I live in the kind of place where, during a free outdoor Martin Zellar concert on the Fourth of July, a couple of guys will just inexplicably portage canoes through the audience. Zellar thought it was pretty funny.

(Note: the park is really big and people were spread out. There's actually several hundred people behind me in this shot.)

My Morning Jacket
Evil Urges
2008

If you download one song, download: "Sec Walkin'"

I've been a My Morning Jacket fan for quite some time. Their 2003 album, It Still Moves, mesmerized me with its Allman Brothers-style rock. And 2005's Z solidified the band's permanent place in my rotation. The difference between those two albums of course brought Beck to mind, how he went from quirky folk to hip-hop back to weird party-rock to acoustic sadness back in the 90s. This was a great rock band, unafraid of twisting their sound and reinventing old ideas.

Evil Urges is pure 70s gold. It ranges from hot funk to smooth soft-rock goodness in the vein of England Dan & John Ford Coley. Personally, the smoovier songs are the best, with "Thank You Too!", "Sec Walkin'," and "Librarian" being the sweetest downloads. "I'm Amazed" is pretty goddamned good too, sounding like a track straight off that Bob Dylan album you never owned.

No review of Evil Urges would be complete without mentioning the infamous track 3: "Highly Suspicious," which sounds to me like a little bit of Prince mixed with a little bit of Cameo -- a far cry from the 70s classic-rock sound My Morning Jacket is known for. I have to say that ultimately, I love it. Pitchfork gives the album a 4.7/10 and calls "Highly Suspicious" "eye-poppingly annoying." I say: Fuck you, Pitchfork. You're a bunch of 23-year-old dickslaps who constantly play the "I-only-like-music-you've-never-heard-of" card as if we all haven't been painfully aware of that slant since way before Bread recorded "Make it with You" back in 1970. You're all virginal posers. Evil Urges is the shit.

At the top of this post, I recommended "Sec Walkin'" as the one song you should download. I still stand behind that, as it's the one song that sums up the album better than any other. But really if you want the triple threat, the best three songs on the disc, skipping right to the advanced level, I'd suggest downloading "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 1," "Smokin' from Shootin'" and "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 2."

If you need more convincing, check out "Touch Me I'm Going to Scream Pt. 2" on Black Cab Sessions. It's freaking hot.

Subway, on the other hand, is my gateway drug. I can go to Subway with the intention of getting a six-inch veggie sandwich, only to walk out with a footlong meatball sub with olives, onions, and extra cheese, which is pretty much the same thing as eating half a pizza.

What I'm driving at is that I go to Subway a lot. And every single time I go there, I come out with a story. I've shared some of them here before. Here are a few more.

Worst Sandwich Ever
The worst sandwich I've ever seen someone order at Subway was a six-inch cold-cut combo on white bread with iceberg lettuce and mayonnaise, with the cold cuts heated up in the microwave.

A very old woman ordered this, and I believe that the microwave part happened because she thought she should have it heated up so as to get her money's worth, yet felt like having the whole sandwich toasted was just too much trouble for the sandwich artists. The life-lesson here is that when you combine Midwestern stinginess with Minnesota nice, you end up eating a nuked bologna sandwich with lettuce.

Die! Die! Die!
There's always someone annoying in front of me at Subway. This is one of life's constants. Once I had five people ahead of me and waited for about 15 minutes. When the woman directly in front of me stepped up for her turn, she said, "Hm. Now let's see ... what do I want ... ?"

Then there was the 30ish woman who spent her whole turn preemptively screeching at her amazingly well-behaved children and silent husband because, well, that's what you're supposed to do in her world I guess. "OK, you can go get a bag of chips ... JUST ONE BAG OF CHIPS, SKYLER! ONE BAG! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?! TOM, GET OVER THERE AND MAKE SURE SHE JUST TAKES ONE BAG! JESUS, TOM, ARE YOU DEAF?"

Most recently, the woman in front of me ordered three or four footlong subs (these people always do) and went into great detail about which veggies she wanted on each of them, then realized she had it all wrong and made the worker take off the veggies and start over. The worst part was that she said the word "jalapeños" about 15 times, but pronounced it "hallapeenos." I wanted to smother her to death with an Italian BMT (which incidentally does not stand for "bacon, meat, and tomatoes").

Utter Confusion
One of Subways strengths in my mind is also the thing that strikes terror into the hearts of many of its patrons: the variety of choices. I've seen so many people stop stone solid in fear when given the power to choose their own toppings.

"Well, what's supposed to go on it?" they always ask. The person behind the counter then explains that they can have whatever they want. This is when the real paralysis sets in. "Uh ... um ... lettuce and tomatoes I guess," they say, falling back onto standard Whopper-toppings, a relative comfort zone. Maybe next time they'll go for something crazy like pickles. Maybe.

