Steely Dan Fans of the World Unite!

I was expecting the haters to come out in droves when I began quietly, tentatively admitting that I've been on a Steely Dan kick of late. But no! Everyone I've mentioned it to is either fully in support of the kick or on one of their own. (Well, except for GH, who suggested I need some Zeppelin therapy, which, all things considered, I'm not really in a position to deny.) So c'mon, all the rest of y'all--who's harboring some secret love for the Dan? Even the hipsters at Stereogum were showing some love for Aja (my current album of choice) this week, and a few simple Google searches will reveal that some of my favorite indie dudes, namely John Darnielle, Chris Walla, and Travis Morrison, don't hesitate to cite Becker and Fagen's influential awesomeosity.

Not that I mean to mention them in the same breath or anything, but as for other bands that sometimes get unfairly hated on, I'm glad to see that, with the impending release of their sophomore disk Without Feathers, the Stills are getting some positive blog write-ups and some retroactive "but, their first album is way better than a buncha people gave it credit for!" love. I've been a fan of the band since Giddy and I saw them blow the roof off the Riv opening for Interpol in the fall of '03, and I was actually just listening to Logic Will Break Your Heart on the train this morning. I never fail to be impressed by how very good it is.

Sufjan, despite his recent New Pantheon win for Illinois, still wasn't man enough to tackle the motherfucking Dan Ryan in song, although there are some offensively feeble attempts at poetics over here. ("There is a way out. Reroute!" Are you fucking kidding me?) (Via.) Commuters, it was nice knowin' ya.

AMF Returns to the Movies!

Though I am lamentably not at all well versed in Spike Lee's body of work, I nevertheless felt compelled to seek out Inside Man this weekend. I'm glad I did; it is fantastic and highly recommended. Taut, funny, scary, thrilling, and, as it's practically being billed, a showcase for some truly bravura performances. Of course all bank heist movies are, in the end, more about power than about money, but that's way more true of Inside Man than most. This is thanks to both the political subtext here that, for once, doesn't make me want to puke inside my own mouth a little (which is saying something considering Lee has the audacity to set up a momentary tableau in the middle of the film that casts shadows in a way that make it look like an Abu Ghraib torture image) and thanks to the fireworks generated by all these freaking huge actors getting up in each other's grills. Folks everywhere are talking about how this is Jodie Foster's best performance in years, and it's probably true, but, of course, it's really Denzel's movie. The flirtatious hatred that swells up between him and Ms. Foster in their handful of scenes together is infinitely hotter than any of the "did you bring the gun?" pseudo-dirty banter between him and his on-screen girlfriend, and the non-linear scenes of him interrogating witnesses with his partner (the ridiculously beautiful Chiwetel Ejiofor, known to Joss Whedon fans as the baddie from Serenity) take Eddie Izzard's "but he's dead now/no he's not" bit from Dress to Kill to its thrilling, nerve-jangling, Method-acting extreme. This is all not to mention that the film explodes out of the gate with one of the most instantly gripping opening sequences in recent memory. You've got Clive Owen talking directly into the camera, telling us in no uncertain terms what a badass he is (as if we could doubt it for a minute), perfectly paired with the sounds of the sexy, stealthy, Bollywood-cool "Chaiyya Chaiyya." Bra-fucking-vo. The movie does lose a bit of steam toward the end as we're waiting for Denzel's character to catch up with what we, as the audience, already know, but it in no way diminishes the overall effectiveness. A grade-A B-movie.

Thank You for Smoking yields its own pleasures, though it's nowhere near as interesting as it could have been. It's great fun to see Aaron Eckhart chew up the motherfucking scenery and make us, yet again, forget every other role he's ever played, but it's nowhere near as subversive as the filmmakers think it is to give us a tobacco lobbyist full of rakish charm, superhero good looks, and "well, wouldja get'a loada that sonuvabitch!" attitude. A satire actually worth its salt would have made that character a complete, unlikable bastard yet still demanded us to sympathize with him. And, as something of a sidenote, maybe it's just because I think he's unspeakably adorable, but it's entirely possible that Adam Brody has actually realized the potential that everyone once expected of Topher Grace's career. He's skillfully balanced his lead role on The O.C. with sparkling supporting work in movies like this one and Mr. and Mrs. Smith (which I've praised previously) and manages to play smarm with gangly dorkiness instead of smothering irony and self-awareness.

