Merlin updated his lists of five things today!
Five Things I'd Like to See Engraved on Little Rubber Bracelets
Five Favorite Spoodley-Spoodley Guitar Solos (Hee hee hee! "Spoodley-spoodley"!)
Monday, May 16, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Hitchhiker's Guide
After much anticipation, I finally got a chance to catch up with The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy yesterday. While I can't say it lived it up to all my expectations, I certainly enjoyed it and consider it an afternoon and a few bucks well spent.
It's been an age since I've read the book, so my complaints are certainly not of the trainspotting variety. And "complaints" is even too strong a word, now that I see it sitting there in pixels. It just felt a little off to me, and I think that can be chalked up to a) a first-time director who's still working on a sense of how to pace a major, full-length motion picture and b) the way that this movie, almost inadvertently, is an object lesson in the competing strengths and weaknesses of American and British styles of acting for the camera.
The three main Americans actors in the film--Mos Def, Zooey Deschanel, and Sam Rockwell--are these glowingly beautiful, absurdly magnetic forces of nature. Your eyes are drawn, almost against your will, to the vision of these exquisite bodies in motion. They are three naturally gifted, ridiculously charismatic performers who command your attention with the sheer force of their presence. But then, when these bodies are in motion, which they are fairly relentlessly for the full 110 minutes, they're doing way too much. They don't seem to have much control over their spastic, rangy movements, and, when projected onto a full-size movie screen, they almost feel like they're lacerating your eyeballs. For the most part, they're unfortunately not using their substantial power for the good of the piece. The goofball, calculatedly "wacky" overacting just starts to feel exhausting. Of course, a lot of this could have been edited around or otherwise toned down by the director, so they're not entirely to blame for these faults.
The Brits, on the other hand, are much more subtle with their genius for language and in giving the camera tiny little fillips of unexpected emotion. I'm glad that I went into the movie as one of the last comedy-minded Anglophiles in the States who hasn't yet watched the original BBC version of The Office on DVD because I had absolutely no expectations of Martin Freeman and his performance as Arthur Dent. As such, I was able to appreciate the fact that he was pretty much, well, um, perfect. He held the movie together in absolutely all the ways that it needed to be held together. Bumbling, hapless Brit-schmuck demeanor? Check. Enough instant chemistry with Trillian that you actually hope they end up together at the end of the movie (and, more importantly, believe it when she chooses him over the dumb-but-dashing Zaphod Beeblebrox)? Check. An emotionally and dramatically satisfying mix of annoyance and wonder at his travels through the galaxy? Check. It was a thankless and huge responsibility for an actor to shoulder, to unite the many different, zany characters and scenarios, yet he manages it seemingly effortlessly. One particularly gorgeous example of his restrained underacting occurs when Slartibartfast shows him the factory floor where customized planets are built. That moment alone is worth the price of admission. Arthur kind of hunches over and covers his mouth with his hand in an expression of awe and wonderment, clearly overcome with a reverential sense of beauty and appreciation for what he's privileged to witness there. It's a stunning piece of acting. (Then, not five minutes later in the scene, after a brief conversation about how mice are actually the most intelligent beings on Earth, Bill Nighy as Slartibartfast says, "I don't quite know what you mean when you speak of this . . . 'cheese'." He slips the comedy in way under the radar yet delivers the line with such unshakable conviction that he actually makes you believe for a moment that you don't know what cheese is either.) It's these little jewel-like interactions that gave the movie an emotional depth that I honestly wasn't expecting.
Of course, nothing I've written above is in any way applicable to the acting style of John Malkovich, who, I think, must actually be from the same planet as his character.
Also, I'm happy to report that Neil Hannon is in exquisite vocal form on his heavy-swinging version of "So Long and Thanks for All the Fish" that plays over the closing credits. (However, I'm rather annoyed with iTunes for declaring it an "album only" track, in effect forcing me to pay $9.99 for the entirety of the instrumental soundtrack if I want to be all completist about having the song in my collection. Fleh. Isn't that the whole point of iTunes? To be able to cherry-pick a specific song or two without forking over the cash for a bunch of other stuff that you're honestly never going to listen to?)
In other music news, John Darnielle all but revivalized me at the Mountain Goats show at the Logan Square Auditorium on Friday night. It was a great night out, all springtime humidity, Jim Beam on the rocks, Darnielle's peculiar voice, and his phenomenal little songs like emotional bottle rockets. Also, opening band Shearwater turns out to be something of a side project for Okkervil River's keyboard player Jonathan Meiburg, whose voice I vastly prefer to Will Sheff's. (Plus, as I told Meiburg and violinist Travis Weller at the merch table at the end of the night, I'm instantly a fan of any band who can rock a melodica the way they did.) Their brand of rootsy emo (earnest stream-of-consciousness lyrics, guitar feedback, and overly dramatic dynamics) isn't something I tend to want to listen to on my own time, but it's enjoyable enough live. Plus, Meiburg used to be a graduate student in ornithology, which is just another instance of the weird bird-related synchronicity in my life this spring.
And, a hap-hap-happy birthday to BAK today (you sexy thang)!
It's been an age since I've read the book, so my complaints are certainly not of the trainspotting variety. And "complaints" is even too strong a word, now that I see it sitting there in pixels. It just felt a little off to me, and I think that can be chalked up to a) a first-time director who's still working on a sense of how to pace a major, full-length motion picture and b) the way that this movie, almost inadvertently, is an object lesson in the competing strengths and weaknesses of American and British styles of acting for the camera.
The three main Americans actors in the film--Mos Def, Zooey Deschanel, and Sam Rockwell--are these glowingly beautiful, absurdly magnetic forces of nature. Your eyes are drawn, almost against your will, to the vision of these exquisite bodies in motion. They are three naturally gifted, ridiculously charismatic performers who command your attention with the sheer force of their presence. But then, when these bodies are in motion, which they are fairly relentlessly for the full 110 minutes, they're doing way too much. They don't seem to have much control over their spastic, rangy movements, and, when projected onto a full-size movie screen, they almost feel like they're lacerating your eyeballs. For the most part, they're unfortunately not using their substantial power for the good of the piece. The goofball, calculatedly "wacky" overacting just starts to feel exhausting. Of course, a lot of this could have been edited around or otherwise toned down by the director, so they're not entirely to blame for these faults.
