Paper Planes

I always thought end of the year lists seemed stale. But I was stuck on the 101 North the other day and, after disagreeing with a radio DJ’s top picks of the year, decided to come up with my own. Then I thought I should record it somewhere, so here it goes. Slashes indicate cases where I could not make up my mind.

Best album of the year: Untrue/In Rainbows ---- Best discovery of an old album: McCartney --- Best show: Panda Bear @ the Bowery/ Sonic Youth, Daydream Nation @ McCarren Pool ---- Best movie: Lars and the Real Girl / There Will be Blood --- Best discovery of an old movie: A Night at the Opera / The Conversation --- Best book: The Road / The Mystery Guest --- Best discovery of an old book: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay --- Best presidential candidate: Obama ---Best gadget: the TomTom 150 --- Best play: Talk Radio --- Best art exhibit: 1960’s @ Whitney/ Murakami @ MoCA --- Best TV show: Pushing Daisies / It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Compiling inventories like this take my mind off more pressing issues. Like the fact that I’ve accrued up to $90 in parking tickets in the past month. In case you’re keeping count, that’s only two tickets, but still nothing to take too lightly. The first one (my very first parking ticket ever) happened only one block away from my apartment and the last one was because I naturally assumed that parking meters take the weekends off.

Lifetime Piling Up

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I was leaving the office today when I happened to strike up a conversation with the parking lot attendant. “What are you always doing with all of those books?” he asked me. I told him that it’s my job to read. “Wow, don’t you get bored reading all day? I think I’d fall asleep!”

I looked at this man who spends eight hours a day in a parking booth, and I tried to see things from his perspective. He was wearing heavy, fleece gloves (50 degrees out here today), with the same slapdash grin that's plastered to his face every time I see him. I told him I drink a lot of Diet Coke to keep me awake and left it at that.

Little Fury

In case you were ever wondering what happened to Ian Ziering, I saw him sitting in the corner last night in the green room at the taping of American Gladiators, the Next Generation. His foot was all bandaged up like a cotton ball, propped on a scooter for extra elevation.

I didn't tell him that he was always my least favorite of the hunky Beverly Hills 90210 boys (Steve was the one who got Brandon to try coke in the bathroom). But I did offer my condolences for his injury and brought down his washed-up ego by having no apparent knowledge of his Dancing with the Stars stint. Sorry, Ian Ziering.

Yes, even though I do not have the connections necessary to find a job right off the bat in this town, I can secure backstage Gladiators passes when need be. Growing up with two older brothers, I used to watch that show religiously, mostly in preparation for how to defend myself when they took it upon themselves to dog pile me at the end of each episode. So I jumped at the chance when an invitation was extended to watch the show being taped.

From what I could see, the new American Gladiators is revamped to excess for the 21st Century, with a multimillion dollar set that stretches out on top of a 20-foot deep pool. But, most importantly, Hulk Hogan (also a recurring character in my childhood) is hosting the show, and you could not ask for a more charismatic muscle man.

The Gladiators, on the other hand, seem more revved up than the stars of the first generation. One Gladiator in particular looked like he busted out of the womb popping steroids and listening to Motorhead. To me, though, they just look like juiced up circus freaks. It was pretty awesome.

Ready for the Floor

Invitation Songs

The best band coming out of Seattle right now is the Cave Singers, which I finally had the pleasure of seeing the other night at the Echo. They play folksy-type rock in the same vein as Band of Horses, but with more of a bent toward the lullaby, a la Iron & Wine. And, oddly enough, it features one of the dudes from Pretty Girls Make Graves, arriving to a total 360. The best part, though, is that the lead guy's voice crackles like that of an 88-year-old, tobacco pipe smoking old man, when really, he's probably just pushing 28. And it doesn't hurt that he adds extra charm by playing a melodica and pounding on a washboard with a maraca.