Enjoy tonight responsibly everyone.  Take a cab, have a designated driver, ride the bus – just don’t drive ’cause a weekend in the drunk tank is a definite buzz kill.  And we all know there can be even worse consequences if you choose to drive, so be smart. . .mmk?

Hope 2010 brings us even more of an upturn in the economy, some great concerts throughout the year and perhaps the return of Ozzfest.  I hope everyone over 18 gets some sexy romance type action UNLESS they’re directly related to me, in which case a handshake and a hug will do just fine.

May 2010 bring us peace on earth, good will amongst the tribes of the earth and a complete programming overhaul on MTV.  I hope everyone’s deeps wishes come true this year provided you’re not a psychopath, pedophile or a totalitarian egomaniac.  May Stephen King, Anne Rice, Clive Barker and Neil Gaiman keep writing at an astonishing clip and may anyone attempting to perpetuate ‘Twilight’ – type teen/supernatural offerings spare us their efforts & take up gardening instead.  May I get off my own ass and finish any of my numerous fictional projects as well.

Thanks for showing up here and reading my posts.  I appreciate it. .  .but feel free to send cash all the same.  Happy New Year & God bless !

Exhibit A – Nuclearblast records, home of too many legendary metal bands to name. If one takes a glance at the new release section (which I must confess to drooling over often), an interesting trend unfolds. The enigma of the Mail-order edition.

What is that, you say? Imagine your favorite artist releases a new CD. No longer is there just a radio-friendly version and a Parental Advisory version (or PA version as I found out so very long ago). Now we have other options such as vinyl editions, digi-packs and numbered limited editions available only via. . . say it together, mail order. These uber-collectible editions are often $100 bucks or more but include goodies that a true fan would sell his liver to acquire; hand-signed booklets, figurines, posters, banners, laminas, necklaces – hell, it’s like the contents of a Hot Topic are being included in the latest boxed releases. And while this can be a fanboys wet dream, I’m seeing a secondary effect I’m wondering if anyone besides myself has considered.

A typical music enthusiast can’t possibly afford ‘limited’ releases of every band he enjoys, so he has to prioritize. So say there are maybe 5 bands he’ll spot-on buy whatever comes down the pike. So Joe the Metalhead wears his shiny new ultra rare, collectible [Insert Band Name Here] necklace to his next concert & guess what? Other guys who either bought that same package or at least considered it, recognize the necklace for what it is & seek out Joe as ‘one of them’. Ta-da – a gang is born. A modern techno-shaman has just found the first followers in his new cult.

Now this kind of segregation is hardly new – Manowar fans have beaten the shit out of ‘posers’ wearing the wrong t-shirt for years. But this new twist is corporate based segmentation. It’s an artificially stimulated polarization of the crowd-pool controlled by marketing departments, not a fresh swell of support for emerging talent direct from the underground.

Where will it all lead? I haven’t a clue. But since KISS is pandering everything from condoms to caskets these days, they truly could amass an ‘army’, even if the majority of their soldiers are old enough to need walkers. And how much good comes from large crowds that are so easily persuaded, hmm?

Y’know, it’s gonna be Christmas soon. I’ve gifts to purchase. Bills to pay. Beers to finance. . .

Fuck it, it’s Thanksgiving Eve tomorrow and I’m going to Zombie! W00H00!! Tickets are bought and ride home pre-arranged. GAME ON!

In the span of about 4 days, my wife and I swam with dolphins, snorkeled along the barrier reef, braved the markets of the hyper-aggressive street vendors, visited Hooters & the Hard Rock Cafe (OF COURSE!), zoomed around Isla de Mujeres on a golf cart, and explored the ancient ruins of Tulum (pictured).  Not a ton of resting on the beach, but plenty of fun all the same.

If you’ve never been to Cancun, I highly recommend the journey.  Met lots of folks from all over the world (am particularly fond of my new Scottish friends as well as a group from my hometown that we hooked up with) & realized while listening to Karaoke at poolside that tone-deafness is apparently an international epidemic.

While it was sure fun, I’m still glad to be back in the USA all the same.  Just wish I lived closer to a beach like this one.

Now, I’ve never tanned before in my life. Oh sure I tried laying out when I was in college, but that was always just a ruse to lay alongside skimpy co-eds & pretend I wasn’t ogling them. That never really worked, BTW. Apparently, I do not ‘ogle’ quietly enough.

Anyways, being a ‘tanning virgin’ (as my wife so eloquently introduced me to the hipster behind the counter at our local frying post), I had to have each step explained to me RIGHT AFTER I signed (in blood) several hundred pages of documents where I declare, among other things, I can’t sue them if they accidentally bake my gonads or I develop a third eye or anything else bizarre should happen as a direct result of being exposed to their ‘domestic grade’ radiation. I sign everything (like I have any choice, really?) and the wife is allowed to walk me back to my burial chamber where the Tanning Tomb awaits.

