Every so often I'll catch myself doing it and groan. Kat looks at me and says, "What?" I confess that It has happened agan and she knowingly pats me on the shoulder and says, "I know." I'd like to think of myself as this dynamic, distinct individual whose voyage through life has made him a completely New sort of human being, but Then I cross my arms while I'm talking to somebody or tug at the little soul-patch under my chin and I see... my dad. I don't find my father's mannerisms to be offensive - it's the Recognition that they are now On Me. I haven't seen my father on a regular basis in nearly 8 years but they've been bubbling out of me, as naturally as breathing or growing my hair. I'm dealing with it, however. 'Things like this happen,' I tell myself, 'so you've just gotta accept it and move on.'
But, then there's this:
Everyone in my family knows that I am The City Kid. I am the family member who never liked camping or living in the country or hunting for deer or reaping the benefits of Mother Earth (gardening). I wanted to go to the movies or hang out with the neighborhood kids or see a basketball game while my parents planned week-long excursions to remote corners of Alaska for salmon fishing and hiking. From Denali National Park in Alaska to the remote campgrounds along the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia, I've been a personal food reservoir for mosquitoes and deerflies all across this country and abroad. It wasn't enough to camp in the Great Outdoors. Oh no. It had to be done in the Remote Great Outdoors. K.O.A. campgrounds were for wimps. Hot water? Electrical hookups? Flushing toilets? Hell, you'd might as well stay in a Day's Inn and eat at the Waffle House. As I lay in my sleeping bag with rocks jabbing in my back and the persistent itch of mosquito bites on my ass from my last outhouse Debacle, I fantasized of the day when I would be the Master of my Own Destiny, when I would never again be forced to endure another second of Camping Torture. So, when Kat and I found a few days in July when we could relax from the daily grind of Work, what did we do?
We went camping... and it was... fun.
You can run, but you cannot hide, my friend.
Living in big cities has made me appreciate the beauty of silence. All those things I thought to be a tedious, cruel punishment from my parents for a hyperactive demeanor have since been twisted into perverse notion of idyllic bliss. My fantasies have flipped like a hippie-turned-neocon. I daydream of the wind through the trees instead of car alarms. I contemplate canoeing down a meandering brook in place of the choking cluster-fuck of a subway at 8 in the morning.
What have I become? Dear GOD, What Have I Become?!
...need... decadent night... on the town... now!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Freakin at the Siren Festival
I want to join a freak show. I don't really know what my skill would be. I never honed my gross-out skills in middle school. My skill was paper football games and pencil snapping and although I might have ruled the school in those days, I don't see the general public ponying up the cash to make my dream a viable reality. I used to be a cutter, but I've weaned myself away from that lifestyle (much to Kat's relief) and the fact is that real, physical pain is a turn off in a live, theatrical setting. If there is ever a manic-depressive freakshow, sign me up, otherwise I'm destined to be a dreamer, not a practitioner. Fortunately, there were four practitioners at Coney Island this last weekend and for $8 on a hot afternoon, Kat and I partook of all that is Good and Joyous about a nice, wholesome Freak Show... particularly ones that serve Coronas.
The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.
Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.
By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.
There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.
Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.
Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.
Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...
The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.
The Real Reason that Kat and I subjected ourselves to one and a half hours of subway bliss was to attend the our third Coney Island Siren Festival. I had one of my 'Holy Shit' moments at my first Siren Festival when I watched a pissed-off Jamie Hince (a.k.a. Hotel) and Allison Mosshart (a.k.a. VV) perform an disjointed-yet-amazing set of music. The sound was terrible and they had a drum machine that couldn't work for-shit, but there was something there that made me hunt down one of the band lineups to find out their name - The Kills. A few months later, they returned to NYC and played at the Bowery Ballroom and confirmed themselves as my Favorite Band.
Frankly, the idea of the Siren Festival is a lot better than the reality. The bands play from 1pm-9pm and it's at the height of the summer with no relief from the heat except oversized cups of Rheingold beer. The crowds are fun and casual for the first couple bands, but as the day wears on, the crush to See gets unbearable. This year seemed exceptionally underwhelming. We arrived just as Ambulance LTD was taking the stage. They had some fun, catchy tunes for the first few songs, but their stuff fell a little too close to Nickelback by the end. The Dears took to the stage and after a short setup... kept setting up. Tell me, truthfully, does one band REALLY need 5 keyboards to get through a 45 minute set? Does everything REALLY have.to.be.just.so. for a steaming-hot afternoon where you're performing next to a rollercoaster?! Two songs into it, I knew that The Dears have been spending too much of their career working on setup and not enough time on songs. "Oh, I promise not to cry" as a climactic refrain? Somebody, shoot me.
By the time Q and Not U took the stage, I was ready for a break. Fortunately, Coney Island is a great place to visit once a year. In 2003, we sampled the Boardwalk hustlers and carney-style food. Last year it was the Wonder Wheel and Cyclone rollercoaster (though Kat wouldn't call that her high-point of entertainment). This year, it was The Coney Island Circus Sideshow. This was my first freak show since my Nine Inch Nails days when Trent was touring with the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow. This show wasn't on the same scale, but it was welcome respite from dull alt bands and a hot, rainy day that turned sweltering-sunny.
There must be a shortage of reliable freaks in New York City (or I swim in the same circles) because I've seen at least two, possibly three, of these freaks elsewhere in the City. It's hard to forget a dreadlocked woman with facial tattoos so I'm sure that Insectavoria is the same lovely lady I spotted handing out fliers in front of Andromeda's on St. Mark's Place. I wonder if she's related to Mikel Monkeymeat, the dreadlocked, facial-tattooed, body piercing specialist in said-establishment? I interviewed Mikel my first month in New York for a Playgirl article on genital piercings (that's another story), but I digress. Insectavoria put on an impressive display of fireball blowing and sword walking. If she'd been putting on that show when she was handing out fliers, I mighta strolled right in and got myself an apadravya... or not.
Eak the Geek was a frequent rider of the 'F' line when I lived in Brooklyn and, in hindsight, must have been headed home from work about the same time Kat and I set out for the City's evening entertainment. One evening, a friend of mine, smitten by his bodyfull of blue tattoos, spontaneously lept from her subway seat to talk to him. He's much angrier-looking when he's not talking. At the sideshow, he insulted hipsters for ignoring the 'No Photos' signs and had a hefty couple from Suburb,USA stand on his stomach as he was sandwiched between a pair of nail-filled boards. Not the most impressive feat I've seen, but he had some good carney-energy and kept the enthusiasm level up.
Heather Holiday looked very familiar to me. I don't know where I've seen her but... There's nothing that would suggest that she's a sword swallower and contortionist on the Outside, but that's just what she did for us this afternoon.Despite the fact that she was cute, dressed in a little sexpot number and had the obvious double-entendre skills, I kept getting the feeling that a date with her would be a lot of heavy petting, giggles, and coy grins, but little else. Alas, she had all the stage presence of a middle-school recital. Her bits desperately called for a burlesque touch, but this sideshow seemed a little desperate to keep everything 'G' rated.
Diamond Donny V was the host of this escapade. He sported a derby hat, pork chop sideburns and a placid demeanor. His bits were a little weak, but he had good comic timing and kept the show rolling along. He did succeed in grossing out Kat when he successfully threaded a long nail through his nose. A good emcee for the show, but I'd have preferred a little onstage contrast with him and Eek the Geek. Ahh... if I ran the circus...
The Sideshow was great, but I knew it was time to go when we finally emerged into the sweltering late afternoon. The crowds had begun to choke the streets and it was still a couple hours until home. Thank you Coney Island, it was Real.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Son Volt at South Street Seaport
It was at Gabe's Oasis in Iowa City, Iowa where I had my first 'Holy Shit' moment. My best friend, Eliot, dragged me from the bowels of my cramped, one-bedroom apartment and introduced me to a band that wasn't quite country, wasn't quite punk, and featured a half dozen musicians who appeared to be touring with 30 instruments in tow. They had two lead singers-- one, a sad crooner with long, brown hair, the other, a droning, lilting singer with a bowl haircut nearly as bad as mine. The band was called Uncle Tupelo and they frigging rocked my world. I had no idea that country music could rock that hard or that a country-style band could do a kick-ass cover of "I Wanna Destroy You".
A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.
Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...
South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.
It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.
A couple years later, the band had split and the lead singers had built two, equally-strong bands with completely different sounds. The floppy-haired one, Jeff Tweedy, formed Wilco and Ascended to alt.pop heaven with the fantastic album Being There. The second singer with the dork haircut, Jay Farrar, embraced the country side of Uncle Tupelo's sound and formed Son Volt and put out a debut album, Trace. Three years ago, I finally caught Wilco live at NYC's Roseland Ballroom and had a blast. Last Thursday, I finally consummated my ongoing infatuation with that 'Holy Shit' moment by heading down to the South Street Seaport and catching a free concert featuring a much-hipper haircut singing lead for Son Volt.
Free concerts are always a mixed bag in a big city. They're outdoors, free and usually a fantastic opportunity to check out obscure bands. On the other hand, these venues provide a wonderful opportunity for every ass-clown with a few hours to kill to exchange office gossip with co-workers as if he's hanging out in his own living room, holding court with people who actually give a flying fuck. Nothing says Kill Me like listening to some shmuck on a cell phone during a concert, endlessly repeating "I Can't Hear You!" to the poor soul at the other end of the line...
South Street Seaport provides a stunning backdrop - the Brooklyn Bridge, downtown Brooklyn, the towering skyscrapers of Wall Street, and a small collection of early 20th Century sailing ships. The forecast had been threatening rain all day, but it was a picture-perfect evening. Kat and I were running late (having enjoyed a couple rounds of happy hour magic in the East Village) and missed the opening band, Dr. Dog, but Son Volt had just begun their set as we finally reached the end of Fulton Street. The show was solid, but a bit tepid. When you're playing for both fans and passers-by it's gotta be a bitch to engage an audience. Also, many of Son Volt's newer songs sounded much like one another and I frequently found myself staring off at a swingin' old guy in the audience who was laying into his air guitar harder than anyone onstage. It wasn't until Son Volt started laying into their older tracks that the show finally found a stride.It wasn't anything close to a 'Holy Shit' moment but it was a respectable set and the price was right. I'm not terribly psyched of picking up Son Volt's newest album, Okemah and the Melody of Riot, but any fans of alt.country should still check out Son Volt's Trace, Wilco's sophomore effort Being There, and anything from Uncle Tupelo's first 4 albums. You won't be disappointed.
Monday, July 11, 2005
tap... tap... tap...
Summer is hitting NYC hot-and-heavy today. I'm camped out in front of a fan with shades drawn, windows closed, and my air conditioner lying dormant. People bitch and moan about hot weather, but it's just a matter of getting used to it. When I was laboring in 100° F (37° Celsius) heat among the ruins of Ayutthaya, Thailand, I watched groundskeeping women go about their work wearing heavily-layered, dark clothing from head-to-toe while Kat looked like her head was about to spontaneously combust. Hell, even an anglo fella like me has gotten used to it. I spent a summer in the San Fernando Valley, enjoying 95° F (35° C) temps in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Of course, I was unemployed for that summer so I had a LOT of time to get used to the weather along with far too many vodka and orange juice libations. Working in an office makes it hard, though. You spend the day in overly-cooled environments then try to go without when you get home. It's a vicious cycle. Vicious, I tell you. Fortunately, I have the advantage of only working three days a week.
Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.
Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.
Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.
Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.
I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...
Actually, it Would be fortunate if someone were willing to pay me to endure heat.
Can you tell that I'm trying to avoid work? It feels like people can tell. I've already done all the dishes in the apartment. I've scoured Craigslist for writing jobs in search of gigs that don't involve writing for somebody who has a 'great idea' and wants somebody to ghost-write it for him/her. I've read my bookmarked blogs, scanned the New York Times, checked the Fed Ex tracking site for the umpteenth time in search of minute-by-minute progress on the 160GB hard drive that I'm expecting Any Moment Now. I've even tapped out on my circuit of porn websites and when THAT happens, buster, you know that it is Time to get started. If I start playing Call of Duty, then I'll know that I've completely given up on the day.
Last night, I vowed to Kat that I would start sending out my poetry to contests and publications. Today was to be Poetry Day wherein I would cease the word-fucking of poems I wrote 3 years ago and finally get a few of the sons-o-bitches out the door.
Yep. Just about ready to get to work on that.
I wonder if the Bowery Ballroom has booked anybody new in the last 6 hours...
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Good to be - *COUGH*
My pilgrimage to the land of the midnight sun has been completed and I am glad to be
*cough*...
Excuse me... where was I? Ah yes, I am glad to be back in my beloved
*COUGH*
... maybe I need a glass of water. It's just that this frigging-
*COUGH-COUGH*
air in New York-
*HACK-HACK-COUGH-WHEEZE*
I arrived at JFK airport on Wednesday, flush with relief at my return home. The sliding doors swished and parted and I stepped into the great outdoors- then we wavered in our tracks. The air was thick with moisture and the stain of stale oil and exhaust. It was as if the air was hostile. After spending a couple of weeks abroad, I'd forgotten how Third-World the cities of America have become regarding air quality. Based on what I saw in Stockholm, if it takes a little socialism in a democracy to make corporations improve their water and air quality, I'd take it over this tepid mess any day.
I am happy to be home. Really.
