Best New Home Stereo System?

iPod Hi-Fi just announced.
Ho-hum if you ask me. Would you really want to sit on the other side of the room pointing a remote at your iPod's little screen trying to find your favorite Amy Grant song?

Of course, it is really good looking.

Best? Yeah, Yeah, Yeah.

Saturday night I finally saw the Yeah Yeah Yeahs for the first time. Finally. This was what it was like: You go to a restaurant, you decide to order a burger, because you like burgers and know what to expect with a burger. And when the burger comes, it looks like a normal burger, and you pick it up and bite into it and . . . WHOAH! . . . what an unexpectedly great burger this burger happens to be! It's absolutely delicious! There's just something about this burger that makes it perfect and soooo satisfying. You relish it, finish it, lick off your fingers a bit, and keep talking about how great that burger was for the next few days, thinking about when you might get to have a burger just like that one again. It's not like you ate the world's most delicious steak, or the galaxy's most exquisite sushi, you just ate something dang good, and that's all there is to it.

The set was made up almost entirely of songs off their soon-to-be released "Show Your Bones." That means I mostly heard songs I wasn't at all familiar with. But for songs I didn't know, they were awful easy to like and I'm really looking forward to getting that record. Whenever the band played a song that I already knew (which would be: Gold Lion, Art Star (!!!), Tell Me What Rockers to Swallow, Y Control(!!!!!!), The Poor Song (that's the hidden track on Fever to Tell), Maps, and Tick) it was like bites of the most surprisingly delicious fries and sips of the most magnificently thick milkshake along with my amazingly good burger.

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are most known for Karen O, their charmingly mad frontwoman. And her 6 year old with uncontainable electricity inventing rockstar moves as she goes along stage antics merit the attention; but it needs to be said that Brian the Drummer and Nick the Guitarist are both very strong musicians and fun to watch themselves. . . Nick as a completely stoic gothic counterpoint to Karen and Brian as a surprisingly normal looking drummer pulling off Max Weinberg drumstick moves.

Anyway, here's the pictures . . .




And here's just Karen:













Something funny from the show: there was this terribly obnoxious guy in the crowd who kept yelling "Machine!" between songs, and after playing "Art Star" Karen said "This next song is called Machine." Obnoxious Guy cheers, Karen says: "Just kidding, we're not going to play that song." Aw, Snap!

Roseland, May 2. I'll be there.

Best Certainly Awesome Thing That I'll Never Do Again

I think that I've resolved to attend fewer concerts in 2006 with an emphasis on seeing bands I've always really liked and taking it a little bit easier with trying to catch all the latest and hotest bands to be making their first appearances. (Easy for me to say until White Rose Movement or the Cinematics stop by.) First on my list of favorite bands I'm finally seeing in 2006: The Bad Brains at CBGBs. Who? The Bad Brains, you know, super-influential DC Rastafari hardcore punk pioneers? (If you need to know more, go and get your Wikipedia on.) The Bad Brains don't play much, so this was a serious event, I met kids at the show who had flown in from Indiana for it. It's worth pointing out that that night John Joseph, frontman of the Cro-Mags, would be handling the vocal duties for the band. Purists might say "Well, it's not the Bad Brains if HR [the band's original frontman] isn't singing" but the word is HR is totally off his game and that John Joseph is the man who best approximates HR in his prime. At least that's what the grown up lady architect standing next to me said. It's worth noting that, as the Bad Brains first got together in 1977, the night's audience was a true all-ages show. (Lady Architect said it was the first time she'd seen the Bad Brains in 22 years.)

Anyway, I got to the show around 9:30. As it was CBGBs, there were lots of opening bands. There was still plenty of space at the front of the club, so I staked out a space right against the wall. Looking at this picture one is tempted to think: "Wow, I bet Brigham has got some awesome pictures of the Bad Brains coming up because he was so close to the stage." Wrong. Kids, this was a hardcore show. And not some hipster approximation of a hardcore show, but the real bone-crushing deal. By the time the second to last band was going to play (They were called Leeway, and they were also famous in their own way) the floor was packed, and I had hoped that a packed floor would impede moshing.


Oh was I wrong. I think my nose is broken, but I'm not sure. If it isn't broken, then my nose is indestructible.

