Best of 2011

Can't help it.  End of the year always invokes retro(intro?)spection.  More than our ages, we use it as a barometer for success or failure, inspiring changes to get it better this time, even though results are destined to fall short of our well-intended, lofty goals.

At least I don't have to worry about chubsters joining my gym, cramming the parking lot and hogging all the good machines for the first two weeks of January, never to be seen again.  Because my gym is in my basement (and if you join now, you get this special introductory rate of 0% down and get the fuck out of my garage).

As I hinted at in an earlier post (http://tinyurl.com/), 2011 fucking kicked ass.  Was I finally happy?  No, of course not.  I'm Joe.  Happiness for me hurts.

But I found it tougher to bitch this past year, since pretty much everything was coming my way.  Which reminds me of tripping on mushrooms in the Marin Headlands long, long ago with my good friend Matt. It was a shaky start to the night--y'know, where the hallucinogen begins to tingle and you can't decide if she's gonna be a good witch or a bad witch.  The radio played softly in the fog-shrouded gloaming.  Then this song came on.

And everything was fine after that.

Not that there aren't things I want to improve upon for 2012.  I'd like to finally get those six pack abs I've always talked about.  I'm getting close, down to 13.5% body fat, and I think I'll be adding some new equipment to Club Joe.  Plus, I'm trying to boost my testosterone (naturally, of course; I don't fuck around with anything illegal these days) with BCAA (branch chain amino acids) and D aspartic acid, recommendations from my former nemesis-turned-body building advisor, George Murphy (http://tinyurl.com/ ).  But this isn't about my new and improved rock hard body (or the rusting metal parts inside holding it together).  If you'd like to see some beefcake shots, we're not shy, just ask.  (Please send two dead creeping to the Tropicana Motor Hotel, c/o young Joe...) (Apologies to Tom Waits).

For the rest of this week, you are going to encounter myriad Best Of lists, every newspapers, sports' show, Late Night Special, etc., is going to feature some variation of it.  So I figured I might as well offer a distinctly personal take on the concept as the year ticks on down.  

This year was a lot like that song I linked above, even though I fucking hate Santana.  Many, many good things happened in Joe's life.  So let's look at some of the highlights.  (We'll save the negative shit for tomorrow.)

Best Thing to Happen to Joe

We have a lot of entries here.  First off, like Nelly say, must be the money.  Then there's my marriage to the woman who turns more heads than anyone I've ever been with, the lovely Justine.  And the house.  Bought my first house in 2011, which brings about two more contenders: the gym in the basement, and the fucking indoor BBQ.  Any other year...I mean, how do you beat an indoor BBQ?  Too bad for the BBQ, 2011 saw the single greatest thing to ever happen to a wretch like me: my boy, Holden, who finally answered that nagging question.  What's it all for?  Him. It's all for him.  If you have a kid, you know what I mean.  If you don't, don't worry, maybe someday somebody will love you enough.  Just kidding.  At least you still get to sleep past 6.  

A few months ago, I made a comment to Justine, something like, "I love that boy more than anything in the world," and she said, "Even more than me?"  And I was, like, "Uh, yeah.  What?  You don't?"  And she just laughed.  It's OK being second to your husband or wife when you have a baby; the kid trumps all.  And Holden is doing tons of neat tricks these days, his little personality finally taking shape.  The little looks and idiosyncrasies.  Not that it's all a cakewalk.  Holden has taken to flopping like a British soccer player when he does't get his way, and six hours straight watching him on my own can make me feel like a midget is tap dancing on my last nerve.  But there is finally someone whose needs I gratefully put ahead of my own.  Best thing to happen to me this year.  Best thing to happen in my whole goddamn life.  It's like finally having that little monkey butler I always dreamed about...

Best Wedding

This is sort of cheating, since my last wedding was such a cocksucking sham.  And like that first blow job, marriages like that can really leave a bad taste in your mouth.  I lost so much with the last marriage, was so thoroughly lied to, taken advantage of, played for such a chump that, honestly, if my new wife, Justine, only sliced off one of my balls on our honeymoon night and put it in a jar of honey, we're still probably talking significant upgrade.  But the wedding and new wife have been such a rousing success, my testicles still fully intact.  Not to go all shmoopy...

But I'd like to thank my wife, Justine, for restoring a little faith in love, proving to me that this whole marriage thing needn't be a selfish series of self-serving duplicity. After all, at heart I am a Family Man.