The Brits, on the other hand, are much more subtle with their genius for language and in giving the camera tiny little fillips of unexpected emotion. I'm glad that I went into the movie as one of the last comedy-minded Anglophiles in the States who hasn't yet watched the original BBC version of The Office on DVD because I had absolutely no expectations of Martin Freeman and his performance as Arthur Dent. As such, I was able to appreciate the fact that he was pretty much, well, um, perfect. He held the movie together in absolutely all the ways that it needed to be held together. Bumbling, hapless Brit-schmuck demeanor? Check. Enough instant chemistry with Trillian that you actually hope they end up together at the end of the movie (and, more importantly, believe it when she chooses him over the dumb-but-dashing Zaphod Beeblebrox)? Check. An emotionally and dramatically satisfying mix of annoyance and wonder at his travels through the galaxy? Check. It was a thankless and huge responsibility for an actor to shoulder, to unite the many different, zany characters and scenarios, yet he manages it seemingly effortlessly. One particularly gorgeous example of his restrained underacting occurs when Slartibartfast shows him the factory floor where customized planets are built. That moment alone is worth the price of admission. Arthur kind of hunches over and covers his mouth with his hand in an expression of awe and wonderment, clearly overcome with a reverential sense of beauty and appreciation for what he's privileged to witness there. It's a stunning piece of acting. (Then, not five minutes later in the scene, after a brief conversation about how mice are actually the most intelligent beings on Earth, Bill Nighy as Slartibartfast says, "I don't quite know what you mean when you speak of this . . . 'cheese'." He slips the comedy in way under the radar yet delivers the line with such unshakable conviction that he actually makes you believe for a moment that you don't know what cheese is either.) It's these little jewel-like interactions that gave the movie an emotional depth that I honestly wasn't expecting.
Of course, nothing I've written above is in any way applicable to the acting style of John Malkovich, who, I think, must actually be from the same planet as his character.
Also, I'm happy to report that Neil Hannon is in exquisite vocal form on his heavy-swinging version of "So Long and Thanks for All the Fish" that plays over the closing credits. (However, I'm rather annoyed with iTunes for declaring it an "album only" track, in effect forcing me to pay $9.99 for the entirety of the instrumental soundtrack if I want to be all completist about having the song in my collection. Fleh. Isn't that the whole point of iTunes? To be able to cherry-pick a specific song or two without forking over the cash for a bunch of other stuff that you're honestly never going to listen to?)
In other music news, John Darnielle all but revivalized me at the Mountain Goats show at the Logan Square Auditorium on Friday night. It was a great night out, all springtime humidity, Jim Beam on the rocks, Darnielle's peculiar voice, and his phenomenal little songs like emotional bottle rockets. Also, opening band Shearwater turns out to be something of a side project for Okkervil River's keyboard player Jonathan Meiburg, whose voice I vastly prefer to Will Sheff's. (Plus, as I told Meiburg and violinist Travis Weller at the merch table at the end of the night, I'm instantly a fan of any band who can rock a melodica the way they did.) Their brand of rootsy emo (earnest stream-of-consciousness lyrics, guitar feedback, and overly dramatic dynamics) isn't something I tend to want to listen to on my own time, but it's enjoyable enough live. Plus, Meiburg used to be a graduate student in ornithology, which is just another instance of the weird bird-related synchronicity in my life this spring.
And, a hap-hap-happy birthday to BAK today (you sexy thang)!
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Cover Me
Oh my nerd, I am totally geeked out with excitement about this:
Shins, Decemberists, Spoon Head Believer Comp.
**swoon** They had me at "Bridges and Balloons."
(Also, a belated happy b-day to both Nick and Mike O'D. Love you guys!)
Shins, Decemberists, Spoon Head Believer Comp.
**swoon** They had me at "Bridges and Balloons."
(Also, a belated happy b-day to both Nick and Mike O'D. Love you guys!)
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
OCD
I often do not use the office supplies on my desk for the purposes the great office supply god, in his infinite wisdom, intended them. (Anyone who was around the day when I was slicing the plastic off an advance copy of a book with an Xacto knife and then punctured myself in the finger so deeply, and with such force, that bright crimson blood coursed down and around my knuckles can attest to this.) As such, my office supplies show a lot more wear and tear than the average person's.
Just for a change of pace, though, today I actually wanted to use one of my two silver letter-openers for the purpose of opening an actual sealed letter. I looked at both of them and realized they were both covered in a gooey, gummy substance. (Most likely remnants of packing tape that I'd tried to slice through on a previous occasion.) So, I went to the supply closet to fetch a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towel, then came back to my desk and started carefully and meticulously wiping off the gunk. A coworker walked past my cube and glanced down at me, my brow furrowed in concentration. With a quick, sharp sense of horror, I looked up at him, then burst out laughing, and said, "I bet this looks really obsessive-compulsive, doesn't it? Me, cleaning my letter-openers?"
Just for a change of pace, though, today I actually wanted to use one of my two silver letter-openers for the purpose of opening an actual sealed letter. I looked at both of them and realized they were both covered in a gooey, gummy substance. (Most likely remnants of packing tape that I'd tried to slice through on a previous occasion.) So, I went to the supply closet to fetch a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towel, then came back to my desk and started carefully and meticulously wiping off the gunk. A coworker walked past my cube and glanced down at me, my brow furrowed in concentration. With a quick, sharp sense of horror, I looked up at him, then burst out laughing, and said, "I bet this looks really obsessive-compulsive, doesn't it? Me, cleaning my letter-openers?"
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Danny Boyle
Will somebody please start giving Danny Boyle the props he deserves?
I was finally, belatedly, able to catch up with Millions last night, and, aside from the film being lovely and touching and all that, I was bowled over by just how Danny Boyle-ish it was, and by how much I meant that as a sincere and laudatory compliment. Trainspotting has long been one of my favorite films, and I think I paid to see 28 Days Later in the theater twice because I liked it so much, and for a few moments, I considered the possibility that part of the reason I enjoyed Millions as much as I did was because his directorial tics (those kinetic opening shots, the cozy lilt of Scottish accents, his penchant for casting gorgeously round-headed leading men) simply felt familiar and thus safe. But, nah, I enjoyed it because brutha knows what he's doing.
As I started churning over in my mind some of the most resonant aspects of the above-mentioned films (as well as Shallow Grave), I realized that one of Boyle's main strengths as an auteur (oh, that word) is his emotional intelligence about family (both biological and socially constructed). Accustomed as we are to being fed ham-fisted, sitcom-esque depictions of families and friends that come across as collections of people who mean more to an unskilled writer or director's agenda than they do to each other, it's so rare and refreshing to see a group of actors assembled to actually function and relate to each other as a Group. Boyle has a keen understanding of the entropic self-loathing that keeps unhealthy relationships afloat, as well as the deep well of feeling that's usually buried underneath the soured interactions and general disgust that pollute bonds that have long outlived their expiration dates. He is also masterful at using actors capable of giving the camera a character's entire complex interpersonal back story in a few simple words or gestures (case in point: has there been a more powerful father/daughter moment on screen recently than the scene in 28 Days Later when Brendan Gleeson has about two seconds to convey to his daughter how much he loves her before he changes into a zombie?).