Finally also caught up with Shaun of the Dead on DVD, which, as expected, was an absolute delight and should be mandatory viewing in those professional prep/resume-writing courses you take during your senior year in college. "Students, take note here: you need to shoot your zombie parents in the face if you ever want to make anything of your life, and, if you must maintain contact with your fat, slobby, videogame-obsessed childhood friend, you're best advised to chain him up in your garden shed." (Thanks again for the recommendation, Mikow.)

Chicago love this morning from Gapers Block: the 10 CTA Commandments, and we've got the #2 skyline in the world, bitches!

Your Attention Please

Since I've been having spectacularly bad luck lately getting tickets to shows before they sell out (I'm crushed to be missing both The National and Neko Case in Chicago this month because I refuse to use Ticketbastard yet am too slow to get to the box offices on time), I decided, for once, to plan ahead: I just bought my two-day pass to the July 29-30 Pitchfork Music Festival. Who else is in?

Gapers Block dug up a website that reveals how Chicago's public transportation announcements compare with others around the world: "A very friendly, pre-recorded male voice is somewhat verbose and talks almost permanently to the passengers." I love this: "somewhat verbose and talks almost permanently." So funny. And, kind of an apt description of me, in my more hyper moments, too. Is this like when people start to look like their pets? Single city gals without cars start to sound like their public transportation?

Mighty Girl dreams up impromptu (code for "drunk"?) Trivial Pursuit questions such as "What the fuck was that one movie, the one where the guy had the sled?" and "Shit, who wrote that thing about...?"

Let Us Make Our Own Choices, Please

"[Bill Napoli is] a senator in South Dakota who believes women can’t make our own decisions. So whenever I’m faced with one I call him at work: 605-348-7373. And if he’s not there, I try him at home: 605-341-2370." (Via)

Craig Robinson goes to see The Darkness in concert and waxes philosophical about an earnest devotion to rock.

Some crazy, wonderful, and ambitious folks are annotating Destroyer's Rubies, along with the rest of Destroyer's catalog, with this caveat: "However, no attempt is made at describing what a song is about. I don't know what any of them are about. Nobody does."

Based on nothing more scientific than how many people have saved and tagged the link on del.icio.us, I know I'm way late to the party here, but I've just discovered (via) the productivity/life hacks blog 43 Folders, kept by the estimable Merlin Mann (maintainer of other Wrestling Entropy fave blog 5ives). It looks like an extremely valuable resource for getting your shit together. Thanks to his fervent recommendation, I've already ordered a copy of Getting Things Done.

Better Than Weasels on a Train or Musk Oxen on a Cruise

This week in Snakes on a Plane-watch: viddy the trailer (via; thanks, JP). Also, why do I not own this t-shirt yet?

Dr. Robert Sapolsky's hour-long lectures on the physiology of stress linked here are definitely worth seeking out.

Though the ginormous Fosters oilcans LK and I snuck in to the theater as part of our drunken St. Patrick's Day rampage might have ever so slightly affected my critical faculties (ya think?), I still will not hesitate to say that Mrs. Henderson Presents is really not all that great. It's fun for about the first half hour when it's all light and carefree with the familiar but always welcome "putting on a show" tropes, but when it starts getting overly grave and self-serious about the Function of Art and Entertainment During Wartime, it just bored the hell out of me. Frears, my man, what is up? If you're in the mood for a movie about the London theater scene in the early-to-mid-twentieth century that follows the tragicomic misadventures of a saucy, sexy, spoiled older woman, skip Mrs. Henderson and rent Being Julia instead.

I'm only three or four stories in to Kelly Link's new-ish collection Magic for Beginners, but it's already lived up to most of its hype. "Stone Animals" contains the best written evocation of nightmare I've maybe ever read. Check out the first story from the collection, "The Faery Handbag," an early contender for my favorite piece from the book, here.

I highly recommend getting a cute English boy to try to explain the rules of cricket to you over pizza sometime. He will use a napkin as the cricket pitch and the salt and pepper shakers as the batsmen and a grated cheese shaker as the bowler, and you will not understand a word of it, but it will not matter. Thanks for trying, RW, and good luck with the interview.

