Friday, October 29, 2004
"How I Learned to Start Worrying . . . "
Courtesy of Kittenpants: "How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate Everyone". This is my kind of political commentary.
Election Night?
Is anyone (local) gathering folks together to watch election night returns on the telly? I'm starting to get the panicky, nervous feeling that I usually only get before New Year's Eve, that feeling of, "I very badly want to be in a warm, comfortable place with people I love in case the world ends." I'd offer to host, but that'll only be two days after our move to the new apartment and I'm sure everything will be in complete disarray. Please e-mail or call or leave a comment below to let me know if there's room on your couch for my little bum!
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Em Takes on Dubya
Have you guys seen the video for Eminem's vehemently anti-Bush rap "Mosh"? It seriously almost brought tears to my eyes. (In a good way.) Check it out, and spread the word.
NOT a Balehead
It seems like at least once a year for the past five or six years, someone's always forecasting how Christian Bale is poised to become the brightest shining mega-supernova of all hyper-celebrity actors in the known universe. And, curiously, it hasn't quite happened. (Yet. Yes, Batman is still on the way.)
I don't know, maybe it's because I was of the tween demographic (before it was called that) that Newsies was aimed at in its original theatrical release or because Little Women ranks high on my all-time favorite list, but, in my world, Christian Bale always has been a huge star. It's just an unquestionable fact of my pop cultural consciousness. So, the debate surrounding his fame or stardom or talent or box office viability or whatever has always struck me as being a combination of odd, redundant, and, I dunno, square?
Anyway, this week Cintra Wilson has a go at this sub-sub-sub-genre of entertainment journalism, the "Jesus! Christian Bale Is a Superstar!" revelation essay. It, typically, made me laugh out loud ("when I am Supreme Dictator, I will demand that all Americans watch [American Psycho] every Christmas morning"), grimace ("[humor] so subtle that American audiences probably missed it entirely (I did, on first viewing)"), and want to revist his (ahem) body of work again sometime soon.
I don't know, maybe it's because I was of the tween demographic (before it was called that) that Newsies was aimed at in its original theatrical release or because Little Women ranks high on my all-time favorite list, but, in my world, Christian Bale always has been a huge star. It's just an unquestionable fact of my pop cultural consciousness. So, the debate surrounding his fame or stardom or talent or box office viability or whatever has always struck me as being a combination of odd, redundant, and, I dunno, square?
Anyway, this week Cintra Wilson has a go at this sub-sub-sub-genre of entertainment journalism, the "Jesus! Christian Bale Is a Superstar!" revelation essay. It, typically, made me laugh out loud ("when I am Supreme Dictator, I will demand that all Americans watch [American Psycho] every Christmas morning"), grimace ("[humor] so subtle that American audiences probably missed it entirely (I did, on first viewing)"), and want to revist his (ahem) body of work again sometime soon.
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
R.E.M.
Let me just start off by saying: the audience cheered for Peter Buck's mandolin.
I'm not kidding you. I realize that much of it probably had to do with the fact that it made its primary appearance for the much loved solo in "Losing My Religion," but still. We cheered for a small stringed instrument. And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
Much of my experience of the concert was colored by the fact that our seats were way the hell up in the nosebleeds. From that height, sitting among rows and rows of such exquisitely polite, well-behaved folks, it felt like I was passively consuming a spectacle rather than actively participating in a musical experience. And not only that--except for a few rare moments when some sort of unexpected energy would flicker and electrify the air, I didn't feel . . . moved. And not that every show I go to has to blow my mind or change my life, but it just would have been nice if everything didn't feel so clean and rehearsed. The musicianship was a little too impeccable, you know? It's not like I wanted someone to fuck up, either, though. I just wanted to feel like I was witnessing something unique. Something that was just for us, on just that night. And maybe something unique was happening on the floor that I couldn't feel up there where the sound quality wasn't much different than turning up my stereo a little louder than usual and where the intoxicating vertigo compensated for the fact that I was in no mood to shell out for sweet-smelling beer in plastic cups. **shrug**
I hate having to be so harsh, especially considering how out-of-control hot Michael Stipe is. That rock star energy, those fantastically sexy, snakelike origami poses, the reedy caterwauling about Andy Kaufman and the one he's left behind. En fuego, baby.
And though yes, I'm voting for Kerry on November 2, blah, blah, blah, there was the asshole, punk rock part of me that very badly wanted to start chanting pro-Bush slogans in the middle of the crowd just to watch everyone's heads explode.
