I've been having a pretty good weekend so far. Work has been pretty good, aside from having to deal with the usual gaggle of cheap fucks and dumb fucks that come into our store (I still can't believe the large number of people I've encountered while working at a bookstore that have absolutely no idea what the words "fiction" and "nonfiction" mean).
Friday Night: went back to the Tempe Cinema on Guadalupe & McClintock to attend another One Night Cinema event. The people who organize/sponsor this event should be canonized, considering the kinds of films they've been able to get into our cinephile-hostile environment. After watching Charles Burnett's astounding "Killer Of Sheep" at Tempe Cinemas, I've been making a point of trying to attend as many future One Night events as possible. The film they screened on Friday, "Day Night Day Night" was just fantastic. The film's premise: following around a young girl, who is mentally and physically preparing to kill herself in a suicide bomber attack on Times Square. What makes this film work so well is the tremendous amount of tension it gets out of its story. You know from the get-go that the girl is a terroist, and rather than try and demonize her, the film just depicts her as humanely as possible, which is what it makes it deeply uncomfortable. You get to see her ordering egg rolls, bashfully asking her co-conspirators (clad in ski masks) to join in her in eating her last pizza because she doesn't like to eat alone, taking a bath waiting for the bombmakers to arrive (this scene in particular is really unnerving, because they make the sound of her scrubbing her skin with soap sound incredibly loud and harsh, like two stones grinding together). There's no music in the film, just a very astute use of sound effects to create literally nail-biting suspense (another scene ups the volume on the click of a car turning signal, making it sound like the ticking of a bomb). Its an extraordinary film, shot on a cheap budget, but it looks and sounds great. Its also quite funny in parts, although it uses the darkest kind of comedy (while shooting her farewell martyr video, the film crew/terroists keep interrupting her and make her put on different outfits, try different backgrounds and poses to make her look more heroic).
There was a post-screening talk and Q&A with Steven Corman, an ASU professor who has worked on counter-terroism advisory panels. He gave a mini-lecture on the psychology and motives of a suicide bomber which was quite enlightening. The Q&A, though, was pretty uncomfortable. The One Night crowd was pretty... old, to say the least. A lot of senior citizens in attendance, many of whom used the Q&A as an opportunity to vent about the evils of Muslims and ask such probing, even-handed questions like "why does Islam breed so much hate" (part of the irony of the Islam-bashing in the Q&A is that the bomber in "Day" is never outed as a Muslim; indeed, the identity and motivations of the bomber and the cell she works with is never revealed). Still, in spite of some of the ugliness of the Q&A (which was no fault of Professor Corman), it couldn't sour my mood after watching such a great piece of film art.
Watch it when it comes out on DVD, people. Its slow in places, but its definitely worth it.
Day Night Day Night trailer:
Saturday:
Went to Modified to catch the John Vanderslice/Bowerbirds show. The Bowerbirds were great. Its not the type of music I'm all that keen on normally (very folky, guitar/accordion/violin/some hollow and bouncy percussion) but they won me over, so much so that I bolted over to their merch table after their set to pick up their album. What I liked about them most was that they weren't twee, even when they sang songs with goddamn bird calls in the lyrics, they did it all with the utmost sincerity. 2/3rds of the band played barefoot like freakin' hippies... I should hate the Bowerbirds, but I can't. They were just great. Vanderslice, on the other hand.... he plays guitar well, his lyrics sounded pretty good, and he seems like a really sweet guy (he was handing cookies out to the audience between songs), but something about his voice and music just didn't connect with me. It was music that sounded artful and tasteful and good by most standards, but it just didn't move me. I actually tried to leave 1/2 through the set, but the parking lot was so packed there was no way I could've backed my Civic out without hitting somebody's car, so I was pretty much inside the unusually hot-and-sweaty Modified building, sipping on root beer, and waiiting for Vanderslice's set to end. Still worth going to see the Bowerbirds, though, so the night wasn't a bust.
A final public service announcement: the new M.I.A.album absolutely kills. I can't stop playing the damn thing.
Friday Night: went back to the Tempe Cinema on Guadalupe & McClintock to attend another One Night Cinema event. The people who organize/sponsor this event should be canonized, considering the kinds of films they've been able to get into our cinephile-hostile environment. After watching Charles Burnett's astounding "Killer Of Sheep" at Tempe Cinemas, I've been making a point of trying to attend as many future One Night events as possible. The film they screened on Friday, "Day Night Day Night" was just fantastic. The film's premise: following around a young girl, who is mentally and physically preparing to kill herself in a suicide bomber attack on Times Square. What makes this film work so well is the tremendous amount of tension it gets out of its story. You know from the get-go that the girl is a terroist, and rather than try and demonize her, the film just depicts her as humanely as possible, which is what it makes it deeply uncomfortable. You get to see her ordering egg rolls, bashfully asking her co-conspirators (clad in ski masks) to join in her in eating her last pizza because she doesn't like to eat alone, taking a bath waiting for the bombmakers to arrive (this scene in particular is really unnerving, because they make the sound of her scrubbing her skin with soap sound incredibly loud and harsh, like two stones grinding together). There's no music in the film, just a very astute use of sound effects to create literally nail-biting suspense (another scene ups the volume on the click of a car turning signal, making it sound like the ticking of a bomb). Its an extraordinary film, shot on a cheap budget, but it looks and sounds great. Its also quite funny in parts, although it uses the darkest kind of comedy (while shooting her farewell martyr video, the film crew/terroists keep interrupting her and make her put on different outfits, try different backgrounds and poses to make her look more heroic).
There was a post-screening talk and Q&A with Steven Corman, an ASU professor who has worked on counter-terroism advisory panels. He gave a mini-lecture on the psychology and motives of a suicide bomber which was quite enlightening. The Q&A, though, was pretty uncomfortable. The One Night crowd was pretty... old, to say the least. A lot of senior citizens in attendance, many of whom used the Q&A as an opportunity to vent about the evils of Muslims and ask such probing, even-handed questions like "why does Islam breed so much hate" (part of the irony of the Islam-bashing in the Q&A is that the bomber in "Day" is never outed as a Muslim; indeed, the identity and motivations of the bomber and the cell she works with is never revealed). Still, in spite of some of the ugliness of the Q&A (which was no fault of Professor Corman), it couldn't sour my mood after watching such a great piece of film art.
Watch it when it comes out on DVD, people. Its slow in places, but its definitely worth it.
Day Night Day Night trailer:
Saturday:
Went to Modified to catch the John Vanderslice/Bowerbirds show. The Bowerbirds were great. Its not the type of music I'm all that keen on normally (very folky, guitar/accordion/violin/some hollow and bouncy percussion) but they won me over, so much so that I bolted over to their merch table after their set to pick up their album. What I liked about them most was that they weren't twee, even when they sang songs with goddamn bird calls in the lyrics, they did it all with the utmost sincerity. 2/3rds of the band played barefoot like freakin' hippies... I should hate the Bowerbirds, but I can't. They were just great. Vanderslice, on the other hand.... he plays guitar well, his lyrics sounded pretty good, and he seems like a really sweet guy (he was handing cookies out to the audience between songs), but something about his voice and music just didn't connect with me. It was music that sounded artful and tasteful and good by most standards, but it just didn't move me. I actually tried to leave 1/2 through the set, but the parking lot was so packed there was no way I could've backed my Civic out without hitting somebody's car, so I was pretty much inside the unusually hot-and-sweaty Modified building, sipping on root beer, and waiiting for Vanderslice's set to end. Still worth going to see the Bowerbirds, though, so the night wasn't a bust.
A final public service announcement: the new M.I.A.album absolutely kills. I can't stop playing the damn thing.
I've learned a valuable lesson: never work retail while in the throes of a raging hangover.
My father turned 70 on Saturday. To celebrate the patriarch's birthday, we all gathered at the Hermosa Inn for the night, an old Scottsdale hotel thats quite nice. Classy without being too fancy pants. We had dinner in their wine cellar. Champagne, red wine, white wine, Johnny Walker, cognac... as soon as my glass emptied, some hand popped out of nowhere and refilled it. By midnight, I was a walking talking Tom Waits song, drunken and nonsensical.
On to Sunday: I spend a closing shift (12:30-8:30) hobbling about the store like a zombie, trying to avoid loud noises and customer questions (they're both technically the same thing, anyway). One of my co-workers called in sick, so we had to close the store understaffed. Not fun at all.
My father turned 70 on Saturday. To celebrate the patriarch's birthday, we all gathered at the Hermosa Inn for the night, an old Scottsdale hotel thats quite nice. Classy without being too fancy pants. We had dinner in their wine cellar. Champagne, red wine, white wine, Johnny Walker, cognac... as soon as my glass emptied, some hand popped out of nowhere and refilled it. By midnight, I was a walking talking Tom Waits song, drunken and nonsensical.
On to Sunday: I spend a closing shift (12:30-8:30) hobbling about the store like a zombie, trying to avoid loud noises and customer questions (they're both technically the same thing, anyway). One of my co-workers called in sick, so we had to close the store understaffed. Not fun at all.
WARNING: LONG ENTRY! GET A SANDWICH AND GET COMFORTABLE!
Downtown Phoenix is a dangerous place.
I'm not saying that because of the drunk drivers, and all the cop cars scattered about lying in wait for them. I'm not saying that because once you pass streets like Roosevelt and Jefferson and move towards Buckeye, barbed wire starts shooting up all over the tops of walls and buildings like weeds. I'm not saying that because there is an absolutely deranged amount of strip clubs sprinkled about the area (there are so many clubs I honestly wonder how any of them turn a profit, what with all the competition cutting into their business). I'm saying that downtown Phoenix is a dangerous place because it is the only area I know of in the massive Phoenician sprawl that has a lot of one way streets.