Organs, Tapes, and Drums

From the "I fell asleep watching hyperviolent Korean exploitation flicks then found, upon waking the next morning, that fiction had unexpectedly and disturbingly merged with reality" file (via Gapers Block): "[Jakub] Fik, 33, cut off his own penis during a Northwest Side rampage Wednesday morning. When confronted by police, Fik hurled several knives and his severed organ at the officers." [link] I am so delighted by the sheer gross-out weirdness of this.

Having only just turned 27, I think it's patently obvious I did not write this letter. Unless, consistent with the fiction-merging-with-reality theme of the day, I wrote it next year and sent it back through time to be published online to warn me, Donnie Darko-style, off the future that certainly awaits me.

Tapes 'n Tapes? How do we feel about Tapes 'n Tapes, eh, geeks? I like what I've heard so far.

If any of you musicians need, or know of anyone who needs, a high quality, barely used drum kit, GH is getting rid of one. I don't have any digital pics to share, but contact me at wrestlingentropy at yahoo dot com if you're interested and I'll connect you guys, all LEGOs-like.

Band...or Panda?

< Strong Bad voice > Oh holy craaaaaaaap!< /Strong Bad voice > Best ever: from the Academy Awards wrap-up issue of Entertainment Weekly, behold the "Band...or Panda?" quiz! I nearly peed on myself when I saw this. So funny.

Seriously, what gives (or doesn't give, for that matter), Tennessee? (Via)

OMG, MySpace is sooo dunzo! Sign me up for Isolatr. (Via) Definitely the new hotness. (That was for you, Mac, the only person who appreciates my busted four-year-old slang!)

Belle and Sebastian

After hearing Giddy talk about how amazing it was to see Belle and Sebastian play at Coachella two years ago, I always sort of secretly suspected that her experience was way more about the situation than the performance. I mean, how much fun could it be to see Belle and Sebastian--a band that, no matter how much they grow musically and stylistically, will likely forever be defined as sad bastard music--play live anyway? Well, I'm happy to report that once again I was merely being a snarky, doubting bitch--a Belle and Sebastian show really is that much fun.

Was able to wrangle myself a ticket for the concert at the Riv on Friday night (thanks, Patrick), and it was bloody fantastic. Stuart Murdoch is sooo cute, all little and spazzed out and tentative about playing rock star. His attempt at crowd surfing was nothing short of pathetic ("erm, OK, put me back now") and when he got up to dance on the stack of speakers, he really just looked more like a kid dancing on the kitchen counter than a proper rock 'n' roll front man. And, as is the case with so much of what touches me most these days, it was precisely because he was willing to look foolish while clearly, genuinely having fun that something really beautiful and honest was able to be born on stage. There was such liveliness and joy in everything they did that ran totally opposite to the kind of dour, Glaswegian self-seriousness I would have expected. For Christ's sake, when they kicked in to "Another Sunny Day," the back projection turned into a bright blue sky with fluffy white clouds and all the lights on stage glowed golden yellow; I just started laughing out loud. I couldn't help it. It was too perfect.

The fact that I recognized a lot of the songs in the set list means they went heavy on the tunes from The Life Pursuit (in addition to a few from If You're Feeling Sinister and, of course, the massively awesome "Your Cover's Blown"), which, not exactly being well versed in the whole of their output, obviously didn't bother me in the least. With their energy and tighter pop songcraft, these songs lend themselves extraordinarily well to live performance. I was even tempted to throw up the horns during the sweet little guitar solo in "We Are the Sleepyheads." But, perhaps the greatest thing to come out of the show is the fact that the first thing I did on Saturday morning (after eating a banana and gulping some water--sooo hungover) was turn on The Life Pursuit. I feel like I'm finally ready to give this band my full attention, rather than keeping them compartmentalized as being good but too twee and precious for me, or whatever excuses I used to give to keep them at arm's length.

What about the New Pornographers? Because of the uncertainties of actually getting a ticket, I missed pretty much the entirety of their set. Uh, what I heard of "Sing Me Spanish Techno" sounded pretty great, though. Go Carl Newman!

LK and I watched Grizzly Man last night. Holy fuck, what a movie. It's a testament to the strength and conviction with which Herzog conveys his worldview that, even after a brilliant concert the night before and a gorgeous spring day spent shoe shopping and gabbing with my best pals, I felt overwhelmed by the meaninglessness, chaos, and isolation of human existence.