Millions is concerned with an actual, biological family that we follow much more closely than we do, for example, Renton's parents in Trainspotting or even Frank and Hannah in 28 Days Later, but, similar to the family units from those films, we see this unit living through a moment of panic. Yes, it's the panic of finding a sackful of British pounds that they must spend and/or distribute before the deadline for the changeover to the Euro, but it's primarily the panic of carrying on after their wife/mother's death. (A familiar trope of dark, Brothers Grimmish fairy tales that are of a piece with Boyle's sensibilities.) The attendant emotions of that experience are a perfect vehicle for a continuation of the paranoia, hallucinations, and slowly creeping dread that are more easily recognizable as his stock-in-trade as a filmmaker. But it also allows him to more explicitly address the spiritual yearning (ahem, "choose life") that is usually so far under the radar in his movies that even the characters themselves would likely deny it. It takes bollocks of bloody steel to risk talking about religion in a specifically Christian context in a movie these days and to pull it off with a flair worthy of Salinger that leaves no taint of Gibson behind. But when little Damian has a bedside conversation with St. Peter about the miracle of the fishes and loaves and when water flows from a well in the African desert (both as a baptism and a benediction) in the film's final shots, the subtext, while not particularly subtle, is powerful and deeply felt.
Though I don't remember much of anything about it, I know I did see A Life Less Ordinary in the theater when it came out in late '97 (at the late, lamented Von Lee in Bloomington, where I also had the good fortune to see other personal favorites Hilary and Jackie and Rushmore in their initial runs), and I sheepishly admit to blindly following popular opinion in my failure to ever see The Beach. However, I now feel I have some DVDs to rent and some cinematic research to do to determine if Danny Boyle is, as I suspect, one of my favorite directors out there right now.
I was finally, belatedly, able to catch up with Millions last night, and, aside from the film being lovely and touching and all that, I was bowled over by just how Danny Boyle-ish it was, and by how much I meant that as a sincere and laudatory compliment. Trainspotting has long been one of my favorite films, and I think I paid to see 28 Days Later in the theater twice because I liked it so much, and for a few moments, I considered the possibility that part of the reason I enjoyed Millions as much as I did was because his directorial tics (those kinetic opening shots, the cozy lilt of Scottish accents, his penchant for casting gorgeously round-headed leading men) simply felt familiar and thus safe. But, nah, I enjoyed it because brutha knows what he's doing.
As I started churning over in my mind some of the most resonant aspects of the above-mentioned films (as well as Shallow Grave), I realized that one of Boyle's main strengths as an auteur (oh, that word) is his emotional intelligence about family (both biological and socially constructed). Accustomed as we are to being fed ham-fisted, sitcom-esque depictions of families and friends that come across as collections of people who mean more to an unskilled writer or director's agenda than they do to each other, it's so rare and refreshing to see a group of actors assembled to actually function and relate to each other as a Group. Boyle has a keen understanding of the entropic self-loathing that keeps unhealthy relationships afloat, as well as the deep well of feeling that's usually buried underneath the soured interactions and general disgust that pollute bonds that have long outlived their expiration dates. He is also masterful at using actors capable of giving the camera a character's entire complex interpersonal back story in a few simple words or gestures (case in point: has there been a more powerful father/daughter moment on screen recently than the scene in 28 Days Later when Brendan Gleeson has about two seconds to convey to his daughter how much he loves her before he changes into a zombie?).
Millions is concerned with an actual, biological family that we follow much more closely than we do, for example, Renton's parents in Trainspotting or even Frank and Hannah in 28 Days Later, but, similar to the family units from those films, we see this unit living through a moment of panic. Yes, it's the panic of finding a sackful of British pounds that they must spend and/or distribute before the deadline for the changeover to the Euro, but it's primarily the panic of carrying on after their wife/mother's death. (A familiar trope of dark, Brothers Grimmish fairy tales that are of a piece with Boyle's sensibilities.) The attendant emotions of that experience are a perfect vehicle for a continuation of the paranoia, hallucinations, and slowly creeping dread that are more easily recognizable as his stock-in-trade as a filmmaker. But it also allows him to more explicitly address the spiritual yearning (ahem, "choose life") that is usually so far under the radar in his movies that even the characters themselves would likely deny it. It takes bollocks of bloody steel to risk talking about religion in a specifically Christian context in a movie these days and to pull it off with a flair worthy of Salinger that leaves no taint of Gibson behind. But when little Damian has a bedside conversation with St. Peter about the miracle of the fishes and loaves and when water flows from a well in the African desert (both as a baptism and a benediction) in the film's final shots, the subtext, while not particularly subtle, is powerful and deeply felt.
Though I don't remember much of anything about it, I know I did see A Life Less Ordinary in the theater when it came out in late '97 (at the late, lamented Von Lee in Bloomington, where I also had the good fortune to see other personal favorites Hilary and Jackie and Rushmore in their initial runs), and I sheepishly admit to blindly following popular opinion in my failure to ever see The Beach. However, I now feel I have some DVDs to rent and some cinematic research to do to determine if Danny Boyle is, as I suspect, one of my favorite directors out there right now.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Triple Word Score
God bless Yahoo. This isn't so much a headline as it is the kick-assingest game of Scrabble ever:
Chlamydia Outbreak Kills a Dozen Penguins
(All due respect and sympathy to the zoo keepers and general lovers of polar fowl, of course.)
Also, Neal Medlyn's personal essay about male bisexuality on Nerve made me laugh out loud today with this paragraph:
Chlamydia Outbreak Kills a Dozen Penguins
(All due respect and sympathy to the zoo keepers and general lovers of polar fowl, of course.)
Also, Neal Medlyn's personal essay about male bisexuality on Nerve made me laugh out loud today with this paragraph:
"Bisexuality is a disappointing, suspect, utterly chaotic identity. It seems to exist in only the foggiest regions of people's brains, like Pol Pot or the geographic location of Myanmar. They're not sure what it is, but they're pretty sure it's lame and/or bad."
Now, I charge you, on Mike O'D's behalf, to go educate yourself on the wherefores and whys of Mr. Pot with Philip Short's recent biography, Anatomy of a Nightmare.
And the birthday train just keeps on a-rolling: happy birthday to my dear, sweet sister, who leaves her teen years behind today!
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Quintessence
It would be difficult for me to dream up a more quintessentially "Allison" night than the one I enjoyed yesterday: diagramming sentences at the bar in the Green Mill while sipping a Makers Manhattan and waiting for the Kurt Elling Quartet to take the stage. Delightful. May you all soon have a chance to blend a handful of your own disparate and eclectic loves into a night equally well-tailored to you.
(PS: happy, happy birfday, Mikow!! The committee volunteered me to give you your official welcome to the Early Late-Twenties, and I'm happy to oblige.)
(PS: happy, happy birfday, Mikow!! The committee volunteered me to give you your official welcome to the Early Late-Twenties, and I'm happy to oblige.)
Monday, May 02, 2005
CTLA & LBLA
Weddings rule.
(Incidentally, so do showers.)
More pictures of the Larson/Andrews wedding can be found at the official photographer's site.
To paraphrase a line from Sports Night, if you have half as much fun looking at these pictures as we had taking and being in them, well, then, we had twice as much fun as you. And, boy, did we ever!
Love and hugs to the new bride and groom!!
(Incidentally, so do showers.)
More pictures of the Larson/Andrews wedding can be found at the official photographer's site.