It's nice to feel appreciated and not have your wife blowing your friends.

Best Concert

Tough one.  Two possibilities.  The Hold Steady.  Gaslight Anthem.  Saw the Hold Steady twice, once at the Fillmore, which was good, and then again with my buddy, Matt, at the Treasure Island Music Festival, which was like a prolonged rock 'n' roll orgasm.  Seriously, I think I came in my pants twice from the sheer rock force. Finn's voice and acerbic wit were finely honed that night, and the band, strangely operating without keys, never sounded better.  When they finished their 45-minute, no fat, all lean meat set, they left poor Death Cab for Cutie trying to follow up that shit.  Like watching Spinks try to take on Tyson. Woefully overmatched.

Still, I think I have to give it Gaslight Anthem.  My friend Rich and his (business) partner Dennis put on the San Jose concert series, so they got me, a very pregnant Justine, and Big Tom and his girl, Zenaida, backstage passes; and the fucking band's latest, American Slang, is a masterpiece (The Hold Steady's latest, Heaven Is Whenever, is good, but not like this) (this might've actually been in 2010, but it was so good, we're carrying it over).  Brian Fallon and Co. delivered a clinic that night, what rock 'n' roll is supposed to be all about: attitude, sneer, smart lyrics, emotional hooks and swells, romantic cynics in blue jeans and white tees and a little outlaw country twang.  And to top it all off, when I met them?  What a bunch on non-pretentious, down-to-earth, so-not-douchebag bunch of nice guys. Essentially the anti-Stephen Jenkins.

And you told me fortunes, in American slang...

Best Movie

Young Adult.  For all the reasons I mention here: http://tinyurl.com/6mfr6fd.  If you are pressed for time or just too lazy to click on the link: Diablo Cod's script is flawless, Charlize Theron's acting is unrivaled, as is Patton Oswalt's; and director Jason Reitman's direction gets out of the way, letting the story tell itself, which is what good direction, like good writing, should do.

Best Place to Talk to Old Friends from High School

I only wish Facebook would've come around about 20 years earlier and saved me from all that time I wasted with disappointing face-to-face interactions.

Best Book

This is another tough call.  There's Joe Loya's Confessions of a Bank Robber, and Alan Kaufman's Drunken Angel.  I reread The Dead Zone, and was again deeply affected.  There's Duane Swierczynski's Fun and Games.  Honestly, couldn't get into Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (don't ask me why).  Another gem: Pearce Hansen, Street Raised.  Which might be number one were it not for David Corbett's Do They Know I'm Running?  Which is nothing short of breathtaking, beautifully written, bestowing the best of humanity and dignity where you'd least expect to find it, in a creosote-drenched world.  It's a road book, and a love story, and the tale of a boy becoming a man, all set against the inhospitable, unforgiving Mexican landscape, pitting alien against alien.  Poignant, powerful shit.

Best Advice

Never play cards with a man named Doc, never eat at at placed called Mom's, and never lay down with a woman who has more problems than you do.  (If only I'd found his gem about 10 years earlier...)

Best Website

Hands down, Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/.  It's like Candy & Cigarettes 2.0, jacked on steroids, with a hit of crack.  The best advice on writing out there, and he's funny and irreverent as hell, no punches pulled, and he hides his disillusion and bitterness far better than I.  There are not many writers I wish I could write like.  Chuck Wendig is one of them.

Best Sports Moment

Winning my first Fantasy Football Championship.  Duh.

Best Friend

OK.  You can't really have a best friend unless you are 12 (or you are my wife, for whom every friend is her best friend).  Plus, you write best friend, and everyone else you know is going to be offended.  And I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. (Except those of you douchehookers I hate; I don't give a shit about your feelings.) But the rest of you, I love you, all.  Still, I feel the need to single out one man.  Let's call it a Lifetime Achievement Award (and no this will not be another entry gushing over the attributes of Tom Pitts http://tinyurl.com/7lqcl7a).  This mantle goes to Rich Rice.  With the exception of some family members (at least the ones who aren't dead), I've known Rich longer than anyone, and though we've drifted out of one another's life, played lesser roles at different times, like any friendship of that length, we're still friends after knowing each other close to forty fucking years.  Fungi don't last that long.  He's isn't like a brother; he is a brother.  Or to equate it to pants... Rich had seldom been the flashiest pair.  He has no rhinestone sequins, no in-style/out-of-style bell bottoms.  He is the Wrangler jeans of my life. Dependable. Comfortable.  Built tough with a relaxed fit that lasts.  Rich is Brett Farve, but without the high interception rate or sending pics of his junk to strangers on his iPhone.  And in the big moments of my life, like picking a Best Man or choosing the godfather to my only son, there was never really any other choice.  

