Schitthaus.com

I’m finally ready to start talking about the Sopranos finale. For those of you that haven’t seen it yet, get a fucking grip. It’s been weeks. Seriously. If you don’t want to ruin it for yourselves just turn away, but for those of you that have seen it, let’s rap a bit, shall we?

Let’s just start by saying that The Sopranos is pretty much my favorite show of all time. Or definitely in the top 2 with The Wire (and I guess we’ll just limit that to dramas, since The Simpsons and Seinfeld are both way up at the top, too). Andy and I got in on the ground floor back in the day and, with the exception of an HBO-less time of my life, pretty much stuck with it through thick and thin.

I mean, come on! What’s not to love about The Sopranos? Hot Mafia action? Check. Gratuitous nudity? Check. A guy named Big Pussy? Roger. Paulie Walnuts? You got it. Paulie’s hair? It’s a package deal, my friend. I could go on and on. The Sopranos were my regular Sunday night thing back before I had a regular Saturday night thing. It sucks to see it go, but it has served me well. It provided a reason to get together with friends, an excuse to talk like a goombah, and inspiration for some pretty decent Italian dinners.

And Tony Soprano? The motherfucking man. He got the power. He got the sweet gumars. He curbed that dude in the restaurant for being rude to his daughter. He beat the shit out of some dude (it’s been a long time, but I thought it was Phil Leotardo) after running him off the road and making him wreck his car, perhaps my favorite Sopranos moment of all time. If you needed your weekly dose of bad-assery  look no further than the fat guy from Jersey who sounds like he’s always sleeping. I love that guy. But I digress…

Now you know you can’t just close up an institution like that and make everyone happy. You just can’t. Remember the Seinfeld finale? Did you just curse or think about cursing? Then yes, you do remember. When you flip the switch on something that’s become a part of people’s lives prepare for bitching and cursing. It comes with the territory. My initial thoughts on the end were Tony and the family carry on, constantly looking over their shoulders and never knowing what’s going to happen next. This is the life they cut out for themselves and they will carry on accordingly, just like they always have. They’re the average American family that has to put up with shit just like we do: dipshit kids, job troubles, bears in their swimming pool, people constantly trying to kill them. We can all relate.

I lived for the past two weeks with this mindset, but there was always a part of me that doubted. Maybe it was the Journey that got to me, but I didn’t want to stop believing. Here was a batch of characters that I’ve grown attached to (ok, Tony at least. Fuck AJ, Carmella can eat a dick, and Meadow just needs to take her top off. That is if she can get that car of hers parked.) and I’ll be damned if I’m willing to let them go. And now, thanks to this dude Bob Harris, I am totally convinced and living in denial no more. Tony, he dead. I mean disco dead. That’s just the way it is, baby.

You can check out his take on it here. It is long. Like, my Johnson long, but it’s definitely worth the read if you 1) have ever considered yourself a fan and 2) have seen the finale (which if number 1 is true should be a foregone conclusion, unless you no longer have a tv or are now a Buddhist monk, in which case isn’t Nirvana waiting for you? What the fuck are you doing reading this?). He goes deep, but some of the coincidences are just too much to dismiss.

In a nutshell, if you paid far much more attention to The Godfather movies than I ever did (and I love them, but I’ve only seen them once, really. Someone get me the boxed set, will ya?) then you’ll notice some things. And not just the dude in the Members Only jacket going into the bathroom, then emerging right before your cable didn’t go out, although that is the most obvious one (even my dumb ass picked up on that but thought it was way too obvious). Even that dumbass jacket has significance, according to this guy’s theory. And I have to say, it makes sense. Perfect sense, for the most part.

Why do we love The Sopranos? Besides all the stuff I mentioned before, it was just amazing television. Written tremendously, shot beautifully, characters that were rich and deep like two layers of cannoli flavored cheesecake. Yes, all of those things. But don’t ever forget that there was always more going on than what we saw. The proverbial “little things,” the tidbits that the real hardcore fan and detail obsessed viewer would pick up on, the type of things that you’d point out to your friends when watching and everyone would say “oh shit!” That’s what made this show better than great. That’s what made this show transcendent television, a true happening.

David Chase took over the director’s chair for his series’ finale. Do you think for one second that every little thing wasn’t obsessed over? Do you think that one little “hey did you notice?” from the finale was there by accident? Hell and no. When asked about the finale, Chase said “anyone who wants to watch it, it’s all there.” Well of course it was all there, television is a visual media, but can you see it all? That’s a taller order, for sure. It’s the attention to detail that made this show stand out, and it’s what makes the finale fucking genius and gives it permanent home on my DVR, or at least until a Shannon Tweed movie (pre-botox, please) comes up to record and I need some space.

I think I was too wrapped up in the what that was going on, it being the finale and all, that I didn’t pay attention to the how it was going on. When the credits started rolling I wasn’t sure what to make of it. An hour later I was okay with the ending. Confused, but satisfied. Here, some 2.5 weeks later, I’m loving it, and I can’t see how it could have ended any other way.

