Your Tiki Awaits...

The Pointy Universe and friends within it are off to Nantucket through next week. Have a happy and safe 4th!

A Message from the Brown Man

My streak of 8 straight years to Nantucket is coming to an end this year. My only request is that you think of me while you're pissed off tomorrow afternoon waiting for a taxi with a Mudslide buzz and think -- "this sucks, but Brownguy's still at work and we're bordering inebriation, so it could be worse".

In light of this depressing event, I've decided to document 10 moments over the years in Nantucket. They are in no particular order and I'm absolutely certain I've missed another 100 moments. We will miss you all down there, but have a GREAT TIME!

1) Tom/Jamie killing the electricity - Anxious to replace the fuse for the VCR/TV outlet so we could watch "Survivor Wootown" and "The Body Show", Tom and James snuck out to the garage. I picture them congregating around the biggest lever on the wall that said "ON" at the top side and "OFF" at the bottom with Jamie instructing to Tom -- "Tommy, I think this is it". They pulled down of course, followed by a wave of confusion from the den and pair of giggles from the garage.

2) Kate and the lamp shade - slightly bitter that our coupled travelers were enjoying some quiet time in the living room while we over-consumed alcohol and danced in the kitchen to The Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique, Kate pounced up and down on a chair facing the kitchen wall at a distance of 4 inches, while giving the DOUBLE thumbs down to the wall with a lamp shade on her head.

3) Dreama "El Jefe" - After waiting in line to enter the Rose & Crown on a Sunday night, Dreama demanded a drink from me, followed by my immediate mad dash to the bar, sweating and afraid.

4) Body Bombs into the hot tub - A combination of pure water displacement and 220 lbs of force = battered and bruised knees.

5) Sea Lions at Great Point - These cute and curious sea dogs followed us back along the seashore as we strutted in hot sand to our rent-a-Jeeps for what seemed like eternity - I think they thought we had some fresh and stinky plankton to offer them. Nevertheless it was flattering.

6) Westender - Drinking some delicious concoction out of a glass in the shape of a naked lady at The Westender out in Madaket.

7) Puppetry of the T-Bag - Tommy displaying his "puppetry" to Annie, LP and Dreama -- but giving me the honor of a quick check-up before his full display. Gee-ross.

8) Ravers sans glo-sticks - Heading to a "rave" with Auntie and LP, cautiously riding in the back of the mini-van with "Hatch Boy", and then taking money away from the hosts in my first ever crack at "Acey Ducey".

9) Tom singing "All Night Long" at Karaoke night at the Rose & Crown. That was top notch. Now they have "club night" instead of Karaoke where they serve Red Bull, Vodka and Ecstasy. This is Nantucket.

10) Horseshoes and Coronas - It's going to be REAL tough sitting at work tomorrow, doing a "Kick-Off Call" with some dude from California explaining how I'm going to implement his ass while you guys are sucking on cold Coronas and tossing horseshoes. Hit a "ringah" and a "leanah" for me.

- Brownguy

Auntie's Dream Diary 2

In last night's pregnancy dream, Auntie found herself doing yoga with Manny Ramirez. To her dismay, he appeared quite lazy and unmotivated in his poses. Luckily, both Auntie and Manny regained their strength and motivation after they (the yoga studio, she presumes) served crepes at the break.



Bags is beginning to wonder if these dreams somehow transcend pregnancy, that perhaps there's an undetected gas leak in the house.

I Heart Orange Julius

Trapped inside for too long last weekend by crappy weather, I told Caroline I'd take her to the movies and then out for ice cream. Unfortunately, every able-bodied suburbanite -- the mall-enthusiasts and the mall-averse alike -- had the same idea, descending upon the movie theatres like a pack of vultures with Vera Bradley bags. Before noontime, all tickets for "Cars" or "Over the Hedge" were sold out for the entire afternoon. Since Caroline was way too young for Nacho Libre, we headed into the mall where we inevitably collided with another mob of Capri pant-wearin' mamas hell bent on bumrushing Friendly's. We instantly changed course and on our quest for an alternative ice cream source, I experienced something completely unexpected (aside from running into Eric Donovan and his entire family in the arcade!) Across from Friendly's, there it was: ORANGE JULIUS. I thought it was a mirage.

