I am seriously trying to decide between purchasing Star Wars' "Imperial March" or Chewbacca's growls as a ringtone.

What the hell is wrong with me?

It was almost surreal to look down at the hundreds of people singing a song about genital herpes, lead by a man wearing a hat with ram horns.

But what should I have expected from a Les Claypool show?

Actually, I had no idea what to expect. We were speculating before the show as we listened to Vaudeville-esque music against the backdrop of three photos of Claypool. Was he going to fly in overhead? Would he appear on stage with a bang! in a cloud of smoke?

The lights went down and we all cheered as two percussionists, one horn player, and Gabby La La came on stage. We waited a moment for the grand entrance of the Colonel. I braced myself for the theatrics.

There were none. Les just kind of sauntered onto the stage, grabbed his bass, pointed to the crowd, and had at it. It was really bizarre to have Les Claypool like eight people away from me, doing his thing.

But then the crowd started moshing, and I, having a few bad moshing experiences, saw an out when two of the girls in our group decided to find a spot where a) we wouldn't get elbowed in the jaw and b) could breathe a little. We went up to the second level and could see everything (for awhile) and had a lot of room to move. (They danced, as Clay put it, "like camp counselors." It got kind of obnoxious.)

So there I was, second level, looking down at fucking LES CLAYPOOL rocking the brains out of the place. I had completely forgot about his bizarro theatrics and weird stunts until he left the stage during an insane percussion solo (thanks to Mike Dillon) and returned wearing a pig mask. It was like I had just learned it -- OH YEAH -- Claypool's fucking weird as hell. It was so awesome. He just stood there in his pig mask playing an electric upright against Gabby La La's sitar. He left again amidst another Mike Dillon vibraphone percussion solo and returned wearing a monkey mask, playing this instrument that I can't remember the name of, but basically it's a string attached to a pole with a whammy bar.

Wait, let's go back to this percussionist. I have NEVER seen percussion like this, this guy was insane. Yeah, he used four mallets at a time on the xylophone, but he was going at that thing faster than I've ever heard, and then he'd drop them and whip around and do an insane drum fill, and then bam! he's on the vibraphone again, all in the matter of seconds. It was truly a spectacle.

Les Claypool himself was ridiculously normal. I expected weird anecdotes and bizarre voices, but he talked about his upcoming movie and his broken pinkie and method actors and whatnot like it ain't no thing. Really really normal, standing there in his long-sleeved t-shirt that said FANCY.

He closed the show with a wave and walked offstage. Eventually he came back to play one more song, sporting ram horns. "Every once in awhile," he said, "something happens to you that really inspires you to create great art. This is a song about genital herpes."


Being the fan that I am, by default I have to say that the Red Hot Chili Peppers was the best show I've ever seen, but really, really, I think it may -- MAY -- have been Les Claypool.

I thought it was going to be a regular night at SCI. Little did I know that I would have a *~*~*~celebrity encounter~*~*~* by the end of the night.

It started like any other night. I filled the ice bin, put out the liquor bottles, counted the money, signed on to the system, unlocked the doors, stocked the beer, and put on "Man on Fire" on F/X (which, by the way, rocked -- although I didn't see all of it). A few people trickled in and out, but it was mostly dead. Two guys sat at the end of the bar talking about the Brewers game. Two guys sat at the other end of the bar talking about hunting (of course).

Around nine o'clock two women, one older, one younger, entered the bar. The younger one ordered a martini and the older, a shot of Kahlua, and they asked who was eliminated in the first half of "Dancing With the Stars." When the initial chit-chat faded out, I did what I always do -- clean up the bar. I restocked the beer, I wiped the coolers and the ice bin, I wiped the counters... and then I kind of stood there, glancing at "Dancing With the Stars" on one TV and the hockey game on the other.

"THAT'S why you look familiar!" one of the guys exclaimed to Miss Martini. "The Apprentice!"

