"Can an observer be a participant?"

Okay, so I finally shamed my (scare-quotes) friend Todd into glancing at my weblog. I guess we can call off the hired goons. Oh well.

It was kind of a let-down actually. Somehow, the thrill of recognition is not as exhilarating as I imagined. I hate to say it, but I think I miss my sweet obscurity. Reckon I'll have to start finding ways to alienate him now, at least as a "reader". But how?

I think I just "alienated" myself. (Thank goodness gracious for these Pampers!!!)

So it really is shaping up to be quite a summer in the world of spectating. Besides my caddy job at the Bushwick Country Club, here's what else I've got going for me:

• That David Bowie-curated High Line Festival. David Bowie, High Line. That's all I need to hear. In the words of Metallica, "And nothing else matters."

• Outdoor concert highlights: TV on the Radio, Seu Jorge/Jose Gonzalez, Yo La Tengo, Broken Social Scene, those Latino guys who play flute versions of the Titanic theme song in Times Square, and much much more!

• Bonnaroo. That's right, I'm in. I figure one last epic Rock n' Roll fantasy weekend before I'm too high-maintenance. Quite a line-up this year, yes little Alex? Besides the presence of Radiohead, the deciding factor for me was the absence of WSP, SCI and DMB, three groups that draw the most decadent, filthy and parasitical representatives of the jamband fratbase.

• Picture shows: Scanner Darkly, Guantanamo. Put me down for both in a BIG way.

Looking back over that list, it's not as impressive as I thought, actually. Surely I'm omitting a number of events sure to amuse the spectator in each of us.

Oh, there's the Belle and Sebastian free show in Battery Park for those in town on Independence Day. I went to Yo La Tengo/Malkmus last summer. I highly advise you to get there EARLY; there was quite a bit of nastiness last year. I was on the scene an hour before the show and was still shut out for all of Malkmus. I just barely weaseled in for Yo La Tengo after THE MAN belatedly let another handful inside.

I know I'm going to get a lot of strident emails from people scolding me for rhapsodizing about the Summer delights here in the Complacent West while horrific carnage is being unleashed abroad in our name. But my regular readers understand that I've been doing my part. In addition to my regular bar-room Bush-bashing, I often post links to anti-administration editorials on my weblog.

Homer: What can I do? I'm only one man.
Lisa: Lincoln was only one man.
Homer: Are you sure there wasn't a midget in his hat? I read an email that said there was.

Also, a lot of people have been emailing me and asking, "Max, what's your personal life Code?" So I'm going to go ahead and field that question.

My Code can be articulated in two essential maxims:

Rule #1: Never sell a concert ticket for more than face value. Unless it's for something really insipid like "Taking Back Sunday" and the kid really deserves to lose his shirt because he thinks punk begins and ends with Green Day and lacks the curiosity to even listen to "13 Songs". In that case, I say gouge! Gouge with glee!

Rule #2: It can get nasty hot in the city during summer, and it's a big relief to express this stickiness in song. But! We must set limits! I only permit myself to sing the following lyrics, a Capella, ONCE per summer: "Hot town! Summer in the city! Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty!" ... Of course, that begs the question, does typing it count? I'm going to have to get back to you on that.

Comments

[Pater Familias]

I tried that fists-with-your-toes technique, and there's only one thing to say -- Kids, don't try this at home! Both of my feet are severely cramped. All ten toes are curled under. The doctors say it might be permanent. I can't walk a straight line, and I've already fallen down a grand total of 13 stairwells. My family is ashamed, and I'm due in court next week to fight off this bogus DUI charge. My attorney will be contacting yours, Max.