Posted November 16, 2007 in News


The official dates for next year’s Coachella bake-fest are announced, and every hotel immediately sells out. Okay, not really, but if you want a decent bed and a hot shower (as opposed to that one year when you were so wasted that you slept naked in a porta-pottie off Monroe Avenue—or was that us?), it’ll cost you an extra night, seeing that the annual sonic extravaganza has been extended to a third day for ’07—the dates are Friday through Sunday, April 27-29. No word on an on-sale date or band lineup yet—we’re thinking January for the lowdown on those—but Rundown has the secret scoop: Pere Ubu, the Pointer Sisters, Dr. Hook & the Medicine Show, Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff, Dweezil Zappa, Emma Goldman, a Menudo reunion (featuring all 492 members), John Philip Sousa, a decent Right Said Fred tribute band, the Escape Club, and that package tour consisting of Aimee Mann, Fallout Boy, Mike Love and the Association, all playing on, of course, the Mann-Boy-Love-Association stage.

A weekend after the emo kids and goth punks finally leave Indio, they’ll be replaced by Shitkicker Nation, as the Empire Polo Field will also play host to a yet-to-be-cutely-named country music fest, which actually sounds like a lot of fun, and not nearly as rednecky as it could be, with swell people like Willie Nelson, Lucinda Williams, Emmylou Harris and Nickel Creek already confirmed for the May 5-6 sweat-a-thon. Expect hordes of hefty people donning their tightest Wranglers for that one, and pray they don’t get so insanely hammered that they try to take them off.



Silly Claremont—and Upland, and Pomona, and Corona, and all these other anal-retentive micro-dictatorships that have gotten their titties in a twist by outlawing medical marijuana dispensaries. Up yours too, Norco, because the 45-day ban there on such dispensaries has just expired, leaving pro-pot advocates a nice window to try and get some up and running—but alas, the Norco powers that be require so much bureaucratic red tape and reams of paperwork for this to actually happen that it likely won’t, so at the next city council meeting this Wednesday, Dec. 6, look for Norco’s finest elected officials—mmph!—to extend the ban for up to a friggin’ year, leaving cancer patients and other people with life-threatening illnesses to suffer through as much pain as humanly endurable. Never mind the fact that scores of IE folks will be killed this year no thanks to Demon Alcohol, that perfectly legal intoxicant, and that we’re sure nobody on the Norco dais will ever call for shutting down the city’s plethora of liquor stores—though that would be fun to watch, if this was 1920 and we could make bank hawking homemade shine out the back of our horsecart.



It’s Thanksgiving—known in the Rundown household as National Relatives Suck Day.



We celebrate the day known as both Fur-Free Friday and Buy Nothing Day in leftist/progressive circles, but you probably know it better as Black Friday—the day after Thanksgiving, the start of the Christmas shopping season. If it’s anything Rundown hates more, its stupid names given to things that never needed one, because for years, we always called the day after Thanksgiving “The Day After Thanksgiving,” but now, we’re apparently all supposed to use this dumbass “Black Friday” tag (thought up, no doubt, by some cheese-eating marketing exec, on account of it being the day when businesses rake in so much dinero that they’re “in the black”—get it? Our inner Malcolm X, though, thinks it’s racist). And it’s not even original—hit up Wikipedia, and you’ll find a buttload of other Black Fridays throughout human history, a veritable roll call of misery and disaster. Like the 1881 Black Friday, which marks the day when 189 Scottish fishermen lost their lives. And the 1889 Black Friday, the day of the Johnstown Flood. And the 1939 Black Friday, a day of devastating fires in Australia. And Black Friday 1945, when the largest air battle over Norway took place. Can’t forget Black Friday 1978, when protesters were massacred in Iran, or Black Friday 1982, when Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands. And naturally, there are those songs called “Black Friday,” recorded by Steely Dan and Megadeth (now there’s a double-bill we’d like to see!). “Black Friday” is also the title of a poem penned by Dennis Rader, the BTK (as in bind-torture-kill) killer—so howzabout we all just start calling the day after Thanksgiving Dennis Rader Day? Because nothing commemorates a torturer better than waking up at 4 a.m., brawling over parking spaces, and standing in some godforsaken line outside a Target with screaming children.



Nothing. We got nothing.



How ‘bout those Raiders? They’re 9-2! If you’re dyslexic.



Lotsa goings-on in Montclair—also known as Claremont’s ugly, pregnant, mildly retarded sister. Looks like sometime next spring, ground will be broken on a spiffy new downtown along Fremont Avenue, a mixed-use assemblage of condos, shops, bars and restaurants. While some locals are happy about this (and the impending spike in their property values, natch), others are a tad less than, complaining about possible—we say inevitable—increases in traffic, drunk-in-public arrests, and numbers of people who’ll blast the new Jay-Z disc off their apartment balconies. Some in the Fremont ‘hood also bemoan the potential loss of their views of the San Gabriel Mountains, which we can totally relate to, even though major development projects in the rapidly-ballooning IE waistline are as guaranteed as the Raiders missing the Super Bowl. Rundown has a severe love-hate relationship with these kinds of expansionist ventures—on one hand, it’ll bring in forever-needed tax dollars to a city that’s always been thought of as . . . Claremont’s ugly, pregnant, mildly retarded sister. But on the other, how many California Pizza Kitchen/Islands/Baja Fresh/Starbucks/Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf/Jamba Juice/Panda Express joints does one really need in a lifetime?



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