Sweden was amazing, the wedding was cool and the breadth of egos on display was grossly-disappointing.
Is that obtuse enough? I got to visit with an old friend, befriend some amazing Swedes and revisit old friendships that helped me to find closure in ways I'd never expect.
Yep. Got the cryptic, scrambling device running full-bore here.
There will be much, much more to talk about. My paperwork is everywhere and I've gotta sort this shit out before I start applying digits-to-keyboards.
I need some sleep.
*cough*...
Excuse me... where was I? Ah yes, I am glad to be back in my beloved
*COUGH*
... maybe I need a glass of water. It's just that this frigging-
*COUGH-COUGH*
air in New York-
*HACK-HACK-COUGH-WHEEZE*
I arrived at JFK airport on Wednesday, flush with relief at my return home. The sliding doors swished and parted and I stepped into the great outdoors- then we wavered in our tracks. The air was thick with moisture and the stain of stale oil and exhaust. It was as if the air was hostile. After spending a couple of weeks abroad, I'd forgotten how Third-World the cities of America have become regarding air quality. Based on what I saw in Stockholm, if it takes a little socialism in a democracy to make corporations improve their water and air quality, I'd take it over this tepid mess any day.
I am happy to be home. Really.
Sweden was amazing, the wedding was cool and the breadth of egos on display was grossly-disappointing.
Is that obtuse enough? I got to visit with an old friend, befriend some amazing Swedes and revisit old friendships that helped me to find closure in ways I'd never expect.
Yep. Got the cryptic, scrambling device running full-bore here.
There will be much, much more to talk about. My paperwork is everywhere and I've gotta sort this shit out before I start applying digits-to-keyboards.
I need some sleep.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
the Archipelagos of Sweden
I have retreated into the wilds of Sweden. I hope to offer some blogging insights to my attendance at a Swedish wedding on July 2nd, but they might have to wait until my return on July 6th.
If you have any dire advice to offer in the days ahead, please feel free to offer a comment or two.
Take care,
Deckard
If you have any dire advice to offer in the days ahead, please feel free to offer a comment or two.
Take care,
Deckard
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Answers for ~JeR~
I'm normally not a big fan of these, but it's a good way to get to know some fellow-bloggers that I admire and vice-versa.
First, the rules:
Rules of the game:
1. Leave a comment saying "interview me"
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions.
3. You will update your blog with the questions and your answers.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview some else in same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed you ask them 5 questions.
All righty then. Let's get to it!
1. If you could choose one song as your personal theme song, which one would it be and why?
That's a hefty question to ask of a rock music fan. There are so many that represent who I was, but what represents me now?
Somehow, the first song that popped into my head was "Sunken Treasure" by Wilco. The words and chords have always rung true for me.
2. Who's your hero? (interpret this any way you want)
Hero... well, first it was Han Solo, then it was Indiana Jones, then I grew up. As inspiring as Obi Wan Kenobi was, negotiating the lava flows and kicking Anakin's ass, I'd have to say that it was my grandmother - my mom's mom. She was the wife of a farmer and survived the depression, took care of 7 children under hard conditions, lost 3 of them before she passed away, and never complained until the last couple years when she couldn't see (she loved to make quilts and knit). She had this unshakable view that beautiful and terrible things could and would happen in life and you dealt with it, then moved on. The amazing thing was that she wasn't callous or in-denial about it either. It was just that she didn't expect life to be fair or give her things simply because she wanted them and cared about them. She was the mold that made me coin the phrase 'a closet optimist'. She was rarely what I would call positive, but if she saw you started getting down on yourself, she'd sneak you a glimpse of hope that'd get you through.
And that frigging woman visited my family and me in every city the U.S. Army stuck us. In the late 70's she braved her first airplane ride to see us in Alaska and in her mid-80's, flew to Germany to visit us. She lived simply on Corn Flakes and green beans whenever she was at home then enjoyed the last laugh by leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars to her children that nobody knew she had.
3. What's your most embarrassing moment? (I know, cliche question, but the answers can be funny)
Oh, ~JeR~.... where should I begin?
Well, I don't know how funny it is, but the most embarrassed I've ever felt In The Moment would have to be the gala party that I attended a year and a half ago with my girlfriend.
Kat works at a not-for-profit organization that has a huge, fundraising gala at the Essex House along Central Park South. It was the first year that the organization was allowing significant-others to attend and Kat was excited because they had an open bar (always a great way to bribe me), a swanky, multi-course meal, and petit fours (tiny cakes and chocolates... Kat's into cute, little chocolatey things). I even performed the incredibly Un-Deckard act of purchasing a suit (my first) for this event. Kat was smitten by the sight of her stylin' boyfriend (I think it was the Cosmos talking) and we had a great evening... until the end.
I have always had a little problem with my feet. If I don't have good arch support, they can start to hurt. Back in 2003, we had a big blackout in NYC, Kat and I were in Queens, and it took 7 hours to walk home. My feet were hurting so bad, I couldn't walk for 2 days. A week before the big gala, I finally broke down and visited a podiatrist. The guy fitted me for a pair of arch supports and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.
When I popped my pills, between the open bar course and the dinner course, I had forgotten that one of the warnings that come with my medication was to not drink alcohol when I take the medication. After the dinner and speech-making, I stepped outside with Kat and her co-workers to enjoy my one-per-year cigarette habit.
Then, I woke up on the living room couch. I had NO idea how I got there. My suit was off and covered in puke. I smelled like puke. And Kat was furious - wait, I'm sorry, let me try that again. And Kat was FURIOUS. I had gotten sick on the subway, puked into the petit fours leftovers Kat had meticulously-saved from the gala. Through some miracle, Kat managed to guide me home (NOTE: I am 9 inches taller and 80 pounds heavier than her). She was sure that I had gotten drop-down drunk and was ready to kill me. I got sick at home. Sick in the tub. Then, after sitting up with me for a couple hours to make sure that I didn't pass out or perform some kind of Elvis Presley offing, she undressed me and dumped me on the couch. In retrospect, Kat said that if she'd known that I'd taken the medication, she would have immediately called an ambulance and had me taken to the hospital. I have never appreciated and loved anybody so much as the moment I realized how much Kat had withstood and done for me.
I had never felt so terrible in my life. I thought that I must have been guilty of drinking too much even though I didn't feel like I'd really drank very much. I have never been in a state where I couldn't remember things, much less 6 hours of my life. Midway through the day, I remembered the medication, looked up the warning on my medication sheet and realized exactly how stupid I was.
So, there it is.
4. If you had the opportunity to travel back in time to kill little baby Hitler, could / would / should you do it? (Hey, one weird question out of five ain't bad...)
No, I wouldn't. I've never ascribed to the idea that history could (or should) have gone another way. Even the most heinous acts in history are evolutionary steps for humanity. I don't believe in fate, but there is something about the momentum of a society. Hitler was terrible, but it was a symptom of something much larger. I wish that I point to a person or event and say "That is pure evil!" and remove the problem, but it's a game of Jenga - sometimes you can't know which piece will come out clean and which will bring the whole thing down.
5. What's your biggest guilty pleasure?
Tater tots and aspartame (Diet Crack - I mean, Coke). Time, space and logic warp whenever I get too close to these things. 'Enough' loses all meaning.
First, the rules:
Rules of the game:
1. Leave a comment saying "interview me"
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions.
3. You will update your blog with the questions and your answers.
4. You will include this explanation and offer to interview some else in same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed you ask them 5 questions.
All righty then. Let's get to it!
1. If you could choose one song as your personal theme song, which one would it be and why?
That's a hefty question to ask of a rock music fan. There are so many that represent who I was, but what represents me now?
Somehow, the first song that popped into my head was "Sunken Treasure" by Wilco. The words and chords have always rung true for me.
2. Who's your hero? (interpret this any way you want)
Hero... well, first it was Han Solo, then it was Indiana Jones, then I grew up. As inspiring as Obi Wan Kenobi was, negotiating the lava flows and kicking Anakin's ass, I'd have to say that it was my grandmother - my mom's mom. She was the wife of a farmer and survived the depression, took care of 7 children under hard conditions, lost 3 of them before she passed away, and never complained until the last couple years when she couldn't see (she loved to make quilts and knit). She had this unshakable view that beautiful and terrible things could and would happen in life and you dealt with it, then moved on. The amazing thing was that she wasn't callous or in-denial about it either. It was just that she didn't expect life to be fair or give her things simply because she wanted them and cared about them. She was the mold that made me coin the phrase 'a closet optimist'. She was rarely what I would call positive, but if she saw you started getting down on yourself, she'd sneak you a glimpse of hope that'd get you through.
And that frigging woman visited my family and me in every city the U.S. Army stuck us. In the late 70's she braved her first airplane ride to see us in Alaska and in her mid-80's, flew to Germany to visit us. She lived simply on Corn Flakes and green beans whenever she was at home then enjoyed the last laugh by leaving hundreds of thousands of dollars to her children that nobody knew she had.
3. What's your most embarrassing moment? (I know, cliche question, but the answers can be funny)
Oh, ~JeR~.... where should I begin?
Well, I don't know how funny it is, but the most embarrassed I've ever felt In The Moment would have to be the gala party that I attended a year and a half ago with my girlfriend.
Kat works at a not-for-profit organization that has a huge, fundraising gala at the Essex House along Central Park South. It was the first year that the organization was allowing significant-others to attend and Kat was excited because they had an open bar (always a great way to bribe me), a swanky, multi-course meal, and petit fours (tiny cakes and chocolates... Kat's into cute, little chocolatey things). I even performed the incredibly Un-Deckard act of purchasing a suit (my first) for this event. Kat was smitten by the sight of her stylin' boyfriend (I think it was the Cosmos talking) and we had a great evening... until the end.
I have always had a little problem with my feet. If I don't have good arch support, they can start to hurt. Back in 2003, we had a big blackout in NYC, Kat and I were in Queens, and it took 7 hours to walk home. My feet were hurting so bad, I couldn't walk for 2 days. A week before the big gala, I finally broke down and visited a podiatrist. The guy fitted me for a pair of arch supports and a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication.
When I popped my pills, between the open bar course and the dinner course, I had forgotten that one of the warnings that come with my medication was to not drink alcohol when I take the medication. After the dinner and speech-making, I stepped outside with Kat and her co-workers to enjoy my one-per-year cigarette habit.
Then, I woke up on the living room couch. I had NO idea how I got there. My suit was off and covered in puke. I smelled like puke. And Kat was furious - wait, I'm sorry, let me try that again. And Kat was FURIOUS. I had gotten sick on the subway, puked into the petit fours leftovers Kat had meticulously-saved from the gala. Through some miracle, Kat managed to guide me home (NOTE: I am 9 inches taller and 80 pounds heavier than her). She was sure that I had gotten drop-down drunk and was ready to kill me. I got sick at home. Sick in the tub. Then, after sitting up with me for a couple hours to make sure that I didn't pass out or perform some kind of Elvis Presley offing, she undressed me and dumped me on the couch. In retrospect, Kat said that if she'd known that I'd taken the medication, she would have immediately called an ambulance and had me taken to the hospital. I have never appreciated and loved anybody so much as the moment I realized how much Kat had withstood and done for me.
I had never felt so terrible in my life. I thought that I must have been guilty of drinking too much even though I didn't feel like I'd really drank very much. I have never been in a state where I couldn't remember things, much less 6 hours of my life. Midway through the day, I remembered the medication, looked up the warning on my medication sheet and realized exactly how stupid I was.
So, there it is.
4. If you had the opportunity to travel back in time to kill little baby Hitler, could / would / should you do it? (Hey, one weird question out of five ain't bad...)
No, I wouldn't. I've never ascribed to the idea that history could (or should) have gone another way. Even the most heinous acts in history are evolutionary steps for humanity. I don't believe in fate, but there is something about the momentum of a society. Hitler was terrible, but it was a symptom of something much larger. I wish that I point to a person or event and say "That is pure evil!" and remove the problem, but it's a game of Jenga - sometimes you can't know which piece will come out clean and which will bring the whole thing down.
5. What's your biggest guilty pleasure?
Tater tots and aspartame (Diet Crack - I mean, Coke). Time, space and logic warp whenever I get too close to these things. 'Enough' loses all meaning.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
reaping just What we sow
Why do people willingly suffer so much compromise in their lives, then Demand that their wedding day be Perfect? Can any soul recall a moment, planned months in advance, that went Just the Way they wanted it and was Perfect? If so, please e-mail me immediately. I went to a wedding last Friday that was Easily the most entertaining, free event that I've ever witnessed. For the bride and groom, it was considered a disaster. Human fallibility, once again, Conspired to bring the best-laid plans to ruin.
A year ago, poor Kat was roped into being a bridesmaid when a close friend and co-worker eagerly announced her engagement with her boyfriend. Kat hadn't been a bridesmaid and knew nothing of wedding culture so she eagerly accepted the invitation. Soon after, Kat's friend got another job and left, then came the familiar progression:
MONTH 1: 'We'll be best friends forever!'
MONTH 3: Oh, we need to do this-and-this-and-this together.'
MONTH 5: 'Ohhh... I'd love to but I've got this thing - but I'll call you!'
MONTH 8: 'Sorry I didn't get back to you in time, but I Miss You!'
MONTH 10: 'Things are crazy. Will send you an update SOON...'
MONTH 13: 'I never got that e-mail.'