The old school food court staple of yore is suddenly back from the dead. Who could forget the Julius serving up that baffling combo of chemically-altered OJ (called orange julius) and hot dogs throughout our youth? I never have. In high school, we'd often head to the Corner Mall in Downtown Crossing after school. And even when Sbarro and Wok-n-Roll were all the rage, I would saddle up to O. Julius for a dog and large Julius with crushed ice.

Still, Orange Julius 2006 is not the Orange Julius of 20 years ago. Like so many retro chains, it's been rebranded and paired with another diehard staple of suburban Americana -- in this case, Dairy Queen or "DQ" as it's now known. So, now we have Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins where you can have a Supreme Omelet Sandwich and a Peanut Butter Pie Sundae; Subway/Pizza Hut where you can order up a slice of Meat Lovers' Pizza and a Six-Inch Cold Cut Sub via the drive-thru; and of course, you can now enjoy a Chalupa at Target as Taco Bell is opening at Greatlands across the country. Is it any wonder we're living in Back Fat City.

El Sarape and Pearl Jam with Cilantro

For the Drinans second night out since the birth of Baby George 13 weeks ago, we met up at El Serape, a little Mexican hacienda on Weymouth Landing. From the outside, the restaurant looks as suspicious as Marion's Shoes, like a front for a more unseemly venture. (Perhaps the sale of illegal lawn darts, Bags?) Inside, however, it is festively painted in vibrant oranges, yellows and turquioses reminiscent of Dora the Explorer's bilingual talking house. On Saturday night, the place was packed. Right after we were seated, a strolling mariachi tore into the Cuban patriotic anthem "Guantanamera." One of the waiters harmonized along -- as did James, who after a few Dos Equis, experienced a total lyric recall from Mr. Player's spanish class in high school.

Over some guac and tequila, we had great discussions of the "newborn haze" and how the Sundance Channel's documentary "The Drug Years" kind of makes you want to take drugs. Then, Mike D. was suddenly distracted from his steak fajitas. He turned a cynical eye toward the musician and wondered aloud, "Is this Pearl Jam?" While it was a little difficult to decipher, the mariachi was indeed playing Pearl Jam's "Last Kiss" -- "Oh Where Oh Where Could My Baby Be." It was Pearl Jam with a dash of cilantro. Only on Weymouth Landing, noted Jimmy.

After dinner, we headed to Burton's Grille for a nightcap. The bellicose short guy from Thursday night was nowhere to be found. If he were, I'm sure Mike D. could have whipped up a nice barroom brawl for dessert.

Old Broads Out-the-House

Here's what happened when a few old broads decided to get out-the-house on a humid Thursday evening:

- They meet up for a quick bite at Burton's Grille at the Derby Street Shoppes.

- After dinner, they ask to have their picture taken by an extraordinarily short man -- graying and 50-ish -- who had been standing at the bar by himself most of the evening, looking lonely, and drinking straight vodka. They felt sorry for him, having noticed everyone he tried to speak with had shunned him mercilessly.

- Short man tries to take photo of old broads' chests but is discouraged by a neighboring diner.

- Instead, short man asks where the old broads a.k.a "the sorority sisters" went to college. They find it an odd question seeing as this man is clearly closer to an adult active community than a college campus.

- Nevertheless, the broads humor the teeny tiny man. "WSC," they say.

- Itty bitty man says, "Oh. Almost a real college"

- "Oh. And you're almost five feet tall," old broads say.

- Oh, SNAP! Take that, Linden Ponds.

MORAL: Never, never feel sorry for short old men alone in bars for they are alone for a reason.

Trish, You Bitch.

The dust has barely settled in the Dan Abrams debacle and I'm already in the clutches of another "oh, HELL NO" moment. I knew it was only a matter of time before Trish McEvoy robbed me of my scent. Still, it came as quite a shock to learn that Trish Mac #11 White Iris -- one of my very favorite fragrances -- could be so disposable. It's Trish's modus operandi to phase out colors and scents to create demand and make room for new ones. While I understand the need to stay fresh and relevant, I remain in the most basic form of human denial: You always think these things happen to other people's perfumes, not yours.

Perfume connoisseurs like Neil Morris have said Trish Mac #11 smells like buttery sandalwood and irises, honeysuckle, jasmine, and Bulgarian roses. To me, it has always smelled like summer. That said, I’m on a mission similar to Elaine's on Seinfeld when the Today Sponge was taken off the market. Help me gather thee remaining bottles while ye may. If you happen to know of/hear of/spot any bottles of the stuff, please email me. James uncovered the last stash on the South Shore at Beauty & Main at Derby Street. Help me smoke ‘em out of the stock rooms at Saks, the product cases at salons and spas, the cybershelves of eBay Canada and eLuxury.