It's Raining Today

Scott Walker announces details of his first album in over a decade. I don't know too much about his work, but what I do know, I adore. But even for a casual fan like myself, this is a very big deal.

Seriously, Pope jokes are never not funny. Stereogum has the lowdown on Benedict XVI's iPod Nano. The line about The Joshua Tree cracked me up. Is it too much to hope for a hacked Sidekick scandal from the Vatican, too? ::shudder::

Do all you people know about the current political situation in Turkmenistan? This is news to me because I live in a cave and roar at people when they attempt to approach with fire, but apparently, the country is ruled over by a crazy dictator who has erected a massive gold statue of himself on a rotating base so that it always faces the sun, schoolchildren are forced to read the two books that he has written, all the clock faces in the country have to have his profile on them, and he has renamed the days of the week after himself and members of his family (among other offenses). This is awful, an egregious abuse of power, etc., of course, but--ha! Fuck me, this is the funniest thing I've read about all day. I feel so horrible being amused by this, but, Christ, what a wacko. Love it.

Lovin' and Lobsters

Oh holy shit, the indie rock sex lyrics contest. Best ever.

Hottt Eames lounge chair ink.

Dedicated readers of Wrestling Entropy know all about my fear of and perverse fascination with the ocean, so with that in mind, I say to you, with all the bone-shattering terror I can muster: are they fucking kidding us with this newly discovered furry lobster shit? Horrifying. And yet quite cool. (Thanks, JP.)

Crash Bang Boom!

Hollywood's acceptance of non-mainstream sexualities this year was really surprisingly progressive. I mean, just look at last night's best picture winner. For one thing, it's a Canadian movie, which, in itself, shows a more cosmopolitan view of the world than they've been able to muster in recent years. Beyond that, I mean, the beauty of the gritty, steamy car wrecks and anal sex innuendos were like a series of thrown gauntlets to complacent viewers, a challenge to connect with our baser instincts in an increasingly cold, modern world. And, I'm always a fan of the typically audacious and sexually deviant roles James Spader takes on.... Hmm? What's that? Oh, that's not the Crash that won best picture last night? It was the other Crash? Uhh, nevermind then.

(OMG, that joke's so May '05.)

Honestly, with Cronenberg and A History of Violence barely nominated for anything, the only thing I had left to get mildly riled up about was Dolly Parton being robbed of the Best Original Song award. Yeah, I've talked about how much I loved Hustle & Flow, and I don't begrudge the Three 6 Mafia an ounce of their success in bringing some rap into the consciousness of the old, white squares who were voting in that category, but. Dolly's song was by far the best thing about the surprisingly disappointing Transamerica--and it only played over the closing credits (ouch)--so I was keen to see it given its due. Ah, it's so good. It's the only thing that choked me up during the whole movie. When she rips it up around minute 3:30, forget it. In fact, it's gotten so that I can't even listen to it on the train in the morning. (Check it--looks like iTunes is still giving the MP3 away free for the time being, or you can snag it here.) Not to mention I was especially keen to see her win the award after she revivalized the clearly moved Academy audience with pure joy, unlike the eminently snooze-worthy "In the Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepzzzzzzzzz" (man, those four whole notes she sang during the song sure were, um, uh, ethereal!) or (if I'm going to be honest) the ridiculous desecration of everything "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" stood for in the context of its film. Mais, c'est la guerre, n'est-ce pas?

Elsewhere, new Flickr pics, ranging from New Year's Eve to my birthday party to this weekend's fourteenth annual (?!?!!) Nick Movie Awards. Enjoy.

A Child's History of Bombing

I know no one really wants to go out on a Friday night and pay $15 to feel bad about the state of the world, but. I would encourage all you Chicagoans to check out A Child's History of Bombing at the Neo-Futurarium. Word on the street (and by street, I mean box office) is that not many reservations have been made for Friday, March 3, so if you're at all inclined to attend, I would strongly recommend that you consider doing so tomorrow night. Regardless, please try to make it out before it closes on the 11th. It's a vital and truth-seeking piece, filled with great humility and curiosity about some of the most epic tragedies of the past century. Kudos to DS and co-creator Greg Allen for compiling and presenting this information with a perfect balance of personal horror and statistical magnitude, buoyed by the very best of what experimental/
multimedia theater can do. And, if you go, just be thankful you won't have to sit behind the Curtis LeMay fanclub like I did.