Kat had a hard time watching the relationship dissolve away, as all such things do when only one person is available. As her friend became increasingly-invested in buying the Perfect Day, the process only exacerbated the situation. I am an Army brat and have endured these progressions all my life, but you never get used to it - you get clearer at spotting the stages. Kat's situation worsened as bridesmaid duties (expenses) began to mount - the dress she will never wear again, the dowdy shoes that go with nothing else she owns. Kat earnestly tried to keep positive, but when it was announced that the bachelorette party was taking place in Florida, she hesitated. When she was told that it was for only one night and the maid-of-honor tried to solicit her for group-gift money, she pulled out (working part-time and painting doesn't pay the big bucks like it used to).
On Friday afternoon, I left work early, took the 4 line down to Wall Street (the least holy site in Manhattan) and scrambled up and down side streets in search of a church. Only the wedding bells and the white silhouette of an anxious bride preparing for the big walk, pointed me in the right direction. I ducked into a side door, found an empty pew and planted myself at the end furthest from the center aisle.
The details of this wedding are incriminating-enough that I feel compelled to bury them in a piece of fiction far in the future. The previous night's festivities carried over to the wedding day festivities. Let's just say that the following events might have occurred:
groom (hung over from night before) puked During an extended, Catholic ceremony
bride swore blue fire for the next 5 hours
I enjoyed an open bar, salacious gossip, a beautiful view of Brooklyn, and a fantastic meal
bride got revenge by puking at reception
home by 11:30
Ahh... sounds perfect to me!
A year ago, poor Kat was roped into being a bridesmaid when a close friend and co-worker eagerly announced her engagement with her boyfriend. Kat hadn't been a bridesmaid and knew nothing of wedding culture so she eagerly accepted the invitation. Soon after, Kat's friend got another job and left, then came the familiar progression:
MONTH 1: 'We'll be best friends forever!'
MONTH 3: Oh, we need to do this-and-this-and-this together.'
MONTH 5: 'Ohhh... I'd love to but I've got this thing - but I'll call you!'
MONTH 8: 'Sorry I didn't get back to you in time, but I Miss You!'
MONTH 10: 'Things are crazy. Will send you an update SOON...'
MONTH 13: 'I never got that e-mail.'
Kat had a hard time watching the relationship dissolve away, as all such things do when only one person is available. As her friend became increasingly-invested in buying the Perfect Day, the process only exacerbated the situation. I am an Army brat and have endured these progressions all my life, but you never get used to it - you get clearer at spotting the stages. Kat's situation worsened as bridesmaid duties (expenses) began to mount - the dress she will never wear again, the dowdy shoes that go with nothing else she owns. Kat earnestly tried to keep positive, but when it was announced that the bachelorette party was taking place in Florida, she hesitated. When she was told that it was for only one night and the maid-of-honor tried to solicit her for group-gift money, she pulled out (working part-time and painting doesn't pay the big bucks like it used to).
On Friday afternoon, I left work early, took the 4 line down to Wall Street (the least holy site in Manhattan) and scrambled up and down side streets in search of a church. Only the wedding bells and the white silhouette of an anxious bride preparing for the big walk, pointed me in the right direction. I ducked into a side door, found an empty pew and planted myself at the end furthest from the center aisle.
The details of this wedding are incriminating-enough that I feel compelled to bury them in a piece of fiction far in the future. The previous night's festivities carried over to the wedding day festivities. Let's just say that the following events might have occurred:
groom (hung over from night before) puked During an extended, Catholic ceremony
bride swore blue fire for the next 5 hours
I enjoyed an open bar, salacious gossip, a beautiful view of Brooklyn, and a fantastic meal
bride got revenge by puking at reception
home by 11:30
Ahh... sounds perfect to me!
Monday, June 20, 2005
here's Metal in your Eye
Last Wednesday, on the day of my Arlo Guthrie concert, I awoke with a nagging discomfort in my left eye. This wasn't a complete surprise to me as I had suffered a close encounter with a flying object at on Friday. My Saturday was spent on the beach, burning my skin to the consistency of bacon while performing an impersonation of Popeye with my contorted face. That night, I held my eye under the showerhead and Declared Victory when the large, black dot was replaced by a small, red dot and the pain toned down to a dull roar. The War Against Astronomical Medical Bills had been won by yours truly. By Monday, the pain subsided and I was soon telling war stories from my grey cubicle and basking in my homeopathic Genius.
Half-way through my Wednesday exercise in paid alphabetizing (my job), I noticed that the world around me was strobing. My left eye was fluttering in a frustrated attempt to alleviate my scratchy, dried-out eye. Irritation spiraled steadily upward into the second-tier of Oww and I was reduced to holding my eye shut with one hand. The return of Popeye was imminent. Even if I had successfully Conquered the flying debris, it was time to see a health professional. But where does a writer and part-time temp with no health insurance go to alleviate eye-pain? Well, if that writer is in New York City (and he is), then he heads on down to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary where, for $97.00, you too can have your eyes poked and prodded.
At 8:30 in the following morning, I emerged from the 'L' subway at 14th and 1st Ave. I was confident that this eye issue would be over in an hour and I'd be back to work, perfecting my ABC's and watching my computer clock slowly tick away my life at an hourly rate. From a block away, I spotted the red and blue banners of the infirmary. The architecture was in the style of public buildings thrown up circa 1968 where the first floor is all brick with small, blocky windows and interiors filled with wood panelling, pallid green and cornflower yellow. Inside, three security guards were debating over who-should-say-what during a fire emergency. A caption explained their conversation from a corner of the desk - a sign warning patients that a Fire Drill was being conducted that morning and requested that nobody Panic and accidentally leave whatever line he/or she was stuck in. One of them stepped into my path and, with his Best professional voice of Authority, asked, "Where are you goin'?"
I rambled something about looking for outpatient registration and pointed to my left eye, just in case he needed proof.
"Go straight back and turn to your left." Of course, these directions didn't come with any visual aids so I picked a direction that indicated 'straight back' to the security guard, then proceeded.
"No," he barked, "That way." Again, no visual aid. I picked another direction and was immediately ignored by the guard.
I entered a long hallway, choked with Hispanic and Chinese faces that stood along a snaking path, ending at a wall of 8 bank-teller-style, registration desks. Bullet-proof glass... hmm... okay, Why?
I joined the line and stood patiently. For the next hour. No posters. No intermingling among prospective patients. Not even a protruding wound to hypnotize the bored. What did I do for that hour? I watched the perfectly-coifed hair of FOX News anchors as they laughed and chatted and talked about things that I could not hear or understand. My Bliss was momentarily interrupted when a security guard got into a shouting match with a patient who claimed that he was an emergency case and couldn't stand in line. The security guard told him that he wasn't an emergency case and continued to hold that line even when the doctor appeared and explained to the security guard that the patient was, indeed, an emergency patient. The guard finally relented, though not without a few parting volleys to the patient for being such a 'jerk'. Good times.
I registered, received my red, medical card, and was pointed to a staircase wherein I discovered another room where I could wait for another hour and a half. Fortunately, I could sit and the air conditioning was set to 'Freezing' so I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and missing my appointment. Elderly, angry men paced in front of corridor doorways where nurses and ophthalmologists would emerge to call patients. Unlike the 60 other people sitting in this refrigerator, these gentlemen need to Get Somewhere and had Obviously been Forgotten. Finally, after a round of vision and glaucoma tests, a tall, willowy ophthalmologist called my name.
"You definitely have a piece of metal in your eye," he said the instant he peered into my left eye, "and I'll need to give you a dilation test." The ophthalmologist glided to a row of boxes and began snatching a bewildering array of bottles and began drop liquid into my eyes. Fifteen minutes (and many high-intensity squirms) later, he had pulled the metal out of my eye, applied a humming device to my eye ("to cover up the hole where the metal was") and written me a prescription for eye drops. I staggered downstairs to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and headed for the subway.
But there was that little detail about my dilated eyes.
I stepped outside. A quick meeting was held between my eyes and the rest of my motor functions. A vote was held. It was unanimous. My body quickly retreated to the nearest shade and halted all forward progress. I covered my face with my hands and created a tiny slit with one of my fingers. With my hand over my face, I began the lurching steps towards home. I was heading in the opposite direction that I'd intended. Rather than swing around and retrace my steps (thus appearing even more crazed and demented than I was already displaying), I decided to make a break for the 3rd Avenue stop. Walking with dilated eyes on a sunny day is much like walking blind, with brief glimpses of a world that looks like a Monet painting. I finally reached 3rd Avenue, staggered across the street to the 8th Avenue line, and descended into the concrete hole like a 6 foot 3, Mister Hyde.
Then, somewhere between 42nd and 59th Street, my eye anesthesia wore off.
Good God - go tell it on the mountain - did that mutherfuckinsonofabitchin' eye begin to hurt. It might seem difficult to believe that an eye Without a piece of metal in it would hurt More than an eye With a piece of metal, but then again I hadn't been granted an opportunity to compare the two side-by-side as I was now. My walk from 207th Street to my cave was an experience that I will not soon forget. Nor, for that matter, will anyone who happened to watch a tall, ambling figure take a dozen steps with his eyes closed. Stop. Reach for something to brace himself. Cover his eyes with one hand. Make a slit between two fingers. Turn his head from one side to another to find his bearings. Then another dozen steps. Stop...
Four Tylenol, two Cosmopolitans and 3 beers later, I was better. I lay on the couch, listening to Woodstock (the movie) and daydreaming of better times.
Half-way through my Wednesday exercise in paid alphabetizing (my job), I noticed that the world around me was strobing. My left eye was fluttering in a frustrated attempt to alleviate my scratchy, dried-out eye. Irritation spiraled steadily upward into the second-tier of Oww and I was reduced to holding my eye shut with one hand. The return of Popeye was imminent. Even if I had successfully Conquered the flying debris, it was time to see a health professional. But where does a writer and part-time temp with no health insurance go to alleviate eye-pain? Well, if that writer is in New York City (and he is), then he heads on down to the New York Eye and Ear Infirmary where, for $97.00, you too can have your eyes poked and prodded.
At 8:30 in the following morning, I emerged from the 'L' subway at 14th and 1st Ave. I was confident that this eye issue would be over in an hour and I'd be back to work, perfecting my ABC's and watching my computer clock slowly tick away my life at an hourly rate. From a block away, I spotted the red and blue banners of the infirmary. The architecture was in the style of public buildings thrown up circa 1968 where the first floor is all brick with small, blocky windows and interiors filled with wood panelling, pallid green and cornflower yellow. Inside, three security guards were debating over who-should-say-what during a fire emergency. A caption explained their conversation from a corner of the desk - a sign warning patients that a Fire Drill was being conducted that morning and requested that nobody Panic and accidentally leave whatever line he/or she was stuck in. One of them stepped into my path and, with his Best professional voice of Authority, asked, "Where are you goin'?"
I rambled something about looking for outpatient registration and pointed to my left eye, just in case he needed proof.
"Go straight back and turn to your left." Of course, these directions didn't come with any visual aids so I picked a direction that indicated 'straight back' to the security guard, then proceeded.
"No," he barked, "That way." Again, no visual aid. I picked another direction and was immediately ignored by the guard.
I entered a long hallway, choked with Hispanic and Chinese faces that stood along a snaking path, ending at a wall of 8 bank-teller-style, registration desks. Bullet-proof glass... hmm... okay, Why?
I joined the line and stood patiently. For the next hour. No posters. No intermingling among prospective patients. Not even a protruding wound to hypnotize the bored. What did I do for that hour? I watched the perfectly-coifed hair of FOX News anchors as they laughed and chatted and talked about things that I could not hear or understand. My Bliss was momentarily interrupted when a security guard got into a shouting match with a patient who claimed that he was an emergency case and couldn't stand in line. The security guard told him that he wasn't an emergency case and continued to hold that line even when the doctor appeared and explained to the security guard that the patient was, indeed, an emergency patient. The guard finally relented, though not without a few parting volleys to the patient for being such a 'jerk'. Good times.
I registered, received my red, medical card, and was pointed to a staircase wherein I discovered another room where I could wait for another hour and a half. Fortunately, I could sit and the air conditioning was set to 'Freezing' so I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep and missing my appointment. Elderly, angry men paced in front of corridor doorways where nurses and ophthalmologists would emerge to call patients. Unlike the 60 other people sitting in this refrigerator, these gentlemen need to Get Somewhere and had Obviously been Forgotten. Finally, after a round of vision and glaucoma tests, a tall, willowy ophthalmologist called my name.
"You definitely have a piece of metal in your eye," he said the instant he peered into my left eye, "and I'll need to give you a dilation test." The ophthalmologist glided to a row of boxes and began snatching a bewildering array of bottles and began drop liquid into my eyes. Fifteen minutes (and many high-intensity squirms) later, he had pulled the metal out of my eye, applied a humming device to my eye ("to cover up the hole where the metal was") and written me a prescription for eye drops. I staggered downstairs to the pharmacy, picked up my prescription and headed for the subway.
But there was that little detail about my dilated eyes.
