NFT Radar: Murphy’s Pub

In terms of being a bar with a moderately European beer selection as well as convenient locale for a drink pre or post movie at the Guild, Murphy’s succeeds. In fact, that’s the only time you’ll really want to go to Murphy’s–when it’s convenient. Otherwise, it’s an unremarkable destination. It’s a cookie cutter Irish-themed bar with large TVs broadcasting “the game” and cozy looking couches in front of a stately fireplace. There are usually plenty of quaint “pub-like” seats available for spur-of-the-moment visits. They serve their beers in a “proper pint glass” and they have prerequisite signs for Guinness and Jameson. But there is nothing REALLY Irish about Murphy’s at all and it makes the place feel dead inside. On top of that the service is PAINFULLY slow. You would do well to order two drinks at a time, especially if you have somewhere to be. This is not an exaggeration and is universally agreed upon by every Murphy’s patron I have ever met. Also, don’t be fooled by their full menu of allegedly spot-hitting food like grilled cheese and burgers. You’d think it would be impossible to screw up melting cheese onto toasted bread. You’d be wrong.

murphyspub
1928 N 45th St 98103
206-634-2110
www.murphyseattle.com

X-Posted from Not For Tourists.

NFT Radar: The Seattle Streetcar

In December, 2007 another system joined the ranks of Seattle novelty transportation (already populated by the monorail and the waterfront trolley). It was originally called the South Lake Union Trolley, bringing opponents of the $10.5 million joke more fodder for the clever t-shirt cannon. “Ride the S.L.U.T.” t-shirts sold out in record time. Sadly, those behind the S.L.U.T. caught on to the unfortunate acronym and changed the name to the Seattle Streetcar. However, they still wouldn’t admit to it being a colossal waste of time and money. Construction seriously gacked up the already congested downtown traffic for a year and a half to build the 2.5 mile line that crawls from Fred Hutch to Westlake Center. People have reported being able to watch that stretch faster.

s.l.u.t.I curse that little S.L.U.T. on a daily basis as it runs through my walk signal, preventing me from getting to the only real public transportation this city has: the Metro bus. How many times did we vote for and were ultimately denied an expansive monorail system again? I guess they learned their lesson. Don’t ask the people what they want. Tell them.

www.seattlestreetcar.org

X-Posted from Not For Tourists.

Dancing with the Stars Proves America is a Jerk

I never got into viewer-decided competition programming. I have still never seen an episode of American Idol though I’m still well averse in the vocabulary. I know all about Simon, Paula, Ryan Seacrest, William Hung, etc. I couldn’t ignore it if I tried. And believe me, I have tried.

Consequently, I was never interested in Dancing with the Stars. Who cares if fading celebrities can ballroom dance? I didn’t care if they could do circus tricks either. There was nothing they could do to get me to tune in. Until they brought in the Guttes…

steveguttenbergI love Steve Guttenberg. LOVE him. His movie persona was ingrained in me as a child and I never stopped appreciating him. He of the curly locks, inappropriately tight pants, dorky grin and patch of chest hair. He’s the most wholesome guy to ever play smarmy and the smarmiest guy to ever play wholesome. And then he reinvented himself as a bad guy on one of the greatest TV shows of the last 10 years, Veronica Mars. The guy is practically a genius.

But whoo boy, he cannot dance. Not a bit. I checked out DWTS for him and him only and expected to watch only until he got kicked off. It was pretty clear from the get-go that he didn’t have long. But then something unexpected happened. I developed a girl crush on Shannon Elizabeth. Continue reading

Harold and Kumar Escape the Sophomore Slump

On my way to see “Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay”, I tried to get into the same head space I was in when I saw the first one. You see, I wasn’t always a member of the Harold and Kumar congregation. When the first one opened in theaters, I was not interested.

“From the creators of ‘Dude, Where’s My Car…’ ” they said.

“Keep it,” I replied.

But then I started hearing murmurs from people I respected telling me that it was actually pretty funny.

“But…it’s a stoner comedy,” I argued. “Remember “Half Baked”? That starred frickin’ Dave Chapelle and it was still a disaster. Besides “Death to Smoochy”, it’s Jon Stewart’s favorite bad-career-move punch line.”

All that aside, I am usually willing to start any movie that I can procure for free from the library. And that, my friends, is how “Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle” ended up in my DVD player.

I sat stone-faced during the opening credits. Arms crossed, I dared the movie to draw even a snicker out of me. And then…it did. By the time the cheetah showed up, I had to admit I was having a pretty good time. When Kumar and Roldy sang at the top of their lungs along to Wilson Phillips, I came to terms with my new found love. I immediately watched the movie again with commentary.

Sequels are rarely a good idea and I wasn’t in the mood to get my heart broken but I was exited to hang out with my favorite odd couple again.

The movie opens with the two heading to Amsterdam to find Roldy’s new girlfriend, Maria. Kumar, true to Id-laden form, decides to smuggle some weed onto the plane. To Amsterdam. Panic ensues when the already on-edge passengers mistake the boNG for a boMB, resulting in Kumar and his “accomplice” being shuffled off to the titular Cuban prison.