Because the internet is magic, it turns out that there's a video of Leeway's entire set up at youtube. I strongly encourage you to click on this picture here and to watch the beginning of the concert. There's a long Morricone introduction where nothing is happening, but then the world explodes and everyone dies. After that, the only beings remaining are the vampires and zombies that tore apart CBGBs for the rest of the night. Most importantly, remember that I'm standing on the far left side of the screen and everytime someone leaps in that direction, they're leaping into me. You really, really should watch the first few minutes of this video.


By the third song I headed for cover near the bar, but that wasn't too safe either. The club was pure chaos and certain marauders nearly invading the sound booth. It was the punk rock equivalent of Fallujah in there. I wisely kept my camera put away most of the time, but snapped this picture of Leeway in action.


The thing is, despite the constant threat of certain death, Leeway was really, really good. Musically. Oh, and if you watch the whole video of them playing (there's no need to, really) you may see a guy in a red shirt run onstage, pick up Leeway's singer, and jump into the crowd with him.

A bit after 11 the Bad Brains were finally ready to go and, even with a white man for a singer, they were brilliant. I didn't see much of them, though . . .


But they sounded so GOOD. Were I not constantly trying not to die I might have even closed my eyes and nodded my head to how great they sounded as if I were vibing on some great jazz.


I moved farther and farther towards the back of the club, and after the band played Reignition, I felt I had had my fill and was ready to split. Little did I know that my split impulse was actually invisible hands drawing me towards the parking lot wreckage that I posted about Saturday night.


Conclusion: It was an awesome once in a lifetime night. Not that it was an opportunity that would only come my way once during my living years, but that I will never, ever put myself in such a situation again. I'm foolish, but not stupid.

Update
Here is a great set of Bad Brains pictures on Flickr.
And this dude does a much more legit job of covering the show and it turns out it wasn't just me, the inexperienced guy taking in his first real hardcore show and not being ready for the intensity, it was an especially crazy night.

Best Coverage by the New Awesome Blog

This is a good post, because it is 50% about me, and 100% about a competition to make annoying mixtapes.

I envy the conceptual strength of Rebecca's CD. Me, I just thought: "Annoying music . .. let's see, what did my freshman roommate really like?"

Best for Us, Worst for Them

Some things can't wait until Monday. . .

Walking home from my Friday night activity (What did I do? Wait for Monday). I saw something beyond awesome (for us). One of the car stacks at the outdoor car stacker (it's a New York thing, you'll have to visit sometime.) on Great Jones street had collapsed! Crushing the Mercedes at the bottom! And putting the other two cars in a pretty precarious situation.




I stuck around for a while and watched them lower the Toyota with the crane. Lots of metal scraping against metal and things falling off the car as it was lowered to the ground. Painful to watch . . . but awesome.




Watching the workers figure out how to get the cars down I could only think, "Now that's a real job. Man, I'd love to work for Mike's Heavy Duty Towing."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a date with the night. . .

Best Superheroness of 2007

First of all, how much did the Women's Long Program destroy you last night?

Second of all, here's the first official Spider-Man 3 Poster.


Nice, right? Moody, right? Which is different from the first two Spider-Men, right? And here's the thing: it's not supposed to be a black and white image. So some of you know what that means. (And those that know what I'm getting probably also saw this picture somewhere else)

I'm still getting over how great Spider-Man 2 was, and I'm really looking forward to this movie. I just know it'll be full of mind-boggling swinging and punching and kicking.

Third, when I saw the new Air Jordan XX1 at Foot Locker I thought it was another Jumpman shoe. A much less exciting (silly) shoe than the XX, maybe too reserved? It looks like a figureskate, but at least it's more understated than it is ugly. Also, quite similar to the Air Jordan XIII.

Come on, it's hard to be interesting for 5 days straight.

Best Scathing Political Commentary

Maybe some of you have found yourselves in a real life situation where I try to tell you my favorite joke. When I first read this joke I started laughing so hard I had to leave the library. About two people that I've told this joke to laughed that hard, too. Most everyone else thought I was an idiot. Anyway, here's my favorite joke but updated for our modern times (Matt Lemmon thought of this retelling and made the picture below. Matt gets all the credit. Matt. Not me.):


The King Vice President and his servant Pamela Pitzer Willeford, US Ambassador to Switzerland and Liechtenstein are hunting in the woods at Katherine Armstrong's ranch one day around 5:30 pm on February 11, 2006 when they come upon a clearing. Suddenly, a man the Vice President's friend, prominent Texas attorney and major Republican party contributor Harry Whittington jumps out from behind a tree. Seeing the King Vice President with his shotgun, the man Whittington yells "Don't shoot! I'm not a deer bird!" The King Vice President raises his shotgun, aims, and fires at the man, killing him dead peppering his face, neck, and upper torso with birdshot.

