I had hoped to post something extensive today -- perhaps on how impressive my title-contender Cavs looked in San Antonio last night -- but the afternoon got away from me while I was looking for ways to drown out the noise from the SANDBLASTING in my building's courtyard.

So until my headache subsides, I'm just going to post more evidence that we are fans of the ignorant rapper here at Kentertainment. "Rubberband Banks," skillets: so stupid, and so very good:

This is all Dan's fault, isn't it? Him and that infested Macarena Monkey ...

-- Tip of the Hat! to my former employer, the Cleveland Free Times. Their otherwise typical review of new Lakewood hotspot Melt was teased on the cover by the sort of pun that makes me (and only me, I imagine) unceasingly giddy.

"Are you ready to accept cheeses?"

HA!! Cheeses ... Tee hee hee. Accept ... cheeses. Oh, man. Hee.

I laughed about this for, like, an entire afternoon.

-- Wag of my Finger! to Katherine Sue Ambellan, of San Francisco. This is some very rank hypocrisy on my part, since two of my pet peeves are public ad hominem attacks and idiots who complain about the letters page in the local paper ... but screw it. Here's Katie Sue's October 18 song of herself, in its entirety:

Large crowds give me anxiety attacks. The Marina is a district I never go near anyway, but this weekend, it was at the top of my hate list.

To avoid the epic mobs of the Broseph's and their children attending Fleet Week, my friends and I went on what I like to call the Critical Mitch — a bike ride with a bunch of kids from Dolores Park to Mitchell's Ice Cream store — and still the accosting noise of the Blue Angels was unavoidable.

My friend turned to me and declared the Blue Angels a gigantic waste of tax dollars. I mean honestly, how much gas is used when they are flying through the air, bumming people out? How much do the pilots get paid? I just think that glorifying a weapon that is used to kill hundreds of people by painting it blue and giving it some sort of biblical reference is ridiculous.

While riding through the Valencia traffic, I realized that it was a perfect day to be riding a bike. For me, on that day, it was a silent and subtle statement about my values and lifestyle. I took the Apologist quiz and scored in the realm of "intrusive distraction." Thanks for voicing my opinion. I just wish more people felt the same way.

Katherine Sue Ambellan

San Francisco

Hooray for you, with your super-awesome "values and lifestyle"! Hooray for the Critical Mitch! Boo for the stupid Blue Angels! You tell those noxious "Broseph's"! If only everyone had your exceptionally clever opinions, Katie Sue!

...

Alright, I'm sorry. That was mean. Listen, K.S., just between you and me? It's the 21st Century. Self-righteous assholes who want to feel superior about their opinions on the Blue Angels and the bike rides for ice cream don't write letters to the editor anymore. They get BLOGS.

I was all set to do an entry cursing Dr. Dre for making me pay attention to mediocre G-Unit rappers all of the damn time ... and then I figured out that two-thirds of my examples were actually beats by Dre acolytes and soundalikes, which ruined everything. (Maybe such confusion in the hearts of his blogging fans is the reason the Doctor finds himself in need of an advocate these days.)

In fact, I was totally wrong about that Junior Reid beat being Dre's creation. It's by some Doctor acolyte (and naked sci-fi fan?) named Reefa. Apologies for the inaccuracy below; I'll go the New York Times route and let it stay in the entry. I stand by the main point, though: that "ugh!" shit is Wack. And find some different auto parts to sit on, Game, damn!

Hell with it. Even though no one can seem to agree on the provenance of this latest beat, I'mma go ahead with my original point. Fuck you, Dr. Dre, for making me care about some random Arizona cat named Hot Rod. Now I've gotta admit that I'm feeling that whole Phantom/Saturn verse, and everything. This cheese is nacho!

The dude outside my window, with the cigarette and the sign that says "skepnutronic" (not to be confused with "skeptacular" -- rock on, Jacob!) is Frank Chu.

Now, ordinarily I'm a big fan of malcontents, wackos, and the spectacular creativity of the very English-challenged, but I worry that our collective treatment of Frank here in the Yay is verging on the over-indulgent.

According to Wikipedia, Mr. Chu enjoys sponsorships, subsidized shoes, and free Budweiser courtesy of his many San Francisco admirers. Call it the Emperor Norton complex, in recognition of San Francisco's proud tradition of nurturing its eccentrics.

But here's the important distinction. Norton helped to keep the peace in our fair city:

"During the 1860s and 1870s there were a number of anti-Chinese demonstrations in the poorer districts of San Francisco, and ugly and fatal riots broke out on several occasions. During one such incident, Norton is alleged to have positioned himself between the rioters and their Chinese targets, and with a bowed head began to recite the Lord's Prayer repeatedly. Shamed, the rioters dispersed without incident."

whereas Frank Chu began his career in the public eye thusly:

"In early 1985, Chu, then 24 years old, took 11 members of his family hostage in his home in Oakland and was reported to have been beating some with his fists. Chu fired a .38 pistol at one police officer who came to investigate, but missed. Police cordoned off a ten-block area for three hours. Chu eventually released his hostages and surrendered to the police."