Side note: I never get lettuce on my subs, which is apparently rare, because no matter which Subway I go to, and no matter who's working, they always ask about the veggies with their gloved hand already buried in the lettuce. But I don't want any, dude! I'm a Subway expert!

Maybe every business is like this. I don't know, whatever. I'm sure good things do happen at Subway. Hell, I met my girlfriend at Subway. But I just think that it's one of those places that attracts the weird.

It's damn good fast food, though. Damn good.

10th Avenue East & 7th Street, around 2am Monday morning

I'm not sure how I feel about doing this. Whenever there is a fire, or crime of some type, I feel the need to photograph it. But I also kind of feel like an ass, since there are people around who have lost something. I'm not just rubbernecking, but I'm not sure what I am doing positive either.

One one hand, it's none of my business, but on the other hand, I can't be sure of that until it's all over. For all I know it might be everyone's business.

Taking photos in traffic of the backs of other people's cars is my new favorite thing. I don't do it while I'm behind the wheel, however.

Last year I didn't even take my phone books inside. It seemed wrong to just pick them up off the porch and toss them directly into the blue bin, but this when new garbage starts piling up on top of old garbage, you finally have to start admitting that it is all utterly useless rubbish.

I wish the people who make phone books would finally admit that it's no longer 1985.

A couple of nights ago while I was doing my midnight shopping at Cub Foods, I saw a woman in her mid-50s, slightly grungy looking, wearing a Barack Obama button and browsing the rack of foam can-cozies. And they say Obama has no supporters in the white lower class. Here was a Jane Sixpack who obviously doesn't cling to guns or religion.

I didn't stick around to see which can cozy she chose, which sassy slogan she found most suitable for her lifestyle and attitude. She didn't seem like the rambunctious party type, so I doubt she chose "I have a drinking problem: two hands, one mouth." She seemed too nice for something like, "U toucha my beer, I breaka u face." If I had to guess, I'd say she went for "Born to fish, forced to work."

All of this got me to thinking about can cozies and can-cozy culture. Personally, I'm not very picky about the temperature of my beverages, and at home I rarely even put my beer in the fridge. But I'm weird that way. I can see how using a can cozy could be practical, especially if you're out in the backyard on a warm day, playing horseshoes with the extended family. In addition to keeping your drink cold, it could help you keep track of which can is yours.

I remember being in a hardware store once with my dad when I was a kid. He held up a length of foam pipe insulation, scratched his chin, and smiled. "I think this is the exact diameter of a can," he said. He plopped down some ridiculously small amount for it -- something like 39¢ -- and took it home. Sure enough, he was right. So he sliced that thing up on the band saw, and suddenly we had about eight new can cozies.

I was on a Pepsi kick that summer (it was "The Choice of a New Generation™" at the time) so I used the homemade cozies to keep my soda cold while I shot hoops in the backyard and fantasized about all the money I could make by cutting up foam pipe insulation into can-sized slices, painting them with my own wacky slogans, and selling them at a ridiculous markup.

I don't think my fantasies extending into the realm of actual slogans. But even off the top of my head, I still think I could do better than the 15 or 20 established slogans that you see everywhere. How about, "My other beer is fuller"? Or, "This machine destroys boredom"?

Better yet, how about an image of the tab on top of the can with the slogan, "Turn it to the side"?

Hm. If you need me, I'll be at the hardware store.

Today I got a Mr. Bento system, which is basically a large thermos that holds four bowls which stack on top of each other. Traditionally, the bento is a Japanese lunch box with many separate compartments for a variety of foods. Some people get really cute about Japanese bento boxes and try to make them as pretty as possible, but what appeals to me about bento is the idea of bringing a variety of foods with you.

Every day, I bring pretty much the same lunch to work: Turkey sandwich, orange, banana. Don't get me wrong; I truly believe that those three foods are among the most perfect on earth. But still, even though I occasionally toss a plum in there to stir things up, it gets a little boring.

Leftovers are great when you have them, but smaller items like vegetables, chips, and crackers aren't so convenient to bring to work. Sure, you can buy them in individual packages at 35 times their worth not to mention the extra garbage they produce. And then there are things like hummus and dips, which are just too annoying to pack for travel. All in all, it's easier to eat the same thing every day, and avoid variety altogether.

Which is why I picked up this Mr. Bento system. It all packs together in one container, doesn't need refrigeration, and allows for infinite variety.

Still, I have my reservations. I'll let you know how it works out.

