Yesterday, I was taking my usual walk across Central Park towards the 'A' subway line and, ultimately home, when I found myself overcome by a sensation so foreign, I had nearly forgotten what it felt like - optimism. I was seized with a mystical calm as I made my way around The Pond. The sunset was casting an orange tint on the side of the buildings that rose above the trees along Central Park West. The setting sun rendered the skyline into an Edward Hopper painting with fiery highlights and deep, blue shadows. It gave a vivid, magical quality to the air. My strides shortened and breeze against my face slackened as I looked around me.
It felt like the first time I visited New York City. I no longer felt the burden of experience that I had come to resent- the infestation of corporate culture, the moneyed gentrification of dynamic neighborhoods, the crippling cost of daily living. For a few minutes, New York was a land where Woody Allen's Manhattan might still live. I felt that I was at the center of a bustling humanity- 13 miles of innumerable possibilities. The weight of the Now fell from my shoulders and I was anytime I wanted to be. I could race along the great arm of history and imagine myself on a stroll through the City of Ziegfeld or Scorsese or Warhol or Dylan or LaGuardia or The Ramones or Duke Ellington or the myriad of people who found greatness and contributed to this great quilt of community. I loved that I was here and that I was participant who cared what this city Was and Is and I want to make something for it.
I crossed 6th Avenue, ahead of a horse-drawn carriage and the furrowed path carved into the pavement. Past toy dogs and double-wide baby carriages with ivory infants and Caribbean women at the helm, I held my soft buzz of optimism beneath my jacket and skirted the cliches and disappointments. My pace quickened until I discovered that I had taken the wrong path and now I was out of the park and on the corner of 59th and 7th Avenue. I frantically weaved between Japanese, punk tourists and a young, smug hipster as he fruitlessly tried to hail a taxi. It felt that if I could just get home or maybe even into the subway or Somewhere, then I might be able to preserve this feeling and not lose it.
I ducked down a shallow path that allowed me a few yards between me and Now but it was already too late. By the time I reached the bustle of Columbus Circle, the Optimism had bled through my jacket and evaporated into the cold, night air. The sunset was fading into the glow of marquees and streetlights. The sky would be black by the time I reached home. I descended the subways steps and trudged back to the cave.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Deckard's Windows of Good(and Bad!)
Well, I've been solicited twice to fill one of these out for others and I saw UrbanMuse had one up and I haven't written a blog this week so...
http://kevan.org/johari?name=Deckard
Give it a shot, if you're interested. It'd help if you've read my blog or know me. I'll post the results as they come in.
Here's another one, but it's not as 'friendly'. I'd actually be more interested in seeing the results of this one...
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=Deckard
http://kevan.org/johari?name=Deckard
Give it a shot, if you're interested. It'd help if you've read my blog or know me. I'll post the results as they come in.
Here's another one, but it's not as 'friendly'. I'd actually be more interested in seeing the results of this one...
http://kevan.org/nohari?name=Deckard
Arena(known to self and others) intelligent, kind, self-conscious | Blind Spot(known only to others) clever, complex, energetic, friendly, loving, observant, searching, trustworthy, witty |
Façade(known only to self) accepting, reflective, tense | Unknown(known to nobody) able, adaptable, bold, brave, calm, caring, cheerful, confident, dependable, dignified, extroverted, giving, happy, helpful, idealistic, independent, ingenious, introverted, knowledgeable, logical, mature, modest, nervous, organised, patient, powerful, proud, quiet, relaxed, religious, responsive, self-assertive, sensible, sentimental, shy, silly, spontaneous, sympathetic, warm, wise |
Dominant Traits
66% of people think that Deckard is complex
66% of people agree that Deckard is intelligent
66% of people think that Deckard is observant
66% of people think that Deckard is searching
66% of people think that Deckard is witty
All Percentages
able (0%) accepting (0%) adaptable (0%) bold (0%) brave (0%) calm (0%) caring (0%) cheerful (0%) clever (33%) complex (66%) confident (0%) dependable (0%) dignified (0%) energetic (33%) extroverted (0%) friendly (33%) giving (0%) happy (0%) helpful (0%) idealistic (0%) independent (0%) ingenious (0%) intelligent (66%) introverted (0%) kind (33%) knowledgeable (0%) logical (0%) loving (33%) mature (0%) modest (0%) nervous (0%) observant (66%) organised (0%) patient (0%) powerful (0%) proud (0%) quiet (0%) reflective (0%) relaxed (0%) religious (0%) responsive (0%) searching (66%) self-assertive (0%) self-conscious (33%) sensible (0%) sentimental (0%) shy (0%) silly (0%) spontaneous (0%) sympathetic (0%) tense (0%) trustworthy (33%) warm (0%) wise (0%) witty (66%)
Created by the Interactive Johari Window on 21.2.2006, using data from 3 respondents.
You can make your own Johari Window, or view Deckard's full data.
You can make your own Johari Window, or view Deckard's full data.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
digging for my Bliss
I've been running jangly for the last few weeks. I can't get a grip on anything. I destroyed my 4-month-old iPod Nano/birthday gift last week. What should have been a smooth, 'Pick up item/put item in pocket' maneuver turned into 'pick up item/try to get better grip on item/launch item across the room and under the dresser'. Last night, I lost all motor skills and got waxed in a game of Madden 2005. I became so irate, I had to stand on the fire escape in 30 degree (F) temperatures and 20 m.p.h. winds to calm myself. That took a good 15 minutes to get over a computer game.
Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.
Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.
For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.
But the hole keeps getting deeper.
Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.
Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.
For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.
But the hole keeps getting deeper.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
an Engagement with futility
Shopping in New York City can be a trying existence. It's not difficult to find midtown's 5th Avenue boutiques or Macy's down along Herald Square. Even your mainstream tourist guide can point you downtown to the discount fare at Century 21. But what about a large, healthy houseplant? Or caulk? Or affordable storage bins? Or artsy jewelry? Without deep pockets or an ideal home base in the city, finding the necessities can be a struggle. My first 6 months in New York was spent on humiliating treks to the trashy K-Marts in Penn Station and St. Mark's. Big box stores and malls were all Kat and I knew. It took months before someone told us where the flower district was or that the hole-in-the-wall hardware store carried wood putty and a pretty solid selection of kitchen utensils, or that there was a free, shuttle bus from Penn Station that could take us to the Swedish Eden in New Jersey that is named Ikea. Without such valuable knowledge, a person might wander the city for hours, without finding the Thing he/she is searching for... much as I did on Friday.