I stepped outside. A quick meeting was held between my eyes and the rest of my motor functions. A vote was held. It was unanimous. My body quickly retreated to the nearest shade and halted all forward progress. I covered my face with my hands and created a tiny slit with one of my fingers. With my hand over my face, I began the lurching steps towards home. I was heading in the opposite direction that I'd intended. Rather than swing around and retrace my steps (thus appearing even more crazed and demented than I was already displaying), I decided to make a break for the 3rd Avenue stop. Walking with dilated eyes on a sunny day is much like walking blind, with brief glimpses of a world that looks like a Monet painting. I finally reached 3rd Avenue, staggered across the street to the 8th Avenue line, and descended into the concrete hole like a 6 foot 3, Mister Hyde.
Then, somewhere between 42nd and 59th Street, my eye anesthesia wore off.
Good God - go tell it on the mountain - did that mutherfuckinsonofabitchin' eye begin to hurt. It might seem difficult to believe that an eye Without a piece of metal in it would hurt More than an eye With a piece of metal, but then again I hadn't been granted an opportunity to compare the two side-by-side as I was now. My walk from 207th Street to my cave was an experience that I will not soon forget. Nor, for that matter, will anyone who happened to watch a tall, ambling figure take a dozen steps with his eyes closed. Stop. Reach for something to brace himself. Cover his eyes with one hand. Make a slit between two fingers. Turn his head from one side to another to find his bearings. Then another dozen steps. Stop...
Four Tylenol, two Cosmopolitans and 3 beers later, I was better. I lay on the couch, listening to Woodstock (the movie) and daydreaming of better times.
Friday, June 17, 2005
this land is Our land?
"You don't understand, man. I am nowhere near the threat I'd hoped I'd be!"
-Arlo Guthrie
For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.
Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?
I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.
Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.
Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.
At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'
Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.
I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!
Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.
Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.
I need a mosh pit.
-Arlo Guthrie
For most of my life, hippie culture was limited to clichéd Hollywood portrayals of stoned, slow-witted adults who rambled cryptically about wheat germ, pseudo-asian philosophy and some ass-backward idea about saving Mother Earth. I never smoked enough pot to understand The Grateful Dead and Joan Baez's warbled rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" was enough to put me off of hippie, folk music altogether. The best hippie-themed song I heard until my mid-twenties was Mucky Pup's "Hippies Hate Water". I occasionally spotted a hippie here and there, but for the most part I assumed that they all disappeared into rural communes or cleaned up their act and got a real job.
Did I mention that I grew up in a U.S. Army culture until I was 18?
I've grown up a little since those days and my view of hippies improved significantly when I met Kat. Although not a hardcore hippie by trade, Kat is a direct descendent of the lifestyle. I soon found myself hip deep in astrological charts, organic eggs and forwarded e-mails from PETA and Greenpeace. I've befriended quite a few hippies over the years and I discovered that many of my preconceptions of hippies were true (except that most hippies do, in fact, like water but detest aluminum-based deodorant). Like all cultural stereotyping, however, it was over-reductive, and simplified to the point of condescension. Joan Baez DOES suck and I was never able to get into Bob Dylan outside a few of his earlier hits, but there are tons of fantastic, psychedelic, hippie bands that kicked ass (in a peaceful, loving way, of course) and quickly became my favorites: Jefferson Airplane, the Great Society, Blue Cheer, 13th Floor Elevators, Country Joe and the Fish, Ritchie Havens, Canned Heat, Big Brother & the Holding Company, and Jimi Hendrix. In addition, I gained a great deal of respect and admiration for a lifestyle that engages everyone as individuals and actively questions the esoteric rules and institutions that govern (and regulate) most people's lives. I am, however, secure in the knowledge that I am FAR too high-strung and obsessive to ever maintain such a benevolent demeanor and there is not enough pot in all of Meigs County, Ohio that could get me there. So, when I saw that Arlo Guthrie was kicking off his 40th Anniversary tour since the release of "Alice's Restaurant", I knew where Kat and I had to be on Wednesday night.
Battery Park City is a jut of land on the west end of Lower Manhattan built from the landfill used to excavate for the building of the World Trade Center. It also happens to be the site of shady, real estate deals that were intended to build affordable housing for low income families. They did build the low income housing but they put in Queens. The apartment towers that live in Battery Park City today are high-end apartments with sweeping views of the Hudson Bay, including the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and New Jersey. The neighborhoods have that pre-fabbed, soulless feeling, though. At the northern tip of Battery Park City rests an actual park called Rockefeller Park (not enough things named after that family). It was a strange setting for a hippie, folk icon and son of a social-activist musician to stage a concert.
Kat and I have a hard time going out. The best way to trick ourselves into doing anything is to not go home. We took our time getting down there but still showed up over an hour before the start. There was already a crowd starting to gather and onstage there was a rousing folk jam/sound check with The Man Himself at center, manning an acoustic guitar. The whole area had a great, relaxed vibe that instantly took me back to the small-town festivals and bandshell concerts that dominated my Midwestern summers as a kid. It's easy to forget that the hippie/folk music revival of the 60's got it's start in New York City where Ritchie Havens and Bob Dylan plucked their guitars in Tompkins Square Park and small dives in Greenwich Village. Middle-aged women with long, braided hair and tie-dyed skirts danced beside hacky-sack circles and frisbee games. Arlo jammed for 15-20 minutes then retreated to a modest-sized bus.
At 7pm, a folksy group called The Mammals took the stage. Their music wasn't particularly trailblazing, but they set an old-timey, toe-tapping tone and held their own. I recognized a tune from my Buena Vista Social Club CD, a couple of old, folk numbers and some original tunes that echoed 60's folk pieces. For two people who have spent the last 4 years wading through hipsters and scenesters, the crowd was refreshing, and perhaps even more entertaining than the act. A white-hair-and-beard man with oversized sunglass danced a non-stop jig that left me gasping for air. Young and old women twirled and swayed to the rousing banjo-and-fiddle numbers. A short, bearded man in baseball hat and bandana performed a virtual MC act as he bounced to the music then clapped and turned to the audience with a look of 'Aren't they fucking great?! I told you they were fucking great!'
Between sets, a middle-aged guy (sounding like a stoned version of Kramer) gushed about a commune town in Ohio where he planned on living. His friends, long-haired and mellow, gently suggested that a 9 to 5 job might put some much-needed structure in his life. Kat and I glanced about and marveled at the volume of sack lunches that dominated the scene. Most of the audience actually preferred to sit on the grass versus snagging a fold-out chair... and there wasn't a Red Bull or clove cigarette in sight.
I was shocked when Arlo took to the stage, only minutes after the Mammals had left. Where was the diva-like lateness or 30-minute guitar tunings that I had grown grown to expect? Was this legal? Wasn't some form of passive-aggressive behavior Required within city limits? Then, Arlo nearly knocked me out of my seat when he began his set with "Alice's Restaurant". What kind of madness was going on here?! That's supposed to be the Rousing finale! We were supposed to Suffer and Pine for the opening chords so we could Roar and Cheer the release of anticipation! What kind of frigging Performer was this anyway?! Had he ever even Played in front of a live audience?! How could could he possibly go Up after playing his most famous song?!
Arlo didn't kick the tension up and he didn't knock it down, either. This was a loose, casual evening of Music and as the performance rolled from one rise to another, it became apparent that Arlo might know a thing or two about performing and maybe, a little more about what his audience needed than I. Arlo kicked through his better-known songs, played a couple ones from his dad and a Leadbelly classic "Goodnight Irene". He didn't play with coiled urgency that I love in so much of my music, but with a sense of timelessness and quiet observation. For a couple of hours, I was reminded of how important it was to get to know people and not look at the world with an 'Us vs. Them' mentality. I felt better about people and our potential for good and rising to meet challenges.
Then, on Thursday I stood in line for 2 and a half hours so that I could have a piece of metal pulled out of my eye.
I need a mosh pit.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Episode III - straight in the Eye
On Friday, Kat and I were in no mood to go home after work and spend another evening in the Sweltering Cave. Instead, we opted for a $10.75-per-ticket trip to our local movie theater and witness our last Star Wars movie in the theater - Episode III: Revenge of the Sith. The first trilogy had provided one of the most-significant events of my life - far more than I want to admit considering the theatrical debacles called Episode I and II. The Phantom Menace had been such a disappointment, I couldn't bring myself to see Episode II in the theater (a wise choice, in retrospect). My decision to attend Episode III was akin to attending the funeral of an estranged family member. I hadn't been on good terms, but I felt compelled to pay my respects in deference to better times. Little did I know that I would pay for my decision with eye-watering, teeth-gritting pain.
It has been years since I've really enjoyed an outing at the movies. The culture of movie-going that I enjoyed in my youth is long-gone. Movies are no longer a 'Night Out', where people dressed up, enjoyed dinner at a restaurant, then enthusiastically, and quietly, enjoyed the movie. I grew up in the Golden Age of Pre-Pubescent Film where the stories catered to a young child's excitement and adventure, yet was rarely condescending. That would come later with the introduction of Robert Zemeckis and an influx of cross-marketing and recycling. Also, it's difficult to thing of a movie in New York as a fun, cheap night out - it is an expensive venture with high ticket prices and outrageously-priced, stale and oversized food. And don't even get me started on those refillable beverage containers that could easily perform double-duty as a soda container/hot tub.
Even so, I remain a purist and expect a high level of quality from a first-run theater. I was going to see the visual fest of my final Star Wars movie so it would have to be in a high-end theater -Loews Lincoln Square. It's the best-looking theater in the City, particularly if one of the Spectacle Films is playing in their IMAX theater. Ahhh... stadium seating. On this night, we chose one of their Digital Projection theaters. The quality of digital projection is never as nice as film, but we favored the advantage of seeing an Event film, 3 weeks after the opening, that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the back end of a taxi cab. We had chosen an early show so that we wouldn't be inundated with the usual throng of late-viewers of Spectacle Films who like to spend the movie being unimpressed and pronouncing their findings to the rest of the audience.
We chose an off-center pair of seats about mid-way back. I'm usually That Guy who has to sit in the geometric center of the theater, but age and my disillusion with the Ritual of the Movies has mellowed me. As we settled down with our keg of Coke and bushel of popcorn, Kat turned to me with an earnest look on her face.
"Are you all right," she asked.
"What?"
"I won't be able to enjoy the movie if you've got something going on over there."
"Like what," I asked with as much self-righteousness as I could muster.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"I'm fine."
Kat scanned the people around us, searching for that person who would start talking during the movie and set me off. "You're going to be good?"
"I said I'm fine." Jesus, you'd think that I was some sort of jerkweed who just snaps at the drop of a hat.
I knew what this was all about. When we went to see The Return of the King, some nimrod, directly behind us, began making snorts of disgust that just became louder and louder until I finally turned around and said (perhaps a bit loudly) "If I wanted the Asshole Commentary, I'd fucking wait and buy the DVD." Perhaps, I was a little more aggressive-sounding than I meant to be, but soft-and-sweet doesn't work very well in this town.
On this night, however, I was in a relaxed, benevolent mood. I had resolved to not analyze the wooden dialogue or George Lucas's need to have every character say exactly what they're doing AS we're watching them do it ("It looks like we're entering the atmosphere", "I'm going to try to shoot those off"). On this night, I was going to be that earnest, wide-eyed, 7-year-old again, sitting in a movie theater in Fairbanks, Alaska, watching this science fiction spectacle for the first time. The lights dimmed, the movie trailers washed over me as Kat and I ate a third of the popcorn before throwing in the towel and reclining into our seats. The movie began and I was There. I watched the opening scene and wrapped myself in that thrilling sense of space and speed that epitomizes a solid, George Lucas film. The first 25 minutes of the film were great.
Then, something landed in my eye.
For the first few minutes, I was convinced that another one of my Evil eyelashes had landed in my eye. I have hay fever and the Only thing that's kinda good about hay fever is the Huge, Long Eyelashes. When I'm not wearing glasses, I get actually get compliments on my eyelashes. But, when an aged, Beloved lash decides when it cannot hang on any longer, it falls... and hurts like a bitch when it lands in my eye. Then, the next 20 minutes are spent in the pursuit of Getting It Out. The moment that I felt that familiar pinch, I knew that the first step was to not Panic, even though the movie theater air conditioning was turned to full-blast and blowing in my face, drying my eyes and making me blink like a strobe light wherein each blink felt like somebody was tormenting my pupil with a sewing needle.
I reached for the saline solution I had stored in my backpack for contact emergencies. I was wearing glasses this night, but I always kept one handy. Kat eyed me nervously as she tried to divide her attention between the projected eye-candy and the writhing mass of Deckard seated beside her.
"I've got something in my eye," I whispered in her ear between needle-jabs.
"Can I get you something," she asked.
I waved off the offer. I had to Get Out. I leapt from my seat, jogged up the aisle and into the restroom. I splashed water in my eye. I cupped water in my hand and dunked my eye in it. I poured a half pint of saline solution into my eye. I leaned over the water-splattered, bathroom sink and desperately scanned in every corner and beneath the lids. Nothing.
I trudged back to the theater and stood in back. I alternated between squirting saline and watching a massive, video game of Wookies and clone troopers as they fought off a droid army made of Legos. I considered sitting in an aisle seat in the back and leaving Kat in peace, but she would soon start worrying about my disappearance. I returned to my seat, casually sipped from the swimming pool of soda and told Kat that I was "Fine" with the most relaxed tone my grit teeth could muster.
One would think that a second eye wasn't necessary to the enjoyment of a 2D film, but the wrongness of that statement would turn out to be one of the many, wise Truths I would discover that night, such as:
1) George Lucas's love scenes, despite popular opinion, do NOT get any better when viewed under torture. It just compounds the torture - a pit AND a pendulum, if you will.