I'm not kidding you. I realize that much of it probably had to do with the fact that it made its primary appearance for the much loved solo in "Losing My Religion," but still. We cheered for a small stringed instrument. And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
Much of my experience of the concert was colored by the fact that our seats were way the hell up in the nosebleeds. From that height, sitting among rows and rows of such exquisitely polite, well-behaved folks, it felt like I was passively consuming a spectacle rather than actively participating in a musical experience. And not only that--except for a few rare moments when some sort of unexpected energy would flicker and electrify the air, I didn't feel . . . moved. And not that every show I go to has to blow my mind or change my life, but it just would have been nice if everything didn't feel so clean and rehearsed. The musicianship was a little too impeccable, you know? It's not like I wanted someone to fuck up, either, though. I just wanted to feel like I was witnessing something unique. Something that was just for us, on just that night. And maybe something unique was happening on the floor that I couldn't feel up there where the sound quality wasn't much different than turning up my stereo a little louder than usual and where the intoxicating vertigo compensated for the fact that I was in no mood to shell out for sweet-smelling beer in plastic cups. **shrug**
I hate having to be so harsh, especially considering how out-of-control hot Michael Stipe is. That rock star energy, those fantastically sexy, snakelike origami poses, the reedy caterwauling about Andy Kaufman and the one he's left behind. En fuego, baby.
And though yes, I'm voting for Kerry on November 2, blah, blah, blah, there was the asshole, punk rock part of me that very badly wanted to start chanting pro-Bush slogans in the middle of the crowd just to watch everyone's heads explode.
Monday, October 25, 2004
A Very Musical Monday
A silly interview with Paul Banks from Nerve.
Colin Meloy talks to Pitchfork about the Decemberists' forthcoming album Picaresque.
Ben Folds explains why he had to cancel a recent gig at the University of Oklahoma.
Colin Meloy talks to Pitchfork about the Decemberists' forthcoming album Picaresque.
Ben Folds explains why he had to cancel a recent gig at the University of Oklahoma.
Friday, October 22, 2004
iFilm Goodness
The Jon Stewart/Crossfire affair for those of you who, like myself, missed it the first time around. It's been bouncing around the internet all week, and I finally had a chance to check it out today. Wicked good stuff.
Jon Stewart spinning himself on The Daily Show.
Triumph the Insult Comic Dog visits spin alley the night of the third debate, in a segment they call Poop Valhalla. Finally, Triumph leaves the helpless Star Wars geeks and other essentially harmless schmucks alone and gets back to sending up the bloated assholes who really deserve it.
Here's iFilm's page dedicated to Team America. I would especially, especially recommend scrolling down to check out the clip of "Lonely" or "Kim Jong Il Takes On Hans Blix."
Jon Stewart spinning himself on The Daily Show.
Triumph the Insult Comic Dog visits spin alley the night of the third debate, in a segment they call Poop Valhalla. Finally, Triumph leaves the helpless Star Wars geeks and other essentially harmless schmucks alone and gets back to sending up the bloated assholes who really deserve it.
Here's iFilm's page dedicated to Team America. I would especially, especially recommend scrolling down to check out the clip of "Lonely" or "Kim Jong Il Takes On Hans Blix."
Thursday, October 21, 2004
"Maaatt Damon!"
(Not to be confused with Johnny Damon, of course. Congrats, by the way, Red Sox fans. Fuck those Yankee steroid bastards. Wait, wasn't that the name of that Wilco album?)
If there's one thing I've learned in this crazy, mixed-up world, it's that Matt Stone and Trey Parker are good for what ails ya.
Sick with the pink-eye-chills-and-wheezing-cough flu of death that your roommate has brought back from New York? Pop in the South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut DVD and at least you'll be laughing through your feverish delirium. Overwhelmed by innumerable life stressors? Take an evening to indulge in Team America: World Police and shit doesn't seem so bad after watching puppet sex, puppet puke, and puppet death for some 100 minutes. No, really.
