Mock Up On Mu

So this movie has been out for a sec, but I just watched it and it rules. The characters are fascinating and real; as in they are based on real characters who really knew each other. I want to do piles of esoteric research and see all of Craig Baldwin's movies now.

Baldwin describes the movie very well himself in this video. Don't bother looking for the trailer. It will only confuse you. Just get your hands on a copy and settle in for the ride.

Also, for Las Vegans: It's set partly in Las Vegas and you may recognize some of the settings. For instance, UNLV. It's like a scavenger hunt. Or, potentially, a drinking game.

Ladies of Las Vegas

This just in: the women's studies department at UNLV, which is awesome and routinely fosters the kind of radness that Las Vegas sorely needs, may be in danger due to budget cuts and there isn't much time left to try to save it. More info here on the Book of Faces.

Recession Reminder

Here's a Bad Idea Potluck icon if there ever was one. Pictured above is Hank. He is more or less the patron saint of this blog. Or at least we would like him to be. He did write us an advice column once.
I could say more, but I think Las Vegas artist Keri Schroeder really captured the man and the message here in this portrait.

Best Dream Ever

There's a general consensus that listening to other people describe their dreams is boring and confusing. There are exceptions. For instance, if you are Marco from Las Vegas then you should tell everyone about your dreams. Hell, you should post them on Facebook. This one really deserved a wider audience. It is quickly becoming the most critically acclaimed dream on the Web. Below is the complete text of his post.

Pau Gasol: Now with Leather Chaps and Road Warrior Boots

Pau Gasol finally entered the realm of my dreams last night and what a grand entrance it was! I managed to write down what I could remember when I woke up - no shit.

The dream started out with me interviewing him, Ahmad Rashad style, in his boyhood home somewhere in Spain. His mom happened to have a gigantic washtub of beans cooking over a huge stove, as the Spanish are known for.

During the interview we hit it off so well, that I brought him back to the states to hang out with me and all of my friends. In anticipation of the sesh, we went to Costco to buy much needed party supplies. Pau ended up buying a Sick Of It All box set. This dude clearly knows how to party!

Soon enough we arrived at the party, which was actually a punk show in an old Franciscan mission. I definitely remember thinking at some point, "Whoa, I'm totally hanging out with Pau Gasol at a punk show in a mission! What the fuck!?"

Eventually the bands ended and Pau and I perused some of the exhibits the mission happened to have in a side room somewhere. Among these exhibits was a micro sculpture of a velociraptor, displayed next to a specimen of a flea with a pin holding it down. Upon viewing these, Pau knocked the entire display off the table with one sweep of his arm in some kind of primal gesture of dumbfounded frustration. I promptly laughed and shared the incident with Sean Grossman, who happened to be nearby. He was stoked.

Finally, it was time to get onto the drinking and partying. Pau had apparently slipped away to change into party clothes. He pulled me aside to ask my opinion of his wardrobe. Dude was dressed in classic tan leather cowboy chaps, complete with stamped cowboy designs. He lifted those up from his shin to reveal his Mad Max style "road warrior" boots, complete with metal shin plates. Apparently he had bought these while we were shopping earlier and wanted to surprise everyone.

The party was fun, we listened to Sick Of It All, and I made Pau laugh a lot. Everyone showed up, including Roxie, with Christian Bale at her side. When I asked her why he was there, she told me he was her new boyfriend. I remember my specific reply being, "Well, at least now you have someone to beat up the cops!"

Eventually I blacked out, of course, only to be woken up by Roxie, Jessie and their son, who was now 7 years old for some reason. They were yelling some inane question at me and their son's eyes had all kinds of electric currents running through them, like Raiden in Mortal Kombat. Upon answering, I got up to realize that everyone was still up, still high on BEERS and had just heard our conversation. All of a sudden, Pau bursts into the room, dressed in his jammies, which boasted a ridiculously loud pattern of some sort, and drinking a glass of champagne. Without hesitation, he put the Sex Pistols on the stereo and drunkenly shouted, "SEEEX PISTOOOLSSS! PUUUUNK ROCK! YEEEEAH," while triumphantly holding his glass of champagne in the air.

Clearly, I was pretty stoked on how the party was turning out. I got up and surveyed the room. The floor was littered with drunken buffoons, which made me burst into laughter. Bobby Franks, amongst the drunken buffoons, asked me why I was laughing. "Dude! This room looks like a freakin emergency shelter after a natural disaster more than it does a party," I exclaimed while still laughing. Soon enough, the laughing fit devolved into a wrestling/pillow fight amongst the drunken buffoons. Pau wanted to join in but I wouldn't let him due to his hamstring injury that he was still nursing, an allusion to the true state of affairs in the non-dream world.

Next thing I know, I had woken up and thought to myself, "Did I just dream about hanging out and partying with Pau Gasol!?" All of a sudden I looked up and saw that we were still in the party room and Pau was situating his sleeping area on the couch! It wasn't a dream after all!