Before I continue, allow me to add some context. I am not a bad driver. Compared to some of the spastic daredevils careening all over the place on our highways, I'm fucking Steve McQueen, I'm Kowalski from
Vanishing Point. Since my car accident years ago, I've been full of apprehension over how I would feel once I got behind the wheel again. So far, aside from a couple of close calls, I've been the poster boy for responsible driving. Granted, I've got the grace of an elephant doing ballet when I'm driving, but I haven't banged in to anything or given anyone I know a near heart-attack over my motor skills. I still get flustered very easily when shit happens while I drive.
I've been heading a lot to the downtown area lately, mostly to catch shows at Modified, have a cup of coffee at the Willow House, sometimes I go there with no plan at all and just drive for an hour or two, familiarizing myself with the local geography. It was during one of those initial, aimless drifts that I stumbled into the twilight zone: one way roads, the sort of thing you very rarely see in the neck of the woods I'm from. One minute I'm turning a corner into a residential street, listening to Deerhunter's '"Cryptograms" on the stereo (fucking wonderful album), and the next a car zooms past me going in the opposite direction, the driver glaring at me and giving me a "Dude, what the FUCK" look of sheer disbelief. Its then that I notice the small, inconspicious "One Way Street" sign and I start shouting every variation of "Jesus" and "Fuck" and "Shit-Eating" and "Baby" I can think of as I scramble to get back in the right direction of traffic. As I noted in the beginning of this entry, there are a LOT of patrol cars in the DT area at night, and the last thing I needed, after having a suspended license and going through the torture of 3 consecutive traffic survival school classes, was getting a traffic citation for being a damn fool.
The same thing happened on two later occasions in different parts of the downtown area. Proving the old maxim that God loves drunks and fools (and in my case I qualify for a third category: fools who don't believe in God), I avoided the scrutiny of our Barney Fifes every time. Now every time I go to that part of town, I'm on edge and scanning the sides of the streets like I'm in sniper country; no way am I going to be caught unawares on a one way street AGAIN.
As for why I bring up my vehicular shenanigans in the first place: I was in downtown last night after work. The Mini-Bosses were coming to town and playing at a venue called the Ruby Room Lounge down on Central Ave and Lincoln. No one I know has heard of this venue. I head down to Central by weaving through our many highways: the 51 to the 143. Not to get off on another tangent, but I must confess that one of the reasons why I love driving at night is being able to look at streetlights. I got to drive by Sky Harbor Air Port last night and it was a gorgeous sight, the entire area bathed in a golden glow. The U.S. Airways building looked like a cube of pure energy. It reminds of Jean-Luc Godard's flick "Alphaville" (not my favorite Godard, but still good). It was his sci-fi flick done cheap, so cheap that he just used modern technology (i.e. the 60's was when it was filmed) and filmed it in such a way it LOOKED futuristic. Instead of a spaceship, the hero drives a Ford Galaxie. The film ends with him and the "princess of Alphaville" driving off into "space" (i.e. probably the streets of Paris, shot at night in black and white), the street lights shining and flickering by like pulsating stars. I always think of "Alphaville" when I drive the 101 at night, the way the street lights seemed to string together in my vision like pearls in a necklace, like they really were the stars in the sky hanging down low. Its a mundane sight, but something very pretty, and for what its worth I'll take unexpected man-made beauty like that over the beauty of nature any day of the week (to hell with trees, give me neon lights and winding streets).
Anyway: I had to spend a half hour driving around the general area of the Ruby Room, because it was located on a one way street going in the opposite direction of how I needed to enter it (and due to the wacky layout of the side streets, most of which go right past Lincoln and didn't give me a chance to properly exit), I nearly ripped my waxy brown locks trying to get to the place. But get there I did. I must say that its a kind of bummer I don't live closer to the joint; although the Ruby Room is not a very good concert venue, its a perfect place to get drunk in. The walls of the bar are a raspberry red, complete with a large red curtain acting as a backdrop on the stage, and a bunch of black velvet paintings of naked women (and one picture of a mandolin sans naked women for some odd reason) spread out across its interior. The bar looks like it could fit right in as a setting in a David Lynch movie. They also played decent music in between sets: they alternated between the Flaming Lips "Soft Bulletin" and Brainiac's "Bonsai Superstar" albums (note: I love Brainiac so much that part of the reason why I crashed my car was I got so excited listening to to their "Hissing Prigs"; I was too busy bobbing my head and groovin to the second track, "Pussyfootin'", to notice that traffic had come to a halt right in front of me).
The opening acts were... OK. Nothing to write home about, really. Then again, neither was the audience. The bar was packed, but judging from the general vibe of the place, I could tell that people were here primarily to mingle and booze, not listen to the music. I'm used to going to concert venues that also happen to serve alcohol; last night was the first time I visited a place that serves alcohol and also happens to be a concert venue, and the difference was telling, not to mention a bit dissatisftying. I for one would hate to be a musician playing to a crowd paying more attention to their Bud Lights then your stage presence.
The Mini-Bosses were worth the wait. I admit that my video game geek-knowledge has severely atrophied over the years, because I didn't recognize 80% of the songs they covered, but I just enjoyed looking at them striking these gloriously un-self conscious guitar god poses while playing delightfully dweeby music. The crowd also improved just a bit, because 20 or so people showed up to actually watch the band play, and kept shouting requests betweeen songs ("DOUBLE DRAGON!" "PITFALLLLLL!!!").
Good times. The only downer on the evening was heading out of the Ruby Room and seeing that there were like 6 poor devils huddled and sleeping on the pavement across the street. Homeless people so worn out and destitute they just crash out on the sidewalk in plain sight, and nobody seemed to pay it any mind. Just looking at them made me feel like an ass, because I was getting a little moody and bummed out in the bar, feeling alone and awkward (I go to concerts all the time by myself and I always have a good time, but its like getting on a roller coaster for me: I always regret it during the beginning of the ride). Nothing puts your own petty bullshit in perspective like watching grown men huddled together on the ground like a litter of puppies.
Anyway: its late and this is long enough as it is. Night, folks!
Downtown Phoenix is a dangerous place.
I'm not saying that because of the drunk drivers, and all the cop cars scattered about lying in wait for them. I'm not saying that because once you pass streets like Roosevelt and Jefferson and move towards Buckeye, barbed wire starts shooting up all over the tops of walls and buildings like weeds. I'm not saying that because there is an absolutely deranged amount of strip clubs sprinkled about the area (there are so many clubs I honestly wonder how any of them turn a profit, what with all the competition cutting into their business). I'm saying that downtown Phoenix is a dangerous place because it is the only area I know of in the massive Phoenician sprawl that has a lot of one way streets.
Before I continue, allow me to add some context. I am not a bad driver. Compared to some of the spastic daredevils careening all over the place on our highways, I'm fucking Steve McQueen, I'm Kowalski from
Vanishing Point. Since my car accident years ago, I've been full of apprehension over how I would feel once I got behind the wheel again. So far, aside from a couple of close calls, I've been the poster boy for responsible driving. Granted, I've got the grace of an elephant doing ballet when I'm driving, but I haven't banged in to anything or given anyone I know a near heart-attack over my motor skills. I still get flustered very easily when shit happens while I drive.
I've been heading a lot to the downtown area lately, mostly to catch shows at Modified, have a cup of coffee at the Willow House, sometimes I go there with no plan at all and just drive for an hour or two, familiarizing myself with the local geography. It was during one of those initial, aimless drifts that I stumbled into the twilight zone: one way roads, the sort of thing you very rarely see in the neck of the woods I'm from. One minute I'm turning a corner into a residential street, listening to Deerhunter's '"Cryptograms" on the stereo (fucking wonderful album), and the next a car zooms past me going in the opposite direction, the driver glaring at me and giving me a "Dude, what the FUCK" look of sheer disbelief. Its then that I notice the small, inconspicious "One Way Street" sign and I start shouting every variation of "Jesus" and "Fuck" and "Shit-Eating" and "Baby" I can think of as I scramble to get back in the right direction of traffic. As I noted in the beginning of this entry, there are a LOT of patrol cars in the DT area at night, and the last thing I needed, after having a suspended license and going through the torture of 3 consecutive traffic survival school classes, was getting a traffic citation for being a damn fool.
The same thing happened on two later occasions in different parts of the downtown area. Proving the old maxim that God loves drunks and fools (and in my case I qualify for a third category: fools who don't believe in God), I avoided the scrutiny of our Barney Fifes every time. Now every time I go to that part of town, I'm on edge and scanning the sides of the streets like I'm in sniper country; no way am I going to be caught unawares on a one way street AGAIN.
As for why I bring up my vehicular shenanigans in the first place: I was in downtown last night after work. The Mini-Bosses were coming to town and playing at a venue called the Ruby Room Lounge down on Central Ave and Lincoln. No one I know has heard of this venue. I head down to Central by weaving through our many highways: the 51 to the 143. Not to get off on another tangent, but I must confess that one of the reasons why I love driving at night is being able to look at streetlights. I got to drive by Sky Harbor Air Port last night and it was a gorgeous sight, the entire area bathed in a golden glow. The U.S. Airways building looked like a cube of pure energy. It reminds of Jean-Luc Godard's flick "Alphaville" (not my favorite Godard, but still good). It was his sci-fi flick done cheap, so cheap that he just used modern technology (i.e. the 60's was when it was filmed) and filmed it in such a way it LOOKED futuristic. Instead of a spaceship, the hero drives a Ford Galaxie. The film ends with him and the "princess of Alphaville" driving off into "space" (i.e. probably the streets of Paris, shot at night in black and white), the street lights shining and flickering by like pulsating stars. I always think of "Alphaville" when I drive the 101 at night, the way the street lights seemed to string together in my vision like pearls in a necklace, like they really were the stars in the sky hanging down low. Its a mundane sight, but something very pretty, and for what its worth I'll take unexpected man-made beauty like that over the beauty of nature any day of the week (to hell with trees, give me neon lights and winding streets).