And now the best of the rest before the boy wakes up...

Best Comedian: Louis C.K. (who wins handily over runner up Daniel Tosh)

Best Local Band: The Wandering Jews (unless you ask my wife, who will pick my ex-guitarist's band, the Hollyhocks)

Best Website after Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds: Cracked.com (http://www.cracked.com/).  I don't know when Mad's retarded little brother became so good, but I'll say it: consistently funnier than the Onion.

Best Supermodel: Kate Upton.  All you need for evidence is this:

When a woman can do that to you in her clothes, I shudder to think what she could do without them.

Best Statistic: 17% of Americans believe Joan of Arc was Noah's wife.

Best Pound-for-Pound Boxer: Manny Pacquaio.  Fuck you, Floyd, you gutless turd.

Best Kids in the Hall Clip to Appear on this Blog:

Best TV Show, like, in Fucking Forever: Breaking Bad.  (If you don't like this show, you are wrong.)

Best Website to See Before and After Pics of Methheads: Faces of Meth (http://www.facesofmeth.us/main.htm)

Best Bet at the Track: $900 on the 5th horse in the 6th race.

Best Online Porn: Too many to choose from (but if you make me, I'd say redtube).

Best Color: For 36 years out of 41...black (we try not to acknowledge the green years).

Best New Swear Word: douchehooker (thank you, Annie!)

Best Way to Make Duane S. from Texas Stop Reading: Tebow.

Best Gym: My basement.

Best New Old Show: Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Best Place to Pick Up Women Online and Have Anonymous Sex: That's a joke to see if you've read this far, Justine.

Best New Sports' Radio Channel: 95.7, The Game.

Best Pic of a Man Dressed Like a Unicorn: This guy:

Best Potential Serial Killer I'd Like to Date:

Best Emotionally Damaged, Potty-Mouthed Sister of a Make-Believe Serial Killer I'd Like to Date:

Best Reminder to Be the Best Dad Possible:

And last, the category you've all been waiting for...

Best LOL Cat of 2011:

Rock 'n' Roll: Invasion and Repulsion

Didn't roll into until about 1:30 last night after the show.  Which I'm not going to write about.  At least not the actual playing part, which had its ups.  And downs. Namely that it started up, ended down, and left a bad fucking taste in my mouth.

The best part about the night was probably hanging with Jarret (keys) and my oldest friend and fellow East Coast transplant, Rich, who finally made the leap to Facebook, ending one of the longest holdouts going (that only leaves you, C-Love. And you will cave.  For such is the mighty, mighty power of the Facebook).

We had to load in at 6 but weren't slated to play until 11, which is what often happens.  So you have a lot of time to kill after you sound check.  And our sound check might've been the highlight of our show.  We played "Teenage Drummers" and "Down on the Farm," and sounded as good as we ever have.

Raviv met his wife, Big Tom went for Austrian food (whatever the fuck that is), which left Jarret and I to fend for ourselves.  So we grabbed sushi across the street at Sushi Rock, where they were showing on not one but two screens that fucking Twilight movie.  I'm not a big fan of the scatological, and I know at least three people who are going to get pissed if I post this.  But every time I see clips from Twilight, I can't help but think of this.

Makes it less painful.  Recently my wife, Justine, and I went to a movie, which has become increasingly rare since the birth of the kid.  They showed a preview for the latest installation, which was two of the more miserable minutes of my life (at least until the encore of "That's When I Reach for My Revolver" last night).  Justine is like a little kid at the movies, insisting on sitting like two rows from the screen, so I had to stare at that creepy-looking bastard Robert Patterson (or "R-Patz" as the kids say), like, 50 feet high.  You could see all the white make-up they pancake on the guy to make him look dead.  And the fucking soundtrack.  And that werewolf kid. Justine was so excited she was literally shaking in anticipation.  Chalk up one more phenomena I will never get.