Ok, the whole ‘ritual’ of preparing to be tanned is. . . how to say this gently, GAY. There is nothing even remotely hetero about the posters on the walls, the flowery mirror (which I suspected housed a video camera which was making me the star of my own voyeur pic to be distributed on the internet later that evening), or various oils & spritzers & products that they sell at these places. Do we really need ganja scented oil? I think not. Ok, well maybe on the occasional Friday night. . . but I digress. There’s a quaint little towel to ‘dab’ the sweat if I need to. I don’t sweat in ‘dabs’ incidentally. If I’m a sweatin’, I’m doing it whole hog. Almost Literally.

The wife left the room, the 4 minute countdown begins. 4 minutes to get undressed, and position myself in the Tanning Tomb & lay there not thinking about all the germs from other people that I was now smearing on my naked, pale form. And I waited. Apparently, I may not ‘ogle’ well but I’m pretty slick with the undressing. And I waited. Was that a video camera behind that thermostat? With technology, not sure I could see a camera anyways. Bet they are filming me though. And I waited. . .

BRIGHT LIGHTS!!

On my chin. I’m a bit too long for Tanning Tombs. Shuffle, shuffle. Feet don’t really need tanned do they? Won’t I have shoes on most of the time anyways?

Now, for the next 10 minutes all I can think about while I lay there, simmering, is EVERY stinking horror movie I’ve ever seen where somebody dies in a tanning bed. And with the heat, and the fans blowing shear furnace blasts of more heat onto me, I’m convinced the machine is either malfunctioning or I just heard someone put a lock on the ‘coffin’ to seal me in. My mind works funny that way.

It was a looooonnnnggg 10 minutes of charbroiling but I resisted the urge to open the ‘coffin’ lid. Nope, didn’t even do it once. And when it was FINALLY over (with a ‘ping’ almost as if to say “Fries are up!!”), I took my steaming, tingly carcass & got dressed again. And I felt a bit embarrassed of myself, as if I’d just voted to induct the New Kids on the Block into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. That kind of embarrassed.

And i don’t know which is worse; the fact that after all of that you can barely tell I did anything, or the fact that I have to go back about 5 more times. This trip better be worth it, that’s all I’m sayin’.

In an interesting marriage of synergy, ‘Gangland’ on the History channel was documenting the ‘Sons of Silence’ MC over the weekend. I’m sure that was just a coincidence, right? To me, doesn’t matter. Interesting TV is interesting TV, even if there’s a little corporate sponsorship somewhere.

Crave Online has a decent interview with Mr. Rollins that’s worth checking out. As always, he ain’t who you think he is.

And with that, I’m putting on my bandanna, opening a brew and watching the show. Catch you here tomorrow night, mmk?

Newport Aquarium is an amazing place & we had it all to ourselves.  While at first it might seem like an unlikely venue for a wedding, it actually fits the bill nicely when you see it decorated & how well the layout works for such an event.  Plus I thought it was very, very cool to be able to walk the halls at your leisure, peering out from the glass enclosed tunnels to feel like you’re actually swimming with the sharks.  Not sure I would want to go back during ‘regular’ hours and fight the crowds, now that I’ve seen how calming & beautiful it can be when practically empty.

We spent time in the Frog Bog, the Gator Bajou, watched the surreal new Jellyfish exhibit (backlit, very cool!) and even got to pet a few sharks.  I’m happy to say all my fingers are still intact.  Unfortunately, the penguins were all asleep so didn’t get to watch their antics but plenty of other critters were wide awake, there was no lack of flora & fauna to check out.

All in all, a very memorable evening & a highly recommended destination if you’re ever in the area.

The wife and I wandered the lower halls on Saturday afternoon, taking in the sights & marveling at the craftsmanship. The Hall of Mirrors looked like something out of a Greta Garbo movie and the Apollo Gallery was visually stunning, but what really blew me away was the Palm Court area. It’s a cavernous room encompassing 3 or 4 stories from floor to ceiling, all decked out in French Art deco design with a mezzanine circling on the second level. Divided into several restaurants, I spent the last hours of both Friday & Saturday seated at the Bar at Palm Court just reveling in the atmosphere. It was like being in “The Shining”, surrounded by such history that you could almost feel the ghosts of the past around you.  No, didn’t literally see the Lady in Green who supposedly walks the halls but did find the bottles in brown instead.

The stage area [pictured] had an unusual sculpture that I can only liken (in my architecturally ignorant manner) to some sinister, almost satanic altar.  Was breathtaking to see but really kind of wild as it loomed out of the corner of your eye.

Just a totally amazing place that I will most certainly visit again.

C’ya back here next week. . .