Devasted by Dan Abrams

Anyone who knows me is all too aware of my somewhat unhealthy obsession with The Abrams Report. I've watched the show religiously since 2001 and have been TiVo-ing it since 2003. It is the one show I watch every day, it is the only semblance of a routine I have. After the babies -- and often, Jimmy -- are asleep, I pour myself a glass of wine and watch Dan. It's how I unwind. Some people have their People magazines and their porn, I have Dan Abrams, a petite, fiercely opinionated Jewish lawyer from New York.

So you can imagine how DEVASTATED I was to learn the news last week. Dan is giving up his show -- effective immediately -- because he's been promoted to general manager of MSNBC. Kudos to him and all but what am I going to do? It's not like other shows where you can buy the DVDs of past seasons. This is cold turkey and I suck at cold turkey. I'm a mess.

Having Dan behind the scenes instead of on-camera will certainly leave a void because it was so satisfying to watch him in action. He is adept at shutting up misguided loudmouths without losing his composure like some tomato-faced neanderthal. He's always able to make a coherent argument for the good guys and he easily exposes hypocritical or disingenuous statements -- but in a gracious way. He can reveal his emotion for a topic without becoming consumed by it -- a trait I admire as I'm often paralyzed by it. I've also been told Dan looks like a slightly nerdier version of James, which doesn't hurt.

Oh well..life goes on. And speaking of which, at least one Abrams Report will remain forever immortalized on my TiVo -- it was an episode from last year when Dan read one of my emails on the air. My comments were fairly innocuous, having to do with Patti Lupone getting felt up at LaGuardia. However, in that brief moment, as in so many before it, Dan and I were on the same page.

There is always Anderson Cooper, but Cameo says "hands off."




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You Say It's Your Birthday

Paul McCartney wrote the tune "When I'm Sixty Four" at a time when your 64th birthday marked the year you started plowing into farmers' markets with your Buick LeSabre and taking out a few pedestrians.

Today, Sir Paul turns 64 and his life resembles that of someone half his age. He's not "losing his hair" or "knitting by the fireside," but playing to sold-out stadiums worldwide. He married -- and is now divorcing -- Heather Mills who is in her 30s. Instead of bouncing grandchildren "Vera, Chuck and Dave" on his knee, he's caring for a two-year-old daughter named Beatrice. On top of all this, he still devotes time to a number of humanitarian causes, including breast cancer research in honor of Linda, the woman he'd hoped to putter away with in old age. Happy Birthday, Paul. You don't look a day over 32 -- on paper, at least.

I believe the theme song for our generation's sextegenarians will be another song from Sgt. Pepper's, "Getting Better." (except for the part about beating one's woman, of course). If not, I propose "Big Balls" by AC/DC.

Cream Shop Friday: Zmed Heads

(photo: Zmed-Headband)

I knew T-Bag's mention of "that guy" Adrian Zmed in my article about co-ed bachelor(ette) parties would draw appreciation but I had no idea that it'd become the central focus of the piece. Who knew there were so many Zmed Heads* out there? I believe a revival is brewing -- one of Hasselhoffian proportions -- for Zmed, whom aside from his role as Jay O'Neill in 1984's Bachelor Party, was most memorable as Vince Romano on Bill Shatner's 1980s cop series TJ Hooker. While the show has been off the air for 20 years, Zmed's character is nevertheless immortalized in a rare collectible action figure.


After TJ Hooker, Zmed replaced Deney Terrio as the host of Dance Fever, officially marking the season that the show jumped the shark. While Terrio's been reduced to a self-tanning disaster who recently appeared on "Star Dates," reruns of "Dance Fever: The Zmed Years" would likely garner huge ratings for E!, VH1, or anyone daring enough to broadcast such filth. Zmed's already mysteriously hinting at a comeback with this "coming soon" Web site where he sports some wispy Romanian facial hair. If that is not enough evidence, may I direct you to eBay where the bids are up to $15.50 for a used cassette recorded by Zmed in 1984 that includes a cover of "Oh What a Night." Bring it on, Zmed.

NOTE: Once again, I am being merciful with the artwork here. KT, a confirmed Zmed head, sent me this photo which I originally planned to post. However, in the wake of the Hasselhoff debacle, I decided it was way too early for anyone to see an abundance of hair where it shouldn't be when one is donning a speedo. 'Nuff said. Click at your own risk.