Aghast, the servant Pamela Pitzer Willeford, US Ambassador to Switzerland and Liechtenstein asks, "Why did you shoot? He said he wasn't a deer bird!"

"Oh!" exclaims the King Vice President. "I thought he said he was a deer bird."

Best Five Interesting Things

I got tagged by Madre Sanchez, this means I have to say 5 Interesting things about myself. I had seen people getting "tagged" on their blogs and thought, "How dumb. I'm not doing that if it happens to me." But since it was Erin who tagged me, I'll do it.

Five Interesting Things About Me
(If you know me, then you already know these things. But you have to admit, they're a little interesting, right?) (PS, Isn't saying 5 Interesting Things just bragging? Here I go, bragging again.)


1) I have always loved Pirates. Even during the lean early 90s when Pirates weren't on the cool map at all.

2) I have a fake knee and a fake elbow with accompanying enormous scars--but, on the other hand, I have a dangerously tiny appendectomy scar (thanks to a bet my Dad made with my surgeon).

3) My junior year of High School I dropped from a 1:06.66 at Conference to a 1:02.75 at Sectionals to qualify for state in the 100 yrd. Breaststroke my first year on the varsity swim team.

4) Elvis Costello lives in my apartment building. I share an elevator with him about once a month.

5) It took me multiple trips to the grocery store yesterday to get all the ingredients I needed to make a BLT sandwich . . . which is ridiculous, as the BLT sandwich is one of those foods whose name is also its shopping list.

Oh Yeah Now I'm supposed to tag someone. Uhm. You. I tag you.

Best Valentine's Day Memories

How'd I celebrate Valentine's Day last week? Went and saw the Wu-Tang Clan with Jeff the Ex-Roommate. This is what I said about it in the school paper:

Maybe the thing that surprised me the most about the Wu-Tang Clan’s sold-out show at the Hammerstein Ballroom last Tuesday (yes, Valentine’s Day) was that, when I entered the theater at 9:40, the band was already on stage. I had not expected New York’s most notorious nine eight man (RIP ODB—but I’ll get more into that later) rap conglomerate of kung-fu mystics to be so punctual. My ticket said the doors of the theater would open at 6:30, and to find the band already on stage three hours later strongly contradicted what I had expected of this band, especially considering that I knew the band’s show in New Haven a week earlier had started at 11:00. According to a fellow concertgoer also standing at the back of the floor, assessing the mass before him as I was, planning how to best penetrate this throng of people whose hands were held high making W’s by clasping their thumbs, they had only performed a couple of songs. The band was still taking to the stage one member at a time, and I had made it there in time to catch Method Man, arguably the group’s biggest star (or at least the only one to have done a Right Guard commercial) appear on stage for the first time, performing (no surprise here) the song “Method Man” from the band’s first album, “Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers.”

Knowing that good journalism would require me to give some background on the Wu-Tang Clan for readers who might not know anything about the band (not that I’d call myself a Wu-Tang aficionado by any means) has probably been one of the harder parts in presenting my Wu-Tang Clan concert experience, as the Wu-Tang Clan simultaneously defies and embraces typical notions of what rap is or can be and what a rap group is or can be. If Hunter S. Thompson were a rap group, he’d be the Wu-Tang Clan. If Guns ‘n’ Roses were a rap group, they’d be the Wu-Tang Clan. If feudal Japan were a rap group, it’d be the Wu-Tang Clan. If the Five Lions of Voltron were a rap group, they’d be the Wu-Tang Clan. And, most importantly, if the Wu-Tang Clan were a rap group, they’d be the Wu-Tang Clan.

