Cannanes: Cubicle Fodder
ALBUM: Trouble Seemed So Far Away by the Cannanes with Explosion Robinson
Released May 21, 2002
September is here, look busy! There are no more excuses after August, and you'll need good music to keep you productive. Australian poppers the Cannanes merge sweet, slacky singing with gentle guitar melodies, while New York's own Explosion Robinson brings the beats and beeps. The result is a keeper for the disc changer, a sonic workaday wallpaper.
After 15 years, the Cannanes are an official Band That's Been Around Forever, and it shows with their R.E.M.-ish stroll. They are in no hurry to make a point, and that's nice when you're under a deadline. A little reminder that some people have already made their money and that maybe you will too, someday.
"Radio Moscow" is a strummy, upbeat loop, followed by the wispy, choral "Ten Stories." "S.A.D." delivers Brian Boise's droll lyrics ("Static electricity, I wish you'd stop blaming me for the shocks / You know I'm not a magician, just shooting off sparks") over a Casio beat; it's interesting but never distracting.
Less is more when doing The Man's bidding. Here are some other albums to keep the mind free when the hands are enslaved:
The Incredible Moses Leroy, Electric Pocket Radio The Actual Tigers, Gravelled & Green Lemmon Jelly, lemmonjelly.ky Deltron 3030/Dan the Automator, The Instrumentals Emiliana Torrini, Love in the Time of Science The Busy Signals, Pretend Hits Trembling Blue Stars, Alive To Every SmileCoworkers should be seen, not heard, so show up with a giant pair of headphones, plug in, and do good work, iMac warriors.
The Greatest Summer Movie, Ever
FILM: Blue Crush
Debuted: August 16, 2002
When the summer green-screen extravaganzas grow (more) tiresome, and the costume dramas are just too thinky, may there always be a Blue Crush on the horizon. It is a movie about teenage girls who surf.
The premise is cute and simple: Anne-Marie (Kate Bosworth), Eden (Michelle Rodriguez), and Lena (Sanoe Lake) live together in a Hawaiian beach shanty, working as hotel maids to pay the rent and surf expenses. All three are capable surfers, but Anne-Marie is the star, an aspirant to the endorsement-fueled professional circuit.
But who really cares about a movie that debuted nearly a month ago? The real reason it rules is the primo shwag that Universal Pictures sent out to promote the film. Within a bright blue nylon bag are tons of glossy press photos, a dorky Blue Crush "Gilligan hat," and an 
unedited cast interview CD. But the take gets better with a pair of blue sandals (what other color?) that leave the movie logo perfectly imprinted in the sand beneath your feet, and a chunk of coconut-scented surf wax. I like to sniff it and pretend that Michelle Rodrigues smells just like it after a day of shooting.
Here are the summer's other best films, irrespective of quality or box office success, ranked solely on the promo goods:
#2. The Road to Perdition: Press kit designed to look like a large, leather-bound book. Contains table of contents, with information told in a narrative style. Carefully displayed artwork and text on full color pages to briefly describe the story, with cast/crew biographies, behind-the-scenes information and director's notes. CD-ROM contains 29 color stills and poster artwork.
#3. Austin Powers in Goldmember: Vinyl 11" x 12" x 3" Louis Vuitton-style tote bag with Goldmember "G" design contains matching portfolio, cell phone pouch and coin purse.
#4. The Adventures of Pluto Nash: 2.5" x 11.5" mylar sticker and press kit containing 24-page booklet with production notes, 13-page cast/crew booklet, and a CD-ROM containing 14 digital pictures, 2 downloadable posters and a trailer.
#5. Swimfan: 15-page press packet with plot synopsis, cast/crew & filmmaker biographies, complete credit listing, and CD-ROM with 12 color photos.
Inexplicable Wall Street Journal Hedcut of the Week
The graceful portraiture of the conservative paper of record.
Calvin Broadus, a.k.a. "Snoop Dogg"
Page 1; Monday, September 16, 2002
Columnists to brighten your life.
Will Leitch
Will, who lives in a world of alcohol, nicotine and order-in burritos, realizes his mortality at the doctor's office. Then he decides not to care.