As it turns out, Miss Martini was Tana, runner-up on Season 3 of The Apprentice. She defended her position on the show (evidently she was portrayed as "The Bitch," and apparently we would have been too "if [we] had the team that [she] had"), talked about "Donald" and his hair, Melania, the producers, etc. When I told her that I would stay open as long as there were people in the bar, she told me "that kind of attitude would take me far in the business world."

She also ragged on SCI and the employees a little bit, but not without reason. Homeboy upstairs was kind of a doofus, "Slick Rick" is a good name for the general manager, and... well, Other Bartender is a lazy-ass slacker (albeit a very nice boy). And yes, I agree, it wasn't a great business move for my managers to close up the bar at midnight the other night when there were a lot of people in there, but I would like to believe it was done with a valid reason, so calling them "assholes," "asswipes," and "idiots" was a little over-the-top. But I forgive her because she made my night quite entertaining. And her mother-in-law was funny. And, let's be honest, she tipped really well.

Who knew I would be graced with such celebrity in the plaid wonderland that is SCI?

Tana, if you google yourself (and I kind of think you would), the name of the syrup used in the old-fashioned is Jero. And, in all seriousness, I think you are a very nice lady.

Holy crap, I work ALL THE TIME now. Surprise, surprise. Since Thursday I've been working every night, and I will continue to work every night until Wednesday.

However, this means that I have lots of good stories, including a drunk-ass groom behind the bar pouring his own beer, a dude in a pink shirt (who was screaming about how it was "SALMON, NOT PINK!!") challenging my manager to a duel (a duel!), Nascar, and children puking up kiddie cocktails on poor unsuspecting guests.

Also, I have a grand adventure approaching, including one long-ass road trip, some good ol' fashioned rock & roll, my most excellent cousin, grad parties, train rides, and my Minneapolis buddies.

So photos, blogs, and stories to come... but right now, I'm on a two-hour break from work.... so I need to eat and go back. God.

PS: The wedding on Friday was Bahn/Jones. Think about that.

I am really lucky that Eric is my brother. I swear to god I'd be literally insane without this kid.

You, too, are really lucky that Eric is my brother. Otherwise, you'd be seriously missing out.

Pictured below is Le Baron Weasel, the brilliant hip hop satirists from Minneapolis. (They are not the ones opening for Claypool, by the way.)



I highly recommend the classic "Close It Like a Bookshelf," and my personal favorite, "Bitches Carnival." I am making it known right now that I fully support Le Baron Weasel. So write on, kids. Right on.

Just saying.

Dear John Mayer,


Thanks for getting hot again.

Now dump the bimbo and we'll talk. I mean, come on:


What's that? What is that? Does she challenge and stimulate you in ways aside from "Well I'm not supposed to look directly at them all the time, what else can I focus on?" I'll bet she embarrasses you when you meet super cool blues men that you collaborate with. "Hey Billy Gibbons, this is my girlfriend Jessica Simpson" -- how do you say that with a straight face? She used to be the hot one, but you are now superior to her in every way. Dump her chicken-or-fish ass, Mayer. Get with someone awesome. You like Corinne Bailey Rae, right? I'd approve of that.

You know, fucking scratch that, I don't even care. Let's take a second look here.


Damn. DAMN. Whatever, do what you want, as long as you look like that forever.

Love, Anniemosity.

Mr. Oswald, Connie's twelfth grade English Lit teacher, had a record player in his room. We would hang out there during lunch and have an unofficial book club where we read short stories and plays because, well, my own English teacher had us watch "Airplane!" when we were studying satire and "Frankenstein" when we were studying romanticism.

I never noticed the record player until one lunch period when we were discussing Kafka's "Metamorphosis." I hated it so much and tried to distract myself any way possible from concentrating on the conversation. I suddenly noticed the record player in the corner.

