Haikiew (TM)....Titus Andronicus @ The Hemlock Tavern, San Francisco 10/27/08

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Jersey dream, shipwreck.

Carnival swirl fills the air,

fulfilling promise.

Why I support those who support things I don't support...

I was walking my dog earlier in the week, our after-dinner walk, and one - and only one - of the houses up in the hills behind me has a "Yes on Prop 8" sign in the yard. It's new - I walk by that house every night - and when I saw it the first time it was there, I reacted internally with prejudice and dismissal. "Those people are idiots! Why, why, why?"

So the next night as I walked past that house again, I didn't see the sign. And you know what? I got MORE angry. "The people who stole that sign are fucking idiots! Why, why, why?!"

And so the following evening as I walked by I saw the sign again - dunno if the night before the sign was hidden by a car or if they have replaced it, but when I saw it, I was actually happy. Because as much as I hate the fact that those people will be voting for Prop 8 and that it may pass because of ignorance and intolerance by those same sorts of people, I hate even more the thought of someone else coming and denying those same sorts of people the right to live their life they way they believe and do so proudly out in the open.

Which is of course, why I'm against prop 8, but whatever. There's a guy with a McCain/Palin sign in his window - once again, just one guy - and it makes me happy every time I see it, because no one has forced him to take it down, or defiled it, or broken his window.

You go, neighbors with opposing views. I completely disagree with you.

This Month's Featured Review: Crystal Antlers EP

Recently signed to seminal indie label Touch and Go; Long Beach’s Crystal Antlers might be poised to break out in ‘09. Their October 7th self-titled EP release is a tightly wound experiment in melding no wave, hardcore, and psychedelia. Producer Ikie Owens (keyboardist for the Mars Volta) gives these songs lots echoey vim by mixing the cacophonous angst of Sonic Youth, the swirling art-rock of Jane’s Addiction, Black Flag’s harrowing intensity and the addled danger of 13th Floor Elevators.

Crystal Antlers is a maelstrom of feedback, strangled vocals and orchestrated chaos. Jonny Bell’s vocals growl and shriek through any number of effects and filters, which dissipate into the overall mix. His delivery is all fire and brimstone, belying a more melodic tone he only hints at occasionally on this record. Opener “Until the Sun Dies: Part 2” showcases some vocal range, allowing for a more dynamic soundscape. The best songs on the EP, like the seven minute “Parting Song For the Torn Sky”, allow the organs to create a sonic expanse. Drummer Kevin Stuart’s artful use of half-time signatures on a couple of the tracks reveals some jazz chops. A nice twist to Crystal Antlers sound is the added percussion delivered by Damian Edwards. His contribution to the mayhem provides some interesting texture to the songs. The EP can best be encapsulated as a frenzied freak out with artistic pretensions. Often the best riffs on the Crystal Antlers EP get cut off right at the point of being established. Andrew King’s guitar work anchors the sound firmly in the psych-rock realm. But unlike other guitar players in this genre he shies away from embracing the riff. This can be frustrating for the listener; it seems reactionary, as if this is what injects the “art” into the compositions. The mosaic created by the Crystal Antlers is a composite of shards of glass sharp enough to cut you, held in place by cement rough enough to scrape you. It will be interesting to watch which, if any, of the rough edges will be smoothed out on an upcoming full-length release.

Crystal Antlers have emerged out of the LA art collective The Smell - a club/art space of renown in Downtown LA - along with contemporaries No Age and Abe Vigoda. All these bands share a similar aesthetic, a kind of disjointed and angular approach to songwriting. These bands seem to suffer from musical ADD. A typical example of this is on the track “Vexation”, a punishing bombardment of pulverizing drums and blaring organs. But in service of what? The song blasts out of the speakers like a shotgun, but like a shotgun it sprays pellets everywhere with little or no accuracy. This is a fine effect maybe but not compelling enough to revisit on song after song. The upside for the Crystal Antlers is that there is no shortage of musical ideas on this EP. The question becomes will they have the patience and restraint to explore some of those ideas at length?

This Month's E-Music Acquisitions...

John Coltrane “Lush Life”Re-Mastered

Two words best to describe John Coltrane's 1958 "Lush Life", casual elegance. This newly remastered release on the Prestige label is perfect for an autumn night and a well-mixed cocktail. Coltrane's playing is contemplative and restrained, while still harboring the questing spirituality he would soon begin exploring in subsequent recordings. The absence of a piano player on the first three tracks clears the way for Trane's emotive runs. Tone, pure and bluesy, is the focus on "Lush Life". The last two tracks feature the addition of Red Garland on piano and Donald Byrd on trumpet. At close to 15 minutes the title track hints at some of the more adventurous playing Coltrane would be known for. But this record finds him contented, in all his nuanced glory.

Flying Lotus “1983”

After reading a lot of the hype surrounding the recent release of Flying Lotus’ (aka Steven Ellison) “Los Angeles”, I decided to go back to his 2006 recording “1983” as a primer. Flying Lotus’ music is comprised of bleeps, glitches, and fuzz, most seemingly generated from a Casio keyboard circa 1983. His inspiration seems to be divined as much from Atari 2600 as Aphex Twin. While the “skip beat’ stagger of most of the tracks give Flying Lotus a signature sound, it feels like ambient wallpaper. There is nothing very compelling about “1983”. Comparisons to J-Dilla seem unwarranted other than both are lo-fi aficionados. “1983” would be better suited to background music in a trendy wine bar than a club. In the sub-genre obsessed universe of electronica, Flying Lotus may be an Indie darling but to these ears there is little to celebrate.

The Last Shadow Puppets “The Age of the Understatement”

This collaboration between the Arctic Monkey’s Alex Turner and the Rascals’ Miles Kane really delivers on the promise of both of these songwriters. Many reviewers cite David Bowie as a key influence on “The Age of the Understatement” but I would offer Ennio Morricone, LA psychedelic band Love, Britain’s The Coral and the sounds coming out of swingin’ London in mid 1960’s, as the guiding lights for this recording. Vocally, these two front men sound perfect together. In fact, I hadn’t realized how good a voice Turner was in possession of, inflecting more melody into these songs than is evidenced in his work with the Arctic Monkeys. The acerbic wit both songwriters are known for is still there but some of the sting is masked by the ornate orchestrations and galloping tempos. “Standing Next To Me” would fit nicely on Love’s Forever Changes and “Calm Like You” might have Tom Jones considering another comeback attempt.