Anyway: I had to spend a half hour driving around the general area of the Ruby Room, because it was located on a one way street going in the opposite direction of how I needed to enter it (and due to the wacky layout of the side streets, most of which go right past Lincoln and didn't give me a chance to properly exit), I nearly ripped my waxy brown locks trying to get to the place. But get there I did. I must say that its a kind of bummer I don't live closer to the joint; although the Ruby Room is not a very good concert venue, its a perfect place to get drunk in. The walls of the bar are a raspberry red, complete with a large red curtain acting as a backdrop on the stage, and a bunch of black velvet paintings of naked women (and one picture of a mandolin sans naked women for some odd reason) spread out across its interior. The bar looks like it could fit right in as a setting in a David Lynch movie. They also played decent music in between sets: they alternated between the Flaming Lips "Soft Bulletin" and Brainiac's "Bonsai Superstar" albums (note: I love Brainiac so much that part of the reason why I crashed my car was I got so excited listening to to their "Hissing Prigs"; I was too busy bobbing my head and groovin to the second track, "Pussyfootin'", to notice that traffic had come to a halt right in front of me).
The opening acts were... OK. Nothing to write home about, really. Then again, neither was the audience. The bar was packed, but judging from the general vibe of the place, I could tell that people were here primarily to mingle and booze, not listen to the music. I'm used to going to concert venues that also happen to serve alcohol; last night was the first time I visited a place that serves alcohol and also happens to be a concert venue, and the difference was telling, not to mention a bit dissatisftying. I for one would hate to be a musician playing to a crowd paying more attention to their Bud Lights then your stage presence.
The Mini-Bosses were worth the wait. I admit that my video game geek-knowledge has severely atrophied over the years, because I didn't recognize 80% of the songs they covered, but I just enjoyed looking at them striking these gloriously un-self conscious guitar god poses while playing delightfully dweeby music. The crowd also improved just a bit, because 20 or so people showed up to actually watch the band play, and kept shouting requests betweeen songs ("DOUBLE DRAGON!" "PITFALLLLLL!!!").
Good times. The only downer on the evening was heading out of the Ruby Room and seeing that there were like 6 poor devils huddled and sleeping on the pavement across the street. Homeless people so worn out and destitute they just crash out on the sidewalk in plain sight, and nobody seemed to pay it any mind. Just looking at them made me feel like an ass, because I was getting a little moody and bummed out in the bar, feeling alone and awkward (I go to concerts all the time by myself and I always have a good time, but its like getting on a roller coaster for me: I always regret it during the beginning of the ride). Nothing puts your own petty bullshit in perspective like watching grown men huddled together on the ground like a litter of puppies.
Anyway: its late and this is long enough as it is. Night, folks!
An update: after a couple of months adjusting to life in a new place in Anthem (which is a nice enough area, although extremely whitebread), things are going pretty good on my end. And why is that?
Because I have realized that mobility is a many splendored thing.
I'VE GOT A CAR! After years of being consigned to pedestrian purgatory and bus line hell, I'm back on the road! I've got a silver Honda Civic. It ain't much to look at (it came with a large dent in the front door that makes it look like the car got side-swipped by a charging rhinoceros, and the sun visors looked like they were assaulted by Freddy Krueger), but it satisfies all 4 of my car desires:
1) It can go from Point A to Point B.
2) It is economical.
3) Its got air conditioning (not really something you don't want to be without during this time of the year; its so hot I have to peel myself off the upholstery to get out of the car).
4) Its got a radio.
So now I've been looking for every possible excuse to get on the road, as though I have Quantum Leaped into the body of a 16 year old. Most of my friends are the solitary, "let's-chill-at-my-place" kind of geek (which I am as well, but its a role I'm trying to break out of), so I don't have any bar friends or concert pals at the moment, but that hasn't stopped me from actually doing stuff at night now, as opposed to sitting at home and watching Criterion DVDs (which is enjoyable and thought-provoking and cerebral and shit, but I would much rather go out and have fun with actual human beings right now, as opposed to being an art-house theater audience of one). What's real nice is that a lot of interesting shows are coming to Phoenix in the next few months: Okkervil River, Peter Bjorn & John, The Besnard Lakes (whose "Are The Dark Horses" record I've found to be a near-perfect driving home late at night record), Of Montreal, !!!, Built To Spill, John Vanderslice/Bowerbirds, Minibosses, and Black Mountain. I'm also planning my first ever road trips out to Tucson to catch the Blitzen Trapper show @ Club Congress in October and later on catch the Stars show in November. So I'm definitely loving the freedom of having four wheels and getting off work at 8 pm.
A few highlights of the last month:
-Catching a screening of Charles Burnett's "Killer Of Sheep" at Tempe Cinemas. "Killer" was recently restored and is now touring the nation in spite of being made 30 years ago and never officially being released (due to clearing music rights). Incredible film. A bit like Italian neo-realist films, like the stuff Fellini and De Sica do, only it takes places in the ghetto, features an all-black cast, and has flashes of sharp, cutting humor that you would NEVER find in flicks like "I Vitelloni" or "The Bicycle Thieves". Just a fantastic film, and a damn shame that it hasn't had a chance to find a wider audience in the past;
-Going to the Romantasy Cabaret burlesque show at the Paper Heart back at the end of July. I had never been to a burlesque show (or the Paper Heart, for that matter), so it was a real treat to be exposed to something new. The show was pretty good, a bit rough in parts because you can tell they're still fine-tuning their acts (and host Lucy Morals stage banter was just terrible at times, but its really hard to hate on someone with a name like Lucy Morals, so I'm going to shut up now), but worth the 3 hour run time. The only weird thing about the venue (which I dug) was that the men's room toilet has no door. There is no DOOR in front of the shitter. I am used to the overall horrific conditions of most men's rooms in Phoenix concert venues, indeed I expect them to look like a burst septic tank, but the Paper Heart's mens room was just so wrong on so many levels. I still shiver just thinking of the things I saw in there...
-Went to a concert at Modified Arts on Tuesday night to see St. Vincent. The opening acts were nothing memorable, but she (i.e. the Saint) was just phe-goddamn-nomenal. I haven't heard much of her stuff before going to the show (I heard some snippets on Amazon, liked what I heard, bought her record but never actually got around to listening to it before the show), so I came in with no expectations and was just floored by her band. Its always strange to see groups one doesn't associate with noisiness rock the fuck out (ex. I saw Sigur Ros years ago and they were UNHOLY LOUD), so it was baffling (in a good way) to see an indie pop songwriter (who admittedly has some very odd, strange guitar parts) with violinist and rhythm section in tow jam out on stage as though they were the Velvet Underground warming up for a run-through of "Sister Ray". The crowd participation was excellent; people were really getting engaged with the show, as opposed to standing stock still with arms folded in front of them, imitating trees like they normally do. Her encore was the highlight of the evening: just her on stage, stalling for five minutes by talking to the audience, tuning her guitar, figuring out what to play, and then they cut the venue lights so the only lighting in the place is the christmas lights strung out on Modified's wall, and she did a cover of Nico's "These Days" that was just gorgeous. I'm definitely going to see her again if she ever comes back to Phoenix.
All in all, life is good right now.
Side note to any SG Arizona friends I have: if any of y'all ever want to hang, drop me a line. My nights are pretty much wide-open and I'm looking for ANY excuse not to stay at home.
Because I have realized that mobility is a many splendored thing.
I'VE GOT A CAR! After years of being consigned to pedestrian purgatory and bus line hell, I'm back on the road! I've got a silver Honda Civic. It ain't much to look at (it came with a large dent in the front door that makes it look like the car got side-swipped by a charging rhinoceros, and the sun visors looked like they were assaulted by Freddy Krueger), but it satisfies all 4 of my car desires:
1) It can go from Point A to Point B.
2) It is economical.
3) Its got air conditioning (not really something you don't want to be without during this time of the year; its so hot I have to peel myself off the upholstery to get out of the car).
4) Its got a radio.
So now I've been looking for every possible excuse to get on the road, as though I have Quantum Leaped into the body of a 16 year old. Most of my friends are the solitary, "let's-chill-at-my-place" kind of geek (which I am as well, but its a role I'm trying to break out of), so I don't have any bar friends or concert pals at the moment, but that hasn't stopped me from actually doing stuff at night now, as opposed to sitting at home and watching Criterion DVDs (which is enjoyable and thought-provoking and cerebral and shit, but I would much rather go out and have fun with actual human beings right now, as opposed to being an art-house theater audience of one). What's real nice is that a lot of interesting shows are coming to Phoenix in the next few months: Okkervil River, Peter Bjorn & John, The Besnard Lakes (whose "Are The Dark Horses" record I've found to be a near-perfect driving home late at night record), Of Montreal, !!!, Built To Spill, John Vanderslice/Bowerbirds, Minibosses, and Black Mountain. I'm also planning my first ever road trips out to Tucson to catch the Blitzen Trapper show @ Club Congress in October and later on catch the Stars show in November. So I'm definitely loving the freedom of having four wheels and getting off work at 8 pm.
A few highlights of the last month:
-Catching a screening of Charles Burnett's "Killer Of Sheep" at Tempe Cinemas. "Killer" was recently restored and is now touring the nation in spite of being made 30 years ago and never officially being released (due to clearing music rights). Incredible film. A bit like Italian neo-realist films, like the stuff Fellini and De Sica do, only it takes places in the ghetto, features an all-black cast, and has flashes of sharp, cutting humor that you would NEVER find in flicks like "I Vitelloni" or "The Bicycle Thieves". Just a fantastic film, and a damn shame that it hasn't had a chance to find a wider audience in the past;
-Going to the Romantasy Cabaret burlesque show at the Paper Heart back at the end of July. I had never been to a burlesque show (or the Paper Heart, for that matter), so it was a real treat to be exposed to something new. The show was pretty good, a bit rough in parts because you can tell they're still fine-tuning their acts (and host Lucy Morals stage banter was just terrible at times, but its really hard to hate on someone with a name like Lucy Morals, so I'm going to shut up now), but worth the 3 hour run time. The only weird thing about the venue (which I dug) was that the men's room toilet has no door. There is no DOOR in front of the shitter. I am used to the overall horrific conditions of most men's rooms in Phoenix concert venues, indeed I expect them to look like a burst septic tank, but the Paper Heart's mens room was just so wrong on so many levels. I still shiver just thinking of the things I saw in there...
