A month ago I was waiting for my friend to show up to go see Superhero Movie (which so bad that the best part was the end credits).  I heard the usual rap-a-tap knocking and opened the door without looking through the peephole.  A Comcast representative stood on the other side to tell me about the new rewiring that's been done in the complex, and why I haven't signed up for their wonderful service.  I restrained myself from giving an honest answer.  The rep was astonished when I told him that I don't watch TV and closed the door.

Neither Comcast service nor the pricing has ever been that great.  All the recent advertisements I got in the mail has been for the Spanish-language channels.  (Ever noticed that on the Mexican soap operas there's always one guy being shot in the stomach by an emotionally distraught woman with a gun?)  I would still have to go down to the local office to prove that I wasn't the previous resident who skipped payment nearly three years ago.  I spent an hour arguing with a service rep in India over why a cable company treats their customers differently than the phone or electric company.  Turns out that other utility companies don't have thieves for customers.  Go figure.

Seriously, I haven't watched TV in over 15 years.  What little TV I do watch is downloaded from Amazon Unbox.  That's a lot cheaper than a monthly subscription for 500 channels that I don't have time to watch.  Two of my favorite TV shows are Top Chef and Battlestar Galactica.

This is the fourth season for Top Chef.  I been a big fan of this cooking competition when it first came out.  Season One was perfect because no one knew what to do beside cook great food.  Season Two was a terrible mess since the show and the contestants distilled the previous season into a generic reality TV show.  Viewers made their opinions known loud and clear on the show blog.  Season Three was respectable as the show focused on what works and the contestants were more serious about cooking.  As for newest season, I give a thumb up for the show and a thumb down for the contestants.

The contestants for the past three seasons usually sort themselves out with a few on top and at bottom, with everyone else in the middle. Hiding in the middle was the usual complaint by the judges.  The Season Four contestants are quite different.  There's absolutely no middle to speak of whatsoever. Everyone is at top or on bottom, with a few going back and forth on each show.  Although the contestants each come from an impressive restaurant and possesses the right credentials to be in the competition, together they are such a bland group that it shows up in their cooking.

This becomes more glaring since the show is focusing on the basics with a tilt toward classical French cooking.  As head judge Tom Colicchio mentions to the San Jose Mercury News, what he was taught in culinary school years ago is no longer being taught these days.  (Just like how the three R's are no longer taught in the K-12 schools.)  The contestants are left to dance on a hot skillet because they're missing the obvious.

Worse, I have no personal favorite among this group. I really don't care who stays or pack their knives.

The other TV show I'm watching is Battlestar Galactica, which is also in Season Four.  This dark series focuses on the human drama of people fleeing the machines they built to find a mythical planet called Earth.  Since this is the final season, it supposed to get darker still.

That became obvious with the recent episode, "The Ties That Bind", where my favorite character, Specialist Cally Tyrol (Nicki Clyne), was murdered when she discovers that her husband, Chief Galen Tyrol (Aaron Douglas), is a sleeper Cylon agent.  I was jumping out of my chair screaming when she got spaced out of an airlock.  (When a show has numerous flashbacks to previous scenes, you know something bad is going to happen.)  Cally was my kind of woman: petite with a cute personality and an unbreakable spirit in the most challenging situations.  The most poignant scene was at the end with Admiral Adama (Edward James Olmos) sitting down with the stunned Chief to explain the apparent suicide of his wife.

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My friend and I this past Saturday went to the Bruce Springsteen concert at the HP Pavilion in San Jose.  This was my first "full on" rock concert.   I went to a Steely Dan concert at the Shoreline Amphitreate in Mountain View last year, but sitting on the back lawn isn't the same thing as being down in the mosh pit 20 feet from the stage.   This was also my first broad exposure to Bruce Springsteen since the only song I'm familiar with was "Born In The USA" in 1984 when I was a teenage Reagan Democrat.