Animal Collective “Strawberry Jam”

What do you get when you place Brian Wilson, Philip Glass, and Dan Deacon in a blender and push puree? You might get Baltimore transplants now residing in Brooklyn, Animal Collective. Last year’s release “Strawberry Jam” is one of the most confounding and brilliant examples of laptop rock. Critical darlings to be sure and worth the accolades, main songwriting forces Panda Bear and Avey Tare craft layered, inventive, joyous whimsy. Animal Collective reference “Smile” era Brian Wilson, celebrating the druggy glory, they offer an alternative universe for those voices in his head. The variegated playground these musicians inhabit is a feast for the ears. Soaring harmonies mix with world music influences, which are then left to swim up the bit rate stream. The songs on “Strawberry Jam” begin as innocent experimentation, quickly escalate into addiction, have you finding God and then relapsing back into the magical world of Animal Collective.

Shudder To Think “Funeral At The Movies/Ten Spot”

This combined release of 1990’s “Ten Spot” and 1991’s “Funeral At The Movies” on Discord (Minor Threat, Fugazi, Rites of Spring) is a nice indoctrination into Shudder To Think’s divergent art-punk. Never really in step with the rest of the Discord catalogue, these first records turn on singer Craig Wedren’s soaring, psuedo-falsetto. The tracks on both recordings point to the triumphs that would be captured on 1994’s “Pony Express Record”. Future guitarist and songwriting force Nathan Larsen would join Shudder after these releases, forging the unique and supremely creative partnership with Wedren. The two would solidify the symbiosis that would bridge metal, art-rock, and indie-rock. Always inventive, this recording is ground zero for those looking to discover the creative genesis for this one-of-a-kind rock band.

Cold War Kids “Loyalty to Loyalty”

There has already been a ton of press surrounding Cold War Kids sophomore offering “Loyalty to Loyalty”. Most reviews are looking to draw blood on a band that received so much hype after 2006’s “Robbers & Cowards”. The backlash seems totally undeserved and reactionary. This record is much darker sonically-as most second records tend to be- revealing a band that is serious about being taken serious. “Loyalty to Loyalty” bears repeated listening to get at the core of CWK’s malcontent. The production is reverb heavy with the guitars taking prominence. They have an almost Hawaiian sheen to them, locking in with the bass in syncopated rhythmic stutters. Nathan Willet’s vocals are soulful in a Jeff Buckley way and really are the centerpiece of Cold War Kids sound. This is a band that is still in the process of refining their sound but unlike many other bands they have their own sound to refine.

Subway Ride Across The Manhattan Bridge

Duvet's Daily Dose...Bravo! Bill and Hillary Clinton For Putting The Party First!

I just want to extend a heartfelt thanks to Bill and Hillary Clinton for "doing whatever needs to be done to get Barack Obama in the Oval Office." I applaud their efforts for putting aside any residual bitterness over losing a campaign, Mrs. Clinton viewed more as a coronation, than a contest.

It's easy to see how a young upstart preaching "change" should have known his place in the Democratic Party pecking order. And how gracious the Clintons have been in showering him with tepid praise, back-handed compliments, and thinly veiled insinuations as to how competent he would be as Commander-in-Chief.

It was right to caution the American people that someone who ran and continues to run a well disciplined, highly-organized, and fiscally sound campaign - As opposed to the erratic, spend thrifty, kitchen sink approach you offered Americans - was not a suitable candidate for President.

Former President Clinton's promise to "get out there and stump" for Obama after observing the Jewish Holidays, Halloween, and the election itself is completely understandable. The Democratic Party can count on the Clintons because they know just how important this election is to America (Oh, and to Hillary's last chance to fulfill her entitlement dream in 2012).

David Blaine can learn a thing or two from the former first family about how to pull off one of the greatest disappearing acts of all time! Wait, didn't she say, "...you haven't seen the last of me"?

Kudos to Senator Clinton for neutralizing Pitbull Palin with this searing mantra, "NO McCain, NO Palin, NO Way!" WOW! That'll do the trick.

After brilliantly making the case against Barack Hussein Obama - not to imply that he's a Muslim or a terrorist, as far as Senator Clinton knows - she vows to do "whatever it takes" with all the urgency of a Senator pushing through reforms....Wait a minute?

Don't worry Clintons your legacy is being etched as we speak...and here's some campaign slogans for 2012 Hillary: How about, "CLINTON FIRST!" or perhaps, "CHANGE, you can wait for."

Life During Wartime: Stunned They Head for the Exits....Was It Worth It?

My Bloody Valentine at San Francisco's Concourse Exhibition Center was more an example of aural sculpture than a traditional 'Rock' show. The band's history, influence and 17-year absence have been well documented. But the visceral effect high volume has on an audience at a My Bloody Valentine show is akin to be dropped into a war zone.

My Bloody Valentine's sound is synonymous with ear-splitting decibel levels. The wash of sound they create combined with actual or imagined overtones within that wash, bludgeon the senses. In effect, their sound is a physical experience. The sound waves, even from 100 yards away, rattle your joints. Sheets of sonic rain drench you where you stand. The sound passes through you, rearranging your internal organs in the process. It’s a tribute to MVB’s artistry that the sheer force of volume doesn’t nullify the melodies. If this is possible, there is as much subtlety at work as bombast.

One clear casualty of playing so loud is the vocals. They are sacrificed at the stentorian altar, reduced to a faint hum for most of the show. It is a shame that one of the components on record that made My Bloody Valentine so influential – Belinda Butcher’s breathy, melancholic vocal delivery of is often imitated by any number of pretenders to the shoegaze throne – seems to have been disposed of live.

There were several times during the performance when I had to laugh out loud in response to the overwhelming force emitted from the speakers. At one point I was convinced I had to use the bathroom. Upon entering one of the few sanctuaries from the onslaught, I just stood there. It wasn’t the bathroom I needed but rather respite from Debbie Googe’s pulverizing bass line driving the song “Soon”.

As the final squeal from Kevin Shields’ guitar sliced through the cavernous barn that best describes the Concourse Exhibition Center, a stunned silence befell the room. Even that proved deafening.

The band had just finished performing “You Made Me Realize”, which included 20 plus minutes of a sublime cochlear holocaust. During this onslaught audience members were either fighting their way through the din, or fighting their way out. The rest were held in stasis by the relentless torrent.