For 6.5 seasons a lot of folks thought they were watching a great mob drama. They were right. Some folks took it a step further and said not only is it a great mob drama, but it’s a great family drama, too. They were also right. But there were some who knew that a lot more was going on there than the script had to say. Everything from the scenery, to the soundtrack, to even the episode titles; they all helped tell part of the story. I wasn’t always aware of this while it was happening, I’m man enough to admit it, but we’ve never really seen anything like this on television before, and we probably won’t see anything like this on television again. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to start poring over those old episodes like the Zapruder film.

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly researched and completely factual article is the second installment of what will be a series of educational pieces about my experiences in the Holy Land.

Shalom again, faithful Schitthaus.com readers. As of now I am still operating out of the holy city of Jerusalem where, incidentally, no one knows who or what a “the Damaja” is. But that, of course, is their loss. Fortunately, they also know nothing about the Baltimore Orioles.

So yesterday, some of my colleagues and I decided to sample more of the city’s nightlife as soon as we realized that we had been sober all afternoon. Going on the recommendation of some random guy, we agreed to patronize a bar called “The Blue Hole.” If you are thinking that nothing good can come from a bar by this name, you are right. Our ride of choice, by the way, was a sleek, new Mercedes-Benz taxi, but apparently, women here only want you if you actually OWN an expensive vehicle and not if you are whistling out of the left-rear window while riding bitch.

When we reached our destination, we realized that the menu consisted solely of drinks with names (in English) so corny that I cannot bring myself to repeat them here. When we then tried to order said drinks, the waitress could not even understand what we were saying despite the fact that 1) there weren’t very many on the menu from which to choose and 2) she appeared as though she were capable of simultaneously remembering the names of more than three objects.

I, however, being much too macho to order such a beverage, cleverly avoided the situation by asking for a Gin & Tonic (yes, I capitalize the names of drinks – respect), convinced that I now had the upper hand in the drink-ordering war. To my surprise, she outflanked me by bringing me a glass of gin and a separate glass of tonic (both of which were only partially-filled and were not even close to being in proper proportion to one another). But, while I did not win the battle that evening, I did not lose either. One of our female friends ordered what should have been known as a Long Island Iced Tea, which as it turned out, tasted like total ass.

Today we left the Eastside Jerusalem Massive (represent) to travel to Ramallah in the West Bank by way of the Qalandiya checkpoint (Motto: “Dark-skinned people need not apply”). One of the reasons for this trip was to visit to one of the Palestinian refugee camps in the area.
Upon arrival to the camp, we were immediately mobbed by a battalion of shifty Palestinian children, who according to my expert analysis all had ADHD “something ridiculous.” They robbed us of every last Dum-Dum and Blow-Pop we had. I was convinced that as soon as I confessed to be out of candy, they would rain down (or up?) a barrage of swift kicks to my bo-sack, but instead, they seemed mesmerized by my rugged good looks. Sensing an opportunity, I quickly took advantage of their trance-like state to snap a few photographs. As you can clearly see, I had managed to stumble upon the elusive Ra-mullet in its natural habitat. I sincerely hope this makes up for the lack of photographic evidence in the last report.

Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, it is now nighttime. As I write this, I am surveying Israeli television (yes, it sucks, too) that currently includes what appears to be a game of 2 on 2 soccer-volleyball played on a miniature court in front of trashy and uninterested Israeli teenagers. The broadcast is in very loud Spanish with Hebrew subtitles and may or may not involve Maradonna. I am now sorry to report that there is no chance for Middle East peace.

Ahoy, bitches. Got a lot of stuff to post about, but I’m not going to do it at once. Need to milk the flux of shit for as long as possible, right?

Had an awesome birthday weekend. Kicked it off with Wilco at Merriweather Post Pavilion. I have to say, this is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. Most everyone that knows me knows that I am an outdoor venue hater, but Merriweather is pretty decent. Especially when you have pit tickets. I swear, it didn’t feel like I was at a big show until I turned around and saw the mountain of humanity behind me. Pretty much the only way to fly at a Pavilion I think.

The opening band was Low. This is a band that hit my radar a few years ago, but promptly fell off. I suppose because I didn’t feel like eating a ton of painkillers and dying in my bathtub. This is the most boring and morose band I’ve ever heard. I must’ve looked at my phone to check the time no less than 24 times in the middle of a 10+ minute drone fest. Seriously, who makes music like this? I can’t imagine someone sitting next to his homies (or wife, as the case may be) and say “you know what would be really bitchin? Making the slowest, droneist (yep, made that one up) music ever. Wouldn’t that be fun?” Fun and this music are further separated than you and Kevin Bacon, for reals. I guess it’s some people’s thing, just not mine. Of course when they finally play a decent song they cut it off about 3 minutes too early and end their set. Thanks for nothing, assholes.