More or less hailing from Staten Island (or “Shaolin,” as it is known in the Wu-Tang Lexicon) the Wu-Tang Clan is a collective of rappers who first graced the car stereos of suburban white teens in the early-mid 90s. In the age where gangsta was king, the Clans’s raps were consistent with the era in that they were mostly about how the band 1) was tough and 2) loved money but defied the trends of the day by also being about how the band 1) were sort of all ninjas (or at least hadn’t realized that they weren’t ninjas). Stylistically, the two things that most distinguished this band from their West Coast counterparts (not that the Wu was ever involved in any East Coast/West Coast beef, the band has always transcended that sort of trifling, and seriously, who’d pick a fight with a band of mystical assassins?) First, while the West Coast scene leaned on soulful g-funk beats, the Wu’s sound trips along over menacing and mysterious soundscapes—music to snap necks by, as opposed to Dr. Dre’s cuts to bust caps to. Second, the Wu-Tang Clan was a super group right out of the gates, then numbering nine members strong (now just eight, RIP ODB, as I said before, I’ll get more into that later) and it’s one thing to have Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg trading verses on a track, another for each song to require nine verses if each Wu-member is to have his moment.

For anyone but the truly devoted, naming all the members of the Wu-Tang Clan is no easy task, like naming the Seven Dwarves, if each of the Seven Dwarves also went by a handful of additional aliases. Just off the top of my head I usually can only name six or seven members of the band—The RZA (a.k.a. Bobby Digital), the GZA (a.k.a. the Genius), Method Man (a.k.a. Johnny Blaze, Mr. Mef, the MZA, Big John Stud, Iron Lung, etc.), Old Dirty Bastard (a.k.a. the ODB, Osirus, Big Baby Jesus, Dirt McGirt, also RIP, but you know I’ll get to that later), Ghostface Killa (a.k.a. Tony Starks, Pretty Tony), Inspectah Deck, Raekwon,—that’s as far I can get before I break down wondering if U-God is really a member of the Clan, or just a buddy of theirs, and if the group could contain someone that’s called “Master Chef,” or if I’m just making that up. Naming the members of the group is hard enough for the mildly-initiated, never mind matching voices to each name on their records, let alone matching the voice (quite a bit different when being yelled live) to the face when the band is on stage.

The Wu-Tang Clan’s career has had it’s ups and downs, but primarily just some Ups followed by a series of Downs, the band’s first two releases (“Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers” and “Wu-Tang Forever”) were fairly strong, but their next two studio albums (“The W” and “Iron Flag”) both fell a short and most members of the band have spent most of their time since the band’s first release concentrating on solo records and side projects (also a mixed bag, to say the least), not that any of this has diminished the group’s presence or cache in the minds of its fans. Prior to beginning their current tour the band hadn’t performed as a complete unit for years, and the announcement that the complete band would be playing in one of the city’s largest non-arena venues brought out their hardcore fans and the curious en mass. As Ghostface boasted from the stage halfway through the show, “New York, your favorite super heroes are on stage tonight” and no statement could have been more correct that evening.

Watching the Clan perform live was like going to someone else’s church, or celebrating a holiday at someone else’s house—familiar in many senses, but foreign in ways you hadn’t expected. I’m no stranger to stages crowded with performers, but the Wu-Tang Clan crowds a stage like no other band with its eight primary players, their DJ, an entire posse of hangers-on lingering just behind the DJ, two middle school aged boys who’d occasionally emerge with microphones and rap along with the group without any introduction or explanation, and a gentleman in a baseball cap and worn out jacket who looked like he was probably some member of the group’s grandfather (or the grandfather to several, as I think a few of the Wu-Tang Clan are cousins) on stage throughout the show. The band’s attitude fluctuated between serious and menacing (particularly when the brooding RZA took control of the performance) and jovial and energetic, with Method Man repeatedly trying to walk on the crowd. And on this Valentine’s Day the band occasionally took the tone of a spurned lover, frequently asking the crowd why New York didn’t love them anymore and why the city’s major rap stations didn’t even announce the show (this was all news to me and a little hard to believe as I’d never been in a crowd so strongly committed to loving what was on stage before it). The show came to a near complete halt when Ghostface Killa entered something of a monologue over his disbelief that New Yorkers would rather listen to songs like “this” (and when he said “this” the DJ dropped the beat to D4L’s infectious but ridiculous hit, “Laffy Taffy,” which Ghostface derided with a mocking little imitation of the dance that goes to the song) instead of the Wu-Tang Clan. Moments like this left the audience shrugging its shoulders like the kid in class that didn’t shoot the spit wad and wondering when the band would get back to their music.