We got there three hours before the show started to get the pink wrist band for the mosh pit.  The number on my wrist band was 666—an interesting number.  What made it more interesting after we got our green wrist bands and lined up to enter the building was two men standing on the sidewalk out in front, one wearing a sandwich board that proclaims "JESUS SAVES YOU FROM HELL" and another with a bullhorn reassuring us that we were all going to hell (but not because we were attending a rock concert).  The only thing that they managed to do was annoyed everyone in hearing range and prompted some people put in their ear plugs sooner.  After haranguing us for 20 minutes, they moved 30 feet down the sidewalk to annoy the people in line back there.  I seriously doubt security would nab these two if they stepped off of the sidewalk (protected speech) on to city property (trespassing).  The SJPD traffic officers were more interested in the taxi drivers who decide to stop wherever they please.   Once the doors were opened, it was an orderly mad rush to the mosh pit.

I wasn't there to just enjoy the music.  Being a writer, I was there to observe my surroundings and people . Never know when some of this will end up in a story or novel.

• My first impression of the HP Pavilion (previously known as the San Jose Arena and should've been named the Epicenter after a San Jose Mercury News poll) was that it's awfully small, and the interior layout doesn't seem to match the exterior layout.   I think the arena is an oval placed in the corners of a square, but I couldn't find a floor map at concierge desk to double check.  I expected the interior to look as impressive as the exterior for the $100 million USD that the city spent.  Of course, this was the same city council that dropped $500,000 USD on an Aztec snake god statue that looks like a giant pile of dog poop.
• I was intrigued to see a group of roadies climbed up rope ladders to get into the lighting framework over the stage to control the spotlights. You would think that those spotlights—like most of the others—could be controlled by computers on the floor.
• Women drinking alcohol lost all inhibitions when dancing, flirting and screaming.  One woman rubbed her butt against me for two minutes before she realized that her boyfriend went to the restroom.
• Whenever the lights went dark, someone lit up a joint and exhaling smoke that visibly lingered over the mosh pit.  I was sick with allergies the next day.
• The eeriest moment came when the lights went out and a thousand points of lit cellphones being waved back and forth.
• A pair of older couples cleared the floor around them when they started dancing with high kicks during the last song.
• Although I stood next to my friend for most of the concert, I found myself behind him four rows back at the end.
• When you been standing for five hours straight, it hurts to walk. Worst than having a swollen bladder after a three hour movie.

Bruce was had a great time singing, playing his guitars (just about every song required a different guitar) or harmonica, and taking requests from the audience.  The most memorable moment was when Bruce pulled up a guy from the audience who had the song title "Glory Days" written on his bald forehead with a permanent marker, and that song alone nearly blew the roof off the place.  Another moment was when Bruce pulled a sign from the audience that said, "Bruce, You're my real Dad!", and he admitted that he was here in these parts back in 1969.

(Come to think of it, *I* was born in 1969. Hmm... Nah... I could never grow a soul patch like his.)

This week I'll be seeing "Shine A Light" at the movie treater about the elders of rock and roll, The Rolling Stones.  It's amazing how these old rockers are still rocking on.

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When I stopped by fish store last Sunday, I was only expecting to get some algae tablets and feeder guppies.  Then I saw that they had young green terrors (about two inches long) in stock.  I been wanting to get one for two years.  Without waiting a moment longer, I got the dark runt of the litter that was being picked on by the alpha male in the tank.  Within 48 hours of being placed in my 10-gallon tank, the green terror killed all eight neon tetras and is getting along just fine with the salt-and-pepper cory catfish.

I'm going to have to get a 55-gallon tank in the next year or so. A green terror can grow to be 12 inches long, and my 25-gallon tank is already cozy with a convict, firemouth, and pleco (each six inches long and the pleco will grow to be 12 inches).  I love the bigger fishes since they have more personality than a school of smaller fish, and, when they grow past six inches long, you can feel their teeth as they nibble on your fingers.

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