Then I really woke up and realized that it was a dream. Slightly disappointed, I decided to write all this nonsense down because it was just too good to forget.

Girls Rock Vegas

As an aside, I'm only just finding out that this past summer Las Vegas saw its first Girls Rock Camp. I'm posting about it now because it seems that no one told me this wonderful news because no one knew.

The Unbearable Radness of Being

I learned a lot in Las Vegas. The most important things had to do with figuring out exactly what kind of shocks my heart can take. I mean that literally. A girl at my high school died of a heart attack when a semi ran her off the road. It's possible to die of fear. So, it's not the possibility of decapitation or throwing up that makes me wary of roller coasters. I'm afraid my heart will explode. But I survived the roller coaster at the New York New York Casino. I even opened my eyes once. So far, so good.

The geography of Las Vegas is conducive to testing cardiac structural soundness. There are a lot of things to jump off of and into there. Pools with conveniently close pool sheds. Cliffs sitting right next to rivers. There's an indoor/outdoor roller coaster down the block. There's a few of them actually. Alcohol is plentiful and more than socially acceptable. Outside the city, there are mountains and washes and hot springs where I discovered that mild spelunking and even getting caught in a flash flood won't necessarily kill you. I remember my life in Las Vegas as a series of action shots.

I was never timid as a little girl. I liked skateboarding and dares. I used to hitchhike. Jumping off of things was always a favorite pastime. Once I found a bike ramp unattended behind a Publix on a quiet Sunday afternoon and jumped my bike off that. But I wasn't a BMXer and I didn't know how to land. So, I landed on the bar of my bike. Luckily, my crotch broke my fall. I just lay there for awhile after that.

I've long felt a spiritual calling to occasionally set aside "perfectly safe" and check in with "probably won't die." Or, lately, the more grown-up version: "probably won't ruin your life."

It's not that I ever became really timid. But one day I did change. It's hard to explain. My first week living in New York City I saw the Blair Witch Project and became afraid of the woods at night. I used to walk around in the swamp near my house when I couldn't sleep as a teenager, but that movie scared the crap out of me and after that I never wanted to go into the woods alone period. There was always plenty of stupid to get into in the city, but that night I started to develop a sense of how that stupid might someday kill me. I never quit stupid. That's a lifelong love affair. But at a certain point I added freaking out about it. That's the real problem.

It really started a year later when I moved to Long Island and picked up the local custom of having panic attacks. I don't know how that happened exactly but I didn't find relief until I moved to Las Vegas. It's sunny there. And dry.The kids are into metalcore.

And it's a city against restraint. It's considered bad form if you don't take things to their complete and inevitable conclusion. The first time I went to visit a friend there we walked the entire length of the Strip and back the first night. The next morning I had lost my voice. I wasn't used to such dry air.

Years later, while employed in Las Vegas as a reporter, I stayed up late on a work night to skate most of the Strip. Some company or other had organized a mass skateboarding invasion for Go Skateboarding Day, which happens all over the world every June 21. Really, it seems like not much more was required than telling few hundred kids to be there. Who would miss it? There were quite a few arrests but I wasn't one of them so my "probably won't ruin your life" calculations were accurate. Of course, I was a mess at work the next day.

See:


I think my point is that there is a culture in Las Vegas that helped me not look at life through
existential horror-colored glasses as much. And to recognize that some of those "probably won't die or even ruin your life" events are vital, and should absolutely be prioritized. I think that's the point of this blog.

This is not something you figure out once and then you're good for life. You have to stay in practice and learn new skills on the path by drawing on old skills. I have many friends to thank for their help.

Like the time me and Sean went kayaking on the Colorado River with a friend of his named Justin. We stopped for a break near a little overhang. A cliff really. Justin climbed up and jumped off into the water below. It looked awesome. Of course, I was honor bound to do it too and Sean went up as well. But I was trying to go first. I say trying because my body or my brain, one of  them, was having trouble with the directive. It was a pretty big rock and I wasn't sure how deep the water was.

"Just pretend you're skateboarding," Sean said. Then it was easy. This is a science. And that guy is pretty good at it.

The plan as it has been explained to me

I've been outclassed before I even got out of the gate.
Bobby wants a fish bowl party. I'm going to have to find a fish bowl.
We've explained this to various naysayers quite a few times now: In the mythic swinging '70s this was a party for couples; the dudes put their keys in a fish bowl and the ladies a picked a set of keys and went home with their owner. The idea was you got a night "off" from your better half.
We're changing the rules a little because that's kind of lame.
First: no distinctions will be made as to gender or sexual preference. You could wind up going home with a member of the same sex. They may share your interest in boys or girls or Thai food. They may not. You'll get to know them or you're a spoilsport.
Second: there are no expectations. If you draw Jamaal's keys you might be playing Guitar Hero at his house until the wee hours. Sure, you can make out if you want but that's up to you and, in all honesty, I don't want to hear about it.
The only nervous Nellie to prick my conscience so far suggested that some dudes might get a little more aggressive and set us all back 37 years. A point.
Bobby isn't worried and says this will be an exclusive, invite-only gathering (his place sometime in August). I say there should also be a set of screening questions for participants to determine if they know how to act right.
One agreed on rule: singles only. We're not fucking up anyone's relationship here.
Bobby and I are both exempt from participating because we are throwing the party. I say this also means I get to wear a mask and, possibly, a boa.
Throwing a themed party is like having an all-access pass to pretension and I'm not passing this up.
It's a terrible idea. But we're locked in now. It's on.

