Another Whitehurst begins the longest possible march toward History

 I don't usually have much to say about the Seattle Seahawks.  They're an increasingly irrelevant organization with a largely witless crowd that I've seen make complete fools of themselves up close and impersonal at Qwest Field on a few occasions.  But they've just done something that makes me feel a weird, sentimental attachment to them.  Tinged with knowing sadness.  They traded for an unproven quarterback that some of the more especially uninformed are calling their future starter.  Charlie Whitehurst.  Son of David.  Yes, Packer fans - that David Whitehurst (occasional starting QB from '77 to '83).  As far as I know, David was a mute.  Maybe even borderline mentally handicapped.  That's not to say that he was a terrible quarterback.  He was just, well, bad.  Yet apparently his offspring is worth $10M for 2 years, even though he's 28-years-old and has never thrown a pass in an NFL regular season.  When I mentioned to Sarah this morning that he was born in 1981, she rightly noticed that he's "old" for a young quarterback.  In fact, he was drafted in 2006.  Did he spend a few years before college in prison?  That's my guess.  I realize that there's no salary cap this year (which will lead to a work stoppage next year if contracts like this continue for free agents this off season).  But, seriously, who is holding Paul Allen's purse strings for the Seahags?  On one level, I hope Charlie succeeds so I get the chance to see David dug up and asked to speak with the media about the utter absurdity of his son's ascendancy.  But on all other levels...well, like I implied, I feel kind of sorry for them.

One minor fresh recommendation - the newly-released album by Titus Andronicus - a clear-sounding, punky, anthem-driven band of clevermeisters from New Jersey.  A concept album ("The Monitor") derived from Civil War narratives might sound pretty unlikely to anyone but Ken Burns.  The comparisons of their sound to The Replacements, The Hold Steady and just about everyone from Jersey aside from the cast of "Jersey Shore" make them a slam dunk worth at least a cursory listen from my point of view.  But I've found them seriously growing on me over the past few days.  My rating - a solid B thus far.  Maybe further ascendant, especially if I see them in a few weeks here in Seattle (playing at the tolerably all-aged venue, The Vera Project on 3/30).  Regardless, if you search for such things, you can do a helluva lot worse.

Finally, I didn't do a single NCAA men's basketball tourney bracket this year.  And I've actually got plenty of horses in this field.  So I'll offer up my Final Four here - just between you and me.  Georgetown, Butler, Wisconsin and Louisville.  Georgetown over Louisville for all the shiny marbles and immortality following the most surprising tournament in history.  No, no - don't thank me.  This is just what I do.

Hope your own longshots also aren't the least bit influenced by Obama's picks today.  Rock on.

And the Swedish Chef only won twice...

Two reviews for a Monday - not a bad way to start the week. Locally, I went to the Capitol Hill Block Party on Saturday. The CHBP is your standard issue cool city outdoor fest in the summertime. 5 stages, none of which are denial or grief. My primary draw was The Hold Steady, who regular readers will recognize as one of my faves. But I gotta say, I'm sadly kinda over them after Saturday. They're still a great show. Fun anthems. Goofy, engaging band members who can play the crap out of a song. Especially the lead singer, Craig Finn. Who, by the way, I randomly saw walking down a bordering street 5 hours before his band's set began, looking like a dentist heading to Starbucks in the same shirt he wore on stage. I worked the crowd like a zen master to get a great vantage point for their set - back a half-dozen rows of people, front and center. They played basically everything everyone wanted to hear with glossy verve. But the thing that threw me was fully half of the people surrounding me and an equally well-schooled friend were obviously teenagers. I'm not saying that to be a grumpy old man. It's just that I can't imagine a 16-year-old kid with a $300 digital camera has any idea what they are talking about when it comes to careening, albeit hook-filled, audaciousness. My rating - a surprisingly bored B-minus.

One thing that isn't boring at all is the hunky new star of HBO's killer summer mini-series, "Generation Kill". His name is Alexander Skarsgard (son of the actor Stellan). He plays Sergeant Brady Colbert, based on a real soldier thanks to the reporting of Evan Wright who was embedded with his Marine unit. Skarsgard is actually Swedish (voted the five-time Sexiest Swede of the Year, beating my crown by an astonishing four). Yet his American accent is flawless. He will be a HUGE star. "Generation Kill" was written and produced by the same geniuses that did the same with "The Wire". Thus far we're 3 episodes into a 7 episode run. My interim rating - B-plus with an upward trajectory. Watch it. Even with the wall-to-wall military lingo, there's something special going on there.

Don't know what to say about last night's premiere of the second season of "Mad Men". I oozed praise constantly for the first season. But after this first date, I'm not thinking I'll go all the way this time.

Hope your own summer isn't spent in the desert scandalously shooting camels. Rock on.

Plus, Brett will arrive in a biofuel pickup truck running entirely on oil recovered from Bud Grant's illegal Idaho fry operation

A few supa quickies. The Brew Crew swept a four-game series in St. Louis last night with an heroic 9th inning homer by Ryan Braun. That young man possesses the sweetest swing ever to grace a Milwaukee uniform. Sorry, Stormin' Gorman. The Cubbies come to Beertown on Monday for a four game series. Before that we've got the Astros for a weekend of sure-to-be sellouts. Oh, how I love it when a plan comes together...

All sports' journalists are currently stumbling over the headline that Brett Favre is going to report to training camp in Green Bay on Sunday. Unless, of course, Big Cheddar steps into the fracas, ya know, and has him whacked. Yea, yea - it's the biggest football summer soap opera since Joe Montana and Roger Staubach shacked up in Mexico for a stolen month of passion way back in '79. Still, funnier than a bag full of cats getting dropped onto a dogfood assembly line. My prediction remains the same - the Pack screwed up royally and will rue the day that they didn't make every effort possible to get Brett back on the Reservation.

Big music weekend for us here in GrungeCity. Sarah's heading to the first night of the Capitol Hill Block Party tonite with a friend to see Vampire Weekend, among others. I'm making the same trip tomorrow to see The Hold Steady and DeVotchKa, among others. Expect copious reviews. Maybe a few pics. Hope your own tickets were pre-purchased and came with a free bobblehead. Rock on.

R.I.P. - The Crocodile Cafe

It's very appropriate that Seattle is suffering through an especially dreary day given the news that the Crocodile Cafe has shut down. For those that joined me in the corner booth in the back bar (you know who you are), glasses are being raised in respect. The place was a glorious dump. Everyone went there. The owner (Stephanie Dorgan) recently divorced what was assuredly the club's cash cow (Peter Buck from R.E.M.). Stories earlier this month chronicled how they were bouncing checks and losing valued employees. It's sad. Really. I remember too many shows there over 5 years in the 90s. I remember seeing Tad passed out in another corner booth. I remember the Lovely Diane flirting constantly with my friend Bob over months and months of inaction. I remember the time I saw some dude blow a guy on the stage just before the exhaltant, impromptu end of a set (the above pictured bassist for "The Dwarves"). Said blowing amounted to my last live show in Seattle before moving to Dallas, Texas where I believe seeing a guy get blown by another guy is still a capital offense. Then I remember seeing The Hold Steady there a year ago after I'd moved back to Seattle, intermingling with the friendliest crowd I can remember since, well, ever becoming a part of a crowd in a music venue. It was as if nothing had changed. But it's now obvious that something changed. I remember the Croc. I'm sure I won't be the only one who can't - or won't - forget.

Hope your own venues are booked for the foreseeable future. Rock on.