I admit I was a pretty easy target for this movie. I went in wanting to love it, so it would have had to have been pretty bad for me to say much of anything against it. So I'll get that anything out of the way right now: yeah, the satire gets a little threadbare toward the end, especially when the peacenik members of the Film Actors Guild (yes, F.A.G.) start taking up arms in just as ugly a way as any of the equally stupid-looking American military cowboy types that the filmmakers have been lambasting throughout. And, though I think condemning the resolution as "cheap militaristic fatalism" is a bit much, the whole pussies, dicks, and assholes speech does seem a bit facile. This is where the collision of political satire and blockbuster action movie pastiche chafes most, and the fact that the latter is privileged over the former reeks more of cop-out than Parker and Stone's easy-breezy "we want everyone to laugh and have a good time" stance might suggest. They know how smart they are. And though they obviously despise celebrities who use their fame as a soapbox from which to espouse their usually pedestrian political viewpoints, why even touch this topic with a ten-foot pole if you're not really willing to go balls-to-the-wall with your own personal politics?
But I digress.
It's sick, it's hilarious, it's (mostly) everything you want a fucked-up puppet movie to be. The songs are, as ever, so cleverly right-on they're worth the price of admission alone. Even the diction is hilarious in its over-the-top accuracy ("Ah-meh-eh-ree-ee-kah!"). The pinnacle is Kim Jong Il's token sad-bastard ballad "I'm So Ronery," though the Rent send-up "Everybody Has AIDS!" ("Come on everybody/we've got quilting to do!") runs a close second. The puppet sex is just as ridiculous and obscene as they meant it to be (as Cassius so eloquently put it, "it's not so much what they do, it's where they have to put the strings." HEY OH!), and the puking sight gag mentioned above seems timed, much like old Marx Brothers routines, specifically to be seen in a theater with an audience. The dialogue (the women bonding: "I treasure your friendship, Lisa!") is so brilliantly flat, it's straight out of Syd Field, and their goosing of every conceivable action movie convention adds up to a kind of hysterical, Platonic, ideal vision of the very concept of "Blockbuster" that surely has Don Simpson rolling over in his grave, wishing he'd had the sack to do it first.
And, I don't know why the Matt Damon puppet--in all his chinny, sandy-haired glory--is incapable of saying anything other than his own name, but, by God, that's the funniest and most gratuitous celebrity pot-shot I've seen in ages.
If there's one thing I've learned in this crazy, mixed-up world, it's that Matt Stone and Trey Parker are good for what ails ya.
Sick with the pink-eye-chills-and-wheezing-cough flu of death that your roommate has brought back from New York? Pop in the South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut DVD and at least you'll be laughing through your feverish delirium. Overwhelmed by innumerable life stressors? Take an evening to indulge in Team America: World Police and shit doesn't seem so bad after watching puppet sex, puppet puke, and puppet death for some 100 minutes. No, really.
I admit I was a pretty easy target for this movie. I went in wanting to love it, so it would have had to have been pretty bad for me to say much of anything against it. So I'll get that anything out of the way right now: yeah, the satire gets a little threadbare toward the end, especially when the peacenik members of the Film Actors Guild (yes, F.A.G.) start taking up arms in just as ugly a way as any of the equally stupid-looking American military cowboy types that the filmmakers have been lambasting throughout. And, though I think condemning the resolution as "cheap militaristic fatalism" is a bit much, the whole pussies, dicks, and assholes speech does seem a bit facile. This is where the collision of political satire and blockbuster action movie pastiche chafes most, and the fact that the latter is privileged over the former reeks more of cop-out than Parker and Stone's easy-breezy "we want everyone to laugh and have a good time" stance might suggest. They know how smart they are. And though they obviously despise celebrities who use their fame as a soapbox from which to espouse their usually pedestrian political viewpoints, why even touch this topic with a ten-foot pole if you're not really willing to go balls-to-the-wall with your own personal politics?
But I digress.
It's sick, it's hilarious, it's (mostly) everything you want a fucked-up puppet movie to be. The songs are, as ever, so cleverly right-on they're worth the price of admission alone. Even the diction is hilarious in its over-the-top accuracy ("Ah-meh-eh-ree-ee-kah!"). The pinnacle is Kim Jong Il's token sad-bastard ballad "I'm So Ronery," though the Rent send-up "Everybody Has AIDS!" ("Come on everybody/we've got quilting to do!") runs a close second. The puppet sex is just as ridiculous and obscene as they meant it to be (as Cassius so eloquently put it, "it's not so much what they do, it's where they have to put the strings." HEY OH!), and the puking sight gag mentioned above seems timed, much like old Marx Brothers routines, specifically to be seen in a theater with an audience. The dialogue (the women bonding: "I treasure your friendship, Lisa!") is so brilliantly flat, it's straight out of Syd Field, and their goosing of every conceivable action movie convention adds up to a kind of hysterical, Platonic, ideal vision of the very concept of "Blockbuster" that surely has Don Simpson rolling over in his grave, wishing he'd had the sack to do it first.
