I ran into this fine solo artiste in Michigan. He is from Grand Haven, Michigan. As far as I know, he is the only solo artist in this community. He may be this community’s only resident. We exchanged some pleastries about music and related scene politics.

Music from Michigan that is not the White Stripes or Wolf Eyes is marginalized. Perhaps we should check out alternatives like that presented by this fine fellow, so that the Michigan experience need not be translated for us by the suspect aesthetics of Sufjan Stevens.

Some writers and musicians claim that the pseudo-tea Kombucha has medicinal properties. Though this “tea” tastes like fermented salad dressing, persons of all walks of life claim that it is healthy, restorative, and cures cancer. I do not wish to “dis” Kombucha or deny that it proffers health benefits. I would rather speculate on how bad a food would have to taste for me to never, ever, ever consider drinking it, even if I knew it would cure whatever ailed me.

Relevant considerations to answering my query include: “How sensitive is your palate?” and “What ails you?” My palate is not very sensitive—for this reason, I suppose I would drink or eat anything at least once, especially if I was in need of a cure of some kind. If pressed, I would even eat liver and onions if I knew that liver and onions would cure me of, say, my epilepsy. I am hard pressed to name a food that tastes worse than liver and onions, which I was sometimes forced to eat as a child, but I would gladly eat liver and onions again to cure my neurological ailment. I might eat even liver and onions twice. However, I don’t think I would eat liver and onions every day for the rest of my life to cure my epilepsy. That cure is worse than my disease.

I also would be hard pressed to have rodents crawl all over me for curative purposes. I am terrified of rodents. Perhaps I would be willing to be submerged in a pit of crawling rodents once or twice to cure my epilepsy. However, I don’t think I would consent to be submerged in a pit of crawling rodents every day for the rest of my life to cure my epilepsy. At this point, the cure becomes worse than the disease. However, my epilepsy does not intrude upon my life that much. In the event that my epilepsy becomes more severe, I reserve the right to re-evaluate this statement in the future.

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As D.C. residents may be aware, a few property-value-minded fuddy-duddies have successfully proscribed live music in Mt. Pleasant. Mt. Pleasant, though increasingly gentrified, was once a home to the Nation of Ulysses-affliated “Embassy” and Pirate House. Much indie-rock history was made at these locales and numerous other group houses. Partially because of the work of property-value-minded fuddy-duddies, rents in Mt. Pleasant have skyrocketed and most musicians have fled to New York City which—unbelievably—is cheaper these days.

Hear Mt. Pleasant is dedicated to undoing the vicious work of these few property-value-minded fuddy-duddies who have done their part to fuck up D.C. for the rest of us. If you are or ever have been a musician or fan of live music in D.C., please lend your support, or at least read this Washington Post article.

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I spend much time while traveling thinking about food—good, vegan food. Where is good vegan food? How do I get to good food? How much does good food cost? Et cetera, et cetera.

I recently was alerted to the existence of this blog which addresses these very subjects. I believe it is written by a human associated with the Decemberists. Whoever this human is, he gives a shout out to Dukem and is worthy of respect.

If you are unfamiliar with the concept of “doof,” it is “food” spelled backwards. Sometimes, instead of saying, “Hey, I’m hungry—let’s get some food,” say “Hey—I’m hungry—let’s get some doof.” You may just get a laugh out of it.

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As a teenager, I often purchased used CDs at Record Castle in Cottman Avenue in Northeast Philadelphia. Once, I purchased Candy Apple Grey by Husker Du. I thought this record was pretty good. Later, in an anti-CD moment, I sold this CD. I have regretted it ever since.

Don’t miss your chance to check out what Bob Mould is up to.

I’d like to recommend Supersonic Car Wash as the best car wash in Salt Lake City and, indeed, the state of Utah.

I woke up early today in order to have the oil changed on my tour vehicle. As the oil change proceeded, I noticed that my tour vehicle was quite dirty. This is because I drove through the Bonneville Salt Flats outside of S.L.C. The Salt Flats are, as one might expect, salty. Salt is known to be bad for the exteriors of vehicles. Thus, I thought it best to remove the salt from my vehicle’s exterior.

“Where is the finest car wash in S.L.C.?” I asked a Jiffy Lube employee.

“Why, that would be Supersonic Car Wash,” replied the employee. “Supersonic is the best car wash in the state.”

“In the whole state?” I replied. “I must try this ‘Supersonic’ car wash.”