-Went to a concert at Modified Arts on Tuesday night to see St. Vincent. The opening acts were nothing memorable, but she (i.e. the Saint) was just phe-goddamn-nomenal. I haven't heard much of her stuff before going to the show (I heard some snippets on Amazon, liked what I heard, bought her record but never actually got around to listening to it before the show), so I came in with no expectations and was just floored by her band. Its always strange to see groups one doesn't associate with noisiness rock the fuck out (ex. I saw Sigur Ros years ago and they were UNHOLY LOUD), so it was baffling (in a good way) to see an indie pop songwriter (who admittedly has some very odd, strange guitar parts) with violinist and rhythm section in tow jam out on stage as though they were the Velvet Underground warming up for a run-through of "Sister Ray". The crowd participation was excellent; people were really getting engaged with the show, as opposed to standing stock still with arms folded in front of them, imitating trees like they normally do. Her encore was the highlight of the evening: just her on stage, stalling for five minutes by talking to the audience, tuning her guitar, figuring out what to play, and then they cut the venue lights so the only lighting in the place is the christmas lights strung out on Modified's wall, and she did a cover of Nico's "These Days" that was just gorgeous. I'm definitely going to see her again if she ever comes back to Phoenix.
All in all, life is good right now.
Side note to any SG Arizona friends I have: if any of y'all ever want to hang, drop me a line. My nights are pretty much wide-open and I'm looking for ANY excuse not to stay at home.
A pile of empty cardboard boxes fill up a corner of my room, looking like the Tower Of Babel's flimsy, pansy cousin. Come June 1st, I'm off to different digs in a different part of town. Right now, I'm feeling the same mix of high anxiety and excitement I always feel when I'm about to pull up roots and resettle somewhere else. I think of the things I'll miss even though I shouldn't miss them (like the drunken hollering and near-brawls that happen every night outside the Danny's Car Wash; nothing adds a nice ambiance to an evening quite like a shrieking howl of "BITCH, GET IN THE FUCKING CAR", or the ceremonial I'm-REALLY-going-to-the-cops-tonight-I'm-so-serious threats being shouted by Danny employees at their lovely, sophisticated clientele... oh, how I shall sincerely miss all that sound and fury). I also think of the things I won't miss (like the sounds of my room-mate and his girlfriend loudly fucking in their room, or my room-mate's infuriating habit of playing Metallica and Crazy Frog all day long). And then I'll think of the things I will mourn (that a friend I've known for nearly a decade, i.e. my room-mate, is moving to Detroit), and the things I still wish I could have in a month from now (an apartment as big as the one I am in now, which is really quite spacious, and really close to where I work). All in all, though, I'm still glad I'll be moving. Plus: I'm getting a car! I will finally have mobility again!
So aside from packing and working and finishing Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" (outstanding book, combining two things that are high on my kicks-major-ass list: Jews and Raymond Chandler), the highlight of my week was the mindmelting double feature I've put myself through. Last night, I watched Alejandro Jodorowsky's "The Holy Mountain" for the first time, and then followed that up this evening with "The Forbidden Zone".
THIS is my brain after watching these two movies:
The Holy Mountain: makes Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel look like Boy Scouts. The first half hour of the film was just one giant unceasing mindfuck, one relentless barrage of what-the-fuck-was-that after another. Frogs dressed up as conquistadors and Aztecs, flayed lambs on bayonets, a warehouse full of Jesus mannequins, freaky Tibetan monk chanting on the soundtrack (sounding more insectile than human), deformed midgets with Tarot cards tied to their backs, shit-crazed alchemists, pelicans, baby hippos lounging about in indoor pools for no reason, giant Tarot cards, psychedelic shotguns, a Sanctuary Of One Thousand Testicles... ah Jesus, just thinking about this movie makes the ground spin around my feet. And the beauty of it is, in spite of the demented imagery, there is a coherent structure to it all, and it is a gorgeous looking film. Its.just.so.strange. Check out the film's trailer for yourself:
The Forbidden Zone: I had been meaning to see this film for awhile, after reading a very interesting post about it courtesy of Lemonkid. In its own way, Zone is every bit as batshit crazy as Mountain, but whereas Mountain is an occult-art-flick that is trying to be Meaningful and shit, Zone is just an hour+ burst of pure anarchy. Its the closest a live action film has come to mimicking the crazy energy of an old cartoon (a la Fleischer + The Looney Tunes). The film is full of bizarre musical numbers and sounds, the characters talk with exaggerated voices that would be PERFECT voice acting for a cartoon, the sets are surreal looking and cheap looking and totally fabulous, the actors and the film itself moving with the frantic energy of a Wiley E. Coyote short. This is the kind of film that's got "De plane, de plane!" guy from Fantasy Island as a king, frog-headed butlers running around humping people, flying heads, Danny Elfman as Satan, a main female character with a french accent named Frenchy, shootouts in a class room, and a really impressive mix of animation into certain key sequences (oddly enough, the live action sections of the film feel far more cartoonlike than the animation itself). The film even has the audacity/poor taste to use broad racial stereotypes (characters in blackface, absurdly Jewish Jews prone to saying "oy vey! oy vey! oy vey!") and makes it feel like its just another part of the old school cartoon ape-ing (right alongside to the cartoonish over the top violence in certain segments as well as all the sexual stuff, which seems like what would happen if R. Crumb wrote the script for a Disney film). A really fun, totally mad film. The perfect cherry on top of the "Holy Mountain" Holy Shit sundae.
The Forbidden Zone trailer:
I feel crazy good right now. Now I'm off to get some reading done before I tuck in for the evening.
So aside from packing and working and finishing Michael Chabon's "The Yiddish Policeman's Union" (outstanding book, combining two things that are high on my kicks-major-ass list: Jews and Raymond Chandler), the highlight of my week was the mindmelting double feature I've put myself through. Last night, I watched Alejandro Jodorowsky's "The Holy Mountain" for the first time, and then followed that up this evening with "The Forbidden Zone".
THIS is my brain after watching these two movies:
The Holy Mountain: makes Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel look like Boy Scouts. The first half hour of the film was just one giant unceasing mindfuck, one relentless barrage of what-the-fuck-was-that after another. Frogs dressed up as conquistadors and Aztecs, flayed lambs on bayonets, a warehouse full of Jesus mannequins, freaky Tibetan monk chanting on the soundtrack (sounding more insectile than human), deformed midgets with Tarot cards tied to their backs, shit-crazed alchemists, pelicans, baby hippos lounging about in indoor pools for no reason, giant Tarot cards, psychedelic shotguns, a Sanctuary Of One Thousand Testicles... ah Jesus, just thinking about this movie makes the ground spin around my feet. And the beauty of it is, in spite of the demented imagery, there is a coherent structure to it all, and it is a gorgeous looking film. Its.just.so.strange. Check out the film's trailer for yourself:
The Forbidden Zone: I had been meaning to see this film for awhile, after reading a very interesting post about it courtesy of Lemonkid. In its own way, Zone is every bit as batshit crazy as Mountain, but whereas Mountain is an occult-art-flick that is trying to be Meaningful and shit, Zone is just an hour+ burst of pure anarchy. Its the closest a live action film has come to mimicking the crazy energy of an old cartoon (a la Fleischer + The Looney Tunes). The film is full of bizarre musical numbers and sounds, the characters talk with exaggerated voices that would be PERFECT voice acting for a cartoon, the sets are surreal looking and cheap looking and totally fabulous, the actors and the film itself moving with the frantic energy of a Wiley E. Coyote short. This is the kind of film that's got "De plane, de plane!" guy from Fantasy Island as a king, frog-headed butlers running around humping people, flying heads, Danny Elfman as Satan, a main female character with a french accent named Frenchy, shootouts in a class room, and a really impressive mix of animation into certain key sequences (oddly enough, the live action sections of the film feel far more cartoonlike than the animation itself). The film even has the audacity/poor taste to use broad racial stereotypes (characters in blackface, absurdly Jewish Jews prone to saying "oy vey! oy vey! oy vey!") and makes it feel like its just another part of the old school cartoon ape-ing (right alongside to the cartoonish over the top violence in certain segments as well as all the sexual stuff, which seems like what would happen if R. Crumb wrote the script for a Disney film). A really fun, totally mad film. The perfect cherry on top of the "Holy Mountain" Holy Shit sundae.
The Forbidden Zone trailer:
I feel crazy good right now. Now I'm off to get some reading done before I tuck in for the evening.
This evening I find myself writing a phrase I've must have written down over a 100 times in the last 10 months:
"I've just seen the most amazing movie".
I've written that sentiment over and over again on this blog, in my paper journals, stammered it and shouted it in conversation with friends, and with a few exceptions, I have yet to eat those words (or any crow, for that matter). The movie I saw tonight, I'm so confident in its greatness, so sure of my bit of hyperbole up there, that I'd put money down on that statement. If Las Vegas had a film critic bookie joint, I'd be tossing Grants and Benjamins all over the place, letting it all ride on Stuart Cooper's "Overlord".
Fuck. What a movie.
