Canadians, Springfieldians, Sambucans

Lots of fun today, shirking the responsibilities of our respective jobs, splashing the blogosphere with the Rorschach ink blots of rhetoric!

• For all you folks still disheartened over the events of 11/2, the good people of Canada may be able to help.
  
  
• My close friend Tommy Ventura has a blog, of which I was unaware until this morning. Ride the ghost buffalo with TV!
  
  
• I believe I owe Rick Springfield, '80s music icon and General Hospital star, a belated apology for talking shit all these years: you rock, Rick!
  
  
• Finally, let us hope Bush doesn’t reward the inexcusably gross incompetence of Condeleeza Rice with the ship of State.

Last night Jodi and I took a cue from the playbook of a distant relative, the great Frank Lloyd Wright, who once remarked, "Dining is and always was a great artistic opportunity." Yes, Denver’s own Sambuca Jazz Café is the perfect little spot for candlelight romance and birthday celebrations. And while I’m no Jason Sheehan, (the Westword's hip food critic whose every column delights me, and whose narcissism accounts for at least a quarter of the local weekly’s letters of complaint to the editor), I can say with a fair amount of certainty that the food is out of this world (mmmmm, duck confit pastries...). Though it’s not a cheap place, if you join their Sambuca Secrets club, your birthday entrée is free. And they hooked a brotha up last night. The atmosphere really makes this place, though--the mood, the lighting, the am-bi-ance--and while the jazz is not exactly cutting-edge, it’s not Kenny G either. And let's face it, do you really want Albert Ayler skronking away onstage while you try to remember which is your salad fork?

N/P: The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa - Thirteen Years in Noises