"CLIFFORD!" Oswald bellowed, clapping his hands mere inches in front of my face.
"Is that a record player?" I asked.
"Yes. Now focus on the insect," he said. I sighed heavily and muttered something about how I just didn't get it. "You're not getting it because you're not trying to get it," he said.
"This story sucks," Connie whimpered.
Oswald rolled his eyes, annoyed at our lack of focus. "I'm going to my office to dig up something else for us to read. Put something on the damn record player."

I was psyched to put "Metamorphosis" behind me, and I jumped out of my chair towards the record player and the small stack of records underneath. "What do you want to hear?" I asked Connie.
"I don't care," she replied. "Something good." I shuffled through the albums and found a four-track Aerosmith album. Hell yeah.

I slid the record from its bright orange cardboard sleeve and turned it over in my hands, examining the grooves. I realized I'd never held one before, and I smiled. This was cool. I approached the player, reaching the record out towards it.

"Have... uh... have you ever played a record before?" I asked over my shoulder.
"You're the one who knows about all this music stuff," came the distracted response. Yep, I was. I fit the album to the player and hit the giant yellow "ON/OFF" button. The record started to slowly rotate. I grabbed the arm and lowered the needle into a groove.

All of a sudden it was blaring the middle of "Dream On." I yanked the needle off. I looked to an amused Connie as we both realized that I had no idea what I was doing. "Try again," she said, with a daring smile. I tried a few more times and failed miserably.

Oswald returned empty-handed, with a renewed determination to have Connie and me appreciate Kafka. I cursed my luck and deemed the session unsuccessful in more ways than one.

Did I ever mention what I got for my birthday?

My grandma gave me her record player and speakers and the whole system.

My brother got me two vinyl records -- a live Bob Seger album (including my all-time favorite, "Katmandu") and a sweet Sly & the Family Stone album.

Today my mom brought up a stack of records and said "Take what you want." This includes "Abbey Road," "Revolver," "Let It Be," and "Rubber Soul," the "Easy Rider" soundtrack (holla at me "If 6 Was 9"), and a live Tom Jones album.

Now I just have to figure out how to operate it all and my music snob factor will skyrocket.

(I still hate "Metamorphosis." And I'll god damn bet that I always will.)

There was a lot of fighting. There was lot of yelling. Janice and I downed some beers and screamed, and I may have slapped Miss J once or twice, but I'll be damned if she didn't hit back. Nigel was the voice of reason, calmly presenting his ideas, but they were drowned out under Janice's screeching.

But the verdict is finally in, and here are the results of Anniemosity's Next Top Model.


In fourth place is Pelowski. Nigel said she has amazing qualities and has an ability to play well in front of the lens. Miss J was not as specific but enjoyed what she did. Janice screamed, "Don't you see I'm fucking important!!! You want to know who I think has it? Pelowski. But she couldn't stand up to the pressure and bailed." Tyra was incredibly impressed with Pelowski's poses and ability to adapt to the feel of the shoot. The overall consensus was that she did very well -- the judges would like to see more.



In third place is Tony. Nigel was taken with Tony's attitude, comfort level, and coolness. Miss J liked Tony's natural and sexy free spirit and the juxtaposition of masculinity and sensitivity. Janice was passed out somewhere under the judging table. Tyra was pleasantly surprised with Tony's versatility, namely with the first shoot, and his ability to let himself get into character. Overall -- impressive shoot. Work your poses a little more and you've got a shot at winning Cycle Two, baby.



The runner up is Fuller. From "natural and delicate beauty," to "strong yet soft features," to "an ambiguous, Mona Lisa-esque smile," the judges had some nice things to say about her. Even Janice sprang to life and screeched about being able to see all her faces in every angle how she has a "woman hard-on" for her. Tyra loved the eyes -- Fuller's use of her eyes would make the real Tyra proud. However, the judges were split on her attitude. Nigel was slightly put off by when she was trying to act cold, emotionless, or look like a bitch; he liked her best when she was looking happy. Miss J wanted more, more, more attitude. But overall, Fuller performed exceedingly well, and we here at ANTM can't wait to see what she does next time around.