*phrase coined by T-Bag.

On the "Cutting Edge" of Hanover Street

Guest blogger LP laments that she has the "lamest brushes with fame," but the lamest are often the funniest. This story is right up there with WMD's tale of drinking at Bennigans with Keith Olberman, a story only made wackier by the fact that Olberman was sporting a Michael Jackson-issue red & black leather jacket. You just can't make this stuff up.

THE NORTH END -- It was just another rainy Saturday night in Boston when WMD and I, lacking the energy or creativity to think of an appropriate spot for a planned “date night”, eagerly jumped on the bandwagon led by the Joneseys to meet for pizza and beer at the North End’s Pizzeria Regina. The perfect antidote for soggy June blues.

After stuffing our faces with sausage pizza and diet Buds, we voted for a nightcap at Café Florentine, a typically crowded North End hotspot. We were pleased to find a few empty barstools and quickly saddled up.

In the midst of pleasant conversation and libations, a duo of dudes in fancy coats and rumpled tresses staggered in, looking for some grub to absorb the large quantities of alcohol sloshing about their bellies. They lurched themselves onto the stools beside us, bumping into my chair in the process. The burly but amiable bartender kindly informed these newcomers that the kitchen was closed. Nostrils flared, words were exchanged and the two dudes muttered something belligerently as they backed off their seats and headed towards the door.

Suddenly, one of the hooligans grabbed a three-ring binder from the hostess stand and hurled it at the barkeep, missing any patrons or staff but causing quite a commotion as it knocked stuff off the bar. This guy was definitely from out of town – any local fool knows that you don’t publicly assault a barkeep in the North End without finding yourself shoved inside the trunk of an unmarked black sedan and taken off to a gravel pit someplace in Saugus.

In a flash, the entire fitted-black-tee-shirt clad barstaff leapt across the bar without disturbing so much as a drop of condensation off our glasses. Out the door they fled, triumphantly returning moments later with the dude in a headlock. Amidst the cheers of the crowd and a swirl of obscenities, they hauled him behind the bar and made him clean up the mess he made.

It was then, despite being hasselhoffed off several lethal Makers & Gingers, that WMD realized that this guy was somebody pseudo-famous. Who could it be? We wondered. And then it came to him: “I think that’s D.B. Sweeney."

Could it be???? After some research, we confirmed today that the goon in question was in fact D.B. Sweeney, that nice guy with the aw-shucks smile and all-American good looks from 1990’s ice skating chick-flick, “The Cutting Edge.” Apparently, he is now a somewhat bloated and surly writer/director of independent films who happened to be in Town on Saturday, cocktailing and attending the Boston International Film Festival to promote his new movie, “Dirt Nap” Ironically, the tagline of the film is, “The journey of a lifetime...hope we brought enough beer.”

Auntie's Dream Diary 1

It's a scientific fact that dreams become more vivid and odd during pregnancy. They can include just about anything from giving birth to a pineapple or suddenly being able to understand and have philosophical conversations with your dog. I had both of these dreams which is why I've developed an aversion to yellow-fleshed fruit and am able to channel Vito.

Crazy-as-hell dreams always make good blog fodder but here we will launch an exploration into the mind of Auntie and the growing baguette with a new feature called "Auntie's Dream Diary." Running through September 26th, the diary entries are courtesy of Bags who is the only witness, and often first responder to these psychedelic events.

Auntie's Dream Diary 1

First, there's a little background we need to establish. When I'm in her dreams
(which is about half the time) I'm supposedly mean to her. Second, the rest of the dreams always weave in her friends, family and work with bizarre events/background and some type of [alcoholic] beverage and food.


1) Auntie is attending Don Orsillo's birthday party. There is a martini fountain. Auntie wishes she could indulge in a martini fountain. Why couldn't Don Orsillo's crappy birthday party be at a time when she was NOT pregnant?


2) At Tom and Dawn's wedding (which is not until November). She’s hanging at the wedding with with LP's step sister Patti Labelle. Incidentally, this was the same night she woke up screaming because a tick/ant/Komodo Dragon latched onto her arm.

3) Auntie is running late for work. For reasons unknown, she boards a helicopter to Martha’s Vineyard. When she arrives she learns Patch is lost on the island, so she puts an ad in the local paper looking for him.