(Both passages from Wikipedia.)

Can we save our Distinguishment in Cacophany Awards for the benignly eccentric, please? I don't ask for much.

I think the buildings here are very pretty.

Plenty of good reasons, I suppose, but today's is a string of odd leisure-time coincidences that would surely induce paranoia in a blogger with a different drug of choice than mine.

To wit: a week after I've sampled our neighborhood's highfalutin' Mexican eatery for the first time, the SF Guardian runs a lengthy review of same, prefaced by an overambitious political history analogy of the sort I would only expect from a certain Harvard nutbar.

Then, a mere three days after I find drinking nirvana courtesy of a muddled-peach sidecar and small batch bourbon at Farmer Brown, the SF Weekly runs its review, complete with a substantial digression on breast shape and the town Love Parade ... again of the sort I would only expect from a dangerously unstable law student.

And finally, for the latest creepiness: I've split my time in recent afternoons between praying for the arrival of a Yay Area outpost of Potbelly Sandwich, purveyor of the Lord's own lunches since 1977, and clock-watching in anticipation of quitting time, when I can once more plunge thorax-deep into HBO's The Wire, Season One. (Which is probably as good a time as any to warn: spoil me and die painfully. Seriously: you will eat searing, molten death. This I promise you.)

Just last night, I arrived at the episode in which Det. Santangelo offers up his bootless prayers to a porcelain statuette, seeking vital clues to an ancient homicide (or, in keeping with the show's primary leitmotif, simple respite from actual performance of his job). Santangelo is taken aback when the clue does arrive, thief-like, in the night ... but sorts out an unrelated mystery instead.

Yea verily, skillets, it was in precisely this same fashion that I found myself today standing before the counter of a Potbelly Sandwich Works ... though mysteriously one that did not bear the name and vehemently denied any connection to the divinely inspired original.

Grateful yet increasingly convinced of a conspiracy, I found myself hurling invective at the innocent cashiers and sandwich-makers of this "Toaster Oven": "You can't fool me!! This! Is a Potbelly Sandwich Works!! I know a Potbelly when I see one, dammit!"

Like I say: synapses unprepared for the frazzling influence of THC.

(Meanwhile, if you find yourself around 2nd and Market any time in the near future, I'll be happy to join you for a Wreck, cleverly disguised as a "Kitchen Sink." They've promised to let me back in if I calm down ...)

... because absolutely no one demanded it:

1. Can we all band together and demand that The Game stop getting first crack at spectacular beats?

Tim gives him "Put You On the Game," and he comes up with: I woulda been here after Snoop/But I slowed down and showed Timbaland how to iron a khaki suit!

(And here I though Jay-Z was the Black Martha Stewart ...)

Dr. Dre gives The Game "One Blood," and he manages: You're 38 and you're still rappin'?/UGH!/I'm 26, nigga, so is the dubs!

Ugh indeed.

2. Just caught the original video to Craig Mack's "Flava In Ya Ear" (not to be confused with the vastly superior remix), and was reminded of just how much Craig freaked me out when this song was first released.

For a while I rationalized the old apprehension (against more recent enjoyment of the song) by figuring that I hadn't quite sorted rap music out back in 1994, or remembering that teenagers are fucking retarded, but the fact is that chorus is just super-strange, by any standard.

CM's flow is such a jarring combination of detached and off-kilter that I almost expect him to forget the words, like an unprepared wedding singer, or a karaokist during monitor failure:

I'm kickin'/
New flava in ya ear/
How about some/
New flava in ya ear/

You might enjoy some/
New flava in ya ear/
Please ... consider trying this/
New flava in ya ear/

It's probably just me, though ...

3. Just to continue this week's repping the C, I give you skillets some 216:

Lest we allow all this talk of deuce chunking and the Yay Area to obscure where the heart of Kentertainment really lies, there are now some links to that real Cleveland shit on the right. Visit them early and often ... if you can handle it! (Cleveland, baby: you gotta be tough!)

And lest you think that reppin' the 216 is somehow un-hyphy, I remind you of Bumpin' My Music, produced by none other than Yay impresario Rick Rock.

Finally: something nostalgic for all the skillets who keep my kind of hours. His name is Marc, and he will give you free bread!

This is just to say that unless you've already had the following sure-thing million-dollar ideas, you'll owe me money once you rip them off:

1. Gin n' Jamba Juice

Destined to be the huge success that gin 'n Josta, and rum 'n Powerade, weren't (although some are clearly still on my team with the latter). Coldbuster(TM)? Sobriety buster! Just try to tell me you wouldn't drink that ...

2. NFL mouthguards with diamond fronts

Paul Wall, are you listening? I'll know you're stealing my shit when you can't resist making "Chunk Up the" Deuce McAllister your spokes-back. "Reggie Bush talkin' diamonds? I got those diamonds in my mouth!"

On that note, I would also like to be very clear: no matter what you may have heard, I don't know no ... Lil' Keke.

...