The biggest news for the last few months of my life has been my engagement. Kat and I decided, over the weekend of Halloween, to get married. The second biggest drama (ongoing) in my life is the Search for the Engagement ring. Sauron had an easier time finding the One Ring. The first two months involved a phenomenally bad attempt to have a family friend make a ring. That story is too long and necessitates a fictionalizing of the names to preserve the dignity of those involved. Let me say that it is over and done with and now, I am balanced upon a fence where I could either get a ring for Kat or forgo the whole thing and just try to get the wedding ring right. Kat says she doesn't need an engagement ring, but her eyes beg otherwise. When in doubt, Citysearch and New York Metro becomes my guide. Soon, I found a few places in the City where I hoped I might find a simple or used ring that we could afford. With a list of addresses scrawled on a piece of paper, I cast myself into the City.
Along the way, I hoped to find a cafe where I could write away from home. I didn't have any solid leads but I knew of a couple places over near NYU and figured that there had to be a place where I could sit down. My first mistake was to attempt a Multitasking operation. This rarely goes well for me. My second mistake was thinking that Citysearch or NY Metro were going to give me the low-down on anything I might possibly afford. Most places were hideously-expensive. Some, were heinously-gaudy. Others... well let's just say that Kat probably isn't looking for a skull ring, even if the rubies in the eye sockets Are real.
My third mistake, was thinking that wandering would make up for my first two mistakes. I walked from one end of the Village to the other. From SoHo to the Lower East Side to the East Village to the West Village, back to the East Village... I'm aware that there are cross-town buses in the city but I rationalized that if I walked everywhere, then I would Surely find that Perfect side street where a quaint, quiet cafe would offer me sanctuary and happen to be right above that gem-of-a-store, nestled in the basement.
On a positive note, the journey ended at a Happy Hour where cheap beer, salty snacks, and a work-weary girlfriend helped to soften the sting in my legs and the soles of my shoes.
The biggest news for the last few months of my life has been my engagement. Kat and I decided, over the weekend of Halloween, to get married. The second biggest drama (ongoing) in my life is the Search for the Engagement ring. Sauron had an easier time finding the One Ring. The first two months involved a phenomenally bad attempt to have a family friend make a ring. That story is too long and necessitates a fictionalizing of the names to preserve the dignity of those involved. Let me say that it is over and done with and now, I am balanced upon a fence where I could either get a ring for Kat or forgo the whole thing and just try to get the wedding ring right. Kat says she doesn't need an engagement ring, but her eyes beg otherwise. When in doubt, Citysearch and New York Metro becomes my guide. Soon, I found a few places in the City where I hoped I might find a simple or used ring that we could afford. With a list of addresses scrawled on a piece of paper, I cast myself into the City.
Along the way, I hoped to find a cafe where I could write away from home. I didn't have any solid leads but I knew of a couple places over near NYU and figured that there had to be a place where I could sit down. My first mistake was to attempt a Multitasking operation. This rarely goes well for me. My second mistake was thinking that Citysearch or NY Metro were going to give me the low-down on anything I might possibly afford. Most places were hideously-expensive. Some, were heinously-gaudy. Others... well let's just say that Kat probably isn't looking for a skull ring, even if the rubies in the eye sockets Are real.
My third mistake, was thinking that wandering would make up for my first two mistakes. I walked from one end of the Village to the other. From SoHo to the Lower East Side to the East Village to the West Village, back to the East Village... I'm aware that there are cross-town buses in the city but I rationalized that if I walked everywhere, then I would Surely find that Perfect side street where a quaint, quiet cafe would offer me sanctuary and happen to be right above that gem-of-a-store, nestled in the basement.
On a positive note, the journey ended at a Happy Hour where cheap beer, salty snacks, and a work-weary girlfriend helped to soften the sting in my legs and the soles of my shoes.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve
Ahh! Sweet mana from Heaven! The long drought has lifted. Let the righteous tunes flow as a river unto my puckered soul. For the Love of God, give me something that Rocks! Or, at least makes me tap my foot and nod my head in that enthusiastic, satiated way.
Kat and I spent the X-Mas holiday at my parents' rural home in the Heart of the American Midwest. The silence was deafening, the knick-knacks were charming and the parents were... doting. The second I slipped into the plane that would sweep me back to my concrete homeland, I knew that something had to happen. Either 1) I would be required to commit some filth act that would instantly outrage every human being West of the Hudson River/East of Pasadena and thus re-calibrate my cultural pH, or 2) I must do Something in the City to re-affirm my faith that there are pockets of world that have advanced beyond the 1980's. Since I had tickets to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve, I opted for the latter. It was cheaper and allowed me to avoided possible jail time.
I'd been psyched about this concert from the beginning, despite the fact that it was taking place at Irving plaza (Clear Channel venue! Evil! Evil!). Back in November, I e-mailed friends, but nobody was willing to commit to any New Year's plans (lest something better come along). Oh, did they lose out on this one. It was pretty funny when I started getting e-mails about articles in various music publications and the New York Times. You snooze, you loose folks (insert derisive laughter, and insidious hand-wringing of a shameless, Indie music snob).
Irving Plaza is one of those joints that tries to manufature a quirky, intimate scene but instead comes across as some Indie Theme Park. The place is nice-enough. It has a medium-sized floorspace and a U-shaped balcony. A bar rests on each level where they dispense such delicacies as $5 cans of Rheingold beer and $6 cans of Heineken. Four and a half years in this city and I still can't get over the trapped-in-an-airport price scale that these bars charge. The whole theater area is painted black. To amuse the natives, they drop a projection screen in front of the stage and run 'kitschy' movies through a video effects machine (or their projector is broken). The New Year's Eve line up was a Pee Wee Herman movie with cutaways to Schoolhouse Rock bits sans sound. Wow.... gotta love that retro thing.... it's so clever... I get to relive my memories in front of others and take pride in the power of my brain to remember such esoteric classics as "Verb! That's What's Happenin'!", but without actually hearing it... it makes me feel so... un-mainstream... in that safe, pop culture kind of way... This scene was old in the mid 90's, folks.