Drummer Colm Ó Cíosóig, maniacally flailing away at his symbals for most of it, created a shattering crescendo before the band launched back into the chorus. I couldn’t help but think that this is what Londoners heard as their city was shelled by the German Luftwaffe during World War II.

The final note still ringing in my ear, I watched the shell-shocked audience make their way to the exits. Most had the confused torpor of refugees who had survived a vicious attack. Slowly, as senses began to return, bemused grins appeared and exhilaration took over. It was the same wondrous feeling you have after an earthquake. Excited voices began to retake the room.

The night air greeted my nostrils like smelling salt to a boxer who had been subjugated to the canvass. I walked out into the fold of people, the scene strangely resembling a triage unit. Turning to my friend I said, “WOW!” It was all I could muster.

This was the exact sensation I remembered feeling when I saw My Bloody Valentine some 17 years ago in a small club. The rush of years was reduced to a single word. WOW!

Haikiew (TM)...My Bloody Valentine @ The Concourse Exhibition Center 9/30/08

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Loveless squall returns,

stentorian assault made

stunned silent walk.

Las Vegas Ruminations…Part II “The Elevators”

It’s Saturday night in the city of sin and a phalanx of nocturnal revelers shuffles impatiently in front of a pair of gilded doors. The doors open allowing successive entourages to push past the expectant crowd gathered outside. Eyes lock, coy smiles exchanged, and open-ended invitations are extended as the crush of people is reversed. Inside there is barely room to move and no place to move to anyway. Whispers can be heard above the music pumped in from overhead speakers. We’re packed in tight like perfume-scented veal. This is one of the best and most random of Las Vegas’ many playgrounds…the elevator of your favorite casino.

The elevator banks in Las Vegas casinos serve in many ways as a microcosm. They’re unavoidable and essential to your stay in Vegas. Yet, they rarely receive the attention I believe they deserve. They have an almost tidal quality. Early in the morning they’re a mix of families making their way to the pool, the buffet bound, and bleary-eyed remnants of the previous night’s odysseys. This time of day the elevators assume a more familiar atmosphere. Eye contact is either avoided or limited to polite recognition. Children shift excitedly from foot to foot, waiting for the doors to open on the day’s adventure. While others can’t wait for them to close the chapter on a story best left unwritten.

As the desert sun continues its rise, so to does the flurry of activity in the elevator banks. Like molecules when heated, trips to and from hotel rooms seem to have a reactive association to the outside temperature. One can only surmise the nature of these hotel room missions. Their soundtrack is the sound of flip-flops reverberating off marble floors to accompany the march to the elevator banks. Women shielded behind over-sized eyewear stand confidently in swimsuits. They pretend not to notice the men checking them out. It’s in these moments that small talk morphs into proposals for future rendezvous.

The end of the day means the elevator banks once again become clogged with families returning from the pool. Parents clutch their children, refraining them from the overwhelming urge to push all the buttons on the elevator panel. Married men sneak peripheral glances at the girls who are busy recanting pool encounters. An impatient pall has overtaken the elevator. People want to get back to their rooms to recharge for the night ahead.

The night really starts when you load into that first elevator of the evening. For the well-lubed hotel guests, fresh from pre-partying in their rooms, this is their first encounter in the “wild” for that night. You stand waiting, perhaps there’s a wager on which elevator door will open first. The ding, signaling the arrival of your vertical chariot, marks the first moment of anticipation of the night. Who will greet you when the doors disunite?

It’s important to try and match the energy of the elevator upon entering. They are like hyper-accelerated ecosystems, each with its own evolutionary trajectory. You can exist in complete silence from floors 35 to 23, and then suddenly, one comment can unleash a torrent of conversation - the ebb and flow of riders creating an atmosphere of chance that rivals the gaming floor.

There are a few different types of “elevator playas”, that are worth mentioning. The “Host” acts as if you’ve been invited to his personal party. They might pepper you with a few questions about your day or plans for the evening. The “Host” usually keeps the conversation light and innocuous.

Next we have the “Inquisitor”, who usually is very curious as to, “What your deal is?” They like to push the envelope, by asking provocative questions and making any manner of allusions. When handled properly the “Inquisitor” can be a valuable asset to the elevator party.

Lastly, there’s the “Comedian”. They like to take advantage of the tight confines and lack of exits to work on material. The elevator usually represents the acme of their comedy career. The best you can do is pray they’re funny or that you don’t have far to go before reaching the lobby.

So the next time you are in Las Vegas pay attention to your time in the elevators. Often it’s the time spent en route to our destinations that goes unnoticed. Las Vegas elevators are every bit as sportive as the places they are depositing you. Remember, you can’t have “what happens in Vegas” if you don’t leave your room…usually.

A Few Words On "Feeling Safe"...

There has been much lip service given by both political parties to idea that they are the ones best suited to "keeping us safe". As the election cycle winds to a close and all the hyperbole of the eminent threat to our safety gets ratcheted up, it feels as if those that I fear most are the very ones in charge of governing, legislating, and protecting me from the "Evildoers".

I think it might be beneficial to include media giants, corporate barons, journalists, politicians, celebrities, law enforcement, and middle America on the list of those intent on terrorizing our fragile post 9/11 mindset. What makes me feel unsafe is the continual erosion of our freedoms, the rise of materialism, consumer culture run amuck, and the freefall from grace our nation has experienced internationally.

The fact is our Presidential election has devolved into a popularity contest. Journalists no longer garner respect and the distinction of being "truth tellers". Instead, they are the puppets of corporate giants concerned with bottom lines and filling 24-hour news cycles. In order for a real change to occur, for a true sense of security to replace the fear mongering of the last 8 years to take hold, we need a wholescale change to what it is we value. We need to change what we stand for as a people and have been projecting to the rest of the world. We are no longer progressive thinkers but rather we have regressed culturally, socially, and politically.

I don't fear getting blown to smithereens by some terrorist plot, although it very well could happen. I fear shouldering the burden of decades of bad decision-making by my government. I fear corporate fat cats that dictate policy to the government I fear. I fear the status quo. I fear religion. I fear Hollywood. I fear "Reality TV". I fear cynics. I fear oil and it's stranglehold on our economy. I fear political expedience. I fear drug laws not drug users. I fear the police. I guess I fear that we just don't get it. I fear that we never will.