Billy Manes
Billy, who lives in a world of alcohol, nicotine and order-in burritos, finds NBC dreams abound in a decidedly UPN city. Thank God, then, for the WB.
Arcata Eye Police Log
Kevin Hoover's weekly watch over the town of 16,000.
Lots of readers took the time to write long and thoughtful letters in response to last issue's Rita Bornstein story. Thank you to the dozens of Reader readers who wrote in just to find out when the next issue was coming.
Guitarist turned professional student Sean Walsh wrote in to remind the Cap'n. of a certain drunken evening not so long ago at Rollins:
You should have told Rita that you peed in her fountain.
Pardon my ignorance, but what exactly are we counting down Connie Chung for? I actually did watch cable when I was in Raleigh last week. She kept asking people, "What could be going through those coal miners' minds?"
First, asking that question once, much less a half dozen times of different people, should be enough to warrant a death sentence. Second, the question was answered when they were freed from the mine. Their answer: "Beer."
Right on, man. Chung sure does stink. But I must admit, the countdown was just as it appeared: a ballsy, wholly inaccurate attempt to predict when Connie's show would collapse. Now it's Donahue who's struggling. I was wrong. Dammit.
Rollins-person Courtney Caton had this to say:
I'm in stitches and haven't been anything close to productive @ work! Keep it up - I have forwarded the Weakly to two other worthy readers.
Um, Courtney, please don't do that. Forwarding the Reader causes Bill Gates to know all of our email addresses, and he's not going to send that $10,000 the spam message promised.
Brian Costello, who lives in a real city, wrote to bicker with me about everything. First he harps on my calling AOL subscribers "morons" in the Issue 3 email, then he disputes a comment I made about Tyler Gray in the issue before that. Then he loses his mind completely:
There's nothing wrong with AOL.
Where else can I take part in polls voting for the "bigger soda pop diva: Brittney [sic] or Christina?" You elitist computer snobs make me sick, and you owe all of your loyal AOL readers an apology.
Also, I see nothing wrong with Tyler Gray getting paid to write about what it's like getting drunk in the different bars in your fair city. I am just one of his 350,000 readers, and I think he's doing a great job. How many readers do you have, sir? 15? Just because he's an easy target for the likes of you doesn't mean you should razz him.
Winter Park's for pussies. Altamonte Springs is where it's at. You owe me an apology; otherwise, why would I read someone who calls me a moron? Watch your language.
Another loyal AOL subscriber,
Brian Costello
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Thanks, Brian! Great stuff.
First of all, there's plenty wrong with AOL. I'd write down a list of reasons, but you'd only get to the second item before AOL kicked you offline.
And what kind of poll is that? With Lou Pearlman on her side, Britney has no competition. Oh, wait...
And who said Tyler Gray wasn't doing a great job? That piece was about people spinning gold from straw, and believe me, an entertainment writer in this city has to. I love Tyler and his work, and I'm glad to count him among my 15 readers.
Finally, if I didn't have compassion for my AOL readers I wouldn't have sent the Reader out as a link so they can actually see it. And there is no argument about Winter Park; I'm in a comfy, 68-degree apartment wearing pink fuzzy slippers. What's your point?
Rollins alum Nellie Lackman was kind enough to send her thoughts:
Dear Cap'n Dave,
As you well know, I am one of those full-scholarship Rollins girls. Well, was, way back in 1996-2000. As two very interesting years have passed, all of it spent in lovely New York City, I look back on those days with rose-colored counterfeit Gucci glasses and think of my fellow female Tars with amusement... the bleached-blonde hair (mine is naturally blonde, thank you very much), the itty-bitty BMWs, the daddy?s girls living on "Beans" salads and Bud Light, all the while hooking up with the pudgy, short, mildly strange-looking (and lucky) momma's boys that comprised a mere 40% of the school population. And I laugh at how they used to bore and amuse me simultaneously.
But what has happened to the Rollins girls I once knew? A whopping 4 of us in my class (all girls) went to law school. One girl I knew of got a Fulbright scholarship. One's designing programs that will probably blow us up, one's a buyer for a sporting goods store, one's getting married in December.