Supersonic did not disapoint. In less than ten minutes and for a paltry $6.75, my tour vehicle gleamed. Though I’m not sure if Supersonic was a Mormon establishment, I can only conclude that Mormons like clean cars. Clean cars do seem quite Mormon, one must admit.

However, I will say that Supersonic’s employees are not incredibly friendly. In fact, they are overly businesslike. I can only conclude that Supersonic employees are too busy focusing on the art carwashing to make small talk.

FOR MORE ICELAND, GO HERE.

Between 1:00 a.m. this past Saturday to 10 p.m. this Sunday evening, I traveled many miles.

First, after a show in Richland, Wash., I drove to Bend, Ore. This drive looks like this.

In Bend, I slept in a hotel for less than six hours. Then, I drove to San Francisco. This drive looks like this.

In San Francisco, I played a show for many San Franciscans. Then, I drove to Reno. This drive looks like this.

In Reno, I slept in a hotel for less than six hours. Regrettably, I did not gamble. Then, I drove to Salt Lake City, Utah. This drive looks like this..

In Salt Lake, I learned my show was cancelled. Regrettably, there are no casinos in Salt Lake City. Still, I was able to drive 1400+ miles in less than 48 hours. I quote Dan Aykroyd in Spies Like Us: “And my high school guidance counselor said I would never amount to anything!”

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Optimism is a quality overrated by humankind.

If you think about it, there is no reason to be optimistic. As Master Yoda put it, “Do or do not—there is no try.” If there is really “no try,” then there is no need to be worried about whether this trying will succeed or fail. There is only doing. This is what Master Yoda tried to impart to Luke in the Dagoba system. I am not sure if Luke listened, as I understand that, in Star Wars: Episode 7, Luke turns to the dark side. Unfortunately, it is unclear whether George Lucas will ever film this episode.

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In poker, it is necessary to give your opponents neither too much nor too little credit. The intimidating fellow who just sat down sporting neck tattoos and wraparound sunglasses might be a dilettante johnny-come-lately who learned how to play hold ‘em on ESPN. Meanwhile, the sleepy old man falling asleep in his rum and coke might be your greatest adversary.

I was recently playing 1-2-2 No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em at Lucky Chances in San Francisco. I had put in two hours at the table and was unexpectedly cleaning up. I was about to leave when I was dealt a 5-6 offsuit. As we all know, this is not a very good starting hand. However, while stacking my chips, I called. I was elated when I flopped 5-6-x—top two pair, for those who aren’t paying attention. I quickly shoved a pot-sized bet into the middle—a $20 stack. As you may know, top two pair is a very strong hand in Texas Hold ‘Em, but a hand that can go south very quickly. When I have top two pair, I like to win the hand as soon as possible, before any lame check-caller makes trips or a runner-runner straight.

Post-flop, one caller remained. I eyed my opponent and was struck with fear. The gentleman who had called looked like a cross between Rutger Hauer and the “liquid cop” from Terminator 2. This middle-aged, sandy-haired gent with steely-blue eyes looked as though he would as soon devour me as say hello.

The hand continued. “El Diablo,” as I came to think of him, had considerably less money than me. After the turn and river cards, I believed I had the best hand and put my opponent all-in. He reluctantly called—and lost. His hand was a total piece of trash. El Diablo, intimidating as his leather face may have been, had humiliated himself and all players present.

If you look like the devil, you had better play like the devil. Just ask Ralph Macchio, who was able to best Joe Satriani, the devil’s representative, in the film Crossroads (1986), also starring Jami Gertz and Joe Seneca.

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If you think about it too long, stereo recording is silly. “I know you are not watching a band,” insists the stereo mix. “But listen! The guitar player is in the right speaker and the bass player is on the left!” Yet, one usually listens to music on boomboxes or on laptops. Stereo separation is not audible on these devices. So what’s the point of stereo?

A bandmate of mine once suggested that stereo recording is absurd. “The music isn’t unified,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous!” I said. I went on a long tirade about the importance of stereo separation. I enjoyed tirades in my 20s. However, I thought about what he said for three years. Three years later, I realized he was right.

Stereo sound should be recognized for the 1960s leftover that it is. In the 1960s, hippie recording engineers enjoying pinging guitars back and forth from the left to right speakers to enhance the effect of marijuana use. The year is 2007. I have no use for pinging guitars.