Time for a weekend wrap-up and to tie up a few loose ends. Or something like that.
Weekend went fairly well. On Friday night, I went to my friend Allan's hockey game at the Stars Center in Valley Ranch. Upon arriving, I ran into Danielle, a friend of Allan and, I guess by extension, myself. She was telling me that the Stars are looking to sell the Star Center in Valley Ranch as they are moving their HQ to a new facility in Frisco. Frisco, Texas, that is...not San Francisco, California. Which is a good thing...I'm not sure how much gay people like hockey, though with a goalie named Ron Tugnutt
, I'm sure gay men would flock to the ice.
Upon learning of the impending vacancy and therefore availability of the Stars Center, I immediately envisioned gathering a group of investors and purchasing it to make it the premier amateur hockey center in the Southwest. Then Danielle deflated my dreams by telling me that one of the terms of sale is that the new owners can't make it an ice center. That's kind of crappy. What else could it be used for? If you've never been there, it's a large cinderblock warehouse-looking building that has two ice rinks in it. It's in the middle of a residential neighborhood down the street from the Dallas Cowboys practice facility/headquarters. Some of the ideas floating around for this large building include making it into a church. A very ugly church that looks too much like the crematoriums at Auschwitz. Our Lady of the Zamboni or something like that. I think a church would be a bad idea. God would probably frown upon worshiping in a building constructed by and for Tom Hicks. A warehouse probably wouldn't work in the area as I doubt the zoning commission would approve. Oh well...I'll leave what to do with it to people with much more money than the Rifleman.
Allan's hockey game didn't go so great, as he is, without a doubt, the finest player on his team. Whereas he actually makes an effort, the others just seem to like to watch the puck slide on by them. They remind me of that kid that always got stuck in right field because he sucked and ended up missing that one play that could have redeemed him because he was too busy picking weeds or watching birds. At least when you played baseball, that was only one kid. I can't imagine the agony that Allan must go through having to play on a whole team of losers. Probably the same agony that Emmitt Smith has endured the last couple of years. At least he got paid to do it. Allan has to actually pay to play. One can only hope that he works his way up the amateur hockey ladder to something more akin to amateur hockey nirvana.
Saturday, I journey from the relative safe confines of my stylish and exclusive loft in Plano back to Irving in search of a new domicile somewhat closer to my place of employ. First, though, I had to pick up Minotaur's ex, Grace, as I needed a woman's guidance in choosing a decent place to live. That, and she'd done a fine job a couple of years back choosing my stylish and exclusive loft as my current place of residence, so I somewhat trust her judgment. Before apartment shopping, though, one must obtain nourishment, so we headed back to Dallas from her place near Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport (and by "near" I mean "so close that planes sometimes fly right over your head, depending on wind direction, thus giving meaning to the like "I got my head shaved by a jumbo jet" in the track Song 2
by Blur, though Damon Albarn seems to render the line as "I got my head chayed bya jumboat-chay") back to Dallas for pancakes from the Original Pancake House. I paid for brunch as a pre-thanks for helping me out, but I'm still trying to figure out how two orders of pancakes cost me $20. I don't remember ordering caviar flapjacks.
We looked at apartments all over the Valley Ranch/Los Colinas areas. Most were pretty damn nice, but others were the kind that you pull up to then keep on driving. One such complex made liberal use of bare 2X4s to build elaborate staircases up to its second and third floors. While I'm sure that they were going for an aesthetic theme, one has to wonder what theme they were reaching for. To me, it seemed to be "rustic sawmill". To Grace, it was "Six Flags Runaway Mine Train" or "Texas Giant" or "Roaring Rapids Queue area". These aren't themes I look for in an abode. In fact, I don't really want a theme at all when I live someplace. Another place we visited, where we actually took the time to go inside the leasing office, was a no-go when we realized, while looking a floor plans in the office with an agent, that they were somehow able to lay out the units so that the kitchen connected to the bathroom. I don't want to live some place where their are poo germs within jumping distance of my food preparation areas. If I wanted that, I'd live in an Arby's kitchen. Or Mexico. We fled that horrible place as fast as possible. I noticed that every leasing office we visited inevitably had a row of parking spaces marked "Future Resident Parking". Is this some lame attempt at being clever or cute? Or are their people so stupid out there that they go apartment shopping, park in one of these spaces, see the sign, and decide that they are trapped there? That, because the sign declares them "Future Residents", they must abide by it and sign a lease? Having been witness to much stupidity in my lifetime, mainly involving BMW 7 Series drivers, I'm inclined to believe that there are such people out there.