More amusing are the ones I barely knew?the Rollins girls (overwhelmingly non-scholarship) who live in New York City. I had a chance to meet a few of them at an alumni wine-tasting... they were almost all in cowl-neck sweaters, knee-length skirts and stiletto boots, still identifiable by the same bleached hair and sunbed-tanned faces. As it turned out, most of us lived somewhere on 81st Street in Manhattan, but the similarities ended there. For instance, one girl paid her rent with her job at Calvin Klein; mine was funded with loans from Sallie Mae. For some, the Rollins bubble had actually burst: a couple of girls described their "real" – almost middle-American – day jobs. One almost laughably-stereotypical Rollins girl ran up to me and made herself my instant friend when I told her that, no, her sunburn wasn't very noticeable at all, and that if she chugged the first two glasses of wine, she could catch up to the rest of us.
Later on that evening, as I sat at a supposedly-hip SoHo restaurant with my "new" Rollins girl-friends, sipping a Bellini and giving evil looks to a $9 bowl of soup that tasted like crap, I felt like I was a freshman again. Like I was back at some pre-rush ATO party, wondering why I donned my white-tank-black-pants uniform and went there in the first place. Was I trying to fit in with this strange breed of young woman? Was I merely amused by these Rollins girls? Would I be branded "uncool" forever if I dropped my Bud Light and got out of the sock-stinky frat house? As the familiar dialogue, as sickening as the soup, passed over my head, I realized I had to do what I should have done 6 years before: I smiled politely, said a few sweet words and walked out of the place, not wanting to stay longer than necessary, but so very glad I had shown up.
Cheers,
Nellie
Keep the letters coming... I'll have more of your responses next week.
Special thanks to my Pearlman story sources, may none of you sleep with the fishes. Also, muchas gracias to Dan Seeger, Wally Bobbencox, Andrea Lozano, and Dietrich Mateschitz, inventor of Red Bull. Extra-special thank-you's to Andrew Jones for the steady flow of unnerving links, and Lisa Cericola for her guidance and support.
break, a vacation, a total reassessment of life as we know it... call it what you will, but I've needed some time away. First it was that pesky West Nile Virus, and believe me, all the signs were there. Stiff neck, dizziness, and about a hundred mosquitoes loitering around the apartment, smoking cigarettes and laughing at me. Then "flu-like symptoms" evolved into all-out "flu-like flu," and I'm on my ass for a second week in a row. But that's not even the worst of it. In case you haven't noticed, the entire East Coast has slipped into the Career Abyss. Ask yourself: Do I know even one person who has a job that they really like right now?
I'm constantly running into unemployed old buddies, usually right while they're debating the plausibility of a Clinton write-in candidacy for 2004. They're scrambling to make any cash they can, but it's a vertical climb. Our old bosses have taken all the good waiter jobs.
Perhaps this is a good time to regroup, find our chi, and focus on the simple things in life. For reasons that I cannot discuss, I have an amazing amount of frozen chicken in my freezer. I'm talking several pounds here. It was free and I love chicken, so that's a good thing. I listen to NPR without giving them any money during pledge drives, so that's free and also very good. And then there's sex, which is usually free if you're nice when asking for it. But it sure would be pleasant to afford my utility bill.
Which brings me to this Weakly Reader dealie. For those of you clever enough to see through to the black little heart of my perky online endeavor, the ulterior motive was never more than thinly-veiled: I'm out to sell words here, people. The Reader was supposed to return from summer break last week with a revealing issue devoted entirely to Lou Pearlman, the obese man behind Trans Continental Companies. Lou is best known for helping talented musicians like *N Sync and the Backstreet Boys get off to the strong start they deserve. He's doing quite well for himself these days, and now he's expanding (tee-hee) into sinister new territory. It was all the muckraking fun you've come to expect here.
Then came a surprise proposition by Orlando Weekly... "Hey Dave," to paraphrase greatly, "why not write it for us instead and actually make rent this month?"
Sold!
So you'll have to wait a little longer to read all about Pearlman, who is, incidentally, a very fat man. And now my speculation-driven, anecdote-laden work of snark has to be largely revised and re-written to better reflect a true journalist's telling of the facts. I have a week of research in front of me. But I got what I wanted, so mission accomplished.