Wilco is a band that’s relatively new to me. I was definitely a fan before I went to see them. I’ve got all of their albums and all, but I wasn’t intimately familiar with their songs. I recognized just about all of the ones they played, but damn, they have a rabid following. Everyone around us had been to see them no less than 3 times. Hell, a guy had his 6 year-old kid with him and it was the kid’s second Wilco show. All my parents took me to at 6 was Beverly Hills Cop. Okay, that’s pretty decent of them, too. The little bastard knew all of the words. I have to say, I was impressed. So was Jeff Tweedy (replete in Canadian tuxedo). He asked the kid to bring his friends next time because all of their fans are getting old and dying. Sleep tight, kiddie, with visions of dirty dead Wilco fans in your dreams.

The majority of the set came from the past three albums, but they revisited older favorites leaving for a pretty even mix. I definitely have much more of an appreciation for Sky Blue Sky after seeing the songs performed live, though they were my least favorite songs of the night. One thing the albums really fail to capture is just how tight this band is. For a band that rotates members as often as Wilco it’s amazing the rapport and feel they have for each other. Songs would sometimes degenerate into noisy chaos and converge again in a blink of an eye. Quite an impressive feat.

I would be remiss to not mention guitar god Nels Cline. Nels is an avant-garde/jazz/whatever the hell he wants guitarist that just so happened to land in Wilco in time for the tour supporting A Ghost Is Born. After seeing him perform with the band it’s hard to imagine them without him. He can play a beautiful melody or beat the piss out of his guitar while playing with any number of effects to make it sound like Satan’s farting all over the place, and he does each with virtuoso skill. One could even say that he’s worth the price of admission alone.

I could bore you with details of what they played and whatnot, but I won’t do that. Chances are that if you like a Wilco song they played it, except for “Casino Queen” and “Misunderstood.” And they played three encores (I’m sure they could’ve squeezed in another, but one can’t be too picky.) But all in all it was a really eye-opening experience. You can tell that they’re a good band from their records: you know their songs are good, Tweedy’s words are great, but to experience them live… It’s hard to put into words what made it so great. Of course the musicianship and songs. The crowd has to be into it, too. As the night went on you got the sense that this band was having a really good time. It’s one of the first times in a show that I remember distinctly the band getting better and better as the show progressed. I suppose what made it so great was the perfect confluence of all of these things on a breezy evening of the first day of summer where six musicians met up and showed their appreciation for the however many thousand people that came to show them some, too. I’m now a believer, and will be sure to set another task for myself in Outlook to order tickets early when they come around again. This is a truly great band at the top of their game. Catch them if you can.

And thanks to the wonders of the Internet I’ve managed to download the whole show that I attended. I’m in the process of converting it to a usable file format. How about them apples? And the pic above is not from the show I attended, nor did I take that picture. Here’s what I took:

Camera phone pics suck butt.

*The following is a special feature to Schitthaus.com by Middle East correspondent and all-around sweet dude, the Notorious G.I.P. This thoroughly-researched article is the first in what will be a series of educational pieces about the Holy Land.

Shalom. (For those of you that aren’t familiar with the Hebrew tongue, the word is loosely translated thusly: “Eat shit.” Needless to say, I use it as often as I can.)

Well, let me say that my journey got off to an inauspicious start. While I was extremely excited to get to Israel, my luggage was having second thoughts and decided to stay at the airport in New York. All I have with me now are sunglasses and a passport. But then again, what else could anyone possibly need? In a related story, I shaved this morning with a sharp rock that I found in the parking lot.

And while El Al Airlines (whose motto is “Spread ‘Em!”) provided me with a complimentary bag of toiletries, it included neither a banana hammock nor a chest hair comb, arguably the two most critical accessories when traveling abroad. Sorry ladies, the rug might be a bit unruly for the next few days.

So, what do you do when you arrive to one of the holiest cities in the world? Head straight to the bar, of course. It didn’t take us long to find the hotel bar where we were greeted by Jamal (the bartender), Mimi (his assistant), and free shots of Jamison (that’s alcohol, jackass). Jamal is now my main man. Before we began drinking, though, we felt that it would be appropriate to reflect on some of the finer aspects of the city of Jerusalem, which is to be my temporary home for the next week. As it is his hometown, Jamal was more than happy to offer his thoughts on the subject. “Jerusalem has so much history, so much religion, and so much…fucking prostitution.” Well said.

The next day I had my first Arab mullet sighting while driving through East Jerusalem. Maybe it was just the fact that I was in the Holy Land, but I felt blessed. I have yet to see a Jewish mullet, but the back hair I have been witnessing is definitely screaming “party!”

Next on the itinerary was a lovely drive to the famed plateau at Masada, the site of the first rave party in 23 B.C.E. Back then of course, there were no glowsticks so the douchebags used wax candles and the girls ate small rocks instead of ecstacy pills and they all danced like complete tools until they had to get back to whatever they did before Xbox 360 was invented. Incidentally, I learned these fun facts from a short film (which, believe it or not, is not in danger of winning any Oscars) named “Masada: The True Story.”

Finally, the day was capped by taking a dip in the Dead Sea, which is named after Steve Dead, the first man to pee at the lowest point on Earth. Big ups, Steve.

Well folks, it’s time to go try and work some game, which will probably go something like this, ”Hey girl, I’ve been wearing the same pair of boxers for three days.” So, shalom, you yutches.