To paraphrase a line from Sports Night, if you have half as much fun looking at these pictures as we had taking and being in them, well, then, we had twice as much fun as you. And, boy, did we ever!
Love and hugs to the new bride and groom!!
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Entropy's a Bitch
For those of you who still don't quite understand why I named my blog what I named it, Michael Barrish will explain it to you. No, I am not acquainted with Michael Barrish. And, no, to the best of my knowledge, Michael Barrish is not acquainted with me. (The real history of this blog's name actually goes back to my sophomore year in the English department at IU, but that's a much longer story for a much longer post at a much later date. Actually, the story isn't that long and won't require an altogether lengthy post, but I just don't have the time to go into it at the moment.)
Hydrate Yourself...With Water!
John Darnielle made me laugh out loud this morning.
In other Mountain Goats news, last night I found the old issue of the The Believer that he was interviewed in (July '04, which also features an interview with Slavoj Žižek--how can you not love a magazine that successfully juxtaposes a pair of interviews like that!). He's interviewed by Daniel Handler (known to many, including myself, as Lemony Snicket), and, between the two of them, there's so much warmth and humor and fascination with the oddities of the human condition in the exchange that the pages fairly radiate. Check it out if you have the means.
Chris Walla interviews Sarah Vowell on Salon this morning. It's like the journalistic equivalent of your two favorite friends from two separate social groups finally meeting and hitting it off and holding hands kind of shyly and embarrassedly while they're walking down the street, wearing slightly battered hoodies and soft, faded jeans. Love it.
Now that I finally got around to downloading (legally! from iTunes!) The Mysterious Production of Eggs, I am so, so disappointed in myself that I blew off Andrew Bird's CD release show at the Metro earlier this month. I'm, obviously, still digesting the album, but I bet he's fucking phenomenal live. I have a deep, irrational aversion to the sound of people whistling, so obviously that's a bit of a stumbling block for me in some of his tunes, but he uses his many musical gifts so tastefully and so sparingly that there's plenty of other stuff for me to relish.
In other Mountain Goats news, last night I found the old issue of the The Believer that he was interviewed in (July '04, which also features an interview with Slavoj Žižek--how can you not love a magazine that successfully juxtaposes a pair of interviews like that!). He's interviewed by Daniel Handler (known to many, including myself, as Lemony Snicket), and, between the two of them, there's so much warmth and humor and fascination with the oddities of the human condition in the exchange that the pages fairly radiate. Check it out if you have the means.
Chris Walla interviews Sarah Vowell on Salon this morning. It's like the journalistic equivalent of your two favorite friends from two separate social groups finally meeting and hitting it off and holding hands kind of shyly and embarrassedly while they're walking down the street, wearing slightly battered hoodies and soft, faded jeans. Love it.
Now that I finally got around to downloading (legally! from iTunes!) The Mysterious Production of Eggs, I am so, so disappointed in myself that I blew off Andrew Bird's CD release show at the Metro earlier this month. I'm, obviously, still digesting the album, but I bet he's fucking phenomenal live. I have a deep, irrational aversion to the sound of people whistling, so obviously that's a bit of a stumbling block for me in some of his tunes, but he uses his many musical gifts so tastefully and so sparingly that there's plenty of other stuff for me to relish.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Flickr
Once you figure out how to rock the functionality of Flickr, it becomes much more enjoyable to play with.
Inspired by Bushman's photo essay from Puerto Rico, I spent some time dicking around online and organizing the random stuff I'd thrown in there. The new "sets" function is enormously sexy, and I was able to group together snaps of the apartment (back when it was still new to me) and reorganize B&K's wedding album from last November. I might have gone a little overboard with the notes feature, but such is my wont. That feature just seems made for me to abuse!
Inspired by Bushman's photo essay from Puerto Rico, I spent some time dicking around online and organizing the random stuff I'd thrown in there. The new "sets" function is enormously sexy, and I was able to group together snaps of the apartment (back when it was still new to me) and reorganize B&K's wedding album from last November. I might have gone a little overboard with the notes feature, but such is my wont. That feature just seems made for me to abuse!
Friday, April 22, 2005
Yo La Tengo, Etc.
Though I continue to wish that more of the show meant more to me than it did (just because I wasn't previously familiar with the band), seeing Yo La Tengo last night was still a blast. Lots of loud, lots of soft, better lights than I've seen during a concert in ages, and a hilarious mixed-bag of a crowd. (The quote of the evening that best summed it up--thanks, DS--was, "I think they thought it was 'Yo La Dave Matthews.'") The band came out for a first "gimme" encore (like ya do), then were actually lured back out two more times for two actual encores, which was a refreshing thing to see from any band. And, ain't nothin' hotter than a chick drummer.
Any other fans of Kanye's "Jesus Walks" in the house? This McSweeney's list really made me laugh, mostly because I think the lyrics it's riffing on are so brilliantly hilarious in the first place.
Is "awesomest" a word? If so, I nominate this as the awesomest thing I've seen all week: the Mr. T. rubber duck (link via You Can't Make It Up).
Though I don't know the Mountain Goats' music all that well, I've been dipping into John Darnielle's blog periodically during the past week or so. I'm fascinated by his fascination with thrash/death metal. I don't remember which issue of The Believer he was interviewed in, but I remember reading his description of some band that's exclusively focused on writing anti-Christianity songs, and his appreciation of the twisted purity in it. I just love hearing people talk about the minutia of some weird little corner of a genre that they're fixated on, because it means they just don't give a damn if anybody else is interested in it and are consequently free to roam around in the parts of it that fire their imagination and speak to a part of their soul that's underserved by "acceptable" pop culture (either mainstream or indie). It also reminds me of the way I talk about movies like The Wisdom of Crocodiles and Birthday Girl, movies I've lumped together in a category of my own invention--that is, a kind of deeply flawed Eurotrash erotic thriller that becomes captivating and almost hypnotically beautiful precisely because of its failure to cohere as anything resembling an actual movie. Anyway, "Last Plane to Jakarta" is a fine read, and I guess the Mountain Goats have a new CD out that's supposed to be great.
Any other fans of Kanye's "Jesus Walks" in the house? This McSweeney's list really made me laugh, mostly because I think the lyrics it's riffing on are so brilliantly hilarious in the first place.
Is "awesomest" a word? If so, I nominate this as the awesomest thing I've seen all week: the Mr. T. rubber duck (link via You Can't Make It Up).
