And Now For Something Completely Different: The Pink Palace, Part 1 of 2

THE PINK PALACE

The Greek Island of Corfu is known for its amenities, luxurious beaches, hotels, restaurants, and particularly effective public transportation system, but far away from the major towns, in a little cove, the laws of hedonism take over, and at an affordable price.


We arrived at The Pink Palace at eight o'clock in the morning. The ten-hour bus and ferry ride regurgitated fifteen sleep-deprived Canadians on the doorstep of a giant pink complex, where a blond woman with a Texan accent hollered, "Throw yr bags in the luggage room and join us at the bar." Check-in involved shots of pink Ouzo, a psych-up speech, and a buffet breakfast; it felt like a camp orientation on mushrooms. My girlfriend and I snagged a second Ouzo from the Canadian newbies at our table and waited.

We were shown to our room by a woman who'd stepped straight out of a dumb blonde joke: balloon-breasted, breathy-voiced, dressed in pink. She'd come to the Pink Palace from Canada on vacation and ended up taking a job there in order to keep partying. She told us we weren't allowed booze in our rooms but added that she didn't really care. We'd made reservations in advance and this turned out to be vital: the rooms are a good size but semi-hostel style, with three beds in each room. Without the reservation, we would’ve probably had to deflect some creepy sexual advances in the middle of the night. The rooms have private bathrooms and cost 25 euros (like 35 bucks) per person with breakfast and a three-course dinner included. And the view… the view is pure Greek island with a long beach wrapping around to cliffs that jut straight out of the waves, as you can see.


Our choice of activities was extensive: kayaking, guided quad safari, booze-cruise, mopeds, a pool-sized hot tub, pool, or foosball, but we opted for naps on complimentary lounge chairs at the beach. All the traveling and Ouzo had knocked us out; in the three days prior we'd seen the Irish grunge band Therapy?, went to the 1st International Athens Tattoo Convention, and drank Ouzo and smoked weed on the slippery marble rocks beneath Acropolis Hill until sun-rise. Our minds were at least three days behind our bodies and our souls were still missing.

To be continued...

Review - Show - Poison Idea @ Thee Parkside, July 20th

The night started with a friend asking me: Do you ever look at a five dollar bill and picture a beer? I said, No, I see it as two. I had about ten beers in my wallet then, and by the time I reached Thee Parkside there were only two left. The bar was already packed with an impressive display of punk fashion; seriously, the sum of silver spikes must have been in the millions. It was a phenominal showing of old school punkers. I’d just learned of Poison Idea and I guess that’s pretty fucked up since they originated in 1980, two years before I was born. The band’s line up:

Vocals-Jerry A
Drums-Chris Cuthbert
Guitar-Jimmy Taylor
Guitar-Matt Brainard
Bass-Rawbo

The original guitarist, Pig Champion, died in 2006 and his presence has been missed ever since. But that didn’t stop Poison Idea from rockin’ hard as fuck. But wait a second, who played first… oh yeah, the Texas Thieves! It’s great to see an opening band that lists the headlining band as an influence on their myspace page (and they‘re from SF people). These guys have a sound that almost rivaled their stage performance. Lead singer Fozzy began the show by slapping hands with everyone in the front row and calling them by name. Then they launched into superfuckingfast punk. I really liked them. The guitarist Johnny Bouldt was asked to tell the girls in the audience what he did to play the show, to which he responded, “I had to suck all yr dad’s dicks to play this show!” Later, Fozzy screamed to the crowd, “What’s it gonna take to get you to run around and hit each other?” It made me laugh really hard (while getting hit).

The Midnight Bombers were up next and the lead singer kinda ruined it for me, too self-obsessed. Also, they wore stupid matching outfits. But the music was alright and the drummer was a huge motherfucker. When he hit things it felt like Armageddon. He really should be in Nile or Napalm Death or something. Hey, dude, if you want to play with my death metal band email me!



I’m not going to say much about Poison Idea’s sound besides that it was tight, had a sense of humor, and hard. Earlier in the night it had begun to dawn on me that they were really big. I’d gone out to the patio and saw a neverending line set up in front of the Sold Out ticket booth. Quite impressive for 17th and Winsconsin or whatever. My bro said he was standing on the bar because the mosh pit was everywhere. At one point all the tables in the bar were even taken outside to make more room. That might explain why all my pictures suck. Anyway, here they are. Props to the bouncer (pictured below right), you earned yr pay that night. Poison Idea fucking rules!

The Pen May Be Mightier Than The Sword, But Does Beer Trump Them Both?

Do you like death as much as I do? Do you find it funny to stare at a human skull and later, in the mirror, try to imagine yr own, beginning with yr teeth, then peeling on past the lips while exclaiming: Alas, Poor Yorick? Well, death and literature have finally been combined in the SF literary scene to form the Literary Death Match, hosted by local litmag, Opium. The match took place last Tuesday (7/17) and ended with judge Howard Junker, editor of ZYZYYVA literary journal, and writer Stephen Elliot, of McSweeney's Quarterly Concern, flinging insults, then beer. Since I have volunteered/interned for both ZYZZYVA and McSweeney's (both are linked to this blog), I find myself caught in the delicious middle of this battle of beer turned to blood on the page. Read the stories for yrself, as present by Leah Garchik of the San Francisco Chronicle or by ZYZYYVA editor Howard Junker. I personally find the latter more interesting, as Junker and Elliot have just today begun a dialogue through that medium.

*View McSweeney's via The Believer Magazine

TRUCKERMYTHOLOGY

the car door slams.
she rolls down the window quickly
cigarette stench exudes
like a stream
at the first crack
then firehoses out her nostrils
into the green world
and farts through her mouth like wind
through a bakery.
she says something then drives off
I think it was ‘fuck you’.

4/20/07
10:39am