June

"It is the month of June, The month of leaves and roses, When pleasant sights salute the eyes And pleasant scents the noses."
- Nathaniel Parker Willis

What a joke.


This June, the leaves lie dead in the pool and drowned geraniums wilt on the deck. Drizzle and fog hang in the sky and it's 50 effing degrees outside. Flooded brooks and sump pumps "salute the eyes." The petals from the roses and rhodendruns have all blown off and lie in the grass like lawn dandruff. The only scent I detect is one of wet dog. This is bullshit.

BOULOS TURNS 2! Tell Your "Driends"

June 8, 2004 at 9:33 a.m. Paulie's arrival in this world brought much joy as well as a plethora of nicknames: Paulie Walnuts. Boulos. Crap Master P. Brit Pop. Bunkledunk. Paulie Bear Banana. The Milkman. The Napper. The list goes on and on as he is loved by all who observe him.


Birthday Fun Facts: Paulie often smells like maple syrup because he loves to eat pancakes with his hands. His favorite song is "Bad Day" by Daniel Powter which he forced us to download and play ad infinitum. Whenever he wakes up from his nap, Caroline, the non-napper, launches into Eminem: "Guess who's back. Back again. Paulie's back. Tell your driends."

Happy Birthday, Boulos!

FYI: Boulos is Arabic for Paul

Tired Whore on Today Show

It’s only a matter of time now before we learn of Ann Coulter’s untimely death in a backyard propane explosion. She’s finally had her jump the shark moment.

The hateful skank showed up on the Today Show in a cocktail dress at 7 a.m yesterday where she served up her predictable batch of bile-flavored hag juice.

In her latest book, she attacks 9/11 widows for using the tragedy to make a political point. “I’ve never seen women enjoying their husbands death so much,” she writes. Apparently, Coulter thinks these women should remain silent and in the fetal position and do absolutely nothing to avenge their husbands' deaths. These widows did not ask to be on the political stage, they were thrust upon it. Coulter, however, has whored her way onto it shamelessly and has done absolutely nothing of value in her lifetime. Her only accomplishment as far as I can see has been to incite the ignorant. If anyone is exploiting the tragedy here, it is Coulter – to sell her stupid book.

She, like any jerk in a bar on weekend night, evangelizes without substance. At least Matt Lauer repeated her words back to her and tried to make her explain herself. But Coulter stuck to her standard formula: instead of backing up her statements, she changed the subject, saying “you’re getting testy with me.” I don’t think Matt L. has had as much fun since being called “glib” by the Cruise last year. He’s making quite a name for himself interviewing the insane. I’d love to see him round up the bums on 52nd street for a panel discussion on current events.

Read transcript from Lauer interview here.

What's in a Name? Crap.

I'm sure it's been around for awhile but I've heard every respected media outlet -- print, television and online -- refer to Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston as "Vaughniston" over the past few days in stories about the movie "The Break Up." This is beyond ridonkulous. First, these celebrity merger names have run their course. Second, if you're going to apply a celebrity merger name to a couple, at least do it in proper context.

Most credit/scorn J. Lo's and Ben Affleck's "Bennifer" for unleashing this monster but I remember hearing it in the 1990s when people were referring to the Clintons as "Billary;" the combined name implying that the couple, based on its public persona, was not two individuals but a singular entity. The "Bennifer" and "TomKat" labels grew out of a similar sentiment: The couples were ubiquitous, they were constantly in the public eye courting the media. Also, their relationships seemed to be born not out of love but of business mergers meant to pimp their careers. Suddenly every new couple that emerges or even hints at emerging is tagged -- even when they don't fit the profile.

Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie ("Brangelina") are hiding out in the African desert. I think Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston have been spotted together in public once. Neither couple is in-your-face like the others. These crappy names have no meaning. They are no longer funny or creative and JamKat has tired of them.

NOTE: When Jared Leto and Lindsay Lohan hooked up for 10 minutes last year, I heard someone refer to the potential couple as "Jared CataLohan" based on Leto's "So-called Life" character Jordan Catalano. Now that was truly inspiring.