Though I don't know the Mountain Goats' music all that well, I've been dipping into John Darnielle's blog periodically during the past week or so. I'm fascinated by his fascination with thrash/death metal. I don't remember which issue of The Believer he was interviewed in, but I remember reading his description of some band that's exclusively focused on writing anti-Christianity songs, and his appreciation of the twisted purity in it. I just love hearing people talk about the minutia of some weird little corner of a genre that they're fixated on, because it means they just don't give a damn if anybody else is interested in it and are consequently free to roam around in the parts of it that fire their imagination and speak to a part of their soul that's underserved by "acceptable" pop culture (either mainstream or indie). It also reminds me of the way I talk about movies like The Wisdom of Crocodiles and Birthday Girl, movies I've lumped together in a category of my own invention--that is, a kind of deeply flawed Eurotrash erotic thriller that becomes captivating and almost hypnotically beautiful precisely because of its failure to cohere as anything resembling an actual movie. Anyway, "Last Plane to Jakarta" is a fine read, and I guess the Mountain Goats have a new CD out that's supposed to be great.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Friday, April 15, 2005
The Shins
As much as I instinctively bristle at all the "this song will change your life" bullshit fandom that was birthed from the precious loins of Garden State, there is something legitimately magical about the Shins. I think Better Propaganda's short bio puts it best, describing them as keepers of the goddess Gaia's rings of power representing Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, and Heart. Um, and they also rock mightily.
Much like Ted Leo, James Mercer has one of those voices that really thrives during a live performance. His diction isn't quite as mushy and you just feel a little more viscerally how powerful his range is. His upper register is clean, clear, and stunning. He was also elusive and un-chatty during last night's show (which I chose to interpret as his being shy and artistically aloof—"everything I have to say I can say through my music"—rather than standoffish or lacking in good concert etiquette), letting keyboardist/guitarist Marty Crandall step up (literally) front and center. Drummer Jesse Sandoval is appealingly effortless behind the set. Listening to Oh, Inverted World and Chutes Too Narrow all week, I found myself focusing on the impeccable percussion and imagining a flamboyant indie rock showman as the author of those spinal-cord-liquifying beats (a la Sam Fogarino of Interpol). Instead, Sandoval was cool, cool, cool—letting the rhythm shoot from his wrists without much intervention from the rest of his body, yet not sacrificing an ounce of excitement.
The band as a whole seemed maybe a bit cold at the start of the show, but then warmed throughout the set, as they let their (slightly awed) appreciation for the size of the venue and the size of the crowd energize them. They extended the instrumental endings of a few tunes (without descending into guitar wankery), and played a handful of non-album cuts. (Which will perhaps appear on the third album they're promising to write and record after they finish this tour???) Though they came back out for a three or four song encore, their songs are so good and so diamond-sharp—so consistently—there wasn't really that sense of "and now we will really rock out" that encores often yield (like, say, when the Decemberists pull out "The Tain"). They just played a few of the songs that they hadn't gotten around to in the set proper, and finished with, I think, "Gone for Good." Which might have felt like an anticlimax if, like I said, all the previous stuff hadn't been of the exact same (high) caliber.
I found openers The Brunettes adorable, hook-laden, and irresistible, if more than a bit twee, while some folks without hearts took exception to the profusion of hand-claps and finger-snaps in their songs. (For the record, I am of the mind that there can never be too many hand-claps in a pop song!)
One of the more fascinating aspects of last night's show had nothing to do with anything that was happening on stage. There was a collection of people standing in front of me I couldn't take my eyes off. (Well, I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to; they were kind of unavoidably in my line of sight.) There was a slightly pudgy, geeky, tech-support looking guy with a quiet, normal looking girl I'm assuming was his girlfriend on his left. To his right were two girls who, I can only imagine, actually thought they were coming to an Aerosmith show and ended up at the Congress Theater sheerly by chance. Dressed in yards of glitter and sparkles and leftover Mardi Gras beads, wasted out of their gourds, they spent most of the show dancing wildly, doing outlandish pantomime routines, waving their arms around (nearly burning me with their lit cigarettes a couple of times), and complaining loudly that, "NO ONE ELSE IS MOVING! IT'S KIND OF CREEPING ME OUT!" When they weren't doing that, they were teasing Mr. Tech Support with a kind of icy, biting edge that I'm sure instantly flashed him back to the interactions he probably had with other pretty, mean girls throughout middle and high school. I couldn't tell if they all knew each other and had come to the concert together or if they just happened to end up in the same row. It was alternately transfixing, disgusting, depressing, and hilarious to watch.
And, another excellent print to add to the burgeoning collection.
Much like Ted Leo, James Mercer has one of those voices that really thrives during a live performance. His diction isn't quite as mushy and you just feel a little more viscerally how powerful his range is. His upper register is clean, clear, and stunning. He was also elusive and un-chatty during last night's show (which I chose to interpret as his being shy and artistically aloof—"everything I have to say I can say through my music"—rather than standoffish or lacking in good concert etiquette), letting keyboardist/guitarist Marty Crandall step up (literally) front and center. Drummer Jesse Sandoval is appealingly effortless behind the set. Listening to Oh, Inverted World and Chutes Too Narrow all week, I found myself focusing on the impeccable percussion and imagining a flamboyant indie rock showman as the author of those spinal-cord-liquifying beats (a la Sam Fogarino of Interpol). Instead, Sandoval was cool, cool, cool—letting the rhythm shoot from his wrists without much intervention from the rest of his body, yet not sacrificing an ounce of excitement.
The band as a whole seemed maybe a bit cold at the start of the show, but then warmed throughout the set, as they let their (slightly awed) appreciation for the size of the venue and the size of the crowd energize them. They extended the instrumental endings of a few tunes (without descending into guitar wankery), and played a handful of non-album cuts. (Which will perhaps appear on the third album they're promising to write and record after they finish this tour???) Though they came back out for a three or four song encore, their songs are so good and so diamond-sharp—so consistently—there wasn't really that sense of "and now we will really rock out" that encores often yield (like, say, when the Decemberists pull out "The Tain"). They just played a few of the songs that they hadn't gotten around to in the set proper, and finished with, I think, "Gone for Good." Which might have felt like an anticlimax if, like I said, all the previous stuff hadn't been of the exact same (high) caliber.
I found openers The Brunettes adorable, hook-laden, and irresistible, if more than a bit twee, while some folks without hearts took exception to the profusion of hand-claps and finger-snaps in their songs. (For the record, I am of the mind that there can never be too many hand-claps in a pop song!)
One of the more fascinating aspects of last night's show had nothing to do with anything that was happening on stage. There was a collection of people standing in front of me I couldn't take my eyes off. (Well, I couldn't have even if I'd wanted to; they were kind of unavoidably in my line of sight.) There was a slightly pudgy, geeky, tech-support looking guy with a quiet, normal looking girl I'm assuming was his girlfriend on his left. To his right were two girls who, I can only imagine, actually thought they were coming to an Aerosmith show and ended up at the Congress Theater sheerly by chance. Dressed in yards of glitter and sparkles and leftover Mardi Gras beads, wasted out of their gourds, they spent most of the show dancing wildly, doing outlandish pantomime routines, waving their arms around (nearly burning me with their lit cigarettes a couple of times), and complaining loudly that, "NO ONE ELSE IS MOVING! IT'S KIND OF CREEPING ME OUT!" When they weren't doing that, they were teasing Mr. Tech Support with a kind of icy, biting edge that I'm sure instantly flashed him back to the interactions he probably had with other pretty, mean girls throughout middle and high school. I couldn't tell if they all knew each other and had come to the concert together or if they just happened to end up in the same row. It was alternately transfixing, disgusting, depressing, and hilarious to watch.