This doesn't mean you won't be receiving any more carefully constructed junk missives from the Cap'n. How else could I indulge in such short-attention-span Jazzercise? I won't always be willing to give up a nasty little campfire tale to the refinements of the professional pages. The Pearlman essay, for example, would have clumsily bobbed back and forth between torrid tales of gluttony, punctuated by semi-relevant (but entirely accurate) charts and graphs. Now, it will be 3,000 carefully crafted, professionally edited words that you'll smudge all over your fingers in about two weeks. I hope you find it worth the wait.
Come, be befuddled with me.
When we finally invade Canada, we ought to rename it "Really North Dakota." Have you ever come up with a joke, but been sure that someone must have already thought of it?
Witnessed just after 1am in the Winter Park Village: A man standing next to a Porsche called out to a woman leaving the Black Fin nightclub, "hey, would you like to take a ride in a Boxter?" "No thanks," she replied, "I used to own one." He feigned dejection, smiling and clutching his chest. Once she was out of sight, he walked away from the car, unlocked and entered a nearby rusty Camaro, and drove away.
The other night at the Social I met a pretty girl who designs dresses in Orlando. Within seconds, she confessed to me that she used to be a stripper in her native Sweden, but that nobody else knows this. She told me that she used to make a lot of money, but that "stripping really messes you up in the head," and that she spent way more on therapy afterward than she ever made at her old job. Ten minutes passed before I heard her telling this to someone else. Later she asked for my number, and I actually gave it to her.
Four young women were chatting at the Panera across the street from my house, discussing the new engagement of one. "He only makes 38 thousand right now," she told the others, "but he's going to earn more soon." They consoled her, placing hands on her shoulders. A few seconds later one of them interrupted my pretend-reading of the newspaper, asking me take a picture of them with her disposable camera. They smiled while I carefully kept the sunlight at my back, and I took the photo. Not one of them said "thank you."
Behind me in line at the DMV, an odorous, disheveled man of 40-odd years kept well within comfortable distance. Once, while advancing in line, I actually felt the toe of his shoe hit the heel of my own. I tried stretching and gently flailing my arms, which would work for a few minutes, but he always came right back. Finally, after reaching the front of the line, I was called to an open clerk across the room. At the counter I leaned back to open my wallet and felt my shoulder touch something behind me. It was his chest. He had crossed the 15 feet or so with me, never more than a few inches away.
And speaking of Orlando Weekly, former editor-in-chief Jeff Truesdell has found new work just east of the city. Lisa Cericola (who never could get his name right) tipped me off to the masthead of ersatz-newspaper The Central Florida Future. Seems Mr. Tridesdale will now be "advising" student journalists at the twice-weekly UCF publication.
Photo O' The Week
More difficult to understand than a second Bush presidency, this roadside bench billboard defies explanation. What else could it be than a disgusting prank? But still, while there are far more cruel forms of public humiliation, few last as long as this one. Residing at the corner of Fairbanks and Harold Avenues in Winter Park, the bizarre advertisement has gone generally unmolested for over two months. It reads: "Congrats! Jennifer / Voted Most Attractive / College Park 2002," with an unflattering photo of a woman we can only assume is Jennifer. Her teeth have been blacked out since the sign first appeared, but a white patch on the left side of her mouth is the result of a sticker that had been added, then removed, a few weeks back. So who is Jennifer, and why is she so hated by someone out there? More importantly, how has something like this remained for so long? (Click to enlarge.)
Observant typographers must have a glyphtic fit every time they see an overused font. For once, I know how they feel. Lots of gung-ho marketeers these days are abusing Americana, a typeset designed by Richard Isbell in 1966 to honor the upcoming U.S. Bicentennial. In light of all the recent fairweather flag-waving, choosing a font by any other name would be downright unpatriotic (might there be an "Iraqi Garamond, Bold"?). Most designers agree that the wide, arching type should be used only in chunky title blocks. In the September 10 edition of USA Today, the embassy of Quatar took out a quarter-page ad offering support to the United States on the eve of our national day of mourning. The entire ad was written in Americana. For years, 
the University of Central Florida has inexplicably used Americana in its logo and presentation designs. Now NBC is pulling a CBS by slapping together the surely dreadful new series "American Dreams," which features clips from Dick Clark's "American Bandstand" (he is also an executive producer of the new show). The cast was culled from such cuddly hits as "Providence," "7th Heaven" and "Blossom" (Joey "Joseph" Lawrence). Current spots feature the title logo over nostalgic scenes of a time before VCRs, black people and Nixon. Can you guess which font they're using?