For the New Year's Eve festivities, a pair of middle-aged men on stilts wandered the crowd. They juggled bowling pins/rings or blew soap bubbles upon the heads of unsuspecting patrons. The joint could have used a few more performers, but the effort was a nice surprise. A pregnant cocoon of balloons was attached to the ceiling in anticipation of the last gasp of the year. For the first time in years, I was actually excited about ringing in the New Year. I'm sure that Kat was relieved to be out of the cave too. The last few years have seen me cooking 'special' meals that take 4 hours and 10 rounds of dishes to complete and normally left 15 minutes of "enjoyment".
The opening band was Dr. Dogg. I'd never heard of Dr. Dogg. Their most memorable feature was that the majority of the group was sporting beards. It's the new hipster thing, those beards. It's nice to see adults trying to look like adults even when the hipsters are dressed like me when I was 8. One of the lead singers looked like a smaller version of Ric Ocasek from The Cars, except with a hat... and without the musical sensibility. He enjoyed swinging his oversized hollow-body guitar around and was having entirely too much fun for the stuff that was coming out of it. The band was tight but their songs were instantly forgettable. They had a lot of energy but it wasn't coming out in the music. They need a year in the UK to see what to do with it.
It wasn't until after the concert had sold out (early December) that they announced their "Very Special Guest". It was *drumroll* The National! I was so... actually, I didn't know anything about The National. I'd seen their 2005 release, Alligator, appear on the Top 10 lists of a number of Pitchfork-reading bloggers, but I'd never listened to their stuff. Indie blogs and hipster friends were psyched about this band! I was sure that I was going to get a fantastic two-for-one- Clap Your Hands and The National! Yeah!
Welllllll... no. I didn't get it. No. Check that. I Got it. It sounded exactly like Coldplay, except without the orchestration or the lilting, crooning voice or the songs... but it was just as sappy and soporific! The girls beside me rocked in ecstasy to the music, holding themselves and crooning every. single. word. that came out of the lead singer's mouth. Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the stage lights turned blue, a single, white light rose at center stage, and the lead singer stepped into so that he could crooooon to the light and get a facial tan at the same time. $5 Beer break, coming right up!
Despite the disappointment of The National, Kat and I were having a pretty good time. The crowd around us was younger but mercifully-free of the aggressive, putzes who crowd into your personal space then angle past as if they are going to meet somebody then stop right in front of you. During Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's set, I actually had a guy ask Kat if she could see. Seriously. I saw it. He wasn't even hitting on her.
So, when people ask me what Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sound like, I tell them that they sound something in between Talking Heads and The Arcade Fire. As the projection screen rose and the band launched into their opening song, I was struck by how much the lead singer reminded me of a young Bob Dylan. Although the songs don't carry the raw, evangelical poetry of Dylan, they had a high-pitched wailing quality that danced along that fine line between challenging and bitter complaining. The current landscape of (smart) rock music has been carrying a frustrated tone. People are frustrated and furious with the state of living but it feels like we're all boxing against shadows. My favorite bands of the year have been hitting on this frustration again and again. The Kills, Deathcab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Art Brut, Wilco, MIA and The Arcade Fire- all of them have at least one song that's about looking around and asking themselves "What the fuck?!" MIA has big, international injustices to point her finger at while Art Brut has the most entertaining bitch session on the pretenders who infest the music scene. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is the steady gaze of that friend who tells you that you're probably flat footing it through life and we could all be doing better, but let's have some fun while we're being frustrated.
Onstage, they were great. The sound mixer had the bass jacked up too high and bottomed out the speakers a few times, but the band still managed to sound strong and tight. The stilted jugglers stood along the left side of the stage and juggled their little hearts out. When the clock hit midnight, the balloon cocoon was released and 10 balloons descended into the audience. Kat grabbed my oggling face and turned me around so she could plant a New Year's kiss on me and there we were - 2006. Two songs later, an audience member convinced others to let him stand on their shoulders and the balloons were finally set free. Pandemonium (the good kind) ensued as fans popped, threw, and shook inflated pieces of colored rubber.
Good times.
Check out the pictures I posted on Flickr. I got a couple good ones. Click the Flicker graphic to the right.
Kat and I spent the X-Mas holiday at my parents' rural home in the Heart of the American Midwest. The silence was deafening, the knick-knacks were charming and the parents were... doting. The second I slipped into the plane that would sweep me back to my concrete homeland, I knew that something had to happen. Either 1) I would be required to commit some filth act that would instantly outrage every human being West of the Hudson River/East of Pasadena and thus re-calibrate my cultural pH, or 2) I must do Something in the City to re-affirm my faith that there are pockets of world that have advanced beyond the 1980's. Since I had tickets to see Clap Your Hands Say Yeah on New Year's Eve, I opted for the latter. It was cheaper and allowed me to avoided possible jail time.
I'd been psyched about this concert from the beginning, despite the fact that it was taking place at Irving plaza (Clear Channel venue! Evil! Evil!). Back in November, I e-mailed friends, but nobody was willing to commit to any New Year's plans (lest something better come along). Oh, did they lose out on this one. It was pretty funny when I started getting e-mails about articles in various music publications and the New York Times. You snooze, you loose folks (insert derisive laughter, and insidious hand-wringing of a shameless, Indie music snob).
Irving Plaza is one of those joints that tries to manufature a quirky, intimate scene but instead comes across as some Indie Theme Park. The place is nice-enough. It has a medium-sized floorspace and a U-shaped balcony. A bar rests on each level where they dispense such delicacies as $5 cans of Rheingold beer and $6 cans of Heineken. Four and a half years in this city and I still can't get over the trapped-in-an-airport price scale that these bars charge. The whole theater area is painted black. To amuse the natives, they drop a projection screen in front of the stage and run 'kitschy' movies through a video effects machine (or their projector is broken). The New Year's Eve line up was a Pee Wee Herman movie with cutaways to Schoolhouse Rock bits sans sound. Wow.... gotta love that retro thing.... it's so clever... I get to relive my memories in front of others and take pride in the power of my brain to remember such esoteric classics as "Verb! That's What's Happenin'!", but without actually hearing it... it makes me feel so... un-mainstream... in that safe, pop culture kind of way... This scene was old in the mid 90's, folks.