2) Although I was channeling the child-like optimism of a 7-year-old from the 1970's, I could still say 'fuck' and 'shit' on a streaming loop and not fear the Hand of Parental Authority.
3) There are Many exciting, unique, and utterly ineffective ways to try to keep one's eye inert while staring at a flashy, movie screen.
4) Watching a movie through nagging pain gives the movie-going experience a hazy, dream-like quality as everything recedes into the background, making room for my Full Attention to the nagging pain.
The Star Wars Machine finally ground to a halt after stepping through a series of endings meant to say 'This story thread leads to this part in the first Star Wars movie. And this leads to this, and this leads to this...' I might have even indulged in a sentimental tear, had my eye not been already gushing like a fountain in the attempt to Purge the thing in my eye.
All the way home, all that night and all day Saturday was spent in the grips of Blink Pain. It wasn't until Saturday, I stood in a public restroom, that I finally saw the object of my torment - a little, black dot lodged in the colored part of my eye. I spent the day lying on a beach, lobsterizing my body and envisioning an emergency room visit and a pair of jagged tweezers, slowly descending into my eye. That night, I rushed to the shower and stood under the showerhead, spraying my eye... and remarkably, it came out.
So, what did I observed from this experience, aside from the asinine choices an uninsured man will take to remove a lodged object from his eye to avoid emergency room fees? Did I learn something about the consequences of revisiting old relatives? Was there something to be understood in the baffling series of Meetings taken by every Jedi, council member, or military alliance in the Star Wars Universe? Or the value of wearing a pair of sports goggles in a darkened, air conditioned theater? Or the value of eating a tasty meal and buying a small bag of Reese's Pieces BEFORE going to the movies? Maybe Kat learned that one can never really allow for every contingency when dealing with a twitchy, movie-Nazi boyfriend with long eyelashes and no protective eyewear.
Who can ever truly know?
It has been years since I've really enjoyed an outing at the movies. The culture of movie-going that I enjoyed in my youth is long-gone. Movies are no longer a 'Night Out', where people dressed up, enjoyed dinner at a restaurant, then enthusiastically, and quietly, enjoyed the movie. I grew up in the Golden Age of Pre-Pubescent Film where the stories catered to a young child's excitement and adventure, yet was rarely condescending. That would come later with the introduction of Robert Zemeckis and an influx of cross-marketing and recycling. Also, it's difficult to thing of a movie in New York as a fun, cheap night out - it is an expensive venture with high ticket prices and outrageously-priced, stale and oversized food. And don't even get me started on those refillable beverage containers that could easily perform double-duty as a soda container/hot tub.
Even so, I remain a purist and expect a high level of quality from a first-run theater. I was going to see the visual fest of my final Star Wars movie so it would have to be in a high-end theater -Loews Lincoln Square. It's the best-looking theater in the City, particularly if one of the Spectacle Films is playing in their IMAX theater. Ahhh... stadium seating. On this night, we chose one of their Digital Projection theaters. The quality of digital projection is never as nice as film, but we favored the advantage of seeing an Event film, 3 weeks after the opening, that didn't look like it'd been dragged from the back end of a taxi cab. We had chosen an early show so that we wouldn't be inundated with the usual throng of late-viewers of Spectacle Films who like to spend the movie being unimpressed and pronouncing their findings to the rest of the audience.
We chose an off-center pair of seats about mid-way back. I'm usually That Guy who has to sit in the geometric center of the theater, but age and my disillusion with the Ritual of the Movies has mellowed me. As we settled down with our keg of Coke and bushel of popcorn, Kat turned to me with an earnest look on her face.
"Are you all right," she asked.
"What?"
"I won't be able to enjoy the movie if you've got something going on over there."
"Like what," I asked with as much self-righteousness as I could muster.
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"I'm fine."
Kat scanned the people around us, searching for that person who would start talking during the movie and set me off. "You're going to be good?"
"I said I'm fine." Jesus, you'd think that I was some sort of jerkweed who just snaps at the drop of a hat.
I knew what this was all about. When we went to see The Return of the King, some nimrod, directly behind us, began making snorts of disgust that just became louder and louder until I finally turned around and said (perhaps a bit loudly) "If I wanted the Asshole Commentary, I'd fucking wait and buy the DVD." Perhaps, I was a little more aggressive-sounding than I meant to be, but soft-and-sweet doesn't work very well in this town.
On this night, however, I was in a relaxed, benevolent mood. I had resolved to not analyze the wooden dialogue or George Lucas's need to have every character say exactly what they're doing AS we're watching them do it ("It looks like we're entering the atmosphere", "I'm going to try to shoot those off"). On this night, I was going to be that earnest, wide-eyed, 7-year-old again, sitting in a movie theater in Fairbanks, Alaska, watching this science fiction spectacle for the first time. The lights dimmed, the movie trailers washed over me as Kat and I ate a third of the popcorn before throwing in the towel and reclining into our seats. The movie began and I was There. I watched the opening scene and wrapped myself in that thrilling sense of space and speed that epitomizes a solid, George Lucas film. The first 25 minutes of the film were great.
Then, something landed in my eye.
For the first few minutes, I was convinced that another one of my Evil eyelashes had landed in my eye. I have hay fever and the Only thing that's kinda good about hay fever is the Huge, Long Eyelashes. When I'm not wearing glasses, I get actually get compliments on my eyelashes. But, when an aged, Beloved lash decides when it cannot hang on any longer, it falls... and hurts like a bitch when it lands in my eye. Then, the next 20 minutes are spent in the pursuit of Getting It Out. The moment that I felt that familiar pinch, I knew that the first step was to not Panic, even though the movie theater air conditioning was turned to full-blast and blowing in my face, drying my eyes and making me blink like a strobe light wherein each blink felt like somebody was tormenting my pupil with a sewing needle.
I reached for the saline solution I had stored in my backpack for contact emergencies. I was wearing glasses this night, but I always kept one handy. Kat eyed me nervously as she tried to divide her attention between the projected eye-candy and the writhing mass of Deckard seated beside her.
"I've got something in my eye," I whispered in her ear between needle-jabs.
"Can I get you something," she asked.
I waved off the offer. I had to Get Out. I leapt from my seat, jogged up the aisle and into the restroom. I splashed water in my eye. I cupped water in my hand and dunked my eye in it. I poured a half pint of saline solution into my eye. I leaned over the water-splattered, bathroom sink and desperately scanned in every corner and beneath the lids. Nothing.
I trudged back to the theater and stood in back. I alternated between squirting saline and watching a massive, video game of Wookies and clone troopers as they fought off a droid army made of Legos. I considered sitting in an aisle seat in the back and leaving Kat in peace, but she would soon start worrying about my disappearance. I returned to my seat, casually sipped from the swimming pool of soda and told Kat that I was "Fine" with the most relaxed tone my grit teeth could muster.
One would think that a second eye wasn't necessary to the enjoyment of a 2D film, but the wrongness of that statement would turn out to be one of the many, wise Truths I would discover that night, such as:
1) George Lucas's love scenes, despite popular opinion, do NOT get any better when viewed under torture. It just compounds the torture - a pit AND a pendulum, if you will.
2) Although I was channeling the child-like optimism of a 7-year-old from the 1970's, I could still say 'fuck' and 'shit' on a streaming loop and not fear the Hand of Parental Authority.
3) There are Many exciting, unique, and utterly ineffective ways to try to keep one's eye inert while staring at a flashy, movie screen.
4) Watching a movie through nagging pain gives the movie-going experience a hazy, dream-like quality as everything recedes into the background, making room for my Full Attention to the nagging pain.
The Star Wars Machine finally ground to a halt after stepping through a series of endings meant to say 'This story thread leads to this part in the first Star Wars movie. And this leads to this, and this leads to this...' I might have even indulged in a sentimental tear, had my eye not been already gushing like a fountain in the attempt to Purge the thing in my eye.
All the way home, all that night and all day Saturday was spent in the grips of Blink Pain. It wasn't until Saturday, I stood in a public restroom, that I finally saw the object of my torment - a little, black dot lodged in the colored part of my eye. I spent the day lying on a beach, lobsterizing my body and envisioning an emergency room visit and a pair of jagged tweezers, slowly descending into my eye. That night, I rushed to the shower and stood under the showerhead, spraying my eye... and remarkably, it came out.
So, what did I observed from this experience, aside from the asinine choices an uninsured man will take to remove a lodged object from his eye to avoid emergency room fees? Did I learn something about the consequences of revisiting old relatives? Was there something to be understood in the baffling series of Meetings taken by every Jedi, council member, or military alliance in the Star Wars Universe? Or the value of wearing a pair of sports goggles in a darkened, air conditioned theater? Or the value of eating a tasty meal and buying a small bag of Reese's Pieces BEFORE going to the movies? Maybe Kat learned that one can never really allow for every contingency when dealing with a twitchy, movie-Nazi boyfriend with long eyelashes and no protective eyewear.
Who can ever truly know?
Thursday, June 09, 2005
while Waiting for Macy's
Fucking cats...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
On Wednesday, our Holy Mattress and Box Spring of Lower-Back Redemption was scheduled to arrive. I had stood our old, tenderized mattress up against the dresser and cleared out the shoes, electronics, packing Styrofoam, assorted, storage bins and life-sized, dust bunnies. Pippin and Sam (our 9-month-old kittens) scrambled from one end of the cave to the other. Their hideout had been un-hid and they were now Exposed to any cat-crisis that might surface. Kat headed off to work while I settled in to a long day. I launched into the blogosphere and began blogging like I never blogged before. Actually, I performed the extended Prologue to blogging - a ritual of virtual-procrastination via re-organizing MP3 files, naming digital photographs that I took 8 months ago and checking out porn websites (But that's just between you and me. Shhhhhhhh!) .
An hour into the Blog-Zone, I noticed that Pippin had been running and pet-flopping solo for the last 5 minutes which, in Blog-Zone time, meant at least a half hour. Where was Sam? I served up breakfast for the cats, taking care to make nice, loud noises with the food dishes. Still... no Sam. I have learned that it's important to play it cool when dealing with cats. If you acted like you needed them, whe-he-hell... that sounds like a good reason to hide. So... I sauntered. Into the living room. Not there. Kitchen? Not there. Bathroom? Hallway? Bedroom?
"Sam?" No! Composure, Deckard! Composure!
I checked beneath the dresser. Under the desk. Behind the doors. In the closets. In the shower. Behind the toilet. Behind the refrigerator-
Suddenly, I struck on an idea - toys! Wondrous, loud, freakout-inducing toys! Now, the toys will no longer service the Boredom of others! They shall service me! (this extended Cat Expedition had deprived me of coffee Sustenance well beyond acceptable limits) I scrambled to every corner of the cave, retrieving every toilet-paper roll, wadded piece of paper, dowel rod, ribbon fragment and jangly, fuzz-ball I could find. I kicked them from one end of the apartment into the other. I was the frigging Dick Van Dyke/One-Man-Band of dowel rods, jingly balls (watch the comments, bub) and paper wads. Pippin had planted himself in the bathroom doorway, watch the parade go by and sit this Adventure out. I reached the bedroom with still no sign of Sam.
"Sam," I barked. "Sam!" Fuck it. He'll come. Oh yes, he will come.
I kicked the jingly balls and paper balls against the wall for a couple of minutes then finally ground to a halt. Hot and cold flashes of adrenaline flooded my caffeine-deficient system. What if Sam got out the front door? What if he was wandering through the Wilderness of New York or, worse, had been abducted and forced to sell bootleg DVDs on Canal Street? I pivoted towards the bedroom door, ready race to the front door and Save my Endangered cat!
Then, something caught my eye... high above me and to my left. Comfortably nestled at the top of the old mattresses. I had an Audience... a hideously-Cute and Innocent audience.
Bastard.
Five hours after their scheduled "Window for Delivery", my new mattress arrived...
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
two sun strokes to Go, please
On Sunday, I woke up sticky-hot against the bed sheets to a commotion beside me. Kat had flung the covers off the bed and was purring with excitement. The clouds had lifted in her world, and summer was here! She had been working on her winter depression since the end of the previous summer where the first sign of Fall began a long mope of anticipation of what was to come. Our trip to Thailand in November only served to heighten her loathing of New York winters. My listless attempts to put a positive spin on cooler temperatures and white, fluffy snow had only earned me slit-eyed looks and the faint sound of a hiss. The promise of near-90 degree temperatures had whipped her into a disturbing bout of pep - too early in the morning from such a slow riser as this.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).
Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.
Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.
My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.
The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.
To the Park!
Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.
Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"
It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.
Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
MoMA... with the cute mouse ears
Why do Americans suck so bad about contemporary art? I am making a sweeping generalization, but that's the nature of blogging so work with me here. I was an eager victim of the realistic=good mindset until I met Kat. She is a painter and, whenever you really fall in love with somebody you start doing a million little things you never thought that you'd do like shower everyday, wear a belt that matches your shoes, become a vegetarian, moderate your self-destructive behavior, and subject yourself to a whole world of social events you'd never considered in the past - like, oh say, contemporary art. I thumbed through Kat's collection of Taschen and Phaidon books and kept my opinions to myself because I loved my new girlfriend and I really liked the sex so I wasn't about to fuck anything up. Then, perhaps sensing my muted skepticism, she pulled a fast one on me. She took me on a tour of museums all over the Midwest. I followed her to exhibits at the Wexner Center, the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Art Institute of Chicago, the Indianapolis Museum of Contemporary Art, and Pittsburgh's bafflingly-cool collection of museums including my favorite, The Mattress Factory. Lo and behold, I slowly began to realize that art didn't fall off a cliff after Monet and Van Gogh. The boring squares of color that I'd scrutinized in a book of Rothko paintings had become shimmering contrasts of color as I stood in front of one and actually spent a couple minutes Looking at it instead of performing that moseying procession I had mastered over years. I learned that egg tempura-realism wasn't necessarily the epitome of painting and that artists like Tim Hawkinson, John Currin, Egon Schiele, Francis Bacon and Hieronymus Bosch could knock me on my ass without photo-realistic renditions.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
I know, many of your are thinking (or perhaps saying out loud) - "Duh, Deckard! What are you, a fuckin' idiot? Where have you been living - under a rock?" First of all, nobody calls me a fuckin' idiot to my face. Second, I am living in a cave, which is in a rock, not under it. Third, my artistic medium of choice for the first 25 years of my life has been film. In addition to the photographic aspect, the bulk of filmmaking has been stuck in naturalistic representations of reality. Yeah yeah, I know about El Topo, Un Chien Andalou and tons of other obtuse art films, but please refer to sentence #2 in this blog. I have written my perspective on good vs. bad art, but it is important to note that I actually View contemporary art before I pass judgment. I have come a LONG way in the last 5 years and much of it has had to do with remaining open to the occassional thrashing of my assumptions. On Friday night, my girlfriend and I participated in the backpackers/broke NYer's Event of the City - Free Admission to The Museum of Modern Art. Kat and I have avoided this outing ever since the MoMA's grand opening in their re-designed building. Part of our avoidance was due to the horror stories we'd heard regarding the endless lines and over-stuffing of the museum. I, however, have also endured a dodgy relationship with MoMA. I'd visited the Manhattan museum back in 2000 when they had just begun to renovate their building but were still willing to charge nearly full price to see a pitiful, handful of paintings. 3 years later, I was similarly-bilked when I trudged out to their temporary 'warehouse' museum in Queens for another token showing of a few paintings. Admittedly, my mood wasn't helped when, mid-way through an Ansel Adams exhibit, the City decided to have their first blackout in 30 years, sending me, Kat and a friend of mine on an 11-mile, hiking trek back to Inwood... in flip-flops.
Well, we finally went and the verdict on the new building is in. I congratulate MoMA for building the most banal, non-contemporary piece of architecture they could muster and still keep a straight face when they call themselves 'Modern'. The building is a series of boxy levels with a high, central ceiling and wall windows that drastically shift the color temperature of the rooms from one wall to the next (kind of important from a consistent-lighting standpoint). There are small side hallways that go nowhere but are just long enough to make you have to walk clear over There to find out. From the outside, it looks like virtually any office building built after 1960. For weeks after it opened, the New York publications debated the boldness of the architecture. Let me tell you what's bold about it. Nothing. It's a space built to truck people through it's halls and along it's escalators as quickly and efficiently as possible.
But let's be honest here, bold architecture doesn't necessarily mean art-friendly. The Guggenheim looks fantastic when you walk in and climb the spiraling hall for the first time, but it's not the easiest place to view art with every person in the museum passing in front of you on the way up or down. The real reason I was at MoMA was to check out the paintings, so... If MoMA was my first time seeing a Van Gogh or Jackson Pollack in person, then I might have been somewhat impressed. Peeking between big hair and baseball caps to get a glimpse of "Starry Night" was not exactly an enlightening experience. I couldn't get over the fact that the vast majority of art in MoMA was limited to pieces created prior to 1970. Everything was really safe and had that 'corporate lobby' feel.
Then, it hit me - I was at Snob Disneyland. I was at a hand-carved, wooden 'rollercoaster-ride' of a movie. I was at a Coldplay concert performed with the New York Philharmonic in Lincoln Center. I was watching 'American Idol: Opera Edition'. I was in a museum where I had zero chance of catching 30 seconds in front of a painting without someone having to mosey right the fuck in front of me.
It was a museum for the person that I was 6 years ago, and once I realized this, I let it go.
Friday, May 27, 2005
ahh, spring! time for Rail Rage
WARNING: Portions of this entry were obtained under extreme duress (rush hour on the 'A'). Comments heretofore written may not represent the author's feelings under other environmental conditions.
I hate cars, particularly in big cities. I loathe trolling block-upon-block, scanning for a parking space. I despise the high insurance rates. I abhor (c'mon thesaurus!) all the hours wasted in traffic jams where I've been reduced to the 8 millionth repeat of some pop song or the lay-thinking of nearly every talkshow host. And, I don't like to drive. This might be a High crime against the soul of Americana, not to mention the implications for familial betrayal. My brother is a huge, Ford man. He could spend all day/every day, driving around in his truck and he'd be in bliss (this boy was born to be a cop). In addition, he and my dad are performance motorcycle (a.k.a. Crotch Rocket) enthusiasts. While I download music videos and the occasional porn video, my brother streams vids of guys doing wheelies or peeling out for a quarter mile straight... and probably downloads the occasional porn video. My brother burns his motorcycle vids on a CD then rushes to my dad's house. With the focus of a Kennedy-assassination theorist, they examine the speedometer and odometer that the video has carefully included in daredevil performance. Then, he and my father debate the theoretically-credible limits of consumer-level crotch rockets as I strain to remember the last time I'd performed a proper oil change on my car.
I blame my dad for my un-American affliction. I do this because 1) it's fun and exceptionally easy to blame your parents and 2 ) he was an Army soldier that got the clan stationed in Germany for the bulk of my high school years. Sure, I got to see amazing works of art, exposed myself to the resonant rhythms of rich, ancient cultures and, as an adolescent perk, watched European women sunbathe naked. But what of my love of cars? What about being raised as a good enthusiast of chrome wheels and torque ratios? Huh? Huh?! Huh, motherfucker?!!! How could my father ruthlessly subject me to a world of easy, clean, public transportation when he knew that I would be returning to a country that lives and breathes cars? I mean, the whole frigging country is built to virtually require the ownership of a car (except for urban swatches of the Northeast). In Germany, if I wanted to meet a friend at the movies, I jumped on a train, bus or streetcar. I never learned that valuable sense of isolation that American kids in the suburbs felt or the burning shame of begging Mom for a ride or, later, the keys to the family car. When I moved to New York City, eagerly sold my car. After years of insurance payments, car repairs and the mind-numbing stream of endless hours along America's butt-ugly freeway system, I was ready to cut the cord. With that said, I wish I had a car. I don't want it to get around in the city. I want it to Escape. The crush of humanity is getting to me and I need Out. It's the beginning of summer and all of us New Yorkers are sick to death of one another. After huddling in our caves, our cave-like, work cubicles, and finally our hurling, subterranean, sardine cans, we strain at the first sign of warmth and sunlight. Nowhere does our derision for our fellow man issue forth with such a viscous burning as during rush 'hour'.
Rush 'hour' is an inherently hostile act. Nobody wants to do it. It isn't a picnic to do the morning commute, but we're all usually still a little too tired to make much of a stink about it. It's not like anybody's just burning up to get to work as Early as possible anyway. If you're on my train at 8:20 or later and you're heading anywhere below 59th Street, you know that you're probably not going to make to work by 9am anyway so you'd might as well stake out a seat and hit your snooze button until 59th Street.
Going Home, however, is when the need for Escape gains it's keen edge and the Commute becomes a physical imperative. Not only do you have to go where you're going, but you Have to be there Now. For all of you already living in the Unaffordable neighborhoods below 100th Street or the hip (and also unaffordable) neighborhoods just across the East River in Brooklyn and you would like to argue otherwise - go Fuck yourselves because you don't know what the Hell you are talking about (please review disclaimer above). This is Deathrace 2005 and Losing is only a missed subway train away. Human roadblocks choke the staircases in a passive-aggressive attempt to Foil everyone who really cares about getting home. The MTA has lazily, yet somehow purposefully, fucked up somewhere downtown again. Instead of getting the 'A' train that you so righteously deserve, you are dealt a steady stream of body blows in the form of 'B' and 'D' trains. Some undeserving, trashy smarm darts ahead as the arriving train has barely begun to regurgitate it's growling, SUV-babystroller-toting excuse for humanity. The smarm darts into a vacated seat even though you know that they'll be getting off two stops later where you will be out of position to snag it and you need that spot because it's gonna be another 45 minutes away from home and you're about ready to lose your shit and pummel the fuck out of that self-righteous, oblivious ass-monkey who Has to spread his legs That wide and take up 2 seats because his balls are Just That Damned Big!(again, please review disclaimer above)
I hate cars, particularly in big cities. I loathe trolling block-upon-block, scanning for a parking space. I despise the high insurance rates. I abhor (c'mon thesaurus!) all the hours wasted in traffic jams where I've been reduced to the 8 millionth repeat of some pop song or the lay-thinking of nearly every talkshow host. And, I don't like to drive. This might be a High crime against the soul of Americana, not to mention the implications for familial betrayal. My brother is a huge, Ford man. He could spend all day/every day, driving around in his truck and he'd be in bliss (this boy was born to be a cop). In addition, he and my dad are performance motorcycle (a.k.a. Crotch Rocket) enthusiasts. While I download music videos and the occasional porn video, my brother streams vids of guys doing wheelies or peeling out for a quarter mile straight... and probably downloads the occasional porn video. My brother burns his motorcycle vids on a CD then rushes to my dad's house. With the focus of a Kennedy-assassination theorist, they examine the speedometer and odometer that the video has carefully included in daredevil performance. Then, he and my father debate the theoretically-credible limits of consumer-level crotch rockets as I strain to remember the last time I'd performed a proper oil change on my car.
I blame my dad for my un-American affliction. I do this because 1) it's fun and exceptionally easy to blame your parents and 2 ) he was an Army soldier that got the clan stationed in Germany for the bulk of my high school years. Sure, I got to see amazing works of art, exposed myself to the resonant rhythms of rich, ancient cultures and, as an adolescent perk, watched European women sunbathe naked. But what of my love of cars? What about being raised as a good enthusiast of chrome wheels and torque ratios? Huh? Huh?! Huh, motherfucker?!!! How could my father ruthlessly subject me to a world of easy, clean, public transportation when he knew that I would be returning to a country that lives and breathes cars? I mean, the whole frigging country is built to virtually require the ownership of a car (except for urban swatches of the Northeast). In Germany, if I wanted to meet a friend at the movies, I jumped on a train, bus or streetcar. I never learned that valuable sense of isolation that American kids in the suburbs felt or the burning shame of begging Mom for a ride or, later, the keys to the family car. When I moved to New York City, eagerly sold my car. After years of insurance payments, car repairs and the mind-numbing stream of endless hours along America's butt-ugly freeway system, I was ready to cut the cord. With that said, I wish I had a car. I don't want it to get around in the city. I want it to Escape. The crush of humanity is getting to me and I need Out. It's the beginning of summer and all of us New Yorkers are sick to death of one another. After huddling in our caves, our cave-like, work cubicles, and finally our hurling, subterranean, sardine cans, we strain at the first sign of warmth and sunlight. Nowhere does our derision for our fellow man issue forth with such a viscous burning as during rush 'hour'.
Rush 'hour' is an inherently hostile act. Nobody wants to do it. It isn't a picnic to do the morning commute, but we're all usually still a little too tired to make much of a stink about it. It's not like anybody's just burning up to get to work as Early as possible anyway. If you're on my train at 8:20 or later and you're heading anywhere below 59th Street, you know that you're probably not going to make to work by 9am anyway so you'd might as well stake out a seat and hit your snooze button until 59th Street.
Going Home, however, is when the need for Escape gains it's keen edge and the Commute becomes a physical imperative. Not only do you have to go where you're going, but you Have to be there Now. For all of you already living in the Unaffordable neighborhoods below 100th Street or the hip (and also unaffordable) neighborhoods just across the East River in Brooklyn and you would like to argue otherwise - go Fuck yourselves because you don't know what the Hell you are talking about (please review disclaimer above). This is Deathrace 2005 and Losing is only a missed subway train away. Human roadblocks choke the staircases in a passive-aggressive attempt to Foil everyone who really cares about getting home. The MTA has lazily, yet somehow purposefully, fucked up somewhere downtown again. Instead of getting the 'A' train that you so righteously deserve, you are dealt a steady stream of body blows in the form of 'B' and 'D' trains. Some undeserving, trashy smarm darts ahead as the arriving train has barely begun to regurgitate it's growling, SUV-babystroller-toting excuse for humanity. The smarm darts into a vacated seat even though you know that they'll be getting off two stops later where you will be out of position to snag it and you need that spot because it's gonna be another 45 minutes away from home and you're about ready to lose your shit and pummel the fuck out of that self-righteous, oblivious ass-monkey who Has to spread his legs That wide and take up 2 seats because his balls are Just That Damned Big!(again, please review disclaimer above)
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
I am so Totally over Her
I know. I suck. Logically, it goes against my most-fundamental beliefs as an artist. But there I am, doing it virtually every Monday. ***Big Breath Here*** I read the Top 10 List of Box Office performers from the weekend.