So Jarret and I are watching Twilight, eating a light dinner of raw fish and seaweed, Jarret's crushing on the cute waitress, and then we go to meet Rich and his friend Mike, who are across the street horking back burritos and milkshakes, with Mike crushing on the cute waitress over there who is telling a fat old bald guy at the counter about her cat, Mr. Whiskers, and I'm thinking, Mike, you might have a chance here...

The funniest part about sitting in that dinner was everyone being on their respective mobile devices.  Except Rich, who like I said is new to this game.  Mike had some app that pulls up every club in every San Francisco neighborhood with clips from every band playing that night.  Except us.  ("I don't see you guys anywhere.  Are you sure you're playing?")  Jarret was checking out his Twitter and reading back these tweets from the Mystery Science 3000 guy about just how much the new Transformers movie is going to suck.  And I really hate not being able to recall any of them.  Because they were brilliant.

By the time we got to the club, which was still pretty empty, Rich, Mike, and I sat upstairs, watching the opening acts, and found the catchphrase for the night.  When Mike said, "I like these guys," I realized what he was was saying was, "this music isn't too invasive."  Which is what live music is.  It's fucking invasive.  It's why I don't want to go see a friend's band or any band, and why they don't want to see mine.  It has less to do with the music or liking/not liking it.  In these small clubs, no matter how good a band is, it's overpowering.  It's hard to latch onto something hearing it for the first time, and then you have the mix and people playing too loudly, and it's hard to listen to.  And it's harder to pull off.  Live music isn't like listening to a CD in your car; there is no volume knob.  It's a blast of obnoxious. Unless, you play quiet funk with a lot of synth, or covers on your acoustic guitar that everyone knows, are slightly ironical, and sing in hushed, easily ignored tones.

But I play rock 'n' roll.  Which I could talk about more.  But I wasn't planning on even blogging at all today, I'm so fucking tired and sore (the difference about playing rock 'n' roll now versus when I was 20?  I had to fucking stretch first.  No shit), and now Justine just called to tell me we are retarding our son because we have the TV on too much.  So I am anxious that I am going to raise a lobster boy. Think it's time to pull out the ol' acoustic and dust off that Rhianna cover...

http://www.cracked.com/article_19505_5-real-murderers-more-terrifying-than-any-horror-movie.html

Blogger Choice Awards, Red Devil, and Other News

I don't know what the fuck this is.  My wife nominated me. http://bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/172440?load=comments&page=1.

And that would've been nice, and I wouldn't have cared, except when I went to the site and I saw I had one fucking vote.  From my wife.  I get several hundred hits on this thing every day.  We're closing in on 50K, and I'm hoping to have a chance at 100K for the year.  How do I have only one vote?  OK.  I know it's a pain in the ass, that you have to create an account, give them an e-mail, pick a username and password, verify the info via a link and all that.  But think of all the joy I've brought you.  You know how long it takes to write these goddamn posts?  Well, not that long, actually.  But it also doesn't take that long to create an account.  My ego can't take not getting a shit-ton of votes.  I don't know what the hell this award entails, or if it'll do me any good (doubt it), but I'd like to find out.  So please take the four minutes to vote for me.  Because I am hollow, empty shell of a man, and if I win this pointless, anonymous award, it will fill me with purpose.  For about seven minutes (which is still 7 more than I have now).

And if y'all wouldn't mind doing some pimping on my behalf, Facebook, Twitter, et al, I'd sure appreciate it.

*

Next up, and why this post is probably going to be a little on the short side, the Wandering Jews are playing tonight at the 

You can get tickets here: http://tinyurl.com/3wy83h7.  We have a new wrinkle in our lineup, with Lliam Hart replacing Peter Ffrench on drums (and, no, the double consonants are not a typo), but the rest remains the same, with Big Tom on bass, Raviv (who is allowed to tell Jewish jokes, we've been informed) on guitar, and Jarret "Secret Weapon" Cooper on keys and singing the pretty parts.  We'll be playing all of our latest EP, Down on the Farm (available for preview here: http://www.joeclifford.com/music/wandering_jews.html), as well as unveiling some new tracks, which will be on our as-yet-untitled follow-up (I'm leaning toward Up on the Hill.  Y'know, 'cause of parallelism) come spring.  After not having written shit for years, I've been writing new songs (and the world waits with bated breath...).  I think it's the best stuff I've written.  But who knows?  I once wrote a song called "Monkeys in My Pajamas."  (Sometimes I really miss Chris Judd.)

