The High Life

Now, I wore myself out on Miller High Life only months after turning 21. In this period, it was one of the few beers I could afford in large quantities, and I was already sick to death of PBR. The bottles were beautiful, and just the fact that I wasn't drinking out of a can was great too. So, I bought it a lot, and drank it a lot. Still like it, but I can no longer justify the purchase. I'm more of a Budweiser guy these days. Anyways, this old Miller ad caught my eye.

"The Atomic Ghost" Collage Series

Normally, I give collage artists about as much respect as any goofy, little nitwit with sticky fingers and a pair of scissors he should be running around with. But this guy Rafael Castilho Monteiro is definitely an exception.

The Olivetti Lettera 32

If you're a writer, or like to write, or just like old, mechanical gadgets, try to find yourself an Olivetti Lettera. I have the Lettera 32 — a solid, cold but loving chunk of steel designed by Marcello Nizzoli. It's a sleek, fashionable little typewriter which you can tote around pretty easily. The design and charm surrounding this device was probably something akin to the MacBook of its day; an aesthetic that is both functional and beautiful.

I find the typewriter useful because it keeps my writing process from stuttering or stalling. Nothing like a word processor where you might get stuck dicking around with a particular word choice for half an hour. With the typewriter, things just keep moving, even though I can really only type using my two index fingers. And it's hard. All mechanical. You have to really mean every character you type, and if not, you have to be prepared to deal with wherever it takes you. It's a much more concrete experience for me.

Cormac McCarthy used the Lettera 32 his whole life, then auctioned it off at Christie's to benefit the Santa Fe Institute for $254,500! He bought another Lettera 32 shortly after for $20, and in better condition. My mother gave me my Lettera as a gift, and I think she found it at some antique market, so keep your eyes open.

Ties from the Windmill Club

These ties from The Windmill Club are killer. Simple, but still fly. Check them out. Also, let's continue wearing ties when it's not called for, or inappropriate. Our current economy is demanding more from us — a certain element of reservedness and subtle charm.

And check this out:

Charlie Allen, a tailor based in North London, said: "The impact of economic turmoil on tie design can be traced back through the previous recessions of the 20th century. While post-war Britain and the swinging sixties embraced exaggerated prints and widths of up to 5 inches, the downturns of the 1930s and 1980s saw sizes reduced to as little as an inch."

The Devil Went Down to Haiti

Some of us must admit that when we read "the news," we skim. I sometimes make brief scans of world-changing, culture-defining and history-making stories. Do I care about what's going on in Iran, Saudi Arabia, North Korea, Sudan, the Congo, Pakistan, China on a bad day, Somalia, Utah, Iraq or any other place where things just seem screwed up civil rights-wise? Yes. But, apparently not enough to really do anything about it, or to even make it a focal point of my day.

What has caught my attention for the past couple of weeks are these ten Baptist missionaries stuck in a Haitian jail for child trafficking. I wish there was some charming way to tell you that I am laughing as I write this, but there isn't, and I am. It's been bringing a smile to my face for two weeks to think of these cretins locked up in not just any jail, but a Haitian jail. From what I understand, it's not the most comfortable place to do time.

The fact that these jackals are behind bars with nothing to do but read the Bible and pray, has given me renewed belief in whatever we're referring to as God these days. And for once, he's sticking it to these mindless white simpletons who roam our country like lumbering cattle — fat, cud-chewing cows who think there's nothin' better than some token charity work, a little prayin' then maybe a little shoppin'.

At least this seems to be the demographic of the group's leader, Laura Silsby. This vapid, @%$-for-brains, entrepreneur-turned-missionary ran an internet shopping website before her most recent escapades. She's been sued several times for employees back wages, issued several citations for not having her car registered, and she's only been a Baptist for a couple years. Foresight and planning are not in her repertoire. And her excuse for getting caught with 33 orphans trying to cross the border into the Dominican Republic with no papers was this: she didn't know how the process worked.

Okay... but like 20 of these kids WERE NOT ORPHANS! Apparently, there was a cultural misunderstanding. These kids' parents were duped into thinking their children would be temporarily taken to a boarding school where they'd get an education and regular visits from Mom and Dad.

These Haitians were lied to, by "messengers of God." Do I think these missionaries deserve leniency since their hearts were in the right place? Or forgiveness? Or even pity? Hell no. Let 'em rot in that Haitian jail. It's the least God can do for us after that earthquake.

Clark Gable

Check out the King of Hollywood. You gotta be fly to have cats like that and still look like a man. And see that little glass case of cigarettes in the bottom left corner. Fully prepared.

I did it my way...

No one ever sings Frank Sinatra's "My Way" at karaoke bars in the Philippines. It's just unheard of. They really love their karaoke over there, and they take it personally if someone hits a bad note or goes flat singing a classic. There's a lot of machismo hanging heavy in the air, and some of the clubs that feature both female prostitutes and karaoke, also hire a gay man or two — because they're not seen as rivals for the womens' attention, and they are able to use humor to diffuse fights between customers. Seriously, it's true. These bars seem to be everywhere, and can get pretty "hood" in rougher parts of town. Fights happen, sure. But stabbings are the thing to worry about.

I was reading about all this in the NYTimes and I thought I'd share it — if only to show that the old days ain't gone. The days of mowing your lawn while wearing your tie, shaving with one of those huge razor-blades, sipping a whiskey on the rocks while 'the Misses' laughs girlishly over a cocktail. Back when everyone played football, or at least baseball, when no one went outside without a hat, and every body smoked all the god-damned time. Where men went ice-fishing, quail-hunting, body-surfing and inner-tubing on vacation. When your dad let you fire the .22 at cans out back, there were no vegetarians at the Thanksgiving table, and everyone knew not to sing "My Way" unless they were really, really good.

Just love Love.

Arthur Lee is without question, the most under-appreciated frontman of the late 60's and early 70's. I love Love. When I play a song by Love, nine out of ten people ask me, "Who's this?" and I say "Love."

No one really knows about Love. Even a lot of garage rock nerds and psychedelia fans I've met are totally oblivious to one of the most fascinating bands of the past half-century. What is happening? Okay, I know we have all cultured our collective interest in this netherworld we tentatively refer to as the sixties (a trend I am neither opposed to, nor frightened by), but we can do a little better than half-hearted attempts at pretending we have better tastes in Rolling Stones songs than one another. I like "Sweet Virginia" myself. Not just because it's my girlfriend's name but because it's a nice name, and I enjoy Gram Parson's influence on the songs in Exile on Main Street.

Regardless, Love is my (personal) favorite band of the past half-century. Jimi Hendrix claimed that Arthur Lee (singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist of Love) was his favorite musician to work with...ever. And though it's been said before, I adore Hendrix. I take his word the way I would take the advice of Bruce Lee, or Jesus. The worship is just assumed, nothing I have to talk about. There will be many posts about Bruce Lee to come. But for now, check out Love. Please.