So who is going to keep me safe from all of these fears? Instead of looking to someone to "change" all of this for us, we need to not fear changing it for ourselves.

Well, now time passed and now it seems everybody's having them dreams.
Everybody sees themselves walkin' around with no one else.
Half of the people can be part right all of the time,
Some of the people can be all right part of the time.
But all of the people cannot be right all of the time. I think Abraham
Lincoln said that.
"I'll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours, "I said that.

Bob Dylan "Talkin World War III Blues"

Duvet's Daily Dose...ENOUGH ALREADY!

Alright, ENOUGH ALREADY! Duvet can no longer sit in silence in an effort to remain unbiased. I can only suffer so much non speak, ridiculousness, and denial. Sarah Palin is no more equipped to potentially run the United States, let alone a hockey franchise, than Duvet is to win a beauty pageant.

I was reading through my daily list of blogs when I came across this excerpt from Palin's much anticipated interview with CBS's Katie Couric on the Huffington Post. Couric is seeking clarification for a previous remark made by Palin in her interview with ABC's Charlie Gibson, regarding her foreign policy experience. She remarked to Gibson that her state of Alaska's proximity to Russian gives her insight into the minds of the Russians and uniquely qualifies her to deal with them.

Transcript below:

COURIC: You've cited Alaska's proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?

PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land-- boundary that we have with-- Canada. It-- it's funny that a comment like that was-- kind of made to-- cari-- I don't know, you know? Reporters--

COURIC: Mock?

PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that's the word, yeah.

COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.

PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our-- our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They're in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia--

COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We-- we do-- it's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where-- where do they go? It's Alaska. It's just right over the border. It is-- from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to-- to our state.

I defy someone to decipher this non-answer and articulate just what the f@#k this puppet is talking about? This is no joke and the stakes are way too high to succumb to likability and politicizing gender as a means to scare up votes! "You've come a long way, Baby", to quote the advertising world, to devolve the legacy of women in politics to Sarah Palin.

The fact is no amount of briefing and media quarantining will qualify this tyro to be next in line to run the "Free" world. WAKE UP!! LISTEN!! PAY ATTENTION!! to what she says, not how good she looks saying it. Vladimir Putin is a REAL pit bull and Sarah Palin is really a "hockey mom". Do not confuse the two because we will regret it...

Why I’m a Yankee Fan and Why I Bawled Like a Baby on Sunday Night

Sunday night the New York Yankees played their final game in Yankee Stadium. The house that Ruth built and George Steinbrenner renovated has seen its last pitch. As I watched the game I found myself shedding real, heartfelt tears. I sat there watching Mariano Rivera close out the final home game of this season, a season that for the first time in 14 years will leave Yankee Stadium dark in October, and bawled like a baby. My wife commented on how cute she thought it was that I was so emotional but I was troubled. Where were these tears coming from? And, why a building made of concrete, steel, plastic and whatever else buildings are made of, was having such a profoundly emotional effect on me?

You see as much as this will annoy and inspire the derisive quips of many of my friends, I love the New York Yankees. I grew up in the Bay Area raised on National League baseball and the San Francisco Giants. I spent many a night shivering under a blanket with my family at Candlestick Park, watching the fog appear like some gray monster over the left field wall, intent on swallowing the stadium whole. The 70's and 80's were not kind to those Giant teams of my youth. They lost way more than they won and always seemed to be yielding to the dreaded Dodgers of Los Angeles come playoff time. The playoffs required that I choose another team to fill my October baseball void. It allowed me to extend my season and deposit the reservoir of pent up emotion into someone else's franchise.

The logical choice would have been to embrace the Oakland A's just across the Bay. But I went cold at the sight of the green and yellow jerseys they wore. Even though the A's were World Series champs in the early 70's, I still felt nothing, no allegiance bubbled up to the surface. I guess even as a little boy I knew nothing good could ever truly come out of the East Bay for me. My provincial SF-ness taking root, I ditched "my" American League franchise in search of another.

It wasn't much of a leap to take an interest in the New York Yankees. If you followed baseball even casually, you knew of the storied franchise and its players. Growing up in San Francisco you were taught two things: 1. The best crab in the world came from right outside the Bay and 2. Joe DiMaggio was the greatest baseball player to ever play the game.

I can remember my grandfather sitting in his backyard, within shouting distance of Candlestick Park, listening to the Yankees simulcast on the radio. He talked about the Yankees as if he had grown up in the Bronx all his life. You see the Giants only had existed for him recently, but the Yankees were the team he grew up with. Having immigrated from Italy to San Francisco via Ellis Island, New York City represented something to his generation of immigrants. It was that beacon of possibility, freedom, and liberty. New York City was the exporter of traditions for a vast, young nation that needed to establish a national identity. The Yankees were winners and America began to internalize this belief as well.

Those Yankee teams of lore would carry us through challenges and inspire us in the worst of times. In the thirties, during the Great Depression, when we became a nation of losers, the Yankees were winners. Reminding us of what we could accomplish with hard work, community, and belief in something bigger.

When our country was attacked and plunged into a World War in 1941, the Yankees won. We would win too. After the war, as our nation's prosperity swelled, the Yankees reflected this return to glory on the baseball field. The 50's and early 60's belonged to the New York Yankees. They wrote history on the baseball diamond as America was writing history as a nation.

But it was in the late 70's that I began my personal journey with the franchise. And perhaps more to the point, my intense desire to be one of those lucky ones sitting in the stands at Yankee Stadium.

The mid/late 60's and most of the 70's saw the historic franchise in a state of upheaval and turmoil. The cultural shift and chaotic change sweeping across the nation was being mirrored by the play of the Yankee teams of this era. Pennants were being flown above other city’s stadiums as flags and bras were being burned on the streets. By the late 70’s the city of New York had fallen into a complete state of disrepair and crime.

I was 8 years old in 1977 and baseball had become a major passion of mine. I still loved the Giants but found myself drawn to the shaggy players in pinstripes with each pack of baseball cards I opened. The uniform, with the big NY emblem above the heart, was both familiar and exotic. This team of scruffy renegades from a distant place beckoned to me.

Yankee Stadium itself seemed massive, a field bathed in light from light stands reaching high into the sky. The surrounding tenements and the subway cars appearing through the right field wall, seemed scary to me as I watched games from the comfort of my suburban home. Yankee Stadium might as well have been on the other side of the world, let alone on the others side of the continent.


It was in 1977 that the Yankees improbably won the pennant to face the hated Dodgers in the World Series. I had been following the Yankees all season long via the newspapers and “This Week in Baseball”. I couldn’t wait to watch my adopted team take on my enemy - I would learn that they were just as hated by generations of Bronx loyalists before me, when they played at Brooklyn’s Ebbets Field before moving to sunny, Southern California – on television every night for the next two weeks.

I can still hear Howard Cosell’s grandiose and incendiary voice calling the call. What was even more fascinating to me was the chaos and mayhem he detailed that was occurring outside the ballpark. There were blackouts, serial killers, and fires, “THE BRONX WAS BURNING!” I was captivated. The city sounded like a zoo and the stadium looked like one big cage. When the Yankees did the impossible and all the “caged animals” streamed onto the field, the catharsis reached my living room 3,000 miles away. I was hooked from that day on.

The 80’s were not as kind to the Bronx Bombers and my meddle was tested. Luckily years of being a Giants fan taught me how to deal with losing. Yankee Stadium would become my baseball Mecca, even if I went there only in my dreams. Over the years the building and all it represented, would fuel my desire to someday live in New York City. I would be one of those lucky ones to sitting in the blue plastic chairs.

The mid/late 90’s saw the Yankees return to glory with a run of four championships. When people asked why a guy from San Francisco was a Yankee fan? I parried their examination by stating simply, “I like to win.” But it was much deeper, much more personal than that.

My wife and I moved to New York City shortly after September 11th in 2002. I had been to New York City a few times prior and I was resolute in one day counting myself among its citizenry. I internalized the words Frank Sinatra sung in “New York, New York” after Yankee victories at the stadium. I was convinced, like many before me, that my destiny was tied to this great, American city.

The first time my wife and I went to the stadium, shortly after moving to the city, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep the night before. You See, I was fresh meat in a city of devout carnivores. I wasn’t sure what I had gotten myself into moving out East and was questioning if I could in fact, as the song said, “Make it there…” Taking the 4 train to the stadium my palms began to sweat with each stop going uptown.

The train filled up with the familiar black and white colors of the team. Hats proudly worn with the NY logo known worldwide. They call it Yankee pride and mine was beginning to swell and grow inside of me. We were all here for one reason, the New York Yankees.

Upon entering the stadium I felt a wave of history wash over me. It was breathtaking. The field that was etched into my mind came alive. The colors were sharper and the sound of the fans taking their seats was almost musical. I felt a strange calm beneath my excitement. For the first time since arriving in New York I felt like I was welcome, that I belonged, at least here, for next three or four hours.

I would go to many more games over the next four years. I would take the train that seemed so mysterious and foreboding to me in 1977. I sat in box seats just rows from the field. I would go to day games by myself and sit in the left field bleachers. I sat in the final row of the upper deck, high above home plate. Taking in the Bronx skyline in the near distance.

Once my wife and I sat behind the actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. We high-fived and screamed at the opposing team from seats that were worth more than I made all of that year. Every game was a dream realized. I never forgot how lucky I was to be sitting in that stadium.

Sometimes I’d go up to the stadium to try and get tickets from scalpers. I would walk around the entire stadium, just taking it all in and calling friends on the West Coast to make them jealous. If I couldn’t land tickets I’d sit across the street in a bar and watch the game on TV. The cheers would flood in the door as the subway rumbled outside above our heads.

Now that I’m back in San Francisco I get the Major League Ticket on digital cable. I watch as many Yankee games as I did when I lived back there. My friends still question the sincerity of my devotion. They are quick to remind me that I grew up in San Francisco and to, “Give it up already!” But what they don’t understand is that you don’t have to be from New York to be a New Yorker. You just have to live there. The city is made up of people who were born somewhere else but destined to live there. And if you no longer live there, just having lived there changes you. It becomes part of who you are, how you think, what you think about. The provincial thinking that leads to the diatribes I face during baseball season no longer affects me.

As I watched the final moments of Sunday’s game on my television, I was overcome with emotion. The team had gathered on the pitchers mound and their captain Derek Jeter was thanking the fans. The camera cut to saddened fans, some crying, and most looking kind of numb. That look you often see when someone has been told a loved one has passed. Jeter asked the fans to go next door with them and help build new memories. I look forward to the future and being able to do just that.

The team began circling the perimeter of the field, waving to the fans and doffing their caps. The end was here after 85 glorious and some not so glorious years. The camera fixed on a boy of about 8 years old wiping tears from his eyes. I sat in my kitchen doing the same. I thought about how lucky that little boy was to be there, and, how lucky I was to have been there.

I think the reason I was so upset was that Yankee Stadium represented a direct line to my youth, my hopes, and my dreams. As anyone living in an uncertain time can attest, change is a scary but necessary proposition. It made me think of all the things that have changed in New York in the short time since I’ve moved away. Yankee Stadium felt like a constant that connected the lives of anyone who had walked through its gates. It bridged the gap of generations and connected the dots of history. Yankee Stadium was more than a place where baseball was played; it was a home to big dreams.

I hope this will help explain my love for my adopted team and city.

Ruminations On Las Vegas....Part One "The Pool"

This past Labor Day I went to Las Vegas for a good friend's bachelor party. First off I should say that my friends and I are entirely too old to be engaging in this sort of "tradition". I mean we are just too old to be acting like hormonally challenged alcoholics, with our every perversion proudly on display. That said we soldiered on, and on, and on...

We stayed at the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino on the "Strip". A property that the majority of our contingent was strangely compelled to never exit. You would have thought the desert sands had been transformed into ocean water. Our shipwrecked crew of hapless, middle-aged manboys stranded on this remote island, at least it was in keeping with the hotel's theme.

Mandalay Bay is known for its enormous wave pool and the Moorea Beach Club, a 21 and over "European Style" beach experience. At $50 to enter Moorea Beach Club, the value is predicated on how "European" the female patrons are feeling. Our view from the 25th floor provided an aerial vantage of a "sausage fest" of the highest order. $50 dollars saved we opted to stick with good, old-fashioned, American-style sunbathing. The familiar repressed, Victorian ethos we had grown accustomed to would have to suffice.

While at the pool, I noticed the hegemonic trappings of a generation raised on the cultural exports of MTV's "The Real World". The pools were populated with tattooed twenty-something's, peacocking for imagined fans. Men with their chests jutting forward, the strain of looking cool taking its toll under the hot desert sun, patrolled the rim of the pools. Flat-billed baseball caps proudly displaying cities most probably live no closer than a hundred miles of, were pivoted on their heads by the slightest of degrees. It's easy to spot the guys from Long Island and New Jersey. Their skin is Halloween orange and their hair gelled up, forming an inverted mote designed to keep the "cool" from escaping.

Over sized, mirrored sunglasses, a la Paris Hilton, were the accessory du jour for both men and women at the pool. Another quick note, piercings and tattoos no longer signify otherness when everyone in attendance has them. The majority of the women prefer to opt for the "slut stamp" on the small of the back. Most display Chinese characters and tribal art, the significance of which will gradually fade as their their forties approach. Men seem to favor the nipple piercing; on most it draws attention to sagging pecs. Meanwhile, flashes of light reflected off tongue piercings, punctuating innuendo-laden conversations.

For all of Vegas' wild poolside reputation, I found the crowd subdued. Maybe most were sweating out the previous night's debauchery. Or, maybe, $12 Pina Coladas and $7 Budwiesers will work to mute even the most frivolous of vacationers. Whatever the reason, nary a chicken fight was witnessed. I felt sorry for those that paid $1,500 for a cabana rental. At least they should get some aquatic theatre for that price. I couldn't help but think that this was a far cry from the Vegas pool scenes of Entourage. I guess all the action is at the Hard Rock pool.

The attitude permeating the pool grounds was Entourage worthy however. Even the homeliest of ladies, squeezed into ill-fitting swimwear, had attitude. When did our culture propagate the notion that everyone is a "star"? And as self-fashioned celebrities, staring vacantly through whomever cross their line of vision, they further delude themselves. I know this sounds like bitterness and perhaps it is. I'm bitter that being bitchy is celebrated and engaging one another is an infringement on one's cool. I watched whole groups engaged in the ultimate community building exercise, texting! It sends the message that wherever you're at and whoever you're with just isn't cutting it. There is a better party out there, with way cooler people. What happened to, "It's Vegas Baby!" I guess it's not this part of Vegas or these "Babies"...

LE MINUIT FILM FESTIVAL

THREE PART SERIES ON THE BEST WHISKY DRINKING MOVIES
By David Becerra

PART ONE, “DRUNKEN ANGEL”


A whisky-drinking movie is pretty self-explanatory. It is a movie in which, when you sit down to watch it, you are compelled to drink whisky. What makes a movie a great whisky-drinking movie? There are a few key components, but mostly it’s a kind-of “I know it when I see it” thing.

First, they are black and white. Second, they are old. Third they are fun to watch. Whisky drinking movies take their time. They linger around and are not in much of a hurry or plot driven. They usually take place at night and focus on lowlife and amoral characters. These “anti-heroes” make fun of people with appointment books. Oh yah, and the people in them drink whisky, sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. They drink whisky, they talk about whisky; they hold their glasses up to the light and look at the beautiful whisky. Most importantly, they really enjoy drinking whisky.

One of the best whisky drinking movies is Akira Kurosawa’s “Drunken Angel” from 1948. Starring Toshiro Mifune and Takashi Shimura this film takes place in a run-down post war Japan. It’s about an alcoholic doctor who tries to get a gangster to get his shit together and take care of his tuberculosis. Really, that’s what its about.

So, here’s what you do. Go and order the movie. Netfilx I know has it in stock. When it arrives wait for a night when you will be home alone. For the people who spend most nights alone this won’t be a problem, but if you have a spouse, encourage her or him to go out sometime without you. It’s important to watch a whisky-drinking movie alone. This is true for several reasons, but mostly you want the freedom to feel lonely, drink a lot and get a little ugly. Once you have the place all to yourself, wait until it gets dark out, then go to your favorite all night liquor store and pick up a bottle. For Drunken Angel, I suggest lower end bourbon. Three good ones are Jim Beam, Old Crow or Old Grand Dad. For me Old Crow works best for Drunken Angel. It’s nice, drinkable bourbon, with an old WWII taste to it. When you get home, grab a glass, turn out all the lights and put the movie on. When the “Toho Studios” logo comes on, pour yourself a glass and start sipping.

Drunken Angel has a fantastic opening. The first shot is of a patch of swamp, bubbling and running over with scum. Ominous low music scales in and you know instantly nothing good will ever happen here. This is a good point to take a large swig. The shot hangs around long enough for the credits to roll over, then heavy score gives way to the soft sweet sounds of a distant acoustic guitar. Cut to a few prostitutes trying to stay awake. Next, we see the guitarist far off in the distance, playing under a low streetlight. The camera rolls back over the swamp, where we see some upside-down houses reflected in the muck. Then it pans up to some street thugs. It’s a hot summer night. They toss rocks into the swamp, light up some cigarettes and do their best to fend off the mosquitoes.

Man, what an opening! What a set up! Wouldn’t you love to hang out here, lounge around by the swamp, listen to that guitar and drink whisky! Let yourself feel the summer heat, the pacing and the stillness of the night. Take some more sips and let yourself be transported.

Our first interior shot is of a ramshackle doctor’s office. The Doc comes in, unshaven and scruffy. He is shirtless under his white smock, which is casually half open with the sleeves rolled up. He is followed by a young man, his patient who’s hand is bleeding and who turns out to be a local gangster. The Doc pulls out a bullet from the gangster’s hand. Then he patches him back up, no Novocain, -nothing. The gangster rolls around in pain and the Doc tells him he makes it policy to overprice hoodlums. The two exchange words and the gangster starts to cough. The Doc checks him out and it turns out our gangster has TB, bad. The gangster is in denial and fights with the Doc. This is where the shit starts between the two of them and the main narrative question of the movie is asked. Will the Doc be able to save this gangster from himself and his TB? The Doc hates what the gangster does but has a soft spot for him because he thinks he sees a glimmer of a heart way underneath. But he has to fight with the gangster to get him to take the TB seriously. Sometimes the gangster does. More than likely he only takes the Doc seriously because he is the town drunk, a fellow outsider like the gangster himself. (Thirsty?)

Often the two characters fight each other. The gangster throws the Doc against walls and down on the floor. The Doc throws a bunch of shit at the gangster and yells at him. But the two share some good moments too. At one point the gangster treats the Doc to some really good whisky and in one lovely, lovely shot with the camera behind the bar, the Doc slowly leans in, hands free and sips some whisky from a shot glass. He smacks his lips and savers the beautiful flavor of the prize whisky he rarely tastes. Pure whisky enjoyment! Make sure you taste some from your own glass when the Doc has his.

At this point you should be fully enjoying a great whisky-drinking movie. You should be knee deep into your bottle and deeply absorbed by the story, characters and personality of the film. You are experiencing all the sensations of a small corner of life in post war Japan. The whisky has taken you there, and for about another hour there is no place else you’d rather be.

Don LaFontaine, "The Voice of God," Hospitalized

In a world where movie trailers always contain the phrase "in a world where," there's unfortunate news. Don LaFontaine, nicknamed "The Voice of God," was brought in to Cedar's Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles Friday afternoon August 22 by his wife, Nita, after LaFontaine was experiencing shortness of breath. By Saturday morning, wife Nita had emailed members of the voiceover community to ask for prayers, stating that LaFontaine is "fighting for his life."

This news comes on the heels of an email sent from LaFontaine earlier in the month describing his year long battle with what he describes as a "suspicious growth" on his lymph nodes and left lung.


A biopsy on the lung indicated the tumor was benign, but during the procedure, his lung was nicked, causing it to collapse and air to be released into his upper body several times over multiple days. Further tests found a growth in his colon and a tumor under his lung that threatened to encircle his Aortic Valve.

LaFontaine's doctors began chemotherapy over several months which eventually led to his being able to return to work. However, the radiation therapy had spread to his lungs, making it virtually impossible for him to draw the breaths he needed to even walk, let alone work as a voiceover artist.

His email describing his year comes to a close with this plea, highlighted in green:

"But the real point of all this is the Genisis [sic] of the condition. I was a smoker, on and off, for thirty years. I quit nearly twenty years ago, but that crap has a tendency to lie doggo in your system. It finally caught up with me, and as you've just read - it ain't pretty. For those of you who are in the Voice Over business, and you think that smoking is adding some wonderful quality to your instrument - WAKE UP! Quit! Today! Whoever you are - if you smoke - Stop! All you are adding is garbage to your vocal cords, and a nice deep layer of tar and poison on the linings of your lungs."

LaFontaine's wife, Nina, asks today for thoughts, prayers, and well wishes be sent out for him, and for his daughters.

The Rodeo

The Rodeo This story would probably be better if I was some left wing PETA type nutjob renting a houseboat in Sausalito. But I'm not, so when I went to the Truckee National Championship Rodeo a few days back, I was beside myself. I was throwing back Kers Light like I belonged. I scratched my balls, not sure that's a "rodeo-centric" thing, and let loose a yeehaw! Though I fashioned it on Jim Morrisons primal scream in "The End." Everything about the whole thing was great. Teenage girls with big ole belt buckles, Wrangler jeans, bucking broncos, a mean ass bull. Even a bunch of hippies who had no problem watching a calf get a rope around the neck, but did take a moment to remind my son that pointing guns, even a cap gun, at people is bad. True, hippie-types, but shove it. He's five. Let him bust some caps in people while it's still fun.The only major issue with the whole Rodeo thing is the MC. That mofo talks and talks and talks. Won't shut up. The Rodeo, start to finish lasted 2.5 hours. He made it seem like a week and a half."All the people in the audience who served in the military stand up!"Two dudes stood up. God love them. But the MC makes it sound as though these two guys single handedly ended WW2 and through serious crisis management, averted WW3."Look at that would, you. Brings a tear to your eye."Two F-ing dudes stood up!!!! I'm not tearing up over two guys!The MC went on and on. If you thought vaudeville was a dead art, go to a rodeo.Regardless, the rodeo is fun. You drink beer, talk to people you never would imagine talking to, and feel you are a part of something that passed you by.Here's a link to the Truckee Rodeo. Maybe. It was my dad's 74th birthday tonight, and I've got a bit of a heat on.
www.truckeerodeo.org

Perfect Days...

Sometimes perfect days creep up on you. You go about things, daily things, and unexpected moments pop up. The weather wants you to fall in love, all the people who live in your city decide to stay home and out of your way and then before you know it, it's the end of the day. You find yourself having a cocktail over looking the pacific ocean while listening to part 4 of that 27 part song about being in a closet and you think, "Wow, what a perfect day."
Then there's other days. Days you wake up and say, I'm gonna blow off life and head on down to the beach club. Next thing you know your playing a little frisbee with Ryan O'Neal, watching budding starlets express themsleves all over each other, then crack open your 14th can of Tecate and watch the sun set while tending the teriyaki chicken skewers roasting on the BBQ.
At some point in the middle of Perfect Day Number 2, I realized, Los Angeles is just like anywhere else in the country. Granted, people in Witchita aren't swimming naked with super models at the Roosevelt, or watching dolphins do double back flip gainer thingy's while having lunch. But they are having lunch. And hell. All roads lead to LA. Soon all those peeps in Wichita will be out here. The cute ones, at least. So I'm gonna help. For starters, I'm going to give people the inside scoop on the good and the bad and ugly of LA. Though, I'll tell you right now. There's nothing bad or ugly about the dream factory. Worse case, you end up in some sort of Star 80 scenario. But even that would be cool.
Anyway, if I find something, I'll let you know. If I don't... I tell you something funny my kid said. He's always saying the darndest things.

12 Galaxies in SF Closing Its Doors...Get Ready For More of This

I came across this the other day in SF Weekly's Blog and I can guarantee this won't be the only club to close it's doors in the "City by the Bay". My sources are telling me that clubland is taking a big hit in the current downturn in the economy. In cities like Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York, high rents and club patrons tightening their belts could result in some of your favorite live music venues going the way of the dinosaur.

Another factor that is weighing on club owners is major corporations like Live Nation are buying up clubs or offering acts more money to play their venues. This effectively prices out the "mom and pop" club. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL!! They need your help...

One of the Mission's few live music venues -- and the only one of its size -- is closing later this month. Robert Levy, owner of 12 Galaxies since the club opened five years ago, says the financial climate is too rough for him to continue to keep the space open. It's some sad news for music lovers, as there have been some amazing shows at 12 Galaxies over the years -- from Lightning Bolt to Jay Reatard to Kelley Stoltz (and that's just off the top of my head), not to mention the fact that it removes one of the bigger venues in a neighborhood packed with young music fans. -- Jennifer Maerz

Two Ways Out, Indeed…Darker My Love Grab at the Brass Ring.

Down the street from my house there is a breakfast place called Mama's. Everyday I pass the restaurant and the line out front stretching down the block. And everyday, as I pass the line comprised mostly of guidebook-clutching tourists and yuppies (who love waiting in line for things more than anything else in the world), I ask myself the same question, "It's just eggs right?"

What does this have to do with Darker My Love and their record release party at the Independent Tuesday night? Over the last few months there has been a big push by both their label, Dangerbird Records (home to 2006's surprise breakout Silversun Pickups) and local promoting behemoth Another Planet Entertainment, in the run up to their sophomore release "2". After completing a month long "West Coast Residency" of free shows at hipster clubs (the Echo, Popscene, etc.) in both Los Angeles and San Francisco, Darker My Love emerged onto a stage lined with photographers. As I listened to the feedback slowly giving way to a pounding psychedelic riff, I found myself asking, "It's just a rock and roll band, right?"

DML’s sound has always drawn heavily from late sixties psychedelia and early nineties shoegaze. They, along with Wooden Shjips, The Black Angels, the Warlocks, and Brian Jonestown Massacre, are part of decade long revival to bring back that retro drone. DML were formed in 2004 and its members hail from both LA and SF. They have built up strong local followings in both cities, signing with LA based Dangerbird Records in 2006. Tuesday night’s material drew heavily from the new album “2” and their self-titled debut.

In an interesting marketing ploy, a copy of “2” was given out free to those that purchased a ticket to the record release. I see this as an attempt to energize the hardcore base of the band. By giving local scenesters and tastemakers “free” music, the hope is that they in turn will go forth and evangelize on behalf of Darker My Love. The 2/3rds capacity crowd gathered at the Independent were primed.

Darker My Love seems to suffer from a split personality. On one side they are confident purveyors of wah inspired, freak out jams, however; they seem less comfortable negotiating the tighter structure of the pop leanings on the new record “2”. Live, you can get away with less polish on the longer, jam-oriented pieces. Grooves emerge out of the rubble of constructing and deconstructing the three chord patterns laid down by Tim Presley (Guitar/Vocals), Jared Everett (Guitar), and Rob Barbato (Bass/Vocals). But the more tightly written and hooky compositions require a tightness that was not quite there.

That’s not to say there wasn’t moments of trancendence. The band, anchored by Barbato’s rich, round bass parts, hit you in the hips. I’m sure this is one reason why there were so many women in attendence. DML’s songs contain a sexual undercurrent that leaks out of the fuzz. Songs build, then release. On the popier songs, like the single Two Ways Out, airy vocals take over. Presley and Barbato sing very well together, hitting a nice, easy harmony. Two Ways Out has the potential to be a huge hit. It’s simple, infectious, and you can dance to it. It’s the kind of song that will undoubtedly surface in a commercial.

One pet peeve I have with DML in the live setting is how under utilized Will Canzoneri: (organ, clavinet) is, his playing buried in the mix. I’ve seen too many bands that have organ players relegated to atmospheric filler, rather providing another layer of texture to the music. If you’re going to lug a vintage organ onto the stage and mic it, let me hear it!

Visually, the band employed a huge backdrop with images projected onto it. They were severly reminscent of the late sixties. The ink blotter designs replaced by digital images achieving the same effect. The band members themselves, in appearance, embody the split-personality character inherent in their music. Half the band look like they were cast in a mid-sixties mod tribute. The other half sport the bearded visage du jour, the latest trend in indie rock. Which in itself is a wink and nod to the seventies. All these elements work to produce a simulacra of a band out of time.

Time will tell if “2” is the record that will make Darker My Love a household name. I think the band will benefit from the intensive touring breaking an album will entail. The buzz generated by label, publicist, and promoter with the new release will subside and then the hard work of converting those that the press attracts, one town at a time, begins. Maybe one day a line will be stretching down the block outside the Independent for Darker My Love. If you find yourself in it, you might want to ask yourself, what it is your waiting in line for?

The Real State of Real Estate...

This month, we're going to give you investors the simple, knock-out combination for creating your real estate legacy. Caution, this may cause your great grand-children to raise a glass anytime your name is mentioned.

Buy SFR's. Most of you know that SFR stands for "Single Family Residence". But for some savvy investors, their SFRs are making them So Filthy Rich.

Now, we're sure some of you are saying; "SFRs? What about units? I want units!".

Here's why SFRs:

- NO RENT CONTROL: Avoid relocation fees (up to $17,000!), impossibly low rents, and bad tenants you can't get rid of. SFR's aren't subject to LA's lovely rent control laws. Hooray!

- Easier To Rent: Most renters would choose an SFR over sharing walls with some stranger any day. And most are willing to pay a premium for it.

- Higher Rents: See above.

- Fewer Expenses: Have your SFR renters pay all their utilities. Water, gardener, etc. Plus you can lock in a home warranty that will cover the costs of minor break-downs to keep you from having to run out and fix a clogged sink at 1am.

- Friendlier Loans: Anyone trying to get a loan on a non-owner occupied income property right now? It ain't easy, especially anything over 2 units.

Lending on an SFR is far more user-friendly.

- Better Re-sale: There are more buyers in the market for an SFR than income units. More buyers = greater demand and we all know what that means.

Food For Thought: "Whatever you can do, or dream you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now." Goethe

This is an opinion and should be treated as such. Investing in general carries significant risk. You could lose your entire investment.

PAST PERFORMANCE IS NOT INDICATIVE OF FUTURE RESULTS.

This means that just because a particular investment worked in the past does not mean, in and of itself, that the same indicators will cause a similar profitable effect.

WE MAKE NO REPRESENTATION OF CLIENT PROFITS.

Unfortunately we cannot guarantee you profits. There are no guarantees of profits in real estate or in any other investment for that matter. In fact, in many cases customers suffer a loss of all or part of their investment dollar.

INVESTORS CAN AND DO LOSE MONEY.

Every sale produces a winner and a loser. Money is not created or destroyed, it just changes ownership. If investing will alter your style of living in any manner to the worse, do not invest.