Hank Musgrove Tells You How To Live Your Life

Bad Idea Potluck has an advice columnist named Hank. That's his given name and he has a tattoo of two pigs fucking. He can solve your problems. Write in, like some of my friends from college and one stranger did. Extra points if you can guess which one is from a total stranger:


Dear Bad Idea Pot Luck,
I am about to host a birthday party in a few weeks, and I need some tips to make sure it rocks. Any advice?
Thanks,
Dumbfounded In Greenpoint


HM for BIPL: Dear Dumbfounded In Greenpoint, You should try to score an eight ball of coke from your local drug dealer, Invite a bunch of random underage kids.
Then collect money at the party for beer, wait a while though — usually when everyone is already a little buzzed. My friend's brother once got a 100 bucks at one of my parties.
Once ya have a nice chunk, go for the cheap shit like some Natty Ice, the Beast or PBR. Start chugging.
I have no idea what the outcome will be but I'm pretty sure it will rock.

****** ********

Dear Bad Idea Potluck:
So I've got a master's degree now, and no job. What the hell do I do for employment? I've been sending out resume after resume, and not even a call back. When I call them, they tell me to stop calling. Any ideas?
-Stumped in Stony Brook

HM for BIPL: I never put too much stock into degrees. All my friends who ever landed swank jobs in swank offices actually never graduated high school. What they did was pretty much lied thier asses off, hustled, made up phoney references (using friends posing as previous employers) and photo shopped fake degrees.
my advice is to put on your game face, brush up on your photo shop skills and try to shove as much bullshit down your future boss' throat as he or she can take.

****** *******

Dear Bad Idea Potluck:
My asshole is bleeding. What should I do?

HM for BIPL: Eat more fiber and put a Band-Aid on it.

An introduction from memory

I got the idea for this blog the same night I learned about a flavored wine drink called Mad Dog 20/20. Around this time last summer, a Japanese post-something-core band called Envy was playing at the Double Down and I was sitting on the low wall outside when a boy I know sat down next to me and started chewing on a sleeve of my t-shirt.

I'm one to hold people accountable for their actions drunk or sober but, looking at him, it was clearly no more personal than if he had knocked me over while in the throes of a seizure. I'm not sure he knew who or what I was just then.

That night I learned Mad Dog comes in a variety of blow pop-type flavors and turns strong men in the flower of youth into hell hounds with Alzheimer's.

I later learned Mad Dog is just a nickname. The drink is called MD 20/20, the letters stand for Mogen David. I learned it from either the maker's website or www.bumwines.com. Can't remember.

I also heard the phrase "bad idea potluck" for the first time. My friend Sandra and I were passing out fliers for a show she was putting on. I got tied up talking to a guy wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt and braces.

Sandra met a nice boy from, I think, Maine who was in town visiting family and we walked him part-way home.

On the way, we noticed the poorly-healing brand on the back of his calf in the shape of a bike gear. He explained how, back home, he and his friends hold bad idea potlucks. Everyone brings a bad idea to share. Once, they all waxed themselves. Another time, it was branding.

They seem to have gone about the branding in a totally different way from how this is practiced in, say, black fraternities. For instance, they used bike parts.

Never mind that his brand was obviously infected. This boy was a revelation to me.
The idea of a bad idea potluck focused my ordinarily disordered thoughts. The months leading up to that night on the far side of the summer had been kind of a jumbalaya of bad ideas. Some of them so embarrassing I don’t think I’m ready to list them here.

Ok, I broke my arms skateboarding at night and joined a random online dating site because it had a cool quiz and asked out a nice boy on there based largely on the fact the he was a pastry chef. I failed to notice he was also Christian. That precluded any long-term potential for the relationship but this didn't sink in until I had made a nice mess of things. Then there was the flash flood chasing and my dream date to the tranny bar but that came after the Envy show. I survived all of this but can't recommend any of it in good conscience.

In the midst of this, a stranger from Maine passed through my life and touched it with inspiration. His story moved me in a way that I can't explain.

I tried to get my friends to have bad idea potlucks with me — we would try to contact the dead and give each other jail house tattoos — but I don't really have very many friends and the ones I have are smarter than to let me be the leader.

A year has passed and my only recourse is to start a blog. "Bad Idea Potluck: a journal of inadvisable living."

The fall, winter and spring have been great but only a little less stupid than usual — and I can't take too much credit for the improvement myself. In all objectivity, the past year hasn't been that different from the preceding 26.

Which means I might, finally, be writing on the one subject I'm actually qualified to comment on.