The Hold Steady
Stay Positive
2008

If you download one song, download: "Lord, I'm Discouraged"

Hold Steady frontman Craig Finn is a lyricist and a storyteller. When I saw them live at Pizza Lucé back in '05, I stood up front as Finn leaned forward into the relatively sparse crowd, shouting rather than singing, and his words more stories than songs. You couldn't dance to it, and it was hard to follow, standing there in a boozy pizzeria clutching a PBR tallboy. But shit, did it rock.

The Hold Steady is most frequently compared to Bruce Springsteen, and it's easy to see why. But Finn also lists John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats as a major influence. Two of the Hold Steady's four albums are bar-rock concept albums about three drugged-out Minneapolis kids named Charlemagne, Gideon, and Holly. The new album, Stay Positive, explores similar themes in a less structured way.

While I do love the rocked-out title track as well as the first single, "Sequestered in Memphis," I'm finding myself drawn mostly to the ballads. I'm tied for favorites between "Lord, I'm Discouraged" and the aptly titled "One for the Cutters." "Discouraged" is more attractive musically, the keyboard of choice being a piano as opposed to "Cutters'" harpsichord. It walks on familiar Hold Steady territory, as it's a love song for a girl who's spent a little too much time in the party pit:

She says that she's sick, but she won't get specific The sutures and bruises are none of my business This guy from the north side comes down to visit His visits, they only take five or six minutes

But while "Discouraged" is easier to listen to, "One for the Cutters" tells a more fascinating story about a well-to-do college girl with a dirty secret -- "When there weren't any parties, sometimes she'd party with townies." It's a downward-spiral situation somewhat similar to Looking for Mr. Goodbar. She never tells anyone about the townies, even her roommates, who remain clueless, until one night things when go horribly wrong. There's a fight, a killing, a cover-up. She lies in court and testifies as an alibi. The song ends with the verse:

Sniffing that crystal in cute, little cars Getting nailed against Dumpsters behind townie bars. It's a cute little town, boutiques and cafes Her friends all seemed nice, she was getting good grades But when she came home for Christmas, she just seemed distant and different.

Stay Positive won't be released in the U.S. until July 15, but the majority of the songs can be streamed on the Hold Steady's MySpace page (they had the whole album up for awhile, as of this writing, there's six songs up).

A few weeks ago, I gave my girlfriend the OK to let her cat move into my (well, I guess our) apartment. It was a struggle. I don't like cats. I'm allergic to cats. And among all cats, Toonces is especially challenging to admire.

I often berate Christa about her cat's name. "Toonces"? I ask. "Seriously? You are a writer. A good writer. How could you possibly name your cat Toonces?"

"I didn't want to!" she says. "It's my ex-boyfriend's fault! He's the reason I have the cat in the first place!"

"If you were going to name your cat after a third-rate SNL character, you should have named him Lothar of the Hill People. Or better yet Mr. Robinson."

"I wanted to name him Perro," she says. I have to admit this would have been a great cat name. Unfortunately we can't just start calling him Perro, because he, unlike most cats, actually understands and responds to his name. Even more unfortunately, I have to scream that name several times a day. It's humiliating - like screaming, "It's Pat!" over and over again. All day long.

My hatred of cats began at birth. Before I was even conceived, my family owned a cat called Nelson. Originally, my brilliant siblings had named it Nelly, a name which stuck for several years until one of the grown-ups flipped the cat over and discovered that Nelly had nuts. Nelson was the reason for all of my sisters' tears when every last one of their shoes suddenly reeked like cat piss, and my parents couldn't afford replacements. He was also to blame when my toddler face and torso became a mosaic of cuts and scratches. I hated that cat. There was nothing cute about him.

I distinctly remember when tumors took over his body and he had to be put to sleep. My mom took me aside and gently explained it to me. I was probably five or six. "Nelson is very sick and he's going to go away," she said. "He's not going to come back." I understood the situation a lot better than she thought I did, and I wasn't sad in the least.

"Good riddance." That was my general feeling. From then on, all of my cuts and scratches would come from things that mattered, like repeatedly attempting to ride my Big Wheel down the stairs, for instance.

Dozens of dogs crossed our door throughout the years. My siblings were always getting them, then moving into pet-free apartments and pawning them off on us. I loved it. Dogs were awesome. I couldn't get enough of them.

Then one frigid night in November of 1985, fueled by five or six bottles of Old Milwaukee and a couple of "bumps" of Phillips peppermint schnapps, my dad suggested that it might be really great to have a cat to lay on our laps and keep us warm on nights like these. With the memory of Nelson long distant, I enthusiastically supported the idea. Not even a month later, Chewie showed up on my 13th birthday. My dad came home from work and nearly had a seizure. "That's a huge commitment!" he shrieked.

"But it was your idea!" we all said. He had no recollection. Recalling this, I have to say that my father and I are practically the same person.