The winner of Anniemosity's Next Top Model is Matz. The judges were blown away.

Nigel: Matz amazed me with her ability to go from bold to mischievous, candid to violent. In all shoots, Matz's expressions, and expressive behavior, communicated very well with the camera. She uses her body well and isn't afraid get a little crazy to round out the emphasis on a given mood. She convinced me she's sweet, strong, and psychotic at times. Beautiful and edgy. Made me laugh, made me cry – two thumbs way up. In this judge's opinion, Matz dominates the competition for the crown.

Miss J: You are feisty and I love it! Your relationship to the camera is obviously comfortable. I just love your energy in these photographs. You're cute, smart, confident. You know you're good. [...] It was exciting and I love it.

Janice: was drunk.

Tyra: Matz, your use of space was fantastic. You had the most creative poses, your energy was amazing, and the end product was spectacular. I can't say enough great things about you.


I couldn't have asked for better models ----- but there can only be one....

Congratulations, Matz - you are Anniemosity's Next Top Model!

Yes. She has. By introducing me to this:


my life has been ruined.

Number one: a vendetta, a personal boycott, has been nullified... one that I had made exactly two years ago. I swore to never watch the American version of "The Office" because the British one was so painfully perfect. Oh god, David Brent and his failed music career and aspirations to make his own game show ("Upstairs/Downstairs")... Gareth Keenan Investigates... Tim/Dawn... no, no, it was just too perfect to mess with. I was slowly won over with a few episodes when I was in Duluth for my birthday and now that I've been shown where I can watch every single episode... well... god damn it, Fuller, I gave in and watched it. All.

...which brings me to number two: every free moment has been spent catching up on this show. I'm sure my neighbors think I'm some kind of freak because I've been sitting out on the back porch, cackling loudly for two days. If I can hear every word that they say (which is a blog post for another day), I'm sure I'm driving them crazy.

And number three: my Thursday night 7pm television spot is already occupied with "Ugly Betty" (yes, I watch it; yes, I like it; yes, I'm aware I'm like the only one) and now I have to figure out my Thursday television schedule because I can't miss this show.

So after watching every single episode of both versions, I have come to these conclusions.

-David Brent > Michael Scott. I'm sorry, Steve Carell, I think you're brilliant and I enjoy your character very much, but Ricky Gervais' David Brent won my heart long ago... especially with his music video. No, David Brent wins hands down. Sorry.

-Dwight Schrute > Gareth Keenan. I adore Gareth Keenan, the tiny, sickly looking Army man... I really do... but I just love Dwight. I love Dwight. I really can't justify it any more. That's all there is to it.

-Tim = Jim. I can't choose, I love them both. I love Tim's wit. I love Jim's pranks (sending Dwight faxes from the future and creating a Pavlovian response may be the funniest things I've ever seen). I hate Tim's hair. I hate Jim's ... well, I don't know. I just hate Tim's hair... and the fact that their names rhyme. But the character is solid in both versions and I would do love them both.

-Dawn > Pam. I like Pam a lot, but Dawn wins in my book for some reason. She's quiet, but less meek I think. Also she doesn't take shit from Lee (which is the UK version of Roy), and Pam seems a little more prone to take shit from Roy. Also, with that beard, Roy's pretty hot. I digress, as usual. Dawn wins.

-US employees > UK employees. I love Keith and Malcolm, and once Trudy gets in there... well I just like her a lot, but Stanley is really the best character ever. That's all I have to say. Stanley wins it.

Thanks a lot, Sarah Fuller. I don't know if that's sarcasm or not.


In unrelated news, Chris Richardson stole my heart with his version of "Wanted Dead or Alive" on "American Idol" - yes, I was worried, yes, I still watch that show, and no, I'm not ashamed.


In further unrelated news, my other two judges are slacking off hardcore on my Top Model assignment... although I did talk to Miss J this morning and was promised his would be done this evening. That just leaves Miss Janice Dickinson...............


And to close, the best photo I've ever seen: