Oi to the World.

Norad's Santa Tracker has him currently in Redding, California.

Joyeux Noël!

Christmas blogging present: That last Ataris story made me want to recount my other amazing Ataris story, which happened when I saw them on the So Long, Astoria tour. Man, was it ever an odd bill. That was the first and only time I saw Planes Mistaken for Stars. Me and Maria hung out in the back of the Sunshine for most of it, but decided to charge the front when they played good ol San Dimas. We get right to the front when the band's throwing out guitar picks/set lists/unused bottles of water/etc. The girl standing in front of us, who is the poster child for Pretty in Punks everywhere (complete with meathead boyfriend) catches Chris "Kid" Knapp's sweaty drumming towel and starts swinging it around like an idiot. Now, it's important to know that I thought Kid Knapp wuz teh CUTEST. Maria knows this, looks around quickly, swipes the towel out of the girls' hands and books it for the back of the venue. I'm in shock, turn to run with her, but get caught by meathead boyfriend who shoves me to the ground. I get up and yell at him, because clearly, I did not steal his girlfriend's towel. But he's unapologetic (this is why I have no guilt over the incident). I blow it off and make my way to the back of the venue to be herded out like cattle through the exit. When I get to the bar, Maria appears out of nowhere, like a dang unibomber, with her hoodie hood pulled up over her face so no one could see her.

"Hey," she says.

"Do you still have it?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Can I see it?"

"No way, not until we're outta here."

Maria rules. Still have that towel.

Whitney, don't you understand that what I say is true?

The Ataris played a very significant role in the development of my punk rockerness. And it had seriously been about 3 years since one of their songs turned up on my iPod. Until, my drive home on Sunday. I listened to Blue Skies and Broken Hearts, End is Forever AND Anywhere But Here. It completely blew my mind that now, almost nine years after those albums entered my CD changer (because back in high school, I totally rocked a CD changer in my room), I still knew all the words. Every, single, word. I guess they played an even more significant role than i had previously thought.

I remember meeting them at Warped Tour back in 2001. If I looked hard enough, I'd probably find a really good photo of me and Kris Rowe, their lead singer, that he took. That was the first time I ever met "rock stars" that made me go awkward. In fact, it would be one of the last times. Most of the time if I see someone in a band that I super-like, I tend to not talk to them, downright avoid them, instead of having that unbearably awkward two minute conversation about how much their band, like, chaaaaaaanged your life. Because, no matter how put it, it still seems prefabricated. At least in my brain. So, I just walk right on by. Except for the time I sort of met Matt Freeman and babbled incoherently for about 30 seconds. He smiled politely and walked away. Brain would explode if I ever met Tim Armstrong. ANYWAY tangent police, they were all pretty awesome dudes and it gave me hope that "rock stars" were just like meeee: 16, brokenhearted and grabbing at any piece of self identity I could find.

Trust me, I know, in the standard definition of "good music", they fall a little short. And while my 24-year-old self, complete with Radiohead discography and elitist indie-centric podcasts (that's a term...), wants to never wants to hear San Dimas High School Football Rules again, that broken and incomplete 16-year-old is completely winning out. There's such satisfaction in the little things that can teleport you to another place or time. And while I fully remember how disenchanted with the world I was when I was 16, I don't seem to remember those parts when I listen to the Ataris.

So, thanks guys.

So hey, remember that part up there when I said I was driving home on Sunday? Well, I did that! The one guy in Tucumcari who fixes radiators gave me a brand-spanking-new one. And I was OUT OF THERE. Barely even said g'bye to family, I just bolted for the door. It's not that I dislike spending time in Tucumcari, with step-siblings and such, it's that it wasn't my choice to be there. I was so ready for my own bed and some high-quality alone time.

You should see the hole in my radiator. It looks like someone shot it with a riffle. I'm still in disbelief. A freaking tumblweed?


On the last day of me Angie's trip to San Francisco, we both made a sort of pilgrimage. We went to Berkeley so I could visit 924 Gilman, the venue that launched Operation Ivy, Green Day, NOFX and pretty much any other punk rock outfit from the Bay Area. And then we went to the Castro, birthplace of the American Gay Rights Movement. I didn't know much about it then, but knowing what I know now, I'm so glad that I did that.


Milk is so good. It's too good, maybe. Everything about it is a labor of love, from the film stock selections to the set design to the music to the performances (oh my sweet Daniel Desario!). It's the sort of thing you watch and you know that every person involved, down to the guy who got the coffee, was completely enamored with what they were doing. It made me want to simultaneously punch and hug the world. It's also worth noting what Harvey Milk said, about giving people hope. You've got to give them hope. Sounds very, very, very familiar.

I cannot recommend that movie any higher. Please see it.

Got Christmas plans? If not, come on by. I probably won't make it to my mom's, thanks to mother nature. So, I'm planning on baking and some kind of movie/television marathon. Right now, it's a toss up between My So Called Life or Cameron Crowe. You pick.