Chewie was the exact opposite of Toonces. While he is enormous, she was the runt of the litter. While he is needy, she shunned human contact. A tremendous mouser, she craved the outdoors, shredding screens and shins until she got her way. Every day, she'd leave the porch littered with tiny corpses. Every fall, she'd bring mice inside and let them go to escape into the walls and breed so that she'd have vermin to chase all winter. All in all, she was barely even a pet. She used the house as shelter, ignored the people in it, and completely kept to herself. Her face was covered in scars from fighting and killing other animals. Her ears were literally in tatters. You could dislike her and she was fine with that, because she didn't like anything that was alive.

Toonces, on the other hand, is huge and needy. He has literally never seen a rodent in his life. His hobbies include slamming his head into yours (his head is excessively large for a cat's and he is also excessively powerful, so, it's kind of painful), meowing incessantly because you are not awake, pulling the fur off his own arms (no medical reason - he just likes having bare arms), taking huge stinky dumps in your presence, drinking water from your glass by repeatedly dipping his paw into it and licking the water off, making sounds of protest that resemble someone squeezing a rubber duck, and petting your face whenever he wants attention, which is pretty much all the time.

So yeah, I guess I'm a cat owner now. And to tell you the truth, the big fatass is starting to grow on me. He's beginning to learn the rules of this place - and there are several non-negotiable rules.

And this fall, when the mice make their way inside looking for a place to spend the winter, he'll be able to earn his keep. I have no faith that he'll actually be able to catch a mouse, but maybe being chased by something the size and shape of a gorilla will send them scampering for a different house to invade.

Some posts truly are conversations. And don't get me wrong -- I enjoy spirited debate as much as or possibly more than the next person. Hell, I even run a site that's practically devoted to conversation. But for the most part, comments are just a useless and increasingly annoying part of the web that bloggers, corporations, and site administrators seem to find absolutely necessary in this Web 2.0 era.

I think the type of comments I loathe the most are the ones found on newspaper websites. Overall, they read like a transcript of AM talk radio, only without a host. These people come across -- almost without exception -- boorish, asinine, and flat-out stupid. They make me cringe with shame, and whenever I read them, I become more and more frightened for the world we live in because these people can vote! And if you should ever be wrongfully accused of a crime, these people will make up the jury of your peers! Right this second, most of them are at home passing their values on to their children!

My suspicion is that newspapers allow these comments on their websites because they know that it drives up their hit-count. I know I read them every day, even though I agree with absolutely none of them and they absolutely disgust me. Also, whenever someone cuts me off in traffic, I pull up next to them at the next stoplight so I can get a good look at the asshole. It's a similar behavior, and I admit that I'm part of the problem.

Another loathsome type of commenter is the uninformed helper. Try this: Next time something goes wrong with your computer, or your car, your German shepherd, or your meatloaf, go online and Google the problem. Chances are, you'll find a slew of blogs and message boards where someone has posted about having the exact same problem you're having. They've made the mistake of reaching out to the commenting community on the internet.

Usually, the first commenter will suggest something imbecilic, such as "Are you sure your computer is plugged in?" or "Maybe you put the meatloaf in the fridge instead of the oven. I DID THAT ONCE!" As if that isn't bad enough, the second comment will often post, "I don't know." I. Don't. Know. People actually take the time to read a help request they know nothing about, then log in, and post that they don't know. Well, thanks, kind sir. Because I was indeed talking directly to you.

I'd like to give a special mention to a certain person who, while he isn't by any means the worst commenter who ever could be, sticks in my mind like a gritty, sandy irritant. I think it was about two years ago, when I posted a photo on my Flick account. In between the time it took to put in the title and tags after I uploaded the photo, someone I did not know or have any connection to posted a complete critique of my apartment in the background of the photo. What he liked, what he didn't like, what I should change, etc. Like I said, I didn't know him, and he didn't know me. I just happened to have the most recent photo on Flickr, and he clicked on it. Way to make friends and influence people, buddy.

Lastly, there's lowest common denominator: the scourge of the internet, the "me-too" commenter. While these people have been around since the net began, they've taken on a new level of sophistication since blogs boomed in popularity a few years ago. Now the me-too commenter is a blog whore who skims blog posts for a general idea, which they turn into a bland, inane comment, all so that they can get their own name out there as much as possible. You can frequently spot them, because often it's obvious that they haven't read the post or the other comments very closely if at all. It's just shameful and annoying, and I want it to end. I fear, however, that it's only beginning.

In concept, comments would be a good idea if they actually did promote community and debate. And that's possible. They can, in some rare cases. But for the most part, they're a tool to drive up hits. Their relative anonymity and lack of responsibility tend to bring out the worst in people.

Not everything needs to be a conversation.