(Have no idea what this cartoon is about, but Chris Judd was the name of my first songwriting partner/bandmate in CT, who got so fat he very well may've popped. So it's kind of funny.  In a sad, life-is-pain kinda way.)  Plus, we're doing an old Creeping Charlies-era tune, "Pretty Girls Make Graves (UK)" about this five-year-old sociopath trying to light concrete on fire (and can this be far behind?

 It's OK.  I can make that joke.  I'm a Christian), and covering Mission of Burma's "That's When I Reach for My Revolver."  All in all, it should be a rockin' good time.

So if you're in the Bay Area, you should stop on in, have a drink with the band, maybe get to poke Big Tom with a stick, because who knows how much longer I'll be able to do this shit.  I got home from band practice last night, and could barely walk. Fucking hip.  That's the beauty of a degenerative condition.  It's as good as it's gonna get right now.

Now just because I fucking hate jazz.

*

And in other Joe-related news, I've got a bunch of stuff coming out this month at Shotgun Honey (http://www.shotgunhoney.net/) and Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers (http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/?zx=8fa1ab9acffc2d3), and a couple upstarts, The Sim Review (http://thesimreview.wordpress.com/) and The Railroad Poetry Project (http://railroadpoetryproject.wordpress.com/).  And we have an outside chance to milk a little nepotism at one of those fancy print journals (with what just might be the best short story I've ever stolen written).

I hope you'll check these stories out (don't worry, I'll plaster the fuck out of my various social media outlets), because those stories (and...poetry) is why I write this blog in the first place.  Well that and the undying love and accolades.  And reconnecting with old friends from Berlin.  And the undying love and accolades. And to improve my craft and... OK.  It's pretty much just the undying love and accolades.

The Bad Seed and Upcoming Events

You know, I really try to post every day.  One of the selling points of Candy and Cigarettes, I feel, is that unlike many blogs, there is always new material.  I don't write once a week.  Or twice a week.  I four, five--have even touched as many as nine--times a week.  Like I once said to Big Tom as I was waking from a drug-addled stupor on the way to an AA meeting: that's a lot of bang for your buck.  But I feel like shit this morning.  My throat is rawer than when I used to smoke 3 packs a day and cough up blood (oh, the 20s...).  My wife ate bad Ethiopian Sunday, leaving me to care all day yesterday for the little guy, who doesn't have a shut off button (although I got him to point to his eyes, nose, and mouth.  Don't laugh.  Trust me, when you have a kid, it'll be a big fucking deal to you, too).  Add to all this, having to deal with the endless slew of publishers, editors, agents and television rights' negotiations...

It just gets so hard sometimes (sigh)...

The word "fucktard" is synonymous with C & C.  Christ, we practically invented the term.  (I meant to buy fucktard.com.  But I'm sorta lazy.)  And if there is one thing we know it's recovery from drug and alcohol abuse.  I've been saving this gem for a while, waiting for the perfect time to spring it.  I think it's mostly because the girl reminds me of Patty McCormack.  Have you seen The Bad Seed?  You really should, if you haven't.  One of the creepiest movies ever.

I don't know if this is where Nick Cave got the name for his band, but I'd like to believe so.  Is there anything more terrifying than a cute little blonde girl in pigtails who stones birds and keeps them as dead pets in a shoebox under her bed?  OK, there are probably a lot of things scarier than that, not the least of which is "Barry B. and a Creeping Charlies' Scrapbook Project."  But it's still up there.

Speaking of Barry, the Wandering Jews will be playing at the end of this month at the Red Devil Lounge (Wednesday, October 26th) http://tinyurl.com/3wy83h7.  The Creeping Charlies used to be the house band at Hannos.  It seems like the WJs are the same for the Red Devil Lounge.  Which is what I'd call movin' on up.  I don't think the drummer from Guns 'n' Roses ever played Hannos...

And before that, on October 15th, Lip Service West will be part of this year's Litcrawl at 2011's Litquake (http://litcrawl.org/sf/events/event/lip-service-west-east-meets-left/).  Andrea Askowitz, Esther Martinez, and Dr. Sean Kenniff are flying in all the way from Miami, one of my favorite cities (http://tinyurl.com/3tbbzgf), to join Tom Pitts and Greg Kim.  I'm so excited, I'll actually be reading at this event.  Probably should start writing something...

Sorry for the lack of meat here.  Once I heal up and these damn playoffs are over, I promise I'll do a better job.