And, I don't know why the Matt Damon puppet--in all his chinny, sandy-haired glory--is incapable of saying anything other than his own name, but, by God, that's the funniest and most gratuitous celebrity pot-shot I've seen in ages.
Monday, October 18, 2004
Lists
A recent batch of excellent McSweeney's lists:
Bands and Musicians Whose Careers Would Be Quite Different Had They Initially Misspelled Their Own Names
Alternative Names for Move On . Org
Lame Excuses Roommate Has Given for Breaking Dates or the Smiths Lyrics?
Alternatives to the "LOVE HATE" Knuckle Tattoo in Order of Increasing Rarity
E-mail Addresses It Would Be Really Annoying to Give Out Over the Phone
Bands and Musicians Whose Careers Would Be Quite Different Had They Initially Misspelled Their Own Names
Alternative Names for Move On . Org
Lame Excuses Roommate Has Given for Breaking Dates or the Smiths Lyrics?
Alternatives to the "LOVE HATE" Knuckle Tattoo in Order of Increasing Rarity
E-mail Addresses It Would Be Really Annoying to Give Out Over the Phone
X-fire
Here's the complete transcript of Jon Stewart's routing of Paul Begala and Tucker Carlson ON THEIR OWN SHOW. Damn. Wish I coulda seen it when it aired.
Interpol
And, as my month of concerts begins to wind down, we come to Interpol.
Another enormously satisfying show at the Riv. In stark contrast to the Death Cab crowd, this was one of the most lovingly boisterous yet respectful audiences I've been a part of in a long time. The fever pitch of enthusiasm that erupted the moment they took the stage was sustained, undiminished, throughout the entire set. It was amazing. And, toward the end of the show, when the band totally cut out after the first chorus of "PDA," the house went out of their minds with delirious anticipation waiting for the second verse to kick back in.
They played as well as they ever have, and, as Giddy astutely pointed out, they're still having fun with the tunes from Bright Lights, even though they've been living with them for well over two years now. Paul's voice just keeps getting stronger and warmer, and Kessler's guitar work is laser-sharp. My only (minor) complaint about the show is that the way the lights were set up didn't allow me to see Sam at the drums. I couldn't take my eyes off him when we saw them play last year, and I wish I would have had the chance to do the same this time around.
But, they played "Length of Love," so I can't complain about anything at all, really. Best. Song. Ever.
As far as the opening bands go, I wanted to like The Secret Machines more than I actually did, and though the vocalist for Hail Social was a bit lacking, I was pleasantly surprised by how sharp they were on the whole.
Another enormously satisfying show at the Riv. In stark contrast to the Death Cab crowd, this was one of the most lovingly boisterous yet respectful audiences I've been a part of in a long time. The fever pitch of enthusiasm that erupted the moment they took the stage was sustained, undiminished, throughout the entire set. It was amazing. And, toward the end of the show, when the band totally cut out after the first chorus of "PDA," the house went out of their minds with delirious anticipation waiting for the second verse to kick back in.
They played as well as they ever have, and, as Giddy astutely pointed out, they're still having fun with the tunes from Bright Lights, even though they've been living with them for well over two years now. Paul's voice just keeps getting stronger and warmer, and Kessler's guitar work is laser-sharp. My only (minor) complaint about the show is that the way the lights were set up didn't allow me to see Sam at the drums. I couldn't take my eyes off him when we saw them play last year, and I wish I would have had the chance to do the same this time around.
But, they played "Length of Love," so I can't complain about anything at all, really. Best. Song. Ever.
As far as the opening bands go, I wanted to like The Secret Machines more than I actually did, and though the vocalist for Hail Social was a bit lacking, I was pleasantly surprised by how sharp they were on the whole.
Friday, October 15, 2004
Death Cab
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
Did I ever tell you my middle name is Guenivere? Yeah, that's what the "M" stands for. Wait a minute . . . uhhh . . .
Great, great show last night. Almost better than it had a right to be considering how completely shitty the audience was. Well, maybe it was just the people in the upper deck around me. I mean, it just sort of boggles my mind how these people who, obviously, must be Death Cab fans can also be such utter fucking assholes. Aren't Death Cab fans supposed to be sad, vaguely whiny, largely passive-aggressive hipsters and their alterna-hot emo girlfriends? Why in God's name would this obnoxious cunt (British definition) repeatedly yell "YOU SUCK!!!" to goofy, adorable little Travis Morrison? Granted, this new solo project he's embarked upon is not everyone's cup of tea (it's not designed to be), but if you don't like it . . . um, go get a beer and wait for it to be over. This guy's irrational anger and confounding disrespect infected the mood of the whole joint. Well, that's what you get when Q101 sponsors, I guess.