But I don’t mean to dwell on the negative or unusual. When the band did perform at full strength, and this took up most of the group’s healthy 90+ minute set, it was something like Muhammad Ali fighting in his prime, and, during especially devastating moments (like when “The 4th Chamber” from GZA’s solo masterpiece, “Liquid Swords,” exploded from the theather’s sound system), much more like Mike Tyson scoring a knock-out in the opening seconds of a fight. When the band performed “hits” like C.R.E.A.M., they surrendered most of their vocal duties to the audience, the majority of whom could shout the words (and it’s something to hear a few thousand yell “I grew up on the crime side / the New York Times side / where staying alive was no jive” in unison) for them.

While no typical rap concert is without a lengthy homage to Biggie Smalls and Tupac Shakur, the Wu-Tang Clan sidestep this tradition as they have their own fallen member, Russell Jones, a.k.a. Ol’ Dirty Bastard, who succumbed to a little bit of everything a year and a half ago (as opposed to the bullets that claimed the poster boys of the East/West feud nearly a decade ago) to honor. While ODB’s absence was felt throughout the show in the form of verses missing from each songs, the band paid official tribute to him halfway through the show when they brought Jones’ mother onto the stage and asked that all the lights in the theater be turned off and then had the audience hold up their lighters and cell phones. The audience was happy to oblige, briefly transforming the Hammerstein Ballroom into a well-illuminated, multi-layered birthday cake before the band shook off the momentary trappings of reverence and stumbled into ODB’s break out solo hit “Shimmy, Shimmy Y’all.”

Another way that the Wu-Tang Clan spurns one’s typical expectations for popular rap is with their trademark ghetto intellectualism. Between songs the band would comment on current events, national, international, and local, the RZA drawing the biggest cheers of the night when he quipped (and I paraphrase, of course) “You know you livin’ in a messed-up world when the Vice-President shoot somebody.” And, when it came time for the show to end, the band explained that the show was over because “You know New York is a union town, and that means New York is a mafia town, a Gambino town” (I think that the idea that they meant to get across was that the Wu-Tang Clan wasn’t about to pay for overtime union services at the Hammerstein Ballroom—and as you may have learned from the Wu-Tang Financial Consulting sketch on Chapelle’s Show, the Wu-Tang Clan is a fiscally responsible bunch). And although the band declared their concert to be done, the band was slow to leave the stage, each member having a few additional Valentine’s thoughts to share with the audience, or a street date for their next solo record to plug.

Best Fake Tales of San Francisco, pt.5: You'll Never Guess the Surprise Twist Ending!

First. Since some asked: My tales of San Francisco are real. The pictures prove it, right? I'm just making one of my little references.

Yes. So, Saturday night I found myself leaving San Jose around 2 am and realizing that Concord was a long, long way away and that, while I was super welcome to crash at the New Awesome Apartment, all the beds, couches, bathtubs, tables, chairs, closets, and doormats were already taken by other Crush partiers, so some clever phonecalls led me to a futon at Caroline's.

I woke to discover a quite pleasant view that morning


Which was ruined by these savage beasts



I returned to Duboce and joined some of my fellow ex-Crush partiers for burritos on Church Street.



Considering that, on Friday, I had eaten such a horrible taco that I nearly didn't want to eat Mexican food ever again, I was relieved to find my burrito to be exceptional, to say the least.



At the apartment there was some serious Lazy Sunday action going on.




Why am I smiling? Because it turns out that Cameron was a total comics aficionado and there's nothing I like quite like a good comics-related discussion. Here he's getting ready to play me a phone message he had from Mike Allred, but when I first listened to the message I thought the guy in the voicemail said "This is Mike Ovitz", and that would've been another thing entirely.




Okay, maybe you have a discerning eye and have divined that these aren't photos that I took but are borrowed/stollen from Betsy's collection. Why wasn't I taking pictures? Because I was beginning to feel that sad little end of a trip feeling and new I had to get back to Concord for Sunday dinner shortly. It made me not want to take pictures, but . . .

This extremely well-composed photo was probably taken a moment after I got the call from JetBlue telling me that my flight back to New York had been cancelled because of the snow storm in New York. Or, in other words, this is a photo taken right after I found out I was being forced to spend another day in California.


And this was the last time I ever saw the Rustens. . .


I made it back to Concord and ate tri-tip and continued to try to improve Brigham-Blake relations. And I continued to take pictures of the sky and out of car windows (we were on our way to Cousin Chris' house)



The next morning I woke up and put in some good study time and then decided I wanted to visit one of the fine hamburger chains that they've got in California but not New York. No, I wanted Carl's Jr., not In-n-Out. You people all have one-track minds. Anyway, I didn't listen closely enough to my sister's directions, because this is where I wound up (first). . .