The New York Times and the Los Angeles Times require a username and a password to read their articles. If you don't already have these, just use "weaklytest" and "capndave," respectively, for both papers. Don't go carping that you can't read links on either Times' web site.
Whatever, and Ever
Seems like every time I mention Orlando Sentinel nightlife reporter Tyler Gray, someone has to cause a shitstorm. Yes, I know that his newspaper has exactly 1,000 times the circulation of my newsletter, thank you. Yes, I know that he gets paid more money than I make, to do a job that we'd all kill our children for. Yes, he is indeed a full foot taller than I am. But just because I mention him here does not mean that we have some sort of tense relationship. On the contrary, we have been spotted together in gay clubs and Cuban cigar bars. In his review of the latter excursion, I am basically referred to as a wanton, number-collecting flirt (sorry, ladies, I'm straight), but I distinctly remember him getting all the attention at Parliament House.
And You're Still Not Famous?
Ellen Feiss is quite an interesting girl. Well, at least 7 gadzillion web geeks seem to think so. She stars in one of Apple Computer's new testimonial ads, where lifelong Windows PC users made the switch to the bathtub-safe brand of machines, and have been tickled ever since. For her part, Feiss talks about how her old computer lost her homework, but those bloodshot eyes reveal what probably happened instead. Still, even though the ad never aired on television, it's caused quite a stir with amorous fans, who have -predictably- created sites in her honor.
Oh, wow! Destiny's Child, Brooks and Dunn, Whitney Houston, Faith Hill, Mary J. Blige, 'N Sync, Alanis Morrisette, Pink, Alicia Keys and Jennifer Lopez? All at one concert? And admission is free? This sounds too good to be true! Well, it is.
Don't you just hate it when you go and start a world-changing dot-com company that has millions of users swapping music files, and then a silly ol' judge reduces you to a t-shirt company that spends all day fielding buyout offers from Spanish porn companies? So do I, man.
"It's a Small, Rat-Infested World..."
What a crying shame that we have one of their theme parks right here in town, and I still have to drive to California if I want to experience "rats and rat shit everywhere" in a Disney restaurant.
P.S. Do Not Disturb The Sexy
Sean "P. Diddy" Combs is such a subtle, refined young man that it's hard to imagine him writing the invitation to his post-MTV Video Music Awards soiree. But behind it or not, Puffy's "Party Policy" stands, so you'd best respect!
Billy and Chuck weren't like all the other boys. As twilight rolled over the suburban hills, and the adolescent rounds of backyard wrestling drew to a tearful close, these two stuck around to "rub each other with massage oil." Yes, they'd grow up to be professional wrestlers some day, but not like any the TNN viewers had ever seen before.
Certainly by now you're heard the unbearable story of unbearable Chicago Tribune columnist Bob Greene. He was fired after having sex with a teenage girl he was writing about for a column "some years ago." Tribune bosses received an anonymous email detailing the off-the-clock activities of a reporter once made famous for his crusades against child abuse.
In other news-news, some moron here in Orlando (probably an AOL subscriber) spilled air-conditioning fluid at the Sentinel building, requiring a two-block cleanup. But at least the reporters there aren't behind bars, like those at Behind the Wall, the unofficial publication of the Los Angeles County Juvenile Probation Center. Reporters there are urged to please not submit "pictures of throwing signs or homies kickin' it." Oh, and the American Journalism Review sent the one millionth reporter to cover the inner workings of The Onion.
Everyone thought the creepiest part of the first September 11 anniversary would be Aaron Brown and Connie Chung (who is still on the air). Turns out the New York State Lottery did them one better, as the pick-three winning numbers on 9/11 were... you guessed it. And that eerie silence you heard was the sound of no telemarketers calling. Yep, the now-sacred event will be forever remembered with reverence and tact.
My favorite story of the week has no pithy context within which I may place it. Let's just get one thing perfectly clear: If you doubt that the American moon landing really happened, do yourself a favor and not share that opinion with Mr. Buzz Aldrin.