And, another excellent print to add to the burgeoning collection.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Quickly
This isn't a lightbulb-above-the-head inducing essay by any stretch, but I'm glad it says what it says: that the boundaries between the roles and functions of critic, artist, and fan are becoming increasingly blurry and irrelevant.
Judy Garland's famous blue gingham dress from The Wizard of Oz is being auctioned by Bonhams & Butterfields in London.
Death Cab are going (adorably) out of their minds in rural Massachusetts prepping their new album (and major-label debut), Plans. (Link via, where else, Pitchfork.) [EDIT: Giddy and I were also wondering if the Grinnellians had anything to do with the naming of this album. . . .]
The Rabbit never fails to crack my shit up. I gotta get me one of those childless whore t-shirts.
Has anybody seen, or otherwise heard from, John Roderick lately? I'm having a serious Long Winters jones these days.
Is there anyone left on planet earth who doesn't have a Gmail account but wants one? I was able to palm one invite off on a friend recently (OK, at his request, but still), and that successful transaction reawoke in me the burning desire to GET THE FUCK RID OF my other forty-nine invites. Any takers?
EDIT: Right after I posted this entry, I, gleefully, discovered some more yummy Decemberists/Colin Meloy goodness: an interview in The Onion A.V. Club's "The New What's Next Music Issue." Accusations of pathetic obsession will be dismissed with a wave of my restraining order.
Judy Garland's famous blue gingham dress from The Wizard of Oz is being auctioned by Bonhams & Butterfields in London.
Death Cab are going (adorably) out of their minds in rural Massachusetts prepping their new album (and major-label debut), Plans. (Link via, where else, Pitchfork.) [EDIT: Giddy and I were also wondering if the Grinnellians had anything to do with the naming of this album. . . .]
The Rabbit never fails to crack my shit up. I gotta get me one of those childless whore t-shirts.
Has anybody seen, or otherwise heard from, John Roderick lately? I'm having a serious Long Winters jones these days.
Is there anyone left on planet earth who doesn't have a Gmail account but wants one? I was able to palm one invite off on a friend recently (OK, at his request, but still), and that successful transaction reawoke in me the burning desire to GET THE FUCK RID OF my other forty-nine invites. Any takers?
EDIT: Right after I posted this entry, I, gleefully, discovered some more yummy Decemberists/Colin Meloy goodness: an interview in The Onion A.V. Club's "The New What's Next Music Issue." Accusations of pathetic obsession will be dismissed with a wave of my restraining order.
Friday, April 08, 2005
The Decemberists Rock Kansas City (Um, Chicago)
Don't really have anything terribly clever to say about the Decemberists show last night, other than restating the simple fact that I love them and am so happy to be alive and in my concert-attending mid-twenties while they're out doing their thing, which they do better than pretty much anyone else.
New drummer John Moen, of Malkmus's Jicks, while possessing perhaps a less fluid sense of rhythm and style than dearly departed Rachel Blumberg, is nonetheless an impressive and powerful player, a worthy addition to the band. And, was probably the most entertaining person on stage last night. His antics during "The Mariner's Revenge Song"--sitting on the floor, generally thrashing about, then running increasingly sloppy circles around the tom that he was beating with a mallet and a tambourine--were hilarious until I realized, with a growing sense of awe, "holy fuck, he hasn't missed a single beat in the midst of all this nonsense."
In stark contrast to openers Okkervil River, who seemed to have a million people on stage, none of whom were doing much of importance, every single member of the Decemberists is totally integral to the sound and the success of the band. Nate Query's skills on the upright bass make me weak in the knees; Chris Funk wields his impressive arsenal of instruments with a Zen-like effortlessness; if Jenny Conlee's accordion did not exist, it would be absolutely imperative to invent it; Petra Haden's violin gently heightens the drama of the narratives and her vocal stylings fill the harmony hole left by Blumberg's departure; and Mr. Meloy is, well, we all know my high, high regard for his talents. "The Engine Driver" may well be one of the best songs he's written yet, with "On the Bus Mall" running a close second.
It was a great night of great songs and great energy and great feelings. Oh, and did I mention they played the entire fucking Tain as an encore? It's one of those things that just makes me want to pass out every time I hear it, it's so huge and so good.
In other Decemberists news, Colin posted a note on the official site today, giving updated details on the Great Instrument Recovery Effort of Aught Five and giving thanks for the monetary donations that have rolled in after the theft, and Pitchfork announced that the Decemberists will be part of the lineup for the inaugural Intonation Music Festival in Chicago this summer.
I'm also turning into one of those limited edition silkscreen concert poster people, and purchased a gorgeous one last night designed and printed by Ryan Nole at Kangaroo Press. Rawk.
EDIT: My sources (read: grad students) have informed me that Moen was actually sick as a dog during the show that night. He, apparently, went directly to the hotel after the show rather than hanging out at the afterparty where Jenny and Chris were spinning from their iPods. Dude, somebody get that motherfucker some vitamin C or Pepto Bismol or something and let me know when he's better--I want to see what he's capable of then.
New drummer John Moen, of Malkmus's Jicks, while possessing perhaps a less fluid sense of rhythm and style than dearly departed Rachel Blumberg, is nonetheless an impressive and powerful player, a worthy addition to the band. And, was probably the most entertaining person on stage last night. His antics during "The Mariner's Revenge Song"--sitting on the floor, generally thrashing about, then running increasingly sloppy circles around the tom that he was beating with a mallet and a tambourine--were hilarious until I realized, with a growing sense of awe, "holy fuck, he hasn't missed a single beat in the midst of all this nonsense."
In stark contrast to openers Okkervil River, who seemed to have a million people on stage, none of whom were doing much of importance, every single member of the Decemberists is totally integral to the sound and the success of the band. Nate Query's skills on the upright bass make me weak in the knees; Chris Funk wields his impressive arsenal of instruments with a Zen-like effortlessness; if Jenny Conlee's accordion did not exist, it would be absolutely imperative to invent it; Petra Haden's violin gently heightens the drama of the narratives and her vocal stylings fill the harmony hole left by Blumberg's departure; and Mr. Meloy is, well, we all know my high, high regard for his talents. "The Engine Driver" may well be one of the best songs he's written yet, with "On the Bus Mall" running a close second.
It was a great night of great songs and great energy and great feelings. Oh, and did I mention they played the entire fucking Tain as an encore? It's one of those things that just makes me want to pass out every time I hear it, it's so huge and so good.
In other Decemberists news, Colin posted a note on the official site today, giving updated details on the Great Instrument Recovery Effort of Aught Five and giving thanks for the monetary donations that have rolled in after the theft, and Pitchfork announced that the Decemberists will be part of the lineup for the inaugural Intonation Music Festival in Chicago this summer.
I'm also turning into one of those limited edition silkscreen concert poster people, and purchased a gorgeous one last night designed and printed by Ryan Nole at Kangaroo Press. Rawk.