For the New Year's Eve festivities, a pair of middle-aged men on stilts wandered the crowd. They juggled bowling pins/rings or blew soap bubbles upon the heads of unsuspecting patrons. The joint could have used a few more performers, but the effort was a nice surprise. A pregnant cocoon of balloons was attached to the ceiling in anticipation of the last gasp of the year. For the first time in years, I was actually excited about ringing in the New Year. I'm sure that Kat was relieved to be out of the cave too. The last few years have seen me cooking 'special' meals that take 4 hours and 10 rounds of dishes to complete and normally left 15 minutes of "enjoyment".
The opening band was Dr. Dogg. I'd never heard of Dr. Dogg. Their most memorable feature was that the majority of the group was sporting beards. It's the new hipster thing, those beards. It's nice to see adults trying to look like adults even when the hipsters are dressed like me when I was 8. One of the lead singers looked like a smaller version of Ric Ocasek from The Cars, except with a hat... and without the musical sensibility. He enjoyed swinging his oversized hollow-body guitar around and was having entirely too much fun for the stuff that was coming out of it. The band was tight but their songs were instantly forgettable. They had a lot of energy but it wasn't coming out in the music. They need a year in the UK to see what to do with it.
It wasn't until after the concert had sold out (early December) that they announced their "Very Special Guest". It was *drumroll* The National! I was so... actually, I didn't know anything about The National. I'd seen their 2005 release, Alligator, appear on the Top 10 lists of a number of Pitchfork-reading bloggers, but I'd never listened to their stuff. Indie blogs and hipster friends were psyched about this band! I was sure that I was going to get a fantastic two-for-one- Clap Your Hands and The National! Yeah!
Welllllll... no. I didn't get it. No. Check that. I Got it. It sounded exactly like Coldplay, except without the orchestration or the lilting, crooning voice or the songs... but it was just as sappy and soporific! The girls beside me rocked in ecstasy to the music, holding themselves and crooning every. single. word. that came out of the lead singer's mouth. Just when I thought that I could take it no longer, the stage lights turned blue, a single, white light rose at center stage, and the lead singer stepped into so that he could crooooon to the light and get a facial tan at the same time. $5 Beer break, coming right up!
Despite the disappointment of The National, Kat and I were having a pretty good time. The crowd around us was younger but mercifully-free of the aggressive, putzes who crowd into your personal space then angle past as if they are going to meet somebody then stop right in front of you. During Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's set, I actually had a guy ask Kat if she could see. Seriously. I saw it. He wasn't even hitting on her.
So, when people ask me what Clap Your Hands Say Yeah sound like, I tell them that they sound something in between Talking Heads and The Arcade Fire. As the projection screen rose and the band launched into their opening song, I was struck by how much the lead singer reminded me of a young Bob Dylan. Although the songs don't carry the raw, evangelical poetry of Dylan, they had a high-pitched wailing quality that danced along that fine line between challenging and bitter complaining. The current landscape of (smart) rock music has been carrying a frustrated tone. People are frustrated and furious with the state of living but it feels like we're all boxing against shadows. My favorite bands of the year have been hitting on this frustration again and again. The Kills, Deathcab for Cutie, Sufjan Stevens, Art Brut, Wilco, MIA and The Arcade Fire- all of them have at least one song that's about looking around and asking themselves "What the fuck?!" MIA has big, international injustices to point her finger at while Art Brut has the most entertaining bitch session on the pretenders who infest the music scene. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah is the steady gaze of that friend who tells you that you're probably flat footing it through life and we could all be doing better, but let's have some fun while we're being frustrated.
Onstage, they were great. The sound mixer had the bass jacked up too high and bottomed out the speakers a few times, but the band still managed to sound strong and tight. The stilted jugglers stood along the left side of the stage and juggled their little hearts out. When the clock hit midnight, the balloon cocoon was released and 10 balloons descended into the audience. Kat grabbed my oggling face and turned me around so she could plant a New Year's kiss on me and there we were - 2006. Two songs later, an audience member convinced others to let him stand on their shoulders and the balloons were finally set free. Pandemonium (the good kind) ensued as fans popped, threw, and shook inflated pieces of colored rubber.
Good times.
Check out the pictures I posted on Flickr. I got a couple good ones. Click the Flicker graphic to the right.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
a New paint job
It's the end of the year and the habits are performing their familiar, high-arching return. Lately, the act of Living has felt like a perpetual battle to break free from the rip-tides of habit. As the road signs of my twenties slowly dissolve into the horizon of my rearview mirror, I am struggling to keep my eyes on the Road. Manic depression has begun to swing me further and further onto the gravely shoulders of the road. The Fear grows that one bad winter could send me into the ditch or wrapped around cement-anchored, telephone pole in the median. It's apparent that preemptive action Must be taken.
Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.
So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.
It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.
Then, let the Magic begin...
Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.
So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.
It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.
Then, let the Magic begin...
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
fixing a hole
I feel that I have lost track of an old friend. I have gone nowhere, yet I've become lost in the sea of my Twitch. Such are the lands I travel when winter approaches and I feel the tightening grip of shorter days around my neck. I have a half-dozen projects at my fingertips- none of them close to completion.
Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.
Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
touching my Inner Pretzel
Last Saturday, I showed up for my third yoga class... ever. In the distant wilds of Upper Manhattan, there is a yoga center nestled amongst the caves, old trees and baseball fields choked with Dominicans. I don't know how or why such a center came to be in the Land of Inwood, but I'm not gonna ask- it might disappear. Until a month ago, I'd never considered taking yoga. Sure, the pursuit is dominated by thin, flexible women and this is a Very Good incentive for a heterosexual male, but I'm Taken and besides, I'm serious about my fitness. The idea of stretching and chanting mantras to a religion I didn't practice has always felt like just the sort of New Age, hippie fad that I loved to hate. I am a rock n' roll/heavy weights kinda guy that prefers to See his accursed enemy - 300 pounds on an olympic, bench-press bar, for instance. You Mount the weight bench, growl at it menacingly, burst forth a few puffs of breath to pump myself up then 'Wham!'.
On the other hand, I can't afford $50-70 a month for the honor of standing on a treadmill or lifting weights. The center offers 6 classes (1 per week) for $65 bucks and I'd be setting myself up for an activity I can perform back in the cave. Plus, if I don't start doing some sort of regular exercise, my mental state is going to be veddy, veddy bad, veddy, veddy soon. I don't handle the winter months very well (or the other months, actually).