I finally found a place to live. It's called Camden Valley Park
. It's a fine community and the rent is a bit cheaper than the rent on my current stylish and exclusive loft. The community is gated, there are a few pools, it's closer to work and, if I were a Cowboys fan, which I'm not, I could walk down the street to watch their practices.
Saturday night, I went Xtreme or Rock-N-Roll or Disco or whatever it is when there are sparkly lights, blacklights and glowing balls bowling with Allan, Danielle and Nikki. We went to the AMF lanes in South Irving, on the borderline between "scary part of the city" and "even scarier part of the city a bit too close to west Dallas and north of Oak Cliff". It was fun. Cheap beer, hip hop and dance music and a bitchy black woman at the lane next to us. There's nothing like going to the bowling alley and getting to hear a black woman with a sense of entitlement espouse about how white folks are keeping her down and how she's already maxed out her Lone Star Card
. (If you go to that link, you can see a real life member of the proletariat, with her little proles-in-training).
Because of the time change, I awoke at 2 on Sunday rather than my more customary 1:00. Since half of the day was already wasted, I proceeded to waste the rest of it by making barbeque chicken pizza. So, yay...there you have it, my weekend. Sigur Ros Concert Notes
A lot of people have been asking me about the Sigur Ros concert that Minotaur and I attended last Wednesday. By a lot, I mean "three" and by Minotaur, I mean "Minotaur". So far, I've refered people to his post of the other day, but I think I'll crank out some drivel as well.
Fïrst øff, Ï wånt tø pøïnt øut thåt Ï went ïntø the cøncert nøt beïng ån øverly-huge fån øf Sïgur Røs. The ønly Ïcelåndïc musïc Ï wås fåmïlïår wïth wås Bjørk's ånd thåt øf her førmer grøup The Sugårcubes. Sø, Ï went ïntø the cøncert expectïng the bånd members tø be weårïng swan cøstumes
, becåuse ïn my mïnd, thåt's whåt Ïcelåndïc musïcïåns dø. Ï wås wrøng. They were åctuålly dressed fåïrly nørmål. Før peøple frøm å lånd where ït's nïght hålf øf the yeår. The drummer wås weårïng å truckstøp "gïmme cåp" thåt wås eïther tøø bïg ør wås hïdïng å huge grøwth øn tøp øf hïs heåd. Ør he wås mïsshåpen, lïke Erïc Støltz ïn <ï>Måskï>, except, unlïke Støltz's Røcky, Sïgur Røs' drummer's fåce møst defïnïtely dïd nøt løøk lïke å cåtcher's mïtt. The musïc wås greåt. Dreåmlïke ånd dïstånt åt tïmes, cåcøphønøus ånd bråsh åt øthers, ït exhïbïted å level øf plåyful pretentïøusness. The leåd sïnger, wïth hïs shrïll, gïrl-lïke vøïce, plåyed hïs guïtår åt tïmes wïth å båss vïølïn bøw whïle the båssïst øccåsïønålly plunked øut å rhythm wïth å drumstïck. Ør måybe ït wås å Kløndïke Bår. Ïn fåct, åt tïmes ït seemed ås ïf thïs entïre bånd håd førgøtten høw tø plåy theïr ïnstruments. The keybøårdïst wås bløwïng ïntø hïs Yåmåhå, the drummer wås strummïng hïs drum kït ånd the strïng quårtet wås usïng å guïtår pïck øn theïr vïølås. Ïn å fïnål ïllustråtïøn øf høw cønfused Sïgur Røs ïs when ït cømes tø ïnstruments ånd the cørrect ånd prøper wåy tø use them, the leåd sïnger åctuålly sång ïntø hïs guïtår
, seemïngly cønfusïng the ïnstrument hångïng årøund hïs shøulders frøm å stråp wïth the mïcrøphøne øn the stånd ïn frønt øf hïm. Such vårïåtïøns frøm musïcål nørms cån nøt ånd shøuld nøt be tøleråted. Måybe such stuff ïs økåy ïn Reykjåvïk, but ït ïs møst certåïnly nøt welcøme ïn Dållås, Texås.
Åctuålly, ït wås pretty dåmn cøøl ånd ïnnøvåtïve. Åfterwårds, we hung øut behïnd the venue wåïtïng før the bånd tø cøme øut. The leåd sïnger eventuålly ventured øut tø sïgn åutøgråphs. Ås he sïgned my tïcket stub, Ï løøked ïntø hïs eyes. They were the eyes øf å mådmån. Cøld. Deep. Penetråtïng. Perhåps ønly å mådmån cøuld pull øf the åmbïent textures ånd decønstructïøn øf musïcål cønventïøns ås well ås Sïgur Røs dïd thåt nïght. Aside: Is it just me, or does the preceding couple of paragraphs look like the script to this week's Prairie Home Companion?