There! I said it. I finally admitted it. That's the first step towards recovery, you know. I'm practically cured. I don't need those numbers. I was able to kick smoking, movie collecting, and fast food. Surely I can... quit... if I wanted to...
In my defense - I don't, in any way, believe that these statistics reflect the quality of a particular film. I would never ascribe to the hideous belief of many Americans that a high-score at the box office means that a movie is any better or worse than any other. I do it because I am always waiting for Big Failure of the Enemy. When a crap-ass movie like XXX: State of the Union opens with a multi-million dollar campaign push, I'm just begging for it to fail. It's like watching NASCAR. You don't want the entire race to fail, but there's a part of you that can't wait for a really good wipeout.
This year has made for a very satisfying track of the box office. Ticket costs are up, advertisements in theaters are pissing people off, mainstream movies are flooding the multiplexes and revenue is DOWN. Even the obnoxious success of the Star Wars prequel has not succeeded in reviving the box office. And now, they're hoping that The Longest Yard and Madagasgar are going to save things over the Memorial Day weekend?! Oh yeah! This is gonna be good. This is the year that Hollywood goes down! I can't wait until -
...
I'm doing it again. I'm skidding off the road and into the realm of stupid. I have become one of those friends who keep saying, "I'm totally over her. God, it's such a relief to be free of her. Really! If she hadn't broke up with me, I'd have done it first. So what did you see her doing? Really? Well I don't care. Why the fuck should I care? I'm totally over her."
Bad breakups die hard and this one really has to die. Like, now.
There! I said it. I finally admitted it. That's the first step towards recovery, you know. I'm practically cured. I don't need those numbers. I was able to kick smoking, movie collecting, and fast food. Surely I can... quit... if I wanted to...
In my defense - I don't, in any way, believe that these statistics reflect the quality of a particular film. I would never ascribe to the hideous belief of many Americans that a high-score at the box office means that a movie is any better or worse than any other. I do it because I am always waiting for Big Failure of the Enemy. When a crap-ass movie like XXX: State of the Union opens with a multi-million dollar campaign push, I'm just begging for it to fail. It's like watching NASCAR. You don't want the entire race to fail, but there's a part of you that can't wait for a really good wipeout.
This year has made for a very satisfying track of the box office. Ticket costs are up, advertisements in theaters are pissing people off, mainstream movies are flooding the multiplexes and revenue is DOWN. Even the obnoxious success of the Star Wars prequel has not succeeded in reviving the box office. And now, they're hoping that The Longest Yard and Madagasgar are going to save things over the Memorial Day weekend?! Oh yeah! This is gonna be good. This is the year that Hollywood goes down! I can't wait until -
...
I'm doing it again. I'm skidding off the road and into the realm of stupid. I have become one of those friends who keep saying, "I'm totally over her. God, it's such a relief to be free of her. Really! If she hadn't broke up with me, I'd have done it first. So what did you see her doing? Really? Well I don't care. Why the fuck should I care? I'm totally over her."
Bad breakups die hard and this one really has to die. Like, now.
the Envy of a nomad
I watched Easy Riders Raging Bulls yesterday. It's a documentary vaguely based upon a book of the same title. I'd read the book 7 years ago and it was a watershed moment for me. It gave a context to the lives and careers of my favorite filmmakers. I'd never been able to reconcile how the same man who made The Conversation and Apocalypse Now could become the hired hand for such clichéd fare as Jack and The Rainmaker. With the exception of Martin Scorsese and Paul Schrader, all my heroes of American cinema had either died or apparently lost their minds. Although the book gets mired in all the fantastical gossip, it does an exceptional job of framing an era from the mid-1960's fall of old Hollywood through the rise of the Blockbuster in the late 1970's. The book is (shocker, here) far better than the film. The book was despised by Nicholson, Hopper and Spielberg as total fiction (which I'm sure is true for some of the tales). Yet, it's easy to dodge the truth when everything has to be gleaned from one or two steps away. When somebody casts such a wide net of dismissal at a book with a many corroborated truths, it's hard to know what's fiction and what might be hitting too close to home.
Still, the film is a good watch. John Milius's waves a cigar and tries to do his best emulation of General Patton. Richard Dreyfuss delivers the most entertaining recounts of Lucas and Spielberg's directorial style. There's a fleeting glance of Marcia Lucas in the editing room and a great moment where you can watch Cybill Shepherd negotiate a minefield of disclosure as she attempts to articulate her blossoming affair with Peter Bogdanovich while filming The Last Picture Show. The bonus material on the second DVD is, in many ways, more entertaining than the film. There's a great piece on George Lucas and how his lifetime of marketing meetings has resulted in prequels that contain far too many meetings. I loved the title of the Spielberg chapter - The Innocent Savant.
The material hit me very differently this time around. I used to idolize filmmakers of that era and felt betrayed when they seemingly gave up on their art. This time around, I realized what an awkward, privileged lot they were. Like The Ramones on the East Side of NY in the mid 1970's or Bill Gates buying up the first version of DOS for $50,000 at the beginning of the 1980's, these were people who found themselves standing in a giant blind spot of an industry and were smart enough to take advantage. That didn't make them bad people (well, maybe Gates). Their successes don't point to the inadeqacies of the rest of us. They are a fortunate few who happened to have their surfboards pointing in the right direction when a tsunami wave hit... and it didn't hurt that they knew how to surf.
Still, I find myself hopelessly in envy of the community in Hollywood of the late 60's/early 70's. They had found their community - their tribe, as my playwriting teacher called it. The surest path to success, my teacher argued, was to find people who responded to your experiences and fed your creativity. If you're Lucas, Spielberg and Milius standing in a beach house in Malibu, collaborating and competing to make the B-movies of your dreams, then you've found your tribe. If you're Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, sick of the Hollywood system you've known and ready to do something you want to see, like Easy Rider, then you've found it too. If you have a favorite bar, full of regulars that ask for your writings or can show you perspectives you'd never otherwise see, then you're probably drinking with your tribe.
This is my heroin. I am always trying to return to the euphoria of inspiration and self-discovery through the people around me. There haven't been many in my life and they've been spaced maddeningly-far apart, but I clutch to those memories with white knuckles. People whose faces lit at my appearance, then inspired, engaged and challenged me to give more than I imagined possible. These moments were not just about me, however. We all felt that we were working on something larger than ourselves. My last year of film school as 18 people worked on everyone else's films, sleeping in editing rooms, and never offering a 'no' - always a 'yes, and...'. A year as barfly to a Midwestern college bar filled with writers, actors, directors and two fantastic pinball machines. Two weeks at a screenwriting workshop in Croatia where flutists and violinists of a music school drank, sang and inspired a motley crew of aspiring filmmakers.
Communities can never last, though. By their very nature, they inspire people to action, then consequences and aftermath. Some ascend, others abandon or die. America thrives on the notion of individuality and I love that, but often it breeds a go-it-alone attitude. Portraits of artists often suggest that they exist in some Vacuum of Genius where they alone create. Time and again, I re-learn that the Piss-and-Shitters that I've placed on pedestals are the same sort of inconsistent, insecure flawed people as I.
Now, I just need to find My tribe of flawed people.
Still, the film is a good watch. John Milius's waves a cigar and tries to do his best emulation of General Patton. Richard Dreyfuss delivers the most entertaining recounts of Lucas and Spielberg's directorial style. There's a fleeting glance of Marcia Lucas in the editing room and a great moment where you can watch Cybill Shepherd negotiate a minefield of disclosure as she attempts to articulate her blossoming affair with Peter Bogdanovich while filming The Last Picture Show. The bonus material on the second DVD is, in many ways, more entertaining than the film. There's a great piece on George Lucas and how his lifetime of marketing meetings has resulted in prequels that contain far too many meetings. I loved the title of the Spielberg chapter - The Innocent Savant.
The material hit me very differently this time around. I used to idolize filmmakers of that era and felt betrayed when they seemingly gave up on their art. This time around, I realized what an awkward, privileged lot they were. Like The Ramones on the East Side of NY in the mid 1970's or Bill Gates buying up the first version of DOS for $50,000 at the beginning of the 1980's, these were people who found themselves standing in a giant blind spot of an industry and were smart enough to take advantage. That didn't make them bad people (well, maybe Gates). Their successes don't point to the inadeqacies of the rest of us. They are a fortunate few who happened to have their surfboards pointing in the right direction when a tsunami wave hit... and it didn't hurt that they knew how to surf.
Still, I find myself hopelessly in envy of the community in Hollywood of the late 60's/early 70's. They had found their community - their tribe, as my playwriting teacher called it. The surest path to success, my teacher argued, was to find people who responded to your experiences and fed your creativity. If you're Lucas, Spielberg and Milius standing in a beach house in Malibu, collaborating and competing to make the B-movies of your dreams, then you've found your tribe. If you're Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda, sick of the Hollywood system you've known and ready to do something you want to see, like Easy Rider, then you've found it too. If you have a favorite bar, full of regulars that ask for your writings or can show you perspectives you'd never otherwise see, then you're probably drinking with your tribe.
This is my heroin. I am always trying to return to the euphoria of inspiration and self-discovery through the people around me. There haven't been many in my life and they've been spaced maddeningly-far apart, but I clutch to those memories with white knuckles. People whose faces lit at my appearance, then inspired, engaged and challenged me to give more than I imagined possible. These moments were not just about me, however. We all felt that we were working on something larger than ourselves. My last year of film school as 18 people worked on everyone else's films, sleeping in editing rooms, and never offering a 'no' - always a 'yes, and...'. A year as barfly to a Midwestern college bar filled with writers, actors, directors and two fantastic pinball machines. Two weeks at a screenwriting workshop in Croatia where flutists and violinists of a music school drank, sang and inspired a motley crew of aspiring filmmakers.
Communities can never last, though. By their very nature, they inspire people to action, then consequences and aftermath. Some ascend, others abandon or die. America thrives on the notion of individuality and I love that, but often it breeds a go-it-alone attitude. Portraits of artists often suggest that they exist in some Vacuum of Genius where they alone create. Time and again, I re-learn that the Piss-and-Shitters that I've placed on pedestals are the same sort of inconsistent, insecure flawed people as I.
Now, I just need to find My tribe of flawed people.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Hold the Fuckin' Phone - It's Kasabian Time!
Sometimes, it's obvious. A band lays into their opening song and you can see 'IT' - stage presence, hooks and a tightness that only happens when the beat, the bass, the guitar and the voice are all On. The. Beat. If I'm still smiling by the third song, I know that I've found The Real Deal. They are a rare species but if you're really listening and engaged, you can hear it. Modest Mouse have it. The Kills have it. The Libertines had it. The Pixies have it. Uncle Tupelo had it. There are plenty of kick-ass American bands but it seems like the British bands have seemed especially-tight. They have a coiled energy that drives up and through the music. It makes your insides want to growl a primal response. I've been on a really hot streak with Brit bands and last night, I tried a little Kasabian action. I hadn't seen Kasabian or even remembered hearing their stuff on the KEXP surfing I'd enjoyed in my employed days, but I was getting good word-of-mouth -the same kind that'd pointed to me to The Libertines and The Kills. So, when I saw that they were playing at my Beloved Bowery Ballroom, I had to go. The evening featured two bands that were missing at least 1 or more of the 'IT' attributes and one band that deserved the title of The Real Deal.
Kat and I arrived at 8pm and met Steve - our drinking buddy from the infamous Whadoosay fiasco of Webster Hall. All three of us cringed at the pair of cartoon-shaped buses that loomed in front of the Bowery Ballroom. It looked like a giant colostomy bag for any Rock N' Roll Ego that couldn't fit into the hall this night. We flashed our I.D.'s, strapped on our neon-pink, drinking tags then shuffled down the stairs and into the bar. Kat and Steve were hot to secure a table in the Bowery's balcony. This generally goes against my fundamental beliefs in live music. The whole point is the presence of a band. Although Kat is normally with me on this philosophy, she had made the baffling decision to wear heels. Steve, as usual, was eager to remain outside any potential Sphere of Action... so, I relented. We planted ourselves in the balcony, just behind the velvet rope - the best part of the balcony for music execs.
The first band up was an impossibly-thin cluster of shaggy boys called The Rock N' Roll Soldiers. They're a throwback to the long-haired, anorexic groups of the 1970's that always look like they wanted to make everybody rawk yet tragically less-inspiring in their music. The bass player did his best tree impersonation from the right-hand corner of the stage while the lead singer and his RNR Soldier-in-arms guitarist worked a fashion show of various rock n' roll poses of the past. The guitarist chose a tai chi approach, slowly arching his back to accent his high-E-bending prowess or fanning his guitar next in sweeping arcs or rockdom. The lead singer decided upon a bolder, Drunken Master style as he kicked and spun his way against the microphone stand, his fellow guitarist and the drum kit. Every 3 minutes, a roadie would dash onstage to re-set the drum-mics then accept the appreciable nod from the offending rocker. A few songs had the singer crumbling to his knees as the Spirit of Rock N' Roll took hold. I have never seen a lead singer try so hard to rock and audience like this poor man did on this evening. Stage Presence? Check. Hooks? Did I mention that he really WANTED to rock out? Tightness? ... let's just move on then, shall we?