So... 3 weeks and, I think I like it. Really. No, really. Never have I sweated so much and moved so little. Who knew that shifting your hips an inch could immediately induce your thigh to say, "I don't think so."? The day after my first session, I'd soaked through my T-shirt, flannel pajamas (I don't have workout clothes) and was only capable of about a third of my normal movement. Last week was better and this week, I'm starting to feel better! Of course, I still tip over with any yoga move that requires balance. I also have this amazing ability to vibrate. Leave me in that 'Warrior 2' position for too long, and you'll soon have a Bouncing Deckard toy on your hands. Breathing can be a bit of a chore, also. That yoga instructor breathes a helluva lot slower than my body's willing to do. Apparently, I also have some tension in my shoulders- steel girder grade.
And hell, I'm starting to kinda dig the chanting too!
On the other hand, I can't afford $50-70 a month for the honor of standing on a treadmill or lifting weights. The center offers 6 classes (1 per week) for $65 bucks and I'd be setting myself up for an activity I can perform back in the cave. Plus, if I don't start doing some sort of regular exercise, my mental state is going to be veddy, veddy bad, veddy, veddy soon. I don't handle the winter months very well (or the other months, actually).
So... 3 weeks and, I think I like it. Really. No, really. Never have I sweated so much and moved so little. Who knew that shifting your hips an inch could immediately induce your thigh to say, "I don't think so."? The day after my first session, I'd soaked through my T-shirt, flannel pajamas (I don't have workout clothes) and was only capable of about a third of my normal movement. Last week was better and this week, I'm starting to feel better! Of course, I still tip over with any yoga move that requires balance. I also have this amazing ability to vibrate. Leave me in that 'Warrior 2' position for too long, and you'll soon have a Bouncing Deckard toy on your hands. Breathing can be a bit of a chore, also. That yoga instructor breathes a helluva lot slower than my body's willing to do. Apparently, I also have some tension in my shoulders- steel girder grade.
And hell, I'm starting to kinda dig the chanting too!
Thursday, October 27, 2005
a night at the Art Dance
"Which one," asked the fat, middle-aged man in the business suit. He leaned back in the plush office chair.
"That one down there," his wife aswered. She waved to the wall of boxy paintings, staggered along the wall. Each canvas had a clear sky but conveyed with various colors of daylight. Taken as a whole, they gave the wall an arching sense of a passing day. At the center of each sky floated an immaculate, painted feather. I was hovering along the deep purples of twilight as Kat lingered among the pinks and baby blues of dawn.
"I know what 'down there' means. You just said 'down there'-"
The blonde-streaked helmet head swiveled back to her husband.
"Then what are you askin' for," she asked with an arched, Long Island/Jersey drawl.
"Which one?" The suit tried to lean back further in the office chair to punctuate his statement, but he had reached the limits of the chair. Sandwiched between the couple was a 30-something, Japanese woman, perched upon a swiveling art stool. Her Smile of Humoring was in full plumage.
"The one on the end- any of 'em. They're all so gore-juss" she exclaimed with a flush enthusiasm fueled by red wine. She waved and gestured with a hand that appeared to have a junebug clasping for dear life upon her ring finger. Only when she paused for dramatic effect could I make out the cartoon-sized, wedding ring mounted on her hand.
I glanced about the worktables for any sign of the free wine we'd been sampling all evening, but resources were running slim at this late hour. It was time to call it a night anyway. The excitement of wielding plastic cups of free, red wine amongst an open house of art studios, choked with expensive art and their antsy creators had lost it's allure... and the threat of spillage had become a treacherous possibility.
It was time to go.
"That one down there," his wife aswered. She waved to the wall of boxy paintings, staggered along the wall. Each canvas had a clear sky but conveyed with various colors of daylight. Taken as a whole, they gave the wall an arching sense of a passing day. At the center of each sky floated an immaculate, painted feather. I was hovering along the deep purples of twilight as Kat lingered among the pinks and baby blues of dawn.
"I know what 'down there' means. You just said 'down there'-"
The blonde-streaked helmet head swiveled back to her husband.
"Then what are you askin' for," she asked with an arched, Long Island/Jersey drawl.
"Which one?" The suit tried to lean back further in the office chair to punctuate his statement, but he had reached the limits of the chair. Sandwiched between the couple was a 30-something, Japanese woman, perched upon a swiveling art stool. Her Smile of Humoring was in full plumage.
"The one on the end- any of 'em. They're all so gore-juss" she exclaimed with a flush enthusiasm fueled by red wine. She waved and gestured with a hand that appeared to have a junebug clasping for dear life upon her ring finger. Only when she paused for dramatic effect could I make out the cartoon-sized, wedding ring mounted on her hand.
I glanced about the worktables for any sign of the free wine we'd been sampling all evening, but resources were running slim at this late hour. It was time to call it a night anyway. The excitement of wielding plastic cups of free, red wine amongst an open house of art studios, choked with expensive art and their antsy creators had lost it's allure... and the threat of spillage had become a treacherous possibility.
It was time to go.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
lesson in Thai cooking... wear gloves
Less than a block from the infamous 5-Points section of Lower Manhattan lies a jewel of grocery store called Bangkok Center Grocery. It's a hole-in-the-wall place that's smaller than my living room, but packs enough Thai goodness to keep my mouth burning all year round. I go there whenever the travel bug hits and I need some nostalgic nourishment to placate the fact that I ain't going anywhere anytime soon. The days are shortening and with the 1-year anniversary of my Thailand trip looming on the horizon, I was jonesin' bad.
I had taken a few Thai cooking classes when I was in Chiang Mai and immediately fell in love with the food. New York is woefully lacking in quality, Thai restaurants. We're hip-deep in Chinese, Italian, Indian and sushi, but authentic Thai and Mexican are rare-if-ever sightings. If I wanted some Thai, then I was going to have to do it myself. The four hardest, quality ingredients to come by are fish sauce, shrimp paste, palm sugar and kaffir lime rind/leaves. The first two smell awful the first time you try them. Palm sugar is a great not-so-sweet sugar. Kaffir lime isn't nearly as tangy and sour as conventional limes. It has a great taste that instantly takes me back to Thailand whenever I smell it and it's the secret weapon of really good Thai cooking. If I lived somewhere warm and I had a yard, I would plant myself a kaffir lime tree. It's that frigging good.