But, Death Cab, ah, Death Cab. I mean, wow. Those boys can play. Much like at the Rufus show the previous night, I always find myself in awe of these singers who open their mouths and sound exactly the way they do on their albums. I mean, how does Ben Gibbard just walk around on the streets knowing he can make that noise come out of his body?
And the songs, the songs! I got a little teary when they launched into "The New Year," and I actually got to hear him sing "I wish the world was flat like the old days / then I could travel just by folding a map / no more airplanes or speed-trains or freeways / there'd be no distance that could hold us back." That line just sends chills down my spine. And, not to keep singling out tunes from Transatlanticism, but what they did live with "We Looked Like Giants" became an incredibly profound, visceral experience. During the instrumental break that, while gorgeous, can feel a bit meandering on the album, they built into this thick, gauzy, sexy, multilayered wall of sound. I involuntarily exclaimed "Jesus!" when they suddenly brought it back down again for Ben to cry out the final "together there / in a shroud of frost the mountain air . . . " Unbelieveable.
I know I sound like a smitten 16 year old right now, and I'm OK with that. I adore this band.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
I loved you, Guenivere, I loved you Guenivere, I loved you.
Did I ever tell you my middle name is Guenivere? Yeah, that's what the "M" stands for. Wait a minute . . . uhhh . . .
Great, great show last night. Almost better than it had a right to be considering how completely shitty the audience was. Well, maybe it was just the people in the upper deck around me. I mean, it just sort of boggles my mind how these people who, obviously, must be Death Cab fans can also be such utter fucking assholes. Aren't Death Cab fans supposed to be sad, vaguely whiny, largely passive-aggressive hipsters and their alterna-hot emo girlfriends? Why in God's name would this obnoxious cunt (British definition) repeatedly yell "YOU SUCK!!!" to goofy, adorable little Travis Morrison? Granted, this new solo project he's embarked upon is not everyone's cup of tea (it's not designed to be), but if you don't like it . . . um, go get a beer and wait for it to be over. This guy's irrational anger and confounding disrespect infected the mood of the whole joint. Well, that's what you get when Q101 sponsors, I guess.
But, Death Cab, ah, Death Cab. I mean, wow. Those boys can play. Much like at the Rufus show the previous night, I always find myself in awe of these singers who open their mouths and sound exactly the way they do on their albums. I mean, how does Ben Gibbard just walk around on the streets knowing he can make that noise come out of his body?
And the songs, the songs! I got a little teary when they launched into "The New Year," and I actually got to hear him sing "I wish the world was flat like the old days / then I could travel just by folding a map / no more airplanes or speed-trains or freeways / there'd be no distance that could hold us back." That line just sends chills down my spine. And, not to keep singling out tunes from Transatlanticism, but what they did live with "We Looked Like Giants" became an incredibly profound, visceral experience. During the instrumental break that, while gorgeous, can feel a bit meandering on the album, they built into this thick, gauzy, sexy, multilayered wall of sound. I involuntarily exclaimed "Jesus!" when they suddenly brought it back down again for Ben to cry out the final "together there / in a shroud of frost the mountain air . . . " Unbelieveable.
I know I sound like a smitten 16 year old right now, and I'm OK with that. I adore this band.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Rufus
The Rufus Wainwright show at the Vic last night was, predictably, outstanding.
He played a handful of new tunes from the forthcoming Want Two, including a song he wrote as a tribute to Jeff Buckley, in which he casts himself in the role of Orpheus going into the Hades below the Mississippi River. No joke. It was gorgeous, and highly emotional. He then nearly caused all of our hearts to stop by segueing directly into "Hallelujah." Other song highlights from the evening included "California," "The Art Teacher," and "Gay Messiah."