Mad Action had second dibs. I can't put my finger on why I didn't particularly care one way or another about whether I heard one song or another. They had a great Smashing Pumpkin style of crunchy guitar riffs, and they sounded tight, but every song sounded much like another. This is a band that has all the right elements, but they haven't quite 'found themselves' yet. Either that, or they just don't have what it takes to push them to the next level. The hooks are what make a band different from anybody else and what makes one song sound distinctively different from another. For example, let's take Aerosmith. Actually, you can have the modern version of Aerosmith as far as I am concerned, so let's stuck to the era that they were good. "Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion" - three fantastic songs from the same album by the same band. All three are VERY Aerosmith in their sound, but the opening riffs, the tone and the style are distinctly different. Mad Action's set? Well, by the third song, I knew that it was time for me to take a pee break and grab another beer. Stage Presence? I remember big hair and wide-legged stances... and I think they played music. Hooks? I like to drink Stella Artois Tightness? Check.
At the end of the last song from Mad Action, a 30-something woman from a neighboring table leapt from her seat, tore a Kasabian poster off the wall, then rushed to a tall, gangly fellow, standing at the back of the balcony. Steve leaned over to me and told me that gangly was one of the leads from Kasabian. The flush woman returned with her signed poster and, seeing that I had witnessed her rock-fan coup, leaned over to me and told me that it was her son who was a big Kasabian fan but couldn't get into the show because he was only 14. I quickly learned that she and her husband were from New Jersey, went to loads of concerts, especially Maxwell's in New Jersey, and were proficient in Indie-Music Speak. I can hold my own in music talks, but I don't have the singular focus to get into all the niggling details of obscure indie-band politics. Steve, however, was born for such work. Soon, he and the woman had bonded over concert war stories and an in-depth critique of New Order's hideous new album cover. The husband and wife were really cool and just the sort of people I always imagined running into at all these gigs, yet never found until now.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the Kasabian hit the stage. They have quite a lighting scheme set up for their show, a strange sight in a venue as intimate as the Bowery Ballroom. The Snow Patrol tried to set up a fancy set of lights behind themselves onstage and ended up blinding the whole audience in the process. On this night, the swirling and dancing spots were well-used. The lead singer, Tom Meighan, bounced around onstage and really laid into the songs. Sergio Pizzorno, the lead guitarist, was comfortable and energetic - the perfect contrast to Tom. In true Brit rock style, they were tight as a steel drum, ripping through their one-album catalog in rapid succession. They come off as a tougher version of Oasis when they're playing but I have never heard so many thank yous from a band since The Snow Patrol breezed through a few months ago. It's always nice to see a band that still acts a little humble even when they've gotta know that they rock. And the audience... this was NOT a typical Bowery audience on this night - it was mostly Fish N' Chips. Brit audiences are ten-times better than the standard NYC crowd. I went to a Kills concert a year ago and was one of only 3 people bouncing to the music. On this night, nearly the whole floor-level crowd was into it. That always makes for a better performance. By the end of the first song, I knew that I wasn't getting another beer. By the end of their encore climax "Club Foot", I knew - they were The Real Deal. Stage Presence? Great lighting, humble band, high energy... check. Hooks? Oh, yeah. Check. Tightness? In two weeks, you'd have a diamond.
Go see them.
P.S. As a follow-up note, I've been checking out their website and I've noticed that there's a little discussion going on as to whether there are pre-recorded backup vocals for 1 or two of their songs. I didn't notice anything at the show, but I wasn't front-and-center, either. It'd be disappointing to find out that it's true, but I have to admit that they do some pretty complicated electronics-based stuff on their tracks so they've probably got to run a little filler during the set. Tom and Serge were really tearing through their songs, though, so I can't imagine that there's anything going on that doesn't have to go on to re-create the studio album. A bit of a blemish, but they're definitely worth seeing.
Kat and I arrived at 8pm and met Steve - our drinking buddy from the infamous Whadoosay fiasco of Webster Hall. All three of us cringed at the pair of cartoon-shaped buses that loomed in front of the Bowery Ballroom. It looked like a giant colostomy bag for any Rock N' Roll Ego that couldn't fit into the hall this night. We flashed our I.D.'s, strapped on our neon-pink, drinking tags then shuffled down the stairs and into the bar. Kat and Steve were hot to secure a table in the Bowery's balcony. This generally goes against my fundamental beliefs in live music. The whole point is the presence of a band. Although Kat is normally with me on this philosophy, she had made the baffling decision to wear heels. Steve, as usual, was eager to remain outside any potential Sphere of Action... so, I relented. We planted ourselves in the balcony, just behind the velvet rope - the best part of the balcony for music execs.
The first band up was an impossibly-thin cluster of shaggy boys called The Rock N' Roll Soldiers. They're a throwback to the long-haired, anorexic groups of the 1970's that always look like they wanted to make everybody rawk yet tragically less-inspiring in their music. The bass player did his best tree impersonation from the right-hand corner of the stage while the lead singer and his RNR Soldier-in-arms guitarist worked a fashion show of various rock n' roll poses of the past. The guitarist chose a tai chi approach, slowly arching his back to accent his high-E-bending prowess or fanning his guitar next in sweeping arcs or rockdom. The lead singer decided upon a bolder, Drunken Master style as he kicked and spun his way against the microphone stand, his fellow guitarist and the drum kit. Every 3 minutes, a roadie would dash onstage to re-set the drum-mics then accept the appreciable nod from the offending rocker. A few songs had the singer crumbling to his knees as the Spirit of Rock N' Roll took hold. I have never seen a lead singer try so hard to rock and audience like this poor man did on this evening. Stage Presence? Check. Hooks? Did I mention that he really WANTED to rock out? Tightness? ... let's just move on then, shall we?
Mad Action had second dibs. I can't put my finger on why I didn't particularly care one way or another about whether I heard one song or another. They had a great Smashing Pumpkin style of crunchy guitar riffs, and they sounded tight, but every song sounded much like another. This is a band that has all the right elements, but they haven't quite 'found themselves' yet. Either that, or they just don't have what it takes to push them to the next level. The hooks are what make a band different from anybody else and what makes one song sound distinctively different from another. For example, let's take Aerosmith. Actually, you can have the modern version of Aerosmith as far as I am concerned, so let's stuck to the era that they were good. "Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way" and "Sweet Emotion" - three fantastic songs from the same album by the same band. All three are VERY Aerosmith in their sound, but the opening riffs, the tone and the style are distinctly different. Mad Action's set? Well, by the third song, I knew that it was time for me to take a pee break and grab another beer. Stage Presence? I remember big hair and wide-legged stances... and I think they played music. Hooks? I like to drink Stella Artois Tightness? Check.
At the end of the last song from Mad Action, a 30-something woman from a neighboring table leapt from her seat, tore a Kasabian poster off the wall, then rushed to a tall, gangly fellow, standing at the back of the balcony. Steve leaned over to me and told me that gangly was one of the leads from Kasabian. The flush woman returned with her signed poster and, seeing that I had witnessed her rock-fan coup, leaned over to me and told me that it was her son who was a big Kasabian fan but couldn't get into the show because he was only 14. I quickly learned that she and her husband were from New Jersey, went to loads of concerts, especially Maxwell's in New Jersey, and were proficient in Indie-Music Speak. I can hold my own in music talks, but I don't have the singular focus to get into all the niggling details of obscure indie-band politics. Steve, however, was born for such work. Soon, he and the woman had bonded over concert war stories and an in-depth critique of New Order's hideous new album cover. The husband and wife were really cool and just the sort of people I always imagined running into at all these gigs, yet never found until now.
Finally, the lights dimmed and the Kasabian hit the stage. They have quite a lighting scheme set up for their show, a strange sight in a venue as intimate as the Bowery Ballroom. The Snow Patrol tried to set up a fancy set of lights behind themselves onstage and ended up blinding the whole audience in the process. On this night, the swirling and dancing spots were well-used. The lead singer, Tom Meighan, bounced around onstage and really laid into the songs. Sergio Pizzorno, the lead guitarist, was comfortable and energetic - the perfect contrast to Tom. In true Brit rock style, they were tight as a steel drum, ripping through their one-album catalog in rapid succession. They come off as a tougher version of Oasis when they're playing but I have never heard so many thank yous from a band since The Snow Patrol breezed through a few months ago. It's always nice to see a band that still acts a little humble even when they've gotta know that they rock. And the audience... this was NOT a typical Bowery audience on this night - it was mostly Fish N' Chips. Brit audiences are ten-times better than the standard NYC crowd. I went to a Kills concert a year ago and was one of only 3 people bouncing to the music. On this night, nearly the whole floor-level crowd was into it. That always makes for a better performance. By the end of the first song, I knew that I wasn't getting another beer. By the end of their encore climax "Club Foot", I knew - they were The Real Deal. Stage Presence? Great lighting, humble band, high energy... check. Hooks? Oh, yeah. Check. Tightness? In two weeks, you'd have a diamond.
Go see them.
P.S. As a follow-up note, I've been checking out their website and I've noticed that there's a little discussion going on as to whether there are pre-recorded backup vocals for 1 or two of their songs. I didn't notice anything at the show, but I wasn't front-and-center, either. It'd be disappointing to find out that it's true, but I have to admit that they do some pretty complicated electronics-based stuff on their tracks so they've probably got to run a little filler during the set. Tom and Serge were really tearing through their songs, though, so I can't imagine that there's anything going on that doesn't have to go on to re-create the studio album. A bit of a blemish, but they're definitely worth seeing.
Friday, May 06, 2005
Dusting off a few words
Reading is tailor-made for the Manhattan lifestyle. I spend at least an hour and a half on the subway every day. Over the years, I’ve developed two ways to fill that time hole - poetry and reading. The last few years have found me reading at pace unlike any I've enjoyed. I am so voracious for reading material, I'm actually going back to my bookshelf and reading all those books I was supposed to have read in college. A couple weeks ago, I finished the third Rabbit book by John Updike - Rabbit is Rich. I always reach a point when I’m reading Updike, 50 pages or so, when I become convinced that I am going to be bored to death and should just stop reading. By the end, though, I’m begging for more. Updike has a completely unassuming way of writing. His text is so non-stylized, it feels bland, at first. But it’s So Fucking True. His gaze settles upon details with such a deadly accuracy, it’s unnerving. Rabbit is frustratingly non-heroic, even ineffectual, but when he comes through you want to throw a party for him. He reminds me way to much of myself (bastard).
Early last week, I finally sat my ass down and read a couple Robert Louis Stevenson short stories - Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and The Merry Men. Although Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde has become a fixture in western vocabulary and has been emulated in numerous pieces of fiction, including the fantastic Fight Club, I still found myself pulled through the narrative. It reminds me of Dracula and Frankenstein, where a supernatural concept is used as a construct to examine the primal instincts of man. Stevenson keeps the action and discoveries so in-the-moment, it’s easy to forget that you already know the outcome.
The Merry Men started as a bored follow-up. I was stuck on the subway after finishing Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and read it because it was in the only book I was holding and I was still stuck at the Canal Street Station on the way home from a TriBeCa volunteer gig. Holy shit, man. The Merry Men kicks ass. I wrote a stage adaptation of Stevenson's Kidnapped back when I was in college. I discovered that Stevenson is a fantastic writer and has some of the most powerful imagery I've ever known in a writer. When one tries to adapt the story to a visual medium, however, it becomes frustratingly-apparent that his images are not only deceptively complex, they would cost a fortune to render onstage or onscreen. There is a particularly fantastic moment towards the end of The Merry Men where the protagonist stands at a seaside precipice and witnesses the strobing instant of impact as a sailing ship is driven against the rocks by a seething tempest. Damn... good stuff.
Early this week, I pulled out a Kurt Vonnegut novel I’d bought 8 years ago for 50¢ and never bothered to read. It’s called Bluebeard and if I had read it within the first 3 years of purchase, I would have liked it but easily forgotten it. Living with a painter for the last 5 years, however, has granted me a little perspective on the Abstract Expressionist movement of the mid-20th Century, not to mention the personal crises I’m undergoing with my craft. Vonnegut is one of those novelists that I’ve never actively sought out, but never fails to surprise me. Cat’s Eye was a serious mind-fuck for me the first time I read it and was, in fact, the impetus for my Bluebeard purchase. It’s strange - somehow it feels like I was waiting to grow up a little before I allowed myself to read Bluebeard… and I didn’t know what the hell it was about until I read it.
Right now, I’m half way through Dashiell Hammett’s The Glass Key. I’ve always been a sucker for hardboiled detective novels. I’ve read The Thin Man and number of Raymond Chandler books. I was initially piqued by this genre via my long, love affair with film noir classics like Detour, The Maltese Falcon, Kiss Me Deadly, and The Killers. Of course, I subsequently found the books to be far more fun. In fact, I used to keep a collection of quotations from these books. I’m pulling my quote pages out right now and I’m enjoying quite a few of them, including:
“Lead is his meat.”
“Grab a cloud.”
“Dangle, sister.”
“Go climb your thumb.”
(and my all-time favorite) “This ain’t my idea of a spot for a lead party. Drift!”
I’ve vowed to finish Updike’s Rabbit series, read Miller’s Tropic of Cancer/Tropic of Capricorn, climb the mountain of Joyce’s Ulysses, then try my hand at contemporary fiction. They’re still writing these days, right (joking – I’m joking!)? I’m anxious to try out some Irvine Welsh (The Beach, maybe) and Naomi Klein’s No Logo (not a fiction book, but hey…).
If anybody has any off-the-wall recommendations, I’m all ears.
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