EDIT: My sources (read: grad students) have informed me that Moen was actually sick as a dog during the show that night. He, apparently, went directly to the hotel after the show rather than hanging out at the afterparty where Jenny and Chris were spinning from their iPods. Dude, somebody get that motherfucker some vitamin C or Pepto Bismol or something and let me know when he's better--I want to see what he's capable of then.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Piss
Shit, damn, hell. The $35 Lollapalooza tickets are sold out already.
But, I can't tell if that means there is a special reserve of additional, more expensive tickets that will be made available at a later date, or if those of us who had better things to do than jump online at midnight last night or first thing this morning are actually just plain old screwed.
Little help here? Anybody know anything about the situation that I don't?
But, I can't tell if that means there is a special reserve of additional, more expensive tickets that will be made available at a later date, or if those of us who had better things to do than jump online at midnight last night or first thing this morning are actually just plain old screwed.
Little help here? Anybody know anything about the situation that I don't?
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Geek-o-Meter
Oh, brutha! My geek-o-meter is on overload. Whereas before I likely would have declined, in polite company (or on the internet), to reveal the true degree of my excitement about the forthcoming movie version of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, now I have no choice but to, proudly and defiantly, push my glasses as far up the bridge of my nose as they'll go. For I have just discovered that my boy Neil Hannon, lead singer and songwriter of the Divine Comedy, has provided vocals for two songs featured on the soundtrack. Not only this, but Neil's frequent (and gifted) collaborator Joby Talbot has written the score. You can understand my conflicted feelings here. "Downplay, for coolness's sake, what a fan-girl I am or preach the gospel of Hannonomics?"
I choose to preach.
(Coming soon to Wrestling Entropy: twelve-sided dice and Renaissance fair costumes!!!)
I choose to preach.
(Coming soon to Wrestling Entropy: twelve-sided dice and Renaissance fair costumes!!!)
Monday, April 04, 2005
April Deluge
So much going on.
The pope. Ah, the sweet little pope. My sadness is not quite religious in origin; it's more the general sadness of the loss of any major cultural icon. The fact that he's a Polish cultural icon only adds to the poignancy. (Gotsa represent for my people.) I've had this picture hanging on my refrigerator for about a year now (thanks, Benji), but now it's also a little bittersweet in addition to being fucking hilarious.
One of the high points of watching the Final Four on Saturday night was seeing the ad for CBS's Elvis miniseries. This, in and of itself, wouldn't have been terribly noteworthy for me but for the fact that it happens to star one of the most outrageously gorgeous humans on the planet, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (not to be confused, of course, with John Rhys-Davies, of Lord of the Rings fame--though it would be funny to see him digitally imposed into the Brian Slade costumes in Velvet Goldmine). My only connection to Elvis is from having edited this book, but I will be GLUED to my television on May 8 and 11.
Go Illini!
Since I am generally averse to large crowds of people and thus not particularly into the idea of attending gi-normous music festivals like Coachella, Bumbershoot, and Bonnaroo, I paid absolutely no attention to last week's Pitchfork headline celebrating the return of Lollapalooza. Well, I made a prompt one-eighty about that particular irrational prejudice when Giddy took the time to explain to me that the festival will be held only in Chicago, over the weekend of July 23 and 24, and that tickets will go on sale this Thursday (April 7) for thirty-five freaking dollars for BOTH days. (That's 70 bands at $0.50 each.) The official web site limits you to two tickets per credit card, but...well, I've got three credit cards...maybe, as CTA suggested, I'll be able to parlay a few "extra" tickets into a few "extra" months of rent this fall....
Tom Stoppard's Travesties at the Court Theatre is stunning. It runs until April 24, and I would highly recommend it to anyone with a passion for theater and literature and history and general intellectual yummy goodness. It will make your brain buzz and hum.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Since U Been Gone
I finally had a chance to check out that MP3 of Ted Leo covering "Since U Been Gone" that's been bouncing around the internet for the past few weeks, and it is unspeakably awesome. His falsetto has rarely been put to better use.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Discarded Landscape
Holy fuck, go see Discarded Landscape at the PAC/edge Festival while you still can. It runs tomorrow at 3:30, and the next two weekends (Saturdays at 8, Sundays at 3:30) at the Athenaeum. Tickets are $15. Prepare to be deeply moved.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Et Voila
Ask, and ye shall etc., etc. Downloads from their forthcoming album are now available on the Doveman web site. (Contrary to my previous, erroneous, assumption, other MP3s had been already been available there, but buried at the bottom of the main Doveman page.) I'm happy to report that the tunes, "Honey" and "Teacup," are almost better than they have a right to be. The vocals aren't doing anything for me (and I swear it's not just because I had my mind set on hating them!), but the melodies are lovely and the instrumentation is sexy, woozy, lush, yet restrained. I'm (reservedly) impressed.
And, for those of you keeping score at home, Picaresque is everything I hoped it would be. I can't say enough about Meloy's talents as a songwriter, and this album captures the band in stunning form. Rachel Blumberg is a force to be reckoned with on drums; I'm sad this is her final album with the group. At the risk of just gushing and going into ecstasies before I'm really ready to give up my initial, visceral, emotional attachment to this batch of songs and get all cerebral about it, I feel like I can safely say that this album is remarkable for the way it's united by narrative moments where the powerless become powerful, the powerful become powerless, or the nexus of the two. Fans of Shockheaded Peter and the Lemony Snicket books will find much to love in the nine-minute epic "The Mariner's Revenge Song"; fans of Hedwig and the Angry Inch should find that familiar lump-in-the-throat feeling anew in "On the Bus Mall"; fans of Belle and Sebastian's classic "Stars of Track and Field" will find an heir to it in "The Sporting Life." As for me, my current favorite song is "The Engine Driver," which we had the great good fortune to hear Colin play solo back in January. That's all I'm giving you for now, kittens. Like I said, I still need to protect my feelings about it for a little while.
And, for those of you keeping score at home, Picaresque is everything I hoped it would be. I can't say enough about Meloy's talents as a songwriter, and this album captures the band in stunning form. Rachel Blumberg is a force to be reckoned with on drums; I'm sad this is her final album with the group. At the risk of just gushing and going into ecstasies before I'm really ready to give up my initial, visceral, emotional attachment to this batch of songs and get all cerebral about it, I feel like I can safely say that this album is remarkable for the way it's united by narrative moments where the powerless become powerful, the powerful become powerless, or the nexus of the two. Fans of Shockheaded Peter and the Lemony Snicket books will find much to love in the nine-minute epic "The Mariner's Revenge Song"; fans of Hedwig and the Angry Inch should find that familiar lump-in-the-throat feeling anew in "On the Bus Mall"; fans of Belle and Sebastian's classic "Stars of Track and Field" will find an heir to it in "The Sporting Life." As for me, my current favorite song is "The Engine Driver," which we had the great good fortune to hear Colin play solo back in January. That's all I'm giving you for now, kittens. Like I said, I still need to protect my feelings about it for a little while.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
ArtPad
Oh, holy crap, have you SEEN this web site? Behold the Art.com ArtPad! It is unspeakably awesome and irritatingly addictive. I'm really glad my computer at work isn't speedy enough to run the higher version of Flash required to use the site or else I'd be staring down the barrel of a new favorite time-waster. Thanks to BAK for turning me on to it.
Here's some art I made tonight:
* Interpol concert (that one's for you, Mac)
* Dill (that one's for you, LBL[A])
* Chicago in March (that one's for you, Nora Rocket)
Here's some art I made tonight:
* Interpol concert (that one's for you, Mac)
* Dill (that one's for you, LBL[A])
* Chicago in March (that one's for you, Nora Rocket)
Monday, March 21, 2005
Gear Theft
In an unfortunate coincidence, right after I finally got around to purchasing tickets for the Decemberists' show at the Metro on April 7, all their gear got stolen. (This was reported on both the Decemberists' site and on Pitchfork.) Though the trailer itself was soon recovered and none of the tour dates (except for Vancouver) have been cancelled, all their gear is still missing. We're talking hurdy-gurdies and gorgeous French accordions and shit. Needless to say, this sucks. You can donate money to help the band begin to replace some of this stuff. At the very least, you should go out and buy their new album Picaresque on its release date tomorrow. (You should've been planning on it anyway, dear readers!)
Friday, March 18, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
29 Thoughts
The "29 Thoughts on the Apparent Sexiness of" column on Nerve still cracks me up. (I wonder how long that will last.) This week: 29 Thoughts on the Absolute, Categorical Unsexiness of the Michael Jackson Trial. Number eight, perhaps predictably, made me laugh out loud; number twelve earned a low-octave snort/guffaw thing. Enjoy.
Annoyed/Not Annoyed
Annoyed at the snow. Annoyed at the black-and-white checkered parachute pants I see all the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago students wearing when they get off the train with me at the Chicago brown line stop in the morning. (Ugh, it's even worse when they're rolling their little wheelie bags full of KNIVES.) Annoyed to find out that Wes Anderson is directing commercials for Dasani bottled water (link via You Can't Make It Up). Annoyed at the misuse and abuse of the word "empowering". Annoyed at myself that I still haven't found time to haul my ass up to the Metro to get Decemberists concert tickets (sorry M&M and CTA).
But. I am not annoyed at this very funny McSweeney's list. I am also not annoyed that I'll be flying to Virginia tomorrow. Also not annoyed that this book finally went to the printer yesterday. Very not annoyed at my new favorite lipstick (color="Flame").
But. I am not annoyed at this very funny McSweeney's list. I am also not annoyed that I'll be flying to Virginia tomorrow. Also not annoyed that this book finally went to the printer yesterday. Very not annoyed at my new favorite lipstick (color="Flame").
Friday, March 11, 2005
Easter 1982
"Gimme some gah-damn PUDDING! (And change my diaper.)"
BAK and I found this in the Chicago red line station on Tuesday night. Though completely sober, we laughed so hard we cried. It's just too beautiful. She felt bad taking it, but I warned her that the worst thing about me taking it would be that I'd be sure to surprise her with it again when she's least expecting it in an effort to make her pee her pants. Mission, hopefully, accomplished.
(I also plan on submitting it to Found Magazine.)
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Proselytizing Buffy
For those of you who've always entertained the idea of getting into Buffy the Vampire Slayer but have been too overwhelmed by the idea of jumping headlong into seven seasons' worth of DVDs without knowing quite what you're getting yourself into (or just what the big deal is), and for those of you who are already rabid fans but have been trying for ages to convert that one stubborn friend (who you just know would love the show) without a convincing way to ease him/her into the time commitment it necessarily requires, a friend of a friend has devised a brilliant primer to meet your needs. From the eminent Steve Maxey:
I'm trying to make a new Buffy fan here at work.
Joanne said she was never interested in Buffy for the same reasons she was never interested in Star Trek. I said it was in some ways more like Twin Peaks (which she liked) than Star Trek--story arcs that take up the entire season, characters living both in a real world we recognize and a shadow world, and a visual style.
I talked her into trying a four- or five-episode arc.
So this morning I gave her the Season 2 box with this note of instruction:
---------------
Buffy: The Buffy-Angelus chapter
A five-episode arc (with an optional sixth)
* Surprise (episode 13; disc 4, ep 1)
* Innocence (episode 14; disc 4, ep 2)
* Passion (episode 17; disc 5, ep 1)
* (optional) I Only Have Eyes for You (episode 19; disc 5,
ep 3)
* Becoming, part 1 (episode 21, disc 6, ep 1)
* Becoming, part 2 (episode 22, disc 6, ep 2)
Backstory: The relationships between Buffy and Angel and between Giles and Jenny have been developing slowly over the past two years. Everything else you need to know is revealed in the first 10 minutes of "Surprise."
"To me, Buffy was a real girl. These were metaphors for real demons. This was about how, in high school, the demons of high school literally become these monsters." --Sarah Michelle Gellar
---------------[SPOILER ALERT!] This is the Buffy-birthday, Angel turns evil, the Scoobies kill the Judge, Angel stalks Buffy and kills Jenny Calendar, Angel becomes a vampire flashback, Angel is saved and Buffy has to kill him storyline (the optional ep is where they're possessed by the ghosts of the teacher and student lovers). It's great soap opera, Harlan Ellison's "human heart in conflict with itself" definition of drama, and the arc that converted me from liking the series to being a "true fan."
Use as directed. Thank us later.
(As always, mad props to GH for passing this along and for keeping the fire burning!! And, for the record, the optional "I Only Have Eyes for You" episode is one of my personal favorites evuh.)
Monday, March 07, 2005
Linkin' You Up with Love
My boy Pimp Ninja brings the love. (He and I go back so far we knew each other before we knew each other, if you catch my drift.) Take heed, kittens, take heed. This man went out to the em-effing desert to find this truth and bring it back for you.
Dork/Dick
A sharp essay on cinema's recent embrace of the male equivalent of the virgin/whore complex: Dorks vs. Dicks (as exemplified by Ben Stiller and Jude Law).
Thursday, March 03, 2005
First Ever Sports-Related Post (Kinda)
Of all the celebrities featured in Reebok's new "I Am What I Am" campaign, they ask Roddick to hide his face?
Who the hell's running that ad agency? Certainly not me or Dan Savage.
Formerly known around 1945 W. Chicago Avenue as "that tennis kid," Roddick--peeping out at me from behind his fingers on El platforms all along the length of the brown line--brightens my morning commute like no one has since that hot red haired chick in the Secret deodorant ad. (What was her secret? Something lame about putting on a fake accent when she goes to parties? So lame, so hot.)
(Image--respectfully!--borrowed from USA Today.)
It's All Right
Ted Leo chanting "it's all right, it's all right, it's all right" at the end of "Little Dawn" is one of the most profound and emotional artistic statements of 2004. Why has it gone unacknowledged? It knocks me out every time I listen to it.
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