His solo shows put his personality center stage since he doesn't have a backing band (and, as much as I love her, Martha) dividing our attention. Much like his music, he effortlessly glides between being silly ("I hope you Want Two! Hahahaha!"), sexy (when a roadie makes an unexpected appearance on stage: "Wait, what are you doing out here? **shakes head** Spanking."), confessional (telling the story of his initially conflicted feelings about Buckley), insecure ("should I stand when I play guitar instead of sitting on the stool? Is standing sexier?"), and everything in between. There's something so startling and refreshing about going to a rock show and not seeing someone perform a persona in addition to performing the music you've gone there to see. He's grown and relaxed as a performer so much since I first saw him live. It's kind of hard for me to believe that this confident, peaceful troubador crooning at the piano last night is the same guy who I saw strip off his grimy vintage t-shirt during the big crescendo in "Evil Angel" two years ago.
(Personal to David Berkeley, Rufus's opening act: use the upper register of your voice more frequently. Your high notes are strong and exciting. You'll differentiate yourself from the glut of sensitive acoustic singer-songwriter guys if you push the limit a little bit. Just a thought.)
Death Cab tonight . . . quite looking forward. I [heart] Ben Gibbard right now.
He played a handful of new tunes from the forthcoming Want Two, including a song he wrote as a tribute to Jeff Buckley, in which he casts himself in the role of Orpheus going into the Hades below the Mississippi River. No joke. It was gorgeous, and highly emotional. He then nearly caused all of our hearts to stop by segueing directly into "Hallelujah." Other song highlights from the evening included "California," "The Art Teacher," and "Gay Messiah."
His solo shows put his personality center stage since he doesn't have a backing band (and, as much as I love her, Martha) dividing our attention. Much like his music, he effortlessly glides between being silly ("I hope you Want Two! Hahahaha!"), sexy (when a roadie makes an unexpected appearance on stage: "Wait, what are you doing out here? **shakes head** Spanking."), confessional (telling the story of his initially conflicted feelings about Buckley), insecure ("should I stand when I play guitar instead of sitting on the stool? Is standing sexier?"), and everything in between. There's something so startling and refreshing about going to a rock show and not seeing someone perform a persona in addition to performing the music you've gone there to see. He's grown and relaxed as a performer so much since I first saw him live. It's kind of hard for me to believe that this confident, peaceful troubador crooning at the piano last night is the same guy who I saw strip off his grimy vintage t-shirt during the big crescendo in "Evil Angel" two years ago.
(Personal to David Berkeley, Rufus's opening act: use the upper register of your voice more frequently. Your high notes are strong and exciting. You'll differentiate yourself from the glut of sensitive acoustic singer-songwriter guys if you push the limit a little bit. Just a thought.)
Death Cab tonight . . . quite looking forward. I [heart] Ben Gibbard right now.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Not a Fetish Site!
When a colleague at work sent me this link called "BikerFox", I had a moment of hope that perhaps, a la Suicide Girls, someone out there had finally zeroed in on my fetish for impossibly, unstoppably hot bike messengers. Oh, was I ever sorely, sorely mistaken. I feel bad laughing, but . . . come on, now.
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Thursday, October 07, 2004
War Is Costly
So was my Starbucks this morning.
My usual "tall coffee with room" has gone from $1.54 to $1.65. That's bullshit I say. I gotta buy a coffeemaker. Perhaps I'll put one on lay-a-way and pay for it in eleven cent installments.
My usual "tall coffee with room" has gone from $1.54 to $1.65. That's bullshit I say. I gotta buy a coffeemaker. Perhaps I'll put one on lay-a-way and pay for it in eleven cent installments.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Brown Bunny
From last evening--
CTA: What was the deal with that e-mail? I could barely read it. It was this weird combination of shame and incoherence.
AMF: It was like a Vincent Gallo movie.
CTA: What was the deal with that e-mail? I could barely read it. It was this weird combination of shame and incoherence.
AMF: It was like a Vincent Gallo movie.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Janet Leigh
Janet Leigh, 1927-2004
With the most deep and heartfelt respect, I invite those of you who know the anecdote to repeat it once again with me now.
Jim Naremore (to Janet Leigh): Ms. Leigh, do you realize you were in three of the best movies ever made? Touch of Evil, The Manchurian Candidate, and Psycho? (to Eva Marie Saint) Uhhh . . . and you were in some very good movies as well.
Rest in peace, Ms. Leigh. Film fans around the world will miss you.
With the most deep and heartfelt respect, I invite those of you who know the anecdote to repeat it once again with me now.
Jim Naremore (to Janet Leigh): Ms. Leigh, do you realize you were in three of the best movies ever made? Touch of Evil, The Manchurian Candidate, and Psycho? (to Eva Marie Saint) Uhhh . . . and you were in some very good movies as well.
Rest in peace, Ms. Leigh. Film fans around the world will miss you.
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