Unlike getting to White Castle, escaping from Guantanamo Bay is, apparently, pretty easy. Their challenge this time around is making their way to Texas to find the one man who can exonerate them; an acquaintance with government ties who just happens to be the fiancé of Kumar’s lost love. On the way they are pursued by an overzealous and naive FBI agent (the brilliant Rob Corddry) and must also contend with the KKK. And as an early promotional poster suggested, Neil Patrick Harris is back as the sex-crazed, drug-addled…Neil Patrick Harris.

haroldandkumarI was apprehensive that this would be the worst part of the movie. The reason the NPH gag worked so well in the first film was because we didn’t see it coming.

“What’s the deal with Neil Patrick Harris?” Roldy asked after their initial run-in. “Why is he so horny?”

Why indeed. But it turns out there is more funny to be gleaned from the NPH persona. No spoilers here but rest assured, the unicorn pays off. Plus Neil Patrick Harris really has that character nailed.

Another highlight concerns a flashback to college where we learn that Kumar wasn’t always so fancy-free and Roldy wasn’t always so Old Navy. Granted, these are moments for the already converted. Many of you are probably still thinking, “But the first one looked so dumb. Did we really need two of these? I’d rather see what is currently in the works for that delightful Dax Shepard.”

WHY THE H & K MOVIES WORK:
Yes there are gross-out jokes and plenty o’ Porky’s-esque nudity. Sure the film opens with a joke about crapping. I agree that prison rape humor is played out. But in this context it works because Harold and Kumar are unique protagonists. Not because they’re Asian leads, although that is tragically unusual. Nay, they are unique because they are completely accessible. I gleefully followed their quest to go to White Castle amidst persecution from bullies and awkward encounters with the opposite sex because I know those guys. I have been those guys (albeit a female version). They may be above average in the looks department, but they also have job stress and pressure from their parents. They get into some wacky adventures, some of which might seem pretty contrived, but in the end they want the same things we all want: Love, tasty food and the service of justice. The “stoner comedy” is still an unfortunate genre, but Harold and Kumar rise above it because it’s not a movie about smoking weed. Not really. It’s about being a citizen of 21st Century America. And it’s hilarious.

I Know Who Has Diabeetus

What Happens In Vegas Goes on Flickr

Here are some pictures from our recent Vegas excursion.


I really loved the MGM Grand lions, especially since I learned they didn’t actually live in that tiny habitat.


Common children’s names which warrant license plate production.


What kind of nerd would pretend a garbage can was a Dalek?

Music in Pictures

As evidenced by my pictures from the Raconteurs show, rock shows are hard to photograph unless you are right up close.

Luckily, there was more going on at Tuesday’s Yelle show at The War Room than just fun French pop. The Brunswicks delighted in tormenting a passed out man whose reserved booth we pilfered, with hilarious results.

I had a great time at Yelle for not knowing most of the songs and not being able to understand any of the words apart from “garcon” and “merci bouquet”. Naturally, she spoke with a cute French accent, which, for some reason sounded a little fake. Especially when she said things like “Do you know how to zsnap your fingeaurs?”. She also smacked the hell out of her giant drum. It was pretty enthralling.

The crowd was pretty eclectic, but it did have the overwhelming feeling of being in an American Apparel showroom. SO MANY T-SHIRT DRESSES AND BELTS!

If you’ve never heard of Yelle, check out her retro-tastic video for his biggest hit which she played twice.

I know I don’t normally like dance music, since I am such an atrocious dancer. But I definitely had fun shaking my uncoordinated tush to Yelle.

BAM!

Pilfered from Slog. I wish I knew how to make these things. I could add the ones from The Brothers Solomon and The Devil’s Rejects.

I Done Text Yo Bitch Ass

On Valentine’s Day this year, B. and I went to a cabaret/variety show at the Jewel Box. One of the acts was a drag queen named Ultra lip syncing to a hilarious song I’d never heard before about what to do if you suspect yo man has been out carousing with hos. Now there is a video for that song and it’s totally viral. To aid in the efforts of spreading the Riskay virus, I present to you… “Smell Yo Dick”:

Name Your Price, My Good Man

On Saturday, B. and I attended a birthday party/engagement party in the back room at the Spitfire Grill in Belltown. Even though it’s a sports bar, I have always loved the art in that place. They have this amazing ginormous painting of a dead sparrow, killed by an arrow to the heart, is being eulogized by anthropomorphic insects and other birds. It’s fascinating.

Anyway, I’d never been in the back room, but there was more interesting art back there including a trio of paintings of Ian Curtis.

I loved them immediately. I couldn’t stop staring at them. Out of happenstance, B. mentioned the paintings to the bartender; a chap named Zeb Ringer who was also the artist. Not only that, but the paintings were for sale. When B. told me this, I couldn’t help myself. I HAD to ask.

They were pretty reasonably priced, but still art prices. I asked the artist if he would sell one of them. He told me he couldn’t do that because they were actually a unified painting. He asked me to stand far back and look at the gray areas as one picture. I did. They were Ian Curtis’ face formed in the Manchester smog blanketing each painting. Incredible. I was sold.

Luckily, whatwith the poor state of my accounts, B. offered to buy them for us. He’s picking them up on Sunday. I am so excited! We have the perfect place for them in the front room. Come on over and see ’em!