When Animals Attract
Residents of Everett, Washington loved Stumpy the Squirrel. So imagine their dismay when he disappeared from his owners' yard. But not to worry, Stumpy was back ten days later. Whew. Residents of Chillicothe, Ohio loved Waddles the Duck. So imagine their dismay when he also turned up missing. He's dead, though. And from the makers of the land-walking snakefish of Maryland, come the boat-hurdling carp of Mississippi, who might just bust ya' on the mouth. Also pretty fishy: a veterinarian who would operate on a $4.95 goldfish. Did I actually just use "fishy" in a story about fish? Oh yeah, and, don't have sex with cows, k?
Tales of the Perfectly Sane
Two things that do not mix: "mayhem" and "SpongeBob Squarepants." In Boston, over 2,000 fans were turned away in a scene described thusly: "Mothers were fighting, kids were crying and the police had to escort SpongeBob out." Pure gold. But for some real family fun, why not endure a simulated kidnapping for just a couple thousand dollars? Or maybe you could fax your local elected officials several hundred times a day (actually one of my favorite stories this week). Ultra-classy modeling agency owner, Paolo Zampolli, just paid $5,000 for a phone number that has a lot of zeroes in it, apparently his favorite number. And this guy figured out how to never be admitted to another Foreigner concert ever again.
Death Be Not Proud, Or Pretty
Yeeowch! Don't go a-dyin' in your house when nobody's gonna come lookin' for ye. Les' the dogs is gonna eat ya. Also, please don't stab your wife in front of a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant. And everyone's had a roommate back in college who tried to kill themselves (unless that roommate was you), but so few teens today have the get-up-and-go to attempt a self-decapitation by chainsaw. At the end of the day, someone's got to clean all this up, and they might as well get $40 an hour.
Required Reading
Once you've stopped vomiting, here are two stories about fascinating people, written for fascinating people. The first is a surprisingly poignant portrait of Ted Giannoulas, the man who has played the San Diego Chicken for 29 years. Though he earns $7,500 an appearance performing for thousands of adoring fans at a time, he has lead a lonely, empty life "I have plenty of Chicken stories," says Giannoulas, "I'm afraid I don't have any Ted stories." There is a lesson here for all of us.
And Harper Lee. She wrote my favorite book in the whole world, To Kill A Mockingbird, which managed to sell one million copies last year, over four decades after it was published. But this beautiful, careful Tribune story isn't about sales or fame. Here is a wonderful mystery about a woman who published only one book, before dodging the spotlight ever since. Also included: the first photos published of Lee since Mockingbird.
Absolutely Indispensible Sites
Never, ever, ever send a regular email again. Instead, from now on, you are to send only Pee-Mail. Probably the most important communication development since the Internet itself, Pee-Mail enables users to send messages as if being peed onto a snowy hillside. After you are able to regain composure, check out Roadside America, the only way to tour this great land of ours. From two-headed calves to giant stone ladies, it's the America that Osama can't stop.
Silly rabbi, drinks aren't for bris...
Triumph and tragedy these days, as Iowa celebrates its first free-standing Starbucks franchise, while the rest of us learn that it's all part of their master plan.
Greece finally outlaws video games.
That boy you broke up with left a gift on your doorstep. Perhaps you shouldn't open it.
Remember those horrific driving safety videos they made you watch in high school? They've finally updated them for the current crop of reckless youngsters.
Must Have Been a Weeping Willow
They came from far and wide to view and pray at the Virgin Mary Tree. It just looked so much like the Virgin Mary! But then he came along and cut it down. "You Catholics! There's your virgin," he screamed.
Love On The Rocks
Nude men are everywhere, and it just never stops being funny. When will they learn? People at a waterfront restaurant probably don't want you to defecate in front of them. Three more were arrested in six weeks in Oconto, Wisconsin. No shitting reported. In Lambertville, New Jersey, a 24 year-old wanted to make it rain, so he naturally ran across a bridge wearing only a backpack. To his credit, the drought was indeed broken that very night. Finally, please don't drink and drive, naked.
I'm done. Get the hell off my porch.
See you next week!
Yer Pal,