Even with the ingredients and the know-how, it takes a lot of practice to get a food dish into the Rotation- eaten on a regular basis. The key is ease-of-preparation. Even in my neighborhood, delivery food is quick and ideal for a tired S.O.B. who's just returned home after a 45-minute commute. I'm not, generally, in the mood to heat up my kitchen and cook for an hour. It's gotta be simple. Pad thai is the first Thai food that I've gotten down pat. It's easy, tastes awesome, and soaking the rice noodles for 12 minutes is half the prep time. Still, it's not a particularly exciting meal. It's mild and frankly, my favorite Thai foods have a little kick. That's where the curry paste comes in.
The cornerstone of hot, Thai cooking is a good curry. Curry paste is the barbecue sauce or marinara of Thai food. If you can nail down a good curry paste, you can stick it in the freezer and pull it out whenever you need it. Cook it with chicken or pork or duck or tofu (all organic, of course) and you will be able to quickly assemble a couple dozen fantastic meals. I made a few curry pastes when I first got back from Thailand, but with middling success. I made a red paste, a paenang paste and a sweeter, milder curry paste called Chiang Mai paste (my favorite). I discovered two keys to a good paste- smoothness and heat. On my first attempt, I got impatient with the food processor and ended up with a bunch of paste that wasn't smooth enough. In addition, it had a good flavor, but didn't give the kind of nasal-clearing heat I'd come to expect from a good curry dish. This time around, I wasn't going to fuck around with the peppers. This time, we were going to have some Serious pepper action in the kitchen.
On Monday, I decided to make some yellow curry paste and a double-batch of red curry paste. I soaked 3-dozen dried, red peppers then added another 10 tiny, green peppers to the mix. I cut and I cleaned the seeds out and I soaked them and when I was done- Success! I busted out my wok, added some coconut milk, 4 tablespoons of red curry paste, palm sugar, tofu. Man! It was like I was back in Southeast Asia. Even Kat, who had been eyeing me nervously all through the prep had to give me props.
Pumped on adrenaline and intense enthusiasm all afternoon, I was finally starting to come down when I noticed my hands- what was that... that burning? My hands began to get warmer and warmer until suddenly they were in full-blown pain. The oils from all the peppers I'd been handling made me feel like I could light a candle with my fingertip. Ho-ly Je-sus. I scrubbed and I scrubbed. I held them in front of fans, I poured milk on them, I scrubbed them some more, but they kept burning and burning. This is what happens when coddled, office hands meet hot peppers. Yow. Five hours later, the burning subsided enough for me to fall asleep.
Last week, my glasses broke. One of those little nose bridges snapped off as I was putting my yogurt in the fridge at work. With no money to buy a new pair, I've started wearing my contact lenses again. They've taken some getting used to, but I was beginning to adjust. Mercifully, I was lazy on Monday and never bothered to put them in. The morning after my Flaming Hands performance, I woke up and stumbled to the bathroom- completely forgetting that my hands were burning just hours earlier. Now, they felt fine. I'd like to think that I'd have been a little smarter if I'd waited another 10 minutes to wake up but, alas, I will never know for sure, for it was with infinite stupidity that I ambled up to the bathroom sink and popped in my right contact. The next 15 minutes were spent trying to get it out. You know you're in a bad way when you start negotiating with yourself. Out Loud. Kat, one of the most squeamish human beings when it comes to eyes, actually offered to use Her fingers to get it out. Finally, the contact abandoned ship and I managed to lurch through my daily prep. Unfortunately, I was left to wear my broken glasses the rest of the day... and again today.
Good curry paste, though.
I had taken a few Thai cooking classes when I was in Chiang Mai and immediately fell in love with the food. New York is woefully lacking in quality, Thai restaurants. We're hip-deep in Chinese, Italian, Indian and sushi, but authentic Thai and Mexican are rare-if-ever sightings. If I wanted some Thai, then I was going to have to do it myself. The four hardest, quality ingredients to come by are fish sauce, shrimp paste, palm sugar and kaffir lime rind/leaves. The first two smell awful the first time you try them. Palm sugar is a great not-so-sweet sugar. Kaffir lime isn't nearly as tangy and sour as conventional limes. It has a great taste that instantly takes me back to Thailand whenever I smell it and it's the secret weapon of really good Thai cooking. If I lived somewhere warm and I had a yard, I would plant myself a kaffir lime tree. It's that frigging good.
Even with the ingredients and the know-how, it takes a lot of practice to get a food dish into the Rotation- eaten on a regular basis. The key is ease-of-preparation. Even in my neighborhood, delivery food is quick and ideal for a tired S.O.B. who's just returned home after a 45-minute commute. I'm not, generally, in the mood to heat up my kitchen and cook for an hour. It's gotta be simple. Pad thai is the first Thai food that I've gotten down pat. It's easy, tastes awesome, and soaking the rice noodles for 12 minutes is half the prep time. Still, it's not a particularly exciting meal. It's mild and frankly, my favorite Thai foods have a little kick. That's where the curry paste comes in.
The cornerstone of hot, Thai cooking is a good curry. Curry paste is the barbecue sauce or marinara of Thai food. If you can nail down a good curry paste, you can stick it in the freezer and pull it out whenever you need it. Cook it with chicken or pork or duck or tofu (all organic, of course) and you will be able to quickly assemble a couple dozen fantastic meals. I made a few curry pastes when I first got back from Thailand, but with middling success. I made a red paste, a paenang paste and a sweeter, milder curry paste called Chiang Mai paste (my favorite). I discovered two keys to a good paste- smoothness and heat. On my first attempt, I got impatient with the food processor and ended up with a bunch of paste that wasn't smooth enough. In addition, it had a good flavor, but didn't give the kind of nasal-clearing heat I'd come to expect from a good curry dish. This time around, I wasn't going to fuck around with the peppers. This time, we were going to have some Serious pepper action in the kitchen.
On Monday, I decided to make some yellow curry paste and a double-batch of red curry paste. I soaked 3-dozen dried, red peppers then added another 10 tiny, green peppers to the mix. I cut and I cleaned the seeds out and I soaked them and when I was done- Success! I busted out my wok, added some coconut milk, 4 tablespoons of red curry paste, palm sugar, tofu. Man! It was like I was back in Southeast Asia. Even Kat, who had been eyeing me nervously all through the prep had to give me props.