But I went back and took a right where I had lefted and soon found myself . . . mmmmmm . . . Frisco Bacon Cheeseburger.


Back in Concord I found Kristen working her kids to death in the back yard, again. She won't even give Blake proper work gloves! He has to use an oven mit!



And then it was time to really start leaving for my real flight back to New York (or so I thought). Here's Kristen, the Mustang, her house, and the "Thanks for Having Me" presents I left. A hawk pillow and a rat shirt. Who says I'm a bad guest?


That weekend Kristen and Cory bought a new Pathfinder and sold Grandpa's Mustang to a young man with a solid background. Goodbye, Mustang. Goodbye, Q Boat. Remember the first time I rode in you, all the way to Bear Valley Springs in 1992? Or the first time I drove you, on that long loop through LA County with Grandpa in 1998? Those were the days, my incredibly rough-riding friend. There aren't many 14 year old Ford Mustangs with only 50,000 miles on them.


So I drove myself to the BART station and rode the train out to Berkeley to meet up with Rebecca.







And then there I was in Berkeley, and Becca picked me up (that's what the parking lot picture means, that I'm going to get picked up) and we drove across the water to get closer to the San Jose airport.




This picture? Maybe my favorite of the trip.






We met up with Betsy and the World Famous Emily Cox at a Cuban place in Palo Alto. Why wasn't Emily at the Crush party, you might ask? She was too busy hanging out with Tobias Funke that night. For real.

Anyway, 2/4 of the diners that night didn't care for olives.


"Hey, Becca. What'd you get for dinner?" "Steak and shrimp with purple mashed potatoes and asparagus."


"Hey, Emily. What'd you get for dinner?" "Steak and shrimp with purple mashed potatoes and asparagus."


"Hey, Brigham. What'd you get for dinner?" "Steak and shrimp with purple mashed potatoes and asparagus."



"Hey, Betsy. What'd you get for dinner?" "Spicy Roasted Pork." "Well if you're going to be so difficult then I'm not posting your picture."

"Hey, Becca. How'd you pay for your dinner?" "C-Note, of course."


Then, with the travel clock ticking, we went to this Palo Alto coffee shop place to drink spicy hot chocolate.




With that taken care of, I was dropped off at the San Jose Airport and (I thought) my adventure was over. That was an idea that I had to give the thumbs down to. And maybe you know about me and Thumbs Downs.




The twist ending? Here is a letter that I sent to JetBlue late Tuesday night. You ought to take the time to read it all:

Dear JetBlue,

I recently had some pretty bad problems with your airline. I've flown
JetBlue a lot over the last 2 years and this was the first time I ever
had any problems with your service, so I know you can do better.

Over the weekend I was in San Francisco from New York City scheduled to
fly back to NYC Sunday night from Oakland. On Sunday afternoon I got a
call from Wayne Reed at your Oakland offices telling me my flight had been
cancelled because of the snow storm that occurred over the weekend and
he offered me a Monday night flight from San Jose or Tuesday morning
from Oakland. I opted for the Monday night flight.

When I got to the airport Monday night I was informed that my Sunday
night flight had NOT been cancelled and that I was listed as having
opted to fly home on a different carrier and was most definitely not on
the San Jose to NYC flight. This was a surprise to me and a bit of a
problem. I was put on standby for the NYC flight, but didn't make it
on, so I was flown to Boston and then from Boston to New York. Upon
arriving in NYC I found my luggage to be missing and, 24 hrs. later, my
luggage remains missing.

Because of these problems I missed a day and a half of law school
classes and incurred significant additional expenses. It was a real
bummer, and I really hope my luggage finds its way to me.

On the positive side, the woman at the counter in San Jose who helped me
(I wish I had caught her name) was quite helpful and friendly and made
the experience as positive as possible. She imagined that perhaps my
flight had been cancelled and then un-cancelled and Wayne just forgot to
call me, and that sounds like an easy but troublesome mistake to make.

Anyway, JetBlue, you almost made me cry yesterday, especially when I
couldn't get my belongings back. I'd have called you about it, but my
cell phone charger was in my luggage.

Brigham Barnes

I had never been to Boston before. I suppose you could say I still haven't been.


I had one of those famous Boston breakfast pizzas that morning.



And now I am done telling my tales of San Francisco. Tune in tomorrow for East Coast business.