Here's the "Overlord 101" class: made in 1975 by director Stuart Cooper (with cinematography by Stan Kubrick camera-man John Alcott), "Overlord" is the poignant, moody story of Thomas, a young British man called into service, who goes into boot camp and prepares for D-Day. What makes the film interesting is how Normandy looms over the story, and yet we never get to see the battle. Its a war film with very little war; its all about the anticipation of war, the sense of impeding doom that seems to swallow the characters whole. Visually, the film looks amazing. Cooper mixes archival WW2 footage into the film in such a way that it often becomes very difficult to tell whether what you're seeing is fictional or actual history caught on celluloid. Cities being bombed, firefighters frantically trying to extinguish burning buildings, bombs raining down from the sky, a rowboat full of soldiers dashed against a cliff wall, British soldiers running through a boot camp obstacle course... extraordinary images, and I'm still not sure how much of it was fake and how much of it was archived material (Alcott gives the fiction scenes a grainy, gray, old look, so it SEEMS as though it could've of been filmed back in the day).
So aside from the visual god-damn-ness of the film, there are many other virtues of the film. "Overlord" is a dreamy, contemplative movie. Tom has a couple of dream sequences that just bowled me over (one of which would definitely raise Freud's eyebrows). Maybe its a British attitude, but the soldiers in the film are remarkably (and refreshingly) devoid of bravado. "Overlord" lacks the macho, chest-beating frat bullshit that makes so many war films seem like football movies with hand grenades and automatic weapons tossed into the mix. Sure, the characters talk about getting tail and what not, but their demeanors, the way they carry themselves... these are people who know they're probably going to die, and just don't feel like raging against the ol' dying of the light. And for a film assisted by British war historians and the Ministry of Defense, it isn't very jingoistic or patriotic (unlike "Saving Private Ryan", with its fucking "American Flag waving majestically" intro and outro scenes). There was ONE scene in the film where a character talks about being a soldier to "do the right thing", but the way he says it, so resigned and weary, its hard to believe that he actually believes it. Yet it isn't an anti-war film, either. It isn't an Oliver Stone/"I Love The Smell Of Napalm In The Morning" war-is-hell film. The film laments the war that will probably snuff these men out, but doesn't pass judgement on the machine that churns them out into the battlefield.
Its funny to think about just how unsettling this film was. There is something about that archive footage that is just beautiful and bone-chilling at the same time. Its not like the D-Day sequence in "Private Ryan"; in many ways, seeing the actual images of real bombs falling through the sky, the real shadows of bomber planes drifting over a city, the way flames can crumble a building like a Jenga tower, that is infinitely more effective in saying "war is hell" than two dozen CGI shots of soldiers stumbling on a beach with missing limbs and their guts hanging out.
If you have a chance to see it (and you're in the right frame of mind at the time), I urge you to give it a look. Or Netflix the motherfucker, because it is too GOOD a film for it not to be seen.
Yeah. I'm going to go for a walk around the block and geek out about a bit more. Its shit like "Overlord" that makes me love movies all over again.
"I've just seen the most amazing movie".
I've written that sentiment over and over again on this blog, in my paper journals, stammered it and shouted it in conversation with friends, and with a few exceptions, I have yet to eat those words (or any crow, for that matter). The movie I saw tonight, I'm so confident in its greatness, so sure of my bit of hyperbole up there, that I'd put money down on that statement. If Las Vegas had a film critic bookie joint, I'd be tossing Grants and Benjamins all over the place, letting it all ride on Stuart Cooper's "Overlord".
Fuck. What a movie.
Here's the "Overlord 101" class: made in 1975 by director Stuart Cooper (with cinematography by Stan Kubrick camera-man John Alcott), "Overlord" is the poignant, moody story of Thomas, a young British man called into service, who goes into boot camp and prepares for D-Day. What makes the film interesting is how Normandy looms over the story, and yet we never get to see the battle. Its a war film with very little war; its all about the anticipation of war, the sense of impeding doom that seems to swallow the characters whole. Visually, the film looks amazing. Cooper mixes archival WW2 footage into the film in such a way that it often becomes very difficult to tell whether what you're seeing is fictional or actual history caught on celluloid. Cities being bombed, firefighters frantically trying to extinguish burning buildings, bombs raining down from the sky, a rowboat full of soldiers dashed against a cliff wall, British soldiers running through a boot camp obstacle course... extraordinary images, and I'm still not sure how much of it was fake and how much of it was archived material (Alcott gives the fiction scenes a grainy, gray, old look, so it SEEMS as though it could've of been filmed back in the day).
So aside from the visual god-damn-ness of the film, there are many other virtues of the film. "Overlord" is a dreamy, contemplative movie. Tom has a couple of dream sequences that just bowled me over (one of which would definitely raise Freud's eyebrows). Maybe its a British attitude, but the soldiers in the film are remarkably (and refreshingly) devoid of bravado. "Overlord" lacks the macho, chest-beating frat bullshit that makes so many war films seem like football movies with hand grenades and automatic weapons tossed into the mix. Sure, the characters talk about getting tail and what not, but their demeanors, the way they carry themselves... these are people who know they're probably going to die, and just don't feel like raging against the ol' dying of the light. And for a film assisted by British war historians and the Ministry of Defense, it isn't very jingoistic or patriotic (unlike "Saving Private Ryan", with its fucking "American Flag waving majestically" intro and outro scenes). There was ONE scene in the film where a character talks about being a soldier to "do the right thing", but the way he says it, so resigned and weary, its hard to believe that he actually believes it. Yet it isn't an anti-war film, either. It isn't an Oliver Stone/"I Love The Smell Of Napalm In The Morning" war-is-hell film. The film laments the war that will probably snuff these men out, but doesn't pass judgement on the machine that churns them out into the battlefield.
Its funny to think about just how unsettling this film was. There is something about that archive footage that is just beautiful and bone-chilling at the same time. Its not like the D-Day sequence in "Private Ryan"; in many ways, seeing the actual images of real bombs falling through the sky, the real shadows of bomber planes drifting over a city, the way flames can crumble a building like a Jenga tower, that is infinitely more effective in saying "war is hell" than two dozen CGI shots of soldiers stumbling on a beach with missing limbs and their guts hanging out.
If you have a chance to see it (and you're in the right frame of mind at the time), I urge you to give it a look. Or Netflix the motherfucker, because it is too GOOD a film for it not to be seen.
Yeah. I'm going to go for a walk around the block and geek out about a bit more. Its shit like "Overlord" that makes me love movies all over again.
I signed up for a year of membership, so I'll be around for awhile (no more I rejoined! I quit the site! I'm back! Damn, broke again!).
My life at the moment:
-My room-mate is moving to Detroit in June, so I'm going to move up a bit to Anthem to live with family. Seeing as I've never lived with this side of my family before, this could be either really great or incredibly awkward. Place your bets now!
-Still working at the bookstore, still loving (and loathing) every minute of it.
-Started keeping a dream journal, which hasn't improved my ability to recall my dreams, but it has given me the opportunity to freeze the ones I do remember on paper for future study (and the ones I do remember... yikes).
-Reading up a storm, as usual. Right now I'm working my way through Crowley's "Magick Without Tears", and whenever that starts to overheat my brain, I pick up Elmore Leonard's "Cat Chaser". The Leonard book is pretty good, but it pales in comparison to the last mystery I read: George Pelecanos' "The Night Gardener" (great, great police novel).
Aside from that: nothing much going on in my neck of the woods. I'm just enjoying life, and enjoying the hell out of the large check I just got from the I.R.S. $$$=
Bon nuit.
My life at the moment:
-My room-mate is moving to Detroit in June, so I'm going to move up a bit to Anthem to live with family. Seeing as I've never lived with this side of my family before, this could be either really great or incredibly awkward. Place your bets now!
-Still working at the bookstore, still loving (and loathing) every minute of it.
-Started keeping a dream journal, which hasn't improved my ability to recall my dreams, but it has given me the opportunity to freeze the ones I do remember on paper for future study (and the ones I do remember... yikes).
-Reading up a storm, as usual. Right now I'm working my way through Crowley's "Magick Without Tears", and whenever that starts to overheat my brain, I pick up Elmore Leonard's "Cat Chaser". The Leonard book is pretty good, but it pales in comparison to the last mystery I read: George Pelecanos' "The Night Gardener" (great, great police novel).
Aside from that: nothing much going on in my neck of the woods. I'm just enjoying life, and enjoying the hell out of the large check I just got from the I.R.S. $$$=
Bon nuit.
Now that I've got my affairs in order (i.e. putting $$$ in my bank and pulling my head out of my @$$), I'm back to write, pontificate, rant, wheeze, howl at the moon, and fling shit at enemies foreign and domestic. Not a lot has transpired in the last week (save for the occasional good film being watched: saw "The Departed" again with the posse, and I watched a wicked-cool old French horror film "Eyes Without A Face" a couple of days ago), so this evening's sermon from Mount Norton concerns a concert I went to last Saturday (and by last Saturday, I mean the one that came before the one that just passed us by).
The show: Japanese spazz-rock extraordinaires Polysics! Playing at the Clubhouse! Opening acts: Runaway Diamonds and some band from L.A. called The Outline!
I headed over to The Clubhouse with long-time accomplices Eric (math wunderkind and Slayer enthuaist) and Chris (future U.S. senator, wholesome in a Leave It To Beaver way). For those who have never been to the Clubhouse: it is located in a strip mall in Tempe that I like to call Desperation, Arizona (population: your sorry ass). The Clubhouse is crammed inbetween a sports bar with a hounds and horses vibe (few things scream upscale sophistication like off-track betting) and a building I used to visit twice a week, ZLB Plasma Services (whose tagline should be: "we'll pay you fifty bucks to stick a needle in your arm and watch 'The Incredibles' twice a week, every week"). There is also an employment office for construction work in the strip, along with a lonely U.S. Army recruiting center and a big-ass 711. The only thing Desperation needs to complete its vibe of barely-scrapping-by-ness would be if they added a pawn shop, an Asian massage parlor, and a check cashing place into the mix.
The three of us are waiting in line and talking about random nonsense like Adult Swim shows and politics when I notice two things that shake me to my core:
1) we're the oldest people there. All the other early birds look like they are high school sophomores.... and half of them look like they've read WAY too much manga (complete with terrifying anime/emo style hair that should be illegal in all civil societies).
2) in one of the corners of the front building, there was a large black bird huddled up against the concrete, standing perfectly still as though it were stuffed (indeed, I was unable to deduce that it was alive until it randomly jerked its head forward after I glanced at it for over 2 minutes). Chris and Eric both agreed that it was a pigeon; having never seen a black pigeon before, I was initially skeptical, but they were both so adamant over their classification that I must assume that they bird-watch on the sly. What wigged me about the bird was that in the hour we hung out outside The Clubhouse, it didn't move from its position. I felt like I was in "The Birds"; I kept waiting for the rest of its winged, taloned homies to descend from the heavens and peck me to death. The superstitutious man in me, the same man who couldn't sleep after finishing "House Of Leaves" and tends to get followed around by wild coyotes (3 times its happened to me!), was convinced that this still feathered doorman was an ill omen. I was right.
Upon entering the venue, I headed post-haste to the bathroom. For the record: with the exception of the bathroom stalls at The Marquee (aka Floor Piss City), I have never seen a Men's Room as trashed and dessicated as the one at the Clubhouse. The first lil'boys room I went to was missing a DOOR KNOB, which meant that I spent the entire time looking over my shoulder as I let my mighty stream loose, strategically placing myself in such a way as to hide my "valuables" from the unsuspecting eyes of random onlookers (oddly enough, in a family full of people prone to parading down the corridors of their home naked and using the restroom with the doors wide open, I am one of the few members of my clan to be discreet in regards to my bathroom use). Later in the evening, buzzed on live music energy and a bit of liquor, I tried out the second bathroom (like the first b-room, both are placed in the 21+ up areas only; apparently, the club owners assume that the underage crowd has bladders that put camels to shame). This one also had a few puddles and squares of toilet paper littering the floor, but it had the added distinction of having no lid on top of the toilet tank. Taken aback by the squalor of these restrooms, I decided to do my duty as a concerned citizen and protest the deplorable conditions of these restrooms by relieving myself in the tank of the bowl as opposed to the actual toilet. In your face, Clubhouse!
Wandering out, I was in for a pleasant surprise: I stumbled onto a fellow SGAZ member, norritt at the bar. We chatted for a bit; unfortunately, I couldn't hang for long because Chris and Eric were waiting up for me in the crowd huddled around the stage, so after a bit of catching up I bid norritt adieu and headed towards the stage.
Side note: Mr. N was classy enough to buy me a drink. This is now the second time that I owe a member of SGAZ a drink, as I refuse to let alcoholic generosity go unrewarded. My current social tab: 1 owe norritt a whiskey sour and doolittle a pitcher of beer. I always have to make a note of things like these, because I have a head like a sieve sometimes.
Now, on to the show:
Runaway Diamonds: the worst opening act I've ever seen (see? I told you the still black pigeon of doom was an ill omen). So incomprehensibly bad that audience members seemed to clap more out of politeness than genuine pleasure. Just the sight of the band was cause for concern: the keyboardist (the only one on stage playing an actual instrument) hunches over his board and looks like he'd rather be anywhere (even Baghdad) than up on stage at that particular moment. The two back-up singers (1 male, 1 female from Australia, a fact the lead singer harped on about at several points) were dressed all in white and looked like a Church cheerleading squad. And the lead singer... pasty white dude dressed in nothing but a big parka jacket and tighty whities. I groaned because in Arizona, anytime you see a douchebag on stage wearing only Fruit of the Loom, you know its going to be horrible hipster wankery (apparently tighties are THE fashion accessory of choice for Dadaist losers in this neck of the woods). Case in point: I Hate You When Your Pregnant, a previous Polysics show opener, which consisted of one smelly man who only wore You-Guessed-It and shouted song lyrics about eating Cheerios and the supple majesty of his johnson over retarded drum machine beats (better name for the now defunct-Pregnant: I Hate You When You Don't Wear Deoderant; seriously, I can still smell that dude's pits, and its been TWO YEARS!). The songs were horrible: El Douchebag Supreme would sing in a way-too-emotional voice about random nonsense (the only time he really made sense was when he started giving props to the Lord in song, which was the exact moment I went from being Really Annoyed to Really Creeped-Out) while his backup singers chimed in the most twee fashion imaginable. Imagine the rancid positivity of the most twee, the most cuddliest shit indie rock music stripped of any musical worth and shat out by a chain gang of Downs Syndrome kids (like Beat Happening, only not any good). At first, I was convinced it was an elaborate piss-take, since the singer kept talking about the glories of their "pop music" in between songs and raving about airing out "all our insecurities" in song. If it is indeed a joke, it fails to be funny (its the musical equivalent of Adult Swim's "Tom Goes To The Mayor": trying so hard to be eccentric and avant-garde that it forgets to be funny, therefore becoming avant-stupid). They're the kind of group that thinks its a good idea for the lead singer to randomly carry a huge pick-ax in the middle of a song for no good reason at all. They were so bad that at one point in the concert, the singer made it sound like they were about to finish... only to decide to stick around to play two more songs. At that point, I loudly screamed "NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" much in the same way that Shatner screamed "KHAAAAAAANNNNNNN!" Sadly, my scream of despair failed to stop them from following through with their threat (if you want to have a slight inkling as to the horrors I was exposed to, check this out: Runaway Diamonds. It isn't half as bad as seeing them live... but it is still pretty horrible.
Inbetween sets, I head out of the club to pick up a soda at the 711, only to be stopped by a middle-aged, drunken concert goer wearing shiny pants and a black cowboy hat and looking like an uglier version of Motley Crue's Mick Mars who told me about how much he loved my shirt, where did I get that shirt, I used to wear that shirt a lot at my last job, etc etc. I was saved when his wife/girlfriend/old lady swooped and pried him off me. At least he wasn't as bad as the shouting old junkie I crossed paths with at the last Polysics show...
Second opening act: The Outline.
Not much to say about these cats. They played a set of straightforward dude rock (with some nice embellishments: the singer had an Irish accent and they occasionally started out songs by playing loud shoegazer-ey guitar drones). Solid set of songs from a decent bad. Only downside: the last tune "Shotgun", which displayed their lyrical originality by drawing comparisons between penii and shotguns and how they're both likely to "shoot ya in the face, bahybayyyy". Side note: I'm pretty sure that penises is the plural form of penis, but I prefer to use penii (it sounds like the kind of thing that would flock around an African river and munch on tall reeds, only to get attacked by crocodiles when they hang their heads too low).
The main event:
Polysics were fantastic.
They get tighter as a band with each year they've come back to the Valley (this is the fourth show they've played here, one a year, and I've been to them all). They attack their songs with real joy and intensity, as though they had never played these songs live before. They're the kind of band that randomly plays along to Devo's "Whip It" during sound check because the crowd wants them to (frontman Hiro later lead the crowd in an impromptu singalong of the chorus of "Don't You Want Me Baby" inbetween a pair of songs, just because we were dancing to when it was playing between band sets). Hiro chugs a beer between songs just because. Hiro is the kind of rock-n-roller that when an audience member randomly sticks her finger in his open mouth, he playfully bites it. They played new songs that were as good as their old songs, and they played their awesome cover of "My Sharona" (awesome in that it succeeds in making "My Sharona" not suck). Unfortunately, the section of the crowd we were in was not as cool as the band: little to no dancing while they played, not even a half-hearted attempt at creating a decent mosh. We were stuck in the "pretentious hipsters/overprotective boyfriends", which is pretty much a No-Moving-To-Music Zone. So even though Polysics played like they were on fire, I didn't walk out of the show drenched in my usual post-dance sweat thanks to being stuck in Squaresville.
So the verdict: the show was great. Still not as great as their first show at Modified Arts (which, even though its an all-ages venue and dry as a bone booze-wise, had the greatest audience ever: I had a blast mingling with that crowd), but it definitely makes me hope they come back again next year.
Oh yeah: when we left at midnight, the bird was STILL THERE.
*shivers*
Norton out.
P.S.
Some Polysics goodness, courtesy of YouTube.
The show: Japanese spazz-rock extraordinaires Polysics! Playing at the Clubhouse! Opening acts: Runaway Diamonds and some band from L.A. called The Outline!
I headed over to The Clubhouse with long-time accomplices Eric (math wunderkind and Slayer enthuaist) and Chris (future U.S. senator, wholesome in a Leave It To Beaver way). For those who have never been to the Clubhouse: it is located in a strip mall in Tempe that I like to call Desperation, Arizona (population: your sorry ass). The Clubhouse is crammed inbetween a sports bar with a hounds and horses vibe (few things scream upscale sophistication like off-track betting) and a building I used to visit twice a week, ZLB Plasma Services (whose tagline should be: "we'll pay you fifty bucks to stick a needle in your arm and watch 'The Incredibles' twice a week, every week"). There is also an employment office for construction work in the strip, along with a lonely U.S. Army recruiting center and a big-ass 711. The only thing Desperation needs to complete its vibe of barely-scrapping-by-ness would be if they added a pawn shop, an Asian massage parlor, and a check cashing place into the mix.
The three of us are waiting in line and talking about random nonsense like Adult Swim shows and politics when I notice two things that shake me to my core:
1) we're the oldest people there. All the other early birds look like they are high school sophomores.... and half of them look like they've read WAY too much manga (complete with terrifying anime/emo style hair that should be illegal in all civil societies).
2) in one of the corners of the front building, there was a large black bird huddled up against the concrete, standing perfectly still as though it were stuffed (indeed, I was unable to deduce that it was alive until it randomly jerked its head forward after I glanced at it for over 2 minutes). Chris and Eric both agreed that it was a pigeon; having never seen a black pigeon before, I was initially skeptical, but they were both so adamant over their classification that I must assume that they bird-watch on the sly. What wigged me about the bird was that in the hour we hung out outside The Clubhouse, it didn't move from its position. I felt like I was in "The Birds"; I kept waiting for the rest of its winged, taloned homies to descend from the heavens and peck me to death. The superstitutious man in me, the same man who couldn't sleep after finishing "House Of Leaves" and tends to get followed around by wild coyotes (3 times its happened to me!), was convinced that this still feathered doorman was an ill omen. I was right.
Upon entering the venue, I headed post-haste to the bathroom. For the record: with the exception of the bathroom stalls at The Marquee (aka Floor Piss City), I have never seen a Men's Room as trashed and dessicated as the one at the Clubhouse. The first lil'boys room I went to was missing a DOOR KNOB, which meant that I spent the entire time looking over my shoulder as I let my mighty stream loose, strategically placing myself in such a way as to hide my "valuables" from the unsuspecting eyes of random onlookers (oddly enough, in a family full of people prone to parading down the corridors of their home naked and using the restroom with the doors wide open, I am one of the few members of my clan to be discreet in regards to my bathroom use). Later in the evening, buzzed on live music energy and a bit of liquor, I tried out the second bathroom (like the first b-room, both are placed in the 21+ up areas only; apparently, the club owners assume that the underage crowd has bladders that put camels to shame). This one also had a few puddles and squares of toilet paper littering the floor, but it had the added distinction of having no lid on top of the toilet tank. Taken aback by the squalor of these restrooms, I decided to do my duty as a concerned citizen and protest the deplorable conditions of these restrooms by relieving myself in the tank of the bowl as opposed to the actual toilet. In your face, Clubhouse!
Wandering out, I was in for a pleasant surprise: I stumbled onto a fellow SGAZ member, norritt at the bar. We chatted for a bit; unfortunately, I couldn't hang for long because Chris and Eric were waiting up for me in the crowd huddled around the stage, so after a bit of catching up I bid norritt adieu and headed towards the stage.
Side note: Mr. N was classy enough to buy me a drink. This is now the second time that I owe a member of SGAZ a drink, as I refuse to let alcoholic generosity go unrewarded. My current social tab: 1 owe norritt a whiskey sour and doolittle a pitcher of beer. I always have to make a note of things like these, because I have a head like a sieve sometimes.
Now, on to the show:
Runaway Diamonds: the worst opening act I've ever seen (see? I told you the still black pigeon of doom was an ill omen). So incomprehensibly bad that audience members seemed to clap more out of politeness than genuine pleasure. Just the sight of the band was cause for concern: the keyboardist (the only one on stage playing an actual instrument) hunches over his board and looks like he'd rather be anywhere (even Baghdad) than up on stage at that particular moment. The two back-up singers (1 male, 1 female from Australia, a fact the lead singer harped on about at several points) were dressed all in white and looked like a Church cheerleading squad. And the lead singer... pasty white dude dressed in nothing but a big parka jacket and tighty whities. I groaned because in Arizona, anytime you see a douchebag on stage wearing only Fruit of the Loom, you know its going to be horrible hipster wankery (apparently tighties are THE fashion accessory of choice for Dadaist losers in this neck of the woods). Case in point: I Hate You When Your Pregnant, a previous Polysics show opener, which consisted of one smelly man who only wore You-Guessed-It and shouted song lyrics about eating Cheerios and the supple majesty of his johnson over retarded drum machine beats (better name for the now defunct-Pregnant: I Hate You When You Don't Wear Deoderant; seriously, I can still smell that dude's pits, and its been TWO YEARS!). The songs were horrible: El Douchebag Supreme would sing in a way-too-emotional voice about random nonsense (the only time he really made sense was when he started giving props to the Lord in song, which was the exact moment I went from being Really Annoyed to Really Creeped-Out) while his backup singers chimed in the most twee fashion imaginable. Imagine the rancid positivity of the most twee, the most cuddliest shit indie rock music stripped of any musical worth and shat out by a chain gang of Downs Syndrome kids (like Beat Happening, only not any good). At first, I was convinced it was an elaborate piss-take, since the singer kept talking about the glories of their "pop music" in between songs and raving about airing out "all our insecurities" in song. If it is indeed a joke, it fails to be funny (its the musical equivalent of Adult Swim's "Tom Goes To The Mayor": trying so hard to be eccentric and avant-garde that it forgets to be funny, therefore becoming avant-stupid). They're the kind of group that thinks its a good idea for the lead singer to randomly carry a huge pick-ax in the middle of a song for no good reason at all. They were so bad that at one point in the concert, the singer made it sound like they were about to finish... only to decide to stick around to play two more songs. At that point, I loudly screamed "NNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" much in the same way that Shatner screamed "KHAAAAAAANNNNNNN!" Sadly, my scream of despair failed to stop them from following through with their threat (if you want to have a slight inkling as to the horrors I was exposed to, check this out: Runaway Diamonds. It isn't half as bad as seeing them live... but it is still pretty horrible.
Inbetween sets, I head out of the club to pick up a soda at the 711, only to be stopped by a middle-aged, drunken concert goer wearing shiny pants and a black cowboy hat and looking like an uglier version of Motley Crue's Mick Mars who told me about how much he loved my shirt, where did I get that shirt, I used to wear that shirt a lot at my last job, etc etc. I was saved when his wife/girlfriend/old lady swooped and pried him off me. At least he wasn't as bad as the shouting old junkie I crossed paths with at the last Polysics show...
Second opening act: The Outline.
Not much to say about these cats. They played a set of straightforward dude rock (with some nice embellishments: the singer had an Irish accent and they occasionally started out songs by playing loud shoegazer-ey guitar drones). Solid set of songs from a decent bad. Only downside: the last tune "Shotgun", which displayed their lyrical originality by drawing comparisons between penii and shotguns and how they're both likely to "shoot ya in the face, bahybayyyy". Side note: I'm pretty sure that penises is the plural form of penis, but I prefer to use penii (it sounds like the kind of thing that would flock around an African river and munch on tall reeds, only to get attacked by crocodiles when they hang their heads too low).
The main event:
Polysics were fantastic.
They get tighter as a band with each year they've come back to the Valley (this is the fourth show they've played here, one a year, and I've been to them all). They attack their songs with real joy and intensity, as though they had never played these songs live before. They're the kind of band that randomly plays along to Devo's "Whip It" during sound check because the crowd wants them to (frontman Hiro later lead the crowd in an impromptu singalong of the chorus of "Don't You Want Me Baby" inbetween a pair of songs, just because we were dancing to when it was playing between band sets). Hiro chugs a beer between songs just because. Hiro is the kind of rock-n-roller that when an audience member randomly sticks her finger in his open mouth, he playfully bites it. They played new songs that were as good as their old songs, and they played their awesome cover of "My Sharona" (awesome in that it succeeds in making "My Sharona" not suck). Unfortunately, the section of the crowd we were in was not as cool as the band: little to no dancing while they played, not even a half-hearted attempt at creating a decent mosh. We were stuck in the "pretentious hipsters/overprotective boyfriends", which is pretty much a No-Moving-To-Music Zone. So even though Polysics played like they were on fire, I didn't walk out of the show drenched in my usual post-dance sweat thanks to being stuck in Squaresville.
So the verdict: the show was great. Still not as great as their first show at Modified Arts (which, even though its an all-ages venue and dry as a bone booze-wise, had the greatest audience ever: I had a blast mingling with that crowd), but it definitely makes me hope they come back again next year.
Oh yeah: when we left at midnight, the bird was STILL THERE.
*shivers*
Norton out.
P.S.
Some Polysics goodness, courtesy of YouTube.
I know, I know. "Where ya been, Norton?" Right now, I'm still trying to figure out if my head is currently situated up in the clouds or up my own ass. I get these... waves of introspective moodiness at times, and right now I've kinda been swept up in one since New Years. All in all, things are going well here. I've got nothing to complain about, and I've kept myself busy. I just haven't felt very motivated to write lately.
I'm also writing this post to let y'all (and by y'all I mean the sweet, select group of people out there in SGLand who actually read my ramblings) know that I'll be going gray again for a week or so. Same reason as I went gray last time: my money managing skills are still a wee bit on the shitty side, so I'm temporarily cancelling the account because I just don't have money for it right now. I get paid on the Friday after this coming Friday, so I'll be signing back on then. Hopefully, I'll be back on the penmanship horse and doing a lot more typing than my current batting average of Fuck-All.
So for those of you reading this: I hope you all have been doing well, and I'll see ya later.
P.S. I just found out Robert Anton Wilson died. *sigh* First James Brown, now R.A... and Phil Collins + Dan Brown show no signs of dying from flesh-eating genital herpes in the near future. Injustice 1, Fair Universe 0.
I'm also writing this post to let y'all (and by y'all I mean the sweet, select group of people out there in SGLand who actually read my ramblings) know that I'll be going gray again for a week or so. Same reason as I went gray last time: my money managing skills are still a wee bit on the shitty side, so I'm temporarily cancelling the account because I just don't have money for it right now. I get paid on the Friday after this coming Friday, so I'll be signing back on then. Hopefully, I'll be back on the penmanship horse and doing a lot more typing than my current batting average of Fuck-All.
So for those of you reading this: I hope you all have been doing well, and I'll see ya later.
P.S. I just found out Robert Anton Wilson died. *sigh* First James Brown, now R.A... and Phil Collins + Dan Brown show no signs of dying from flesh-eating genital herpes in the near future. Injustice 1, Fair Universe 0.
After a long silence, I have returned to Journal-Land. Reasons for said silence? My roomie has gone away with his family for a holiday cruise, leaving me all by my lonesome. I've taken advantage of this temporary solitude by trying to scale the mountain of unwatched DVDs accumulating on my shelf. After I come home from work, I make some dinner, write/read a bit, and then instead of watching TV, I end up watching 2 films(sometimes 3 movies a night; I usually don't end up crashing until 4 am during those cinema binges). While I do still watch movies when Grant is around, I tend to refrain from watching foreign/obscure stuff around him, simply because I hate explaining what I'm watching to someone (in my defense: I love my room-mate dearly, in spite of his unspeakable affection for latter-day Metallica albums, but it'll be a cold day in hell before he shows any interest in watching something with subtitles that ISN'T anime), especially if they have no actual interest in that sort of thing in the first place. It was the same problem I had when I was reading on my breaks back at my old movie theater job: I loathed the inevitable "whatcha reading?" question because none of the people asking it knew anything about what I was reading (and I am LOUSY when it comes to verbally explaining something in a succint fashion). So I've been using/abusing this alone time to drown myself in film-geekery, and I must say that it is divine: in the last two weeks, I've watched Fellini's "Nights Of Cabiria", "Seduced & Abandoned", "Spirit Of The Beehive", Powell & Pressburger's "Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp", a menage a trois of Hitchcock films ("Rear Window"/"Shadow Of A Doubt"/"The Man Who Knew Too Much"), "Cleo From 5 To 7", "Picnic At Hanging Rock", "Stray Dog", "A Nos Amours", and "The Leopard". Sometime in the next couple of days, I'll probably post an avalanche of little capsule reviews of all those films. Not a bad one in the bunch, and some just knocked me the fucked out (in particular "Spirit", "Cabiria", and "Blimp") with their genius.
As for the holidays:
Christmas Eve was a gas. The only downside was that my little brother figured out what I got him with only one guess (I decided to give the gift of Guitar Hero 2). As for my father, he was considerate enough to give me a 3 month extension on his present (I had promised to finish a novel to give to him during the Christmas season, but I've been monkeying with the story recently and I've had to practically start over, so I couldn't have possibly got somethin' finished by the end of this month). My brother Elliot is in good spirits: he's lost a bit of a weight lately, so he looks a lot better, and he's happy that his basketball team at school is actually winning games (unlike the baseball team he was in last year, who were just beyond "Bad News Bears" atrocious; I tell ya, going to his games was a masochistic experience),
Christmas Day was spent with my adopted family. Christmas Eve= quiet get-together with my biological French Catholic side of the family. Christmas Day= boisterous, drunk, shouting "chickenshit" at each other get-together with my adopted French Jewish side of the family. Everyone at the dinner was in rare form: my brother-in-law getting into a drunken argument with my aunt over picking up a pelican in a pool in Mexico (yeah, I still don't get quite what caused that argument to start, or why Richard would pick up a pelican in the first place, but there ya go), my sisters proved yet again that they are miracle workers in the kitchen (home-made brioche, tender filet mignon, sublime potatoes au gratin... just the thought of all that top-shelf grub makes me weep, considering that I've been living on rice right now back at the Fortress Of Solitude), and I got to watch my delightful niece Alex chase my sister's dog around the house for nearly an hour. All in all, a really nice evening. I haven't had such a good time with that part of the family since our last Passover dinner.
On a side note: I have never felt old until that Christmas Day dinner. Early on, my aunt Yvette asked me a question I've been dreading, one that acts as an official sign-post that I am now indeed descending into Jewish Hell: "how's your love life?" (abysmal, by the by, but thanks for asking). She all but announced her intention to see me married, and started asking me what I felt about blind dates, asking my sisters if there would be any single ladies 'round my age attending our family's New Year's bash, etc etc. So it has now been etched in stone: whether I like it or not, there are now 6 Sephardic, vehemently bourgeoise ladies in my family out on the lookout for a possible Empress Norton. 90% of me dreads the awkward horrors that will probably await me at future dinners, while the remaining 10% sees it as a possible means of getting a little strange. Then again, that 10% is always on a fruitless quest for ass, so its really just doing what it always does.*
*On the subject of fruits and ass and what not: in addition to being convinced that I am a raging alcoholic (in spite of all evidence to the contrary; I'm a charming, moderate lush), my dear, dear (and still quite unwell... sigh...) mother is convinced that I'm gay (using the time-honored Eternal Bachelor line of logic: "no current foxy ladies= potential for Liberace-ness"). Its now become the new family joke: I'm the token drunken commie fairy of our fair clan (surpassed in pinkie commie-ness only by my cousin Paul, whom my older brother and I suspect of being involved with some radical eco-groups: the signs, like his never-use-deoderant-ever stink, are all around him) In all honesty, there are moments in life where I do wish I was gay. I've been hit on far more often by men than by women, so odds are I would be having a much more active sex life than the one I have right now (which is nonexistent). But I digress... as always .
So things are looking good right now. I've been blessed with a bit of cash lately (thanks to the company Christmas bonus), so I'm not living quite as close to the edge of Ramen-4-Life as I normally do. Been listening to a lot of good music (the new Clipse record, Boris "Pink" album, still feelin' the Mastodon records, and I'm digging both the new Decembrists record and the Nas record, as well as the sweet reissue of Sebadoh's "III" album). Currently reading John Ralston Saul's "Voltaire's Bastards", which has been slow reading, but definitely worth the time and effort. Grant will be back here on Friday, so my Cinema Vacation will be shortly coming to an end. In truth, part of the reason why I've been binging hard on media this month is because I know that come January I've got to really start doing things differently. As I laid out in a previous entry, I can't shake this feeling I have of emptiness, of squandered potential. This year has been very fun and pleasant but aside from broadening my cultural horizons, I haven't really done much of anything. Come 2007, I've got to evolve into a higher species of primate (i.e. I do NOT NOT NOT want to still be working in retail come 2008).
On a final note: my apologies to anyone who has sent my comments since my last entry. I'll try and reply to them tomorrow. I'm shedding my hermit skin, so its time to make up for lost communiques.
Hope everyone had a good holiday season!
P.S. R.I.P. James Brown.
As for the holidays:
Christmas Eve was a gas. The only downside was that my little brother figured out what I got him with only one guess (I decided to give the gift of Guitar Hero 2). As for my father, he was considerate enough to give me a 3 month extension on his present (I had promised to finish a novel to give to him during the Christmas season, but I've been monkeying with the story recently and I've had to practically start over, so I couldn't have possibly got somethin' finished by the end of this month). My brother Elliot is in good spirits: he's lost a bit of a weight lately, so he looks a lot better, and he's happy that his basketball team at school is actually winning games (unlike the baseball team he was in last year, who were just beyond "Bad News Bears" atrocious; I tell ya, going to his games was a masochistic experience),
Christmas Day was spent with my adopted family. Christmas Eve= quiet get-together with my biological French Catholic side of the family. Christmas Day= boisterous, drunk, shouting "chickenshit" at each other get-together with my adopted French Jewish side of the family. Everyone at the dinner was in rare form: my brother-in-law getting into a drunken argument with my aunt over picking up a pelican in a pool in Mexico (yeah, I still don't get quite what caused that argument to start, or why Richard would pick up a pelican in the first place, but there ya go), my sisters proved yet again that they are miracle workers in the kitchen (home-made brioche, tender filet mignon, sublime potatoes au gratin... just the thought of all that top-shelf grub makes me weep, considering that I've been living on rice right now back at the Fortress Of Solitude), and I got to watch my delightful niece Alex chase my sister's dog around the house for nearly an hour. All in all, a really nice evening. I haven't had such a good time with that part of the family since our last Passover dinner.
On a side note: I have never felt old until that Christmas Day dinner. Early on, my aunt Yvette asked me a question I've been dreading, one that acts as an official sign-post that I am now indeed descending into Jewish Hell: "how's your love life?" (abysmal, by the by, but thanks for asking). She all but announced her intention to see me married, and started asking me what I felt about blind dates, asking my sisters if there would be any single ladies 'round my age attending our family's New Year's bash, etc etc. So it has now been etched in stone: whether I like it or not, there are now 6 Sephardic, vehemently bourgeoise ladies in my family out on the lookout for a possible Empress Norton. 90% of me dreads the awkward horrors that will probably await me at future dinners, while the remaining 10% sees it as a possible means of getting a little strange. Then again, that 10% is always on a fruitless quest for ass, so its really just doing what it always does.*
*On the subject of fruits and ass and what not: in addition to being convinced that I am a raging alcoholic (in spite of all evidence to the contrary; I'm a charming, moderate lush), my dear, dear (and still quite unwell... sigh...) mother is convinced that I'm gay (using the time-honored Eternal Bachelor line of logic: "no current foxy ladies= potential for Liberace-ness"). Its now become the new family joke: I'm the token drunken commie fairy of our fair clan (surpassed in pinkie commie-ness only by my cousin Paul, whom my older brother and I suspect of being involved with some radical eco-groups: the signs, like his never-use-deoderant-ever stink, are all around him) In all honesty, there are moments in life where I do wish I was gay. I've been hit on far more often by men than by women, so odds are I would be having a much more active sex life than the one I have right now (which is nonexistent). But I digress... as always
.So things are looking good right now. I've been blessed with a bit of cash lately (thanks to the company Christmas bonus), so I'm not living quite as close to the edge of Ramen-4-Life as I normally do. Been listening to a lot of good music (the new Clipse record, Boris "Pink" album, still feelin' the Mastodon records, and I'm digging both the new Decembrists record and the Nas record, as well as the sweet reissue of Sebadoh's "III" album). Currently reading John Ralston Saul's "Voltaire's Bastards", which has been slow reading, but definitely worth the time and effort. Grant will be back here on Friday, so my Cinema Vacation will be shortly coming to an end. In truth, part of the reason why I've been binging hard on media this month is because I know that come January I've got to really start doing things differently. As I laid out in a previous entry, I can't shake this feeling I have of emptiness, of squandered potential. This year has been very fun and pleasant but aside from broadening my cultural horizons, I haven't really done much of anything. Come 2007, I've got to evolve into a higher species of primate (i.e. I do NOT NOT NOT want to still be working in retail come 2008).
On a final note: my apologies to anyone who has sent my comments since my last entry. I'll try and reply to them tomorrow. I'm shedding my hermit skin, so its time to make up for lost communiques.
Hope everyone had a good holiday season!
P.S. R.I.P. James Brown.