Pumped on adrenaline and intense enthusiasm all afternoon, I was finally starting to come down when I noticed my hands- what was that... that burning? My hands began to get warmer and warmer until suddenly they were in full-blown pain. The oils from all the peppers I'd been handling made me feel like I could light a candle with my fingertip. Ho-ly Je-sus. I scrubbed and I scrubbed. I held them in front of fans, I poured milk on them, I scrubbed them some more, but they kept burning and burning. This is what happens when coddled, office hands meet hot peppers. Yow. Five hours later, the burning subsided enough for me to fall asleep.
Last week, my glasses broke. One of those little nose bridges snapped off as I was putting my yogurt in the fridge at work. With no money to buy a new pair, I've started wearing my contact lenses again. They've taken some getting used to, but I was beginning to adjust. Mercifully, I was lazy on Monday and never bothered to put them in. The morning after my Flaming Hands performance, I woke up and stumbled to the bathroom- completely forgetting that my hands were burning just hours earlier. Now, they felt fine. I'd like to think that I'd have been a little smarter if I'd waited another 10 minutes to wake up but, alas, I will never know for sure, for it was with infinite stupidity that I ambled up to the bathroom sink and popped in my right contact. The next 15 minutes were spent trying to get it out. You know you're in a bad way when you start negotiating with yourself. Out Loud. Kat, one of the most squeamish human beings when it comes to eyes, actually offered to use Her fingers to get it out. Finally, the contact abandoned ship and I managed to lurch through my daily prep. Unfortunately, I was left to wear my broken glasses the rest of the day... and again today.
Good curry paste, though.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Sons and Daughters at Northsix
Seeing a musician at the top of his/her game is a fantastic experience. It reminds me why I see bands play live and why people pursue an artistic career. A mediocre band can show flashes of brilliance that make me want to embrace them and root for their development and future success. Bad bands instill a stronger belief in myself by illustrating that, despite their tremendous ability to suck, they're out there, putting it together, getting gigs, recording music and doing what they believe in. If the ongoing duties of computer repair/software installation hadn't absorbed my entire, 3-day weekend, I would have been a guitar-playing motherfucker come Sunday morning 'cause I was hip-deep in inspiration.
Kat and I crawled out of the cave on a rainy Saturday afternoon, propelled ourselves through the subway for an hour, all for a little music-lovin' in Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg. For the non-native, Williamsburg is a perfect example of what might have been and what is so very Wrong with New York. Earlier last century, Williamsburg was an Italian-American neighborhood full of Brooklyn Dodgers fans and mafiosos. Later, Poles and orthodox Jews huddled together in tight-knit communities. Recently, it has been embalmed by overeager developers and deep-pocketed hipsters who were eager to gut a neighborhood and build a SoHo to call their own. When Kat and I moved to New York in 2001, Williamsburg was already in the process of transmogrifying from an artist-friendly neighborhood of lofts and cheap apartments into an over-priced community of perfo-kitsch and clubs outlined by Beemers and Benzes. Still, some cool venues have held on. Galapagos still has great, free burlesque shows on Monday nights and Northsix has managed to consistently book some great, up-and-coming indie bands. I'd been wanting to go for years and on this night, the stars finally aligned and suddenly, there we were.
In the typical plumage of urban-chic, Northsix didn't have a sign. Only a large black man on a barstool hinted that there was a bar behind those doors. We flashed our ID's and slipped into the high-ceiling foyer(?) that had a bar with the only beer on-tap (Heineken). We checked in through Will Call and entered the performance space where a flock of tittering Hispanic girls fluttered about the unmanned, sales table. They ogled $15 T-shirts and debated whether the buttons and stickers were free or not, despite the sign in the middle of the table that told them. I excused myself, plunged my hand into the mass of stunned ladies (completely non-sexually, of course) and snagged a Sons & Daughters sticker.
A long, light-wood bar undulated from the entrance, down toward the stage. No barstools, plastic cups stacked behind the bar for mixed drinks, yet $5 for a bottle of Red Stripe beer? What the hell kind of Cosmo-drinking, indie crowd was this? A narrow stairway and a few, bleacher-style seats stood facing the wide stage. The drink prices were disappointing but still, I live for these sorts of spaces where you can talk to the band as they're loading in/out their gear. The usual suspects of music geeks had already secured their seats. Cute, vaguely-nerdy female groupies were paired up and claiming nosebleed seats while the intense, Übermusik geeks carefully scoped out the Ideal seat that stood just above the heads of the standing crowd yet offered the perfect balance of comfort, acoustic fidelity, and eye-lines. I, on the other hand, am of the genre who has to be there nice and early so I don't miss Anything. I went to see Stars at the Mercury Lounge about a year ago and it still bugs me that I missed most of the opening set featuring I Am Kloot. Yep, I'm That Guy.
Kat spotted a row of wooden seats against a side wall so we snagged them. It gave us seats and a good vantage point to people-watch and ruthlessly judge others... that being the only alternative to drinking. Besides, my standing endurance was running low and even with my steel-tipped, Doc Martens with heel supports, I was gonna be struggling by the end of the night. It sucks getting older, sometimes. Kat and I baby-sipped our beers and entertained ourselves by making sweeping generalizations of everyone who passed. The flock of Hispanic senoritas swept from one end of the performance space to another, searching for a land where they could see the band, be seen by everyone in the club, and find butt accommodations for the entire group. It was hypnotic.
The first band of the night was a 5-piece group called Eiffel Tower. I vaguely recognized the name from my perusal of KEXP playlists (the no-streaming policy at my day job has effectively eliminated my morning dose of online radio). I was eager to check them out. Well, I am eager no more. It's always a bad sign when the opening band is really loud. It's like guys who drive jacked pickups - you just know the dick has gotta be small. Screeching loud generally means that they're making up for other insecurities. It's not like Eiffel Tower was lacking in the indie cred- they had the nerd-savant on rhythm guitar, the T-Rex backup wannabe on bass and a wry, blond keyboardist who was affable and humble. Had the band been tight, the singing been consistently in tune or the hooks solid, this might have been a solid band. Maybe it was an off night. Maybe the lead singer had been rooting for his alma mater during an afternoon football game, but this was not their night. It's a tough career they've chosen and tonight, they inspired me with their tenacity and ability to get gigs!