Radioheads

Few bands aside from Radiohead could incite chaos in the Seaport on a cloudy Monday night. Throngs of fans -- cleverly deemed "Radioheads" -- swarmed Northern Avenue employing the "I need a miracle" strategy perfected by Deadheads in their search for single tickets. And while most came up empty, they nonetheless remained out on the street to have a listen. Cameo and I got lucky and scored this impossible ticket, taking up residence in the cheap seats on the Concourse. These ended up being the best seats in the house from our perspective. Two words: Table service. And even more important, we could move freely -- something that became a necessity and an act of self preservation when a tall dude in an impossibly tight leather jacket began swiveling in front of us. He desperately needed to take a few classes from the Ben Cyr house of dance. The set list was a breezy balance of old and new songs but I got my money's worth simply hearing "Fake Plastic Trees" live for the first time in years. Read review from first show.

(Thom Yorke was a dancing fool and uncharacteristically giggly during last night's performance. Good times.)

Cream Shop Friday: D.W.W.I

(Cory Favreau gets book thrown at him after opening a can of whup-ass on his McPheeverish Mom)

Since fewer things say “family fun” than getting shitfaced with your mom, Cory Favreau & Jan Chagnon of Plattsburgh, NY engaged in a classic mother-and-son boozefest while watching the American Idol finale together on Wednesday night.

Apparently, Chagnon (mom) and Favreau (son), while heavily intoxicated, were discussing the two finalists when the mom said that Katharine McPhee would have a successful career despite losing to Taylor Hicks. Favreau allegedly stood up, made a nasty comment to his mom and then struck her in the head with a sharp object hooked to a bicycle chain.

Defamer.com reports that “the McPheever-beset Chagnon knew her son was a Taylor Hicks fan, but she had no reason to believe her comments would incite him to swing his cherished Official Soul Patrol™ Mama-Whuppin' Chain with optional dangling, puncture-wound inflicting object, accompanied by the threateningly 'nasty comment' that he was going to 'warp your motherin' skull just like Katharine warps the high notes!'

To be pondered in the Cream Shop: Is this a sign of an increasingly warped pop culture, the Apocalypse, or just a typical mid-week drunken scuffle among northeast rednecks in places like Plattsburgh, NY. Also, why did this guy have a bicycle chain resting on a coaster alongside his Busch Light?

While an unfortunate occurrence, this incident will – at the very least – raise awareness on the dangers of Drinking While Watching Idol.



Cream Shop Friday is a periodic feature on this blog detailing the biggest distraction of the week.

DSO and a Bunch of 9th Graders

The pack of dirty hippies included Pete, Mike D., James N., my cousin Mike M., his girlfriend Kim, James and me. The occasion that brought us to Avalon on a Wednesday night was the Dark Star Orchestra a truly smashing Grateful Dead cover band that even non-Deadheads like myself can get into.



For each of its live shows, the band picks an old Dead show from yesteryear and replicates it. However, they don't announce which show it is until the very end so throughout the entire performance you hear the constant buzzy murmuring of Deadheads trying to guess which year it's from based on the subtlest of nuances -- be it Donna's presence on stage or Touch of Grey's absence from the setlist. Last night's set was a goodie -- except for those endless jams that can only be appreciated if you're on the kind of hallucinogens that make you believe you're dancing inside a giant rhododendrun.



Instead of hallucinations, we experienced the harsh reality that we're too old to be out late on a school night. To compensate, we let our inner 14 year olds take over for the evening. It started off innocently enough on the ride into town. James started harrassing Stevie B who was stuck at work, promising him he'd call him after each song and write down the setlist for him on his hand -- a common concert practice in 1985. Then, when I noted James' giddiness over meeting my cousin's new girlfriend, I assigned him the 8th grade label: "Girlcrazy." He retorted with the most scathing insult dished out by any 9th grader in the 80s: "You're wicked conceited." I could almost see his purple polo shirt and rope chain materialize before my very eyes.



At the show, in true 14 year old fashion, we proceeded to snap goofy pictures of each other and drink super-fruity drinks like Mike D's very manly mangorita. It's too bad Avalon doesn't make Pearl Harbors and Woo Woos. What a bunch of gleppers. Good times, though.



And as everyone (except me) guessed, the setlist was indeed a show from the late 80s:

August, 4, 1989 at the Cal-Expo Amphitheatre, Sacramento, CA.

Here is the setlist, especially for you, Stevie B:

Set 1:Bertha> Greatest, Althea, Mama Tried> Mexicali, Good Times,Built To Last, Queen Jane, Jack A Roe, Cassidy, Deal
Set 2:Truckin> Wang Dang Doodle> Crazy Fingers> Cumberland> Eyes> Drumz>Wheel> Miracle> Stella Blue> Sugar Magnolia
Encore: Baby Blue
Filler: On The Road Again