Above is a photo I took at Cathedral Cove in mid-February. Now pay close attention to 00:42 in the theatrical trailer I’ve embedded below.

Kiwis don’t rinse the soap suds off their dishes before placing them in the rack to dry, and I’m ready to hypothesize that some sort of related glycerin buildup in the brain is what’s causing so many people down under to hallucinate that mullets are fashionable. Maybe it’s the Eurotrash influence, too. I’d rant about the crocs, but that particular epidemic is scorching the States as well.

As did Troy in Amsterdam, I heard Mambo #5 on a ‘modern hits’ radio station while on the freeway in Auckland. Tangentially, it seems kids my age have yet to get past the house techno that the Bay Area so thoroughly wore out in the 90s. I tried to name-drop Justice or SebastiAn, but if it doesn’t have a Roland 505 with the Cliché knob set to MAX, I guess some people just can’t be bothered. To be fair, I saw hordes of Keffiyeh-wearing hipsters in Wellington, but I was too shy to throw myself at them and ask about the latest Iron & Wine album like a lost, dehydrated waif begging for water at the edge of a desert oasis.

Meanwhile, I’m more tan than I’ve been in years, and am running, so to speak—trying to stay ahead of the throbbing, ominous thunderhead of existential crisis gathering on the horizon. (A very common theme for young adults, really, and I invoke it mostly in jest. Mostly.) I never thought living out of a suitcase for weeks on end could come so easily to an anal-retentive bore like me.

This is the worst thing I’ve seen all weekend.

Scolari’s Office is being sold to the owners of Bar Dynamite. It will close in two months and undergo renovations for three to six weeks. After that, I can’t imagine ever seeing the same shitty bands, lowbrow crowd or fantastic drink prices there again. Picture a single tear gathering in the corner of my eye before silently sliding down my face and dropping onto my lap.

(A special shout-out to the octogenarian we saw there before the end of 2007 with the hairpiece, stunna shades and portly El Cajon streetwalker.)

PS: It’s not actually the worst thing I’ve seen all weekend, jeez. That honor should probably go to the 60 Minutes report on rape as a weapon of war in Congo.

Thank you, Facebook, for providing me today with this insightful and nuanced audit of San Diego’s musical taste:

To be fair, perhaps the blame lies with the people of San Diego and not Facebook’s summary of the given data. Regardless, the Jack Johnson/Sublime thing is pretty spot-on. The Oktoberfest in Ocean Beach that we briefly visited on Saturday was downright rotten with Reggae music. Guh.

Today is National Bike to Work Day!

I was honked at by cars and given the thumbs-up by a middle-aged Soccer Mom ensconced in her SUV. Upon arrival at my building, all the good bike racks were overcrowded and nearby parking meters were claimed as well.

National Bike to Work Day is stupid.