There is a chance that I was getting a bit jaded by this time. I'm not a newbie to the scene. I'm not floored simply by the ability of the band to vibrate the air around me with a great half-stack. With no beer buzz to propel me through the evening, I only had a pair of earplugs to separate me from suck and I was starting to feel bad for dragging Kat's beloved ass to some vacuous corner of New York. Just then, I noticed a willowy fellow take to the stage. He looked like a member of the 1930's worker party or a roadie for Woody Guthrie, if such a thing were possible. He was soon joined by a platinum blonde that Kat had earlier pegged as an A&R exec. A ripped jeans guy who I'd mockingly pronounced to be a spoiled-rich producer type turned out to be the drummer. I have no future as a detective. The band was 'The Rosebuds'.
There are two things I'm a sucker for when it comes to bands - solid drumming and a guitarist who can play an entire show with ONE guitar. Nothing can kill a show quicker than sloppy drumming or a guitarist who has to swipe out and re-tune his/her guitar between every. single. song. If you're playing power chords through a distortion pedal and your low 'E' is a half step off, I'm probably not going to be put out. Making me sit through a couple minutes of you staring at a BOSS tuning pedal, trying to get it just right, well just shoot me now. Either learn to play an entire set in drop D tuning or learn to fret it standard. The Rosebuds had a good drummer, a good guitarist and what resulted was a rousing set of unmemorable songs. The blonde beauty was, unfortunately, completely mixed out of the set. The brief flashes from her keyboard and mic gave me cause for hope, however. The band showed hints of The White Stripes and they had some fun hooks, but they never quite seemed to take a full bite from what they wanted. Of course, not every one would agree with me. The best entertainment of the night might have been a cute, young woman who knew all The Rosebuds's lyrics and had a natural, rhythmic dance going that was just fun to watch- and not in that creepy, sexual way. In New York, such dancing is a notable anomaly. NYC is mostly known for white-boy nodding or stilted, cooler-than-thou posing. Even Kat was taken aback by this lady's inappropriate display of enjoyment. If only other New Yorkers could learn to enjoy a night out...
The Rosebuds finished their set and our free-spirited dancer consummated the evening by proclaiming, to the lead guitarist, that he was awesome. I love small venues like this. Kat and I rose and shuffled towards center stage. A short, young man with a greaser's pompadour raced about the stage. He tuned his guitars, set up the mic stands and fitted windsocks on the microphones before whisking himself offstage. I would later discover that his name was (and probably still is) Scott Paterson and he is the best reason to go see the band Sons and Daughters. When the four-member band finally launched into their opening song, it took all of two seconds to see that Scott was the Real Deal. From the opening power chords through the final crescendo, he was On Task, cranking out with an intensity normally reserved for drummers on coke. He immediately reminded me of a Joe Strummer-type of player. Sons and Daughters are not, however, anything like The Clash. Adele Bethel was the vocal engine of the band, providing a solid performance and a hypnotic, to-and-fro rocking motion. Ailidh Lennon, the bass player, blew something on her amp stack on the second song and spent the rest of evening being the World's Poutiest Cute Irish Woman in a Red Dress.
The band had opened for The Decemberists at Webster Hall on Tuesday and although I wanted to go, my boycott of Webster Hall remains in effect. I didn't expect Sons and Daughters to play at a particularly high level on this night but I was pleasantly surprised. The band really shone when Scott was cut loose and allowed to run. Their rendition of "Johnny Cash" was particularly strong. There was a disturbing moment during song that required audience participation. The whole band suddenly swapped out from performing to hand clapping. Parts of the audience joined in. Kat, however chose to sit this clap-fest out. The drummer, seemingly put out by the fact that a cute, blonde woman in the audience was not dying to participate, attempted to Will her to clap through an extended, intense stare that elicited raised eyebrows and an uncomfortable laugh from Kat. Having never seen another man attempt to hypnotize my girlfriend in the midst of a concert, I was momentarily taken aback. Fortunately, Kat's laugh ended Rasputin's seduction as quickly as it had begun. The band did a one-song encore after promising us that they had to go. It was just as well. Kat and I were at least hour of subway riding away from home.
Kat and I crawled out of the cave on a rainy Saturday afternoon, propelled ourselves through the subway for an hour, all for a little music-lovin' in Brooklyn neighborhood of Williamsburg. For the non-native, Williamsburg is a perfect example of what might have been and what is so very Wrong with New York. Earlier last century, Williamsburg was an Italian-American neighborhood full of Brooklyn Dodgers fans and mafiosos. Later, Poles and orthodox Jews huddled together in tight-knit communities. Recently, it has been embalmed by overeager developers and deep-pocketed hipsters who were eager to gut a neighborhood and build a SoHo to call their own. When Kat and I moved to New York in 2001, Williamsburg was already in the process of transmogrifying from an artist-friendly neighborhood of lofts and cheap apartments into an over-priced community of perfo-kitsch and clubs outlined by Beemers and Benzes. Still, some cool venues have held on. Galapagos still has great, free burlesque shows on Monday nights and Northsix has managed to consistently book some great, up-and-coming indie bands. I'd been wanting to go for years and on this night, the stars finally aligned and suddenly, there we were.
In the typical plumage of urban-chic, Northsix didn't have a sign. Only a large black man on a barstool hinted that there was a bar behind those doors. We flashed our ID's and slipped into the high-ceiling foyer(?) that had a bar with the only beer on-tap (Heineken). We checked in through Will Call and entered the performance space where a flock of tittering Hispanic girls fluttered about the unmanned, sales table. They ogled $15 T-shirts and debated whether the buttons and stickers were free or not, despite the sign in the middle of the table that told them. I excused myself, plunged my hand into the mass of stunned ladies (completely non-sexually, of course) and snagged a Sons & Daughters sticker.
A long, light-wood bar undulated from the entrance, down toward the stage. No barstools, plastic cups stacked behind the bar for mixed drinks, yet $5 for a bottle of Red Stripe beer? What the hell kind of Cosmo-drinking, indie crowd was this? A narrow stairway and a few, bleacher-style seats stood facing the wide stage. The drink prices were disappointing but still, I live for these sorts of spaces where you can talk to the band as they're loading in/out their gear. The usual suspects of music geeks had already secured their seats. Cute, vaguely-nerdy female groupies were paired up and claiming nosebleed seats while the intense, Übermusik geeks carