extraordinary lengths and fight the suffering of others. Heroes are rare. The human condition, the pursuit of self-interest, and capitalism all run contrariety to the heroic instinct. Martin Luther King was a hero, so were the guys on the 9/11 flight that crashed in Pennsylvania. I’ve always thought of Thomas Jefferson as a hero because democracy is good, and it’s one thing to preach it, but it’s something else all together to make it happen.

Firefighters, policemen, and commandos are also heroes, but it is their job, and it is somehow less extraordinary when they rise to the occasion than when one someone off the street takes the weight of the world’s problems on their shoulders.

I got to see a hero in action last week, and to benefit from his benevolence. He was my bus driver.

My line starts in downtown and goes west to the coast. I stood at the halfway point between downtown and the ocean waiting for my bus to arrive, but it never did, nor did the next one. I stood for a full 40 minutes and no busses came. I was despondent, late for work, and I had no chance of making the transfer until the 328 Limited came barreling down Olympic Boulevard.

The bus approached at a ridiculous speed. It leaned awkwardly over the sidewalk exaggerating the convex of the road, and looked relatively unstable when it crashed to a halt next to me. The bus was a brimming cattle-car of limbs, bags and coats. People were packed in so tightly that there was barely room on the first step. The driver beckoned me, "C’mon. Get in." I did, and we hurled down the road with reckless abandon.

The driver sweat adrenaline. He was slightly crazed, notably daunted, and devoted to a single cause. This man was going to get these people to work. He shouted to anyone who would listen that a funeral for a policeman had attracted thousands into Downtown Los Angeles resulting in a traffic disaster. Busses were turning back and people were left stranded, but my driver would not abandon his loyal passengers. He understood their plight, and he braved the traffic even though had been permitted to turn back. Most impressive, he defied physics by cramming the entire population of the Los Angeles metro into his 30-foot bus.

Inside the bus, it was a jerky, shifting tide of bodies. Deceleration was an afterthought. At each stop, you were pressed shamefully up against the person in front of you. I’m sure that any devout Catholic would have left that bus ride obligated to marry.

In bold deviance of The Man, the driver stopped collecting fares, and had people enter in the back door. He was resolute, and his objective had nothing to with commerce. You could tell that he was proud, and assured of his ritiousness. His pride was contagious, and we were all proud for him. Exchanges with bus drivers are usually tacit and dismissive, but as he dropped people at their destinations they were effusive. It was a beautiful thing. People cried. The driver had touched greatness, and we had been in the presence of a hero.

It's hard to sleep when TV is so good. Why do they make it so good?

The sublime is a sensation of awe created from the experience of art. That’s my best definition without going to a dictionary, but I think it’s close.

It is a feeling that artists try to create with their work. Usually, they try for a sensation of pleasure from beauty. For example, a sweeping vista on a movie screen might take your breath away, or a really good novel might leave you tingly when you put it down.

There’s also a sensation of the sublime from images of horror. That’s how some people explain the attraction of slasher movies. Personally, I like the guts.

I experienced an overwhelming feeling of appreciation today that I can only explain as sublime. I sat for 1 hour on Olympic Boulevard and only went a very short distance.

Ridiculous traffic is not uncommon, in fact, what makes it so wonderful is that it is the norm. Today, in the car, and paralyzed, is when it hit me, the kind of joy from fantasy brought to life, the suspension of disbelief, the acceptance that what is before me is unfathomable and yet exists.

I was impressed by the progress of mankind, and elated by the comedy of my pained, crawl of a commute.

LA traffic is both incomprehensible and material, it is boggling, and it is sublime.

I don’t really take my work home with me in any sense. By the time I’m in the elevator, if you ask me what I did that day I’d be at a loss – I’m that good. By dinnertime, I’m a little vague on my profession, and by morning it’s all I can do to find my way to the office. That’s why I was so amazed when Robin Wiatt bothered me so much that I couldn’t get her aggravated quibbling out of my head all weekend. Man, I hate her.

It is a standard fictional device to portray nature as a reflection of the psychology of a story. Often, an anomaly in nature will signify that something is wrong in the lives of men. A drought and plague torment the city of Thebes in Oedipus Rex, a storm rages at the height of King Lear’s insanity, and carrion birds circle incessantly over the castle of Macbeth.

Today, I woke up without an alarm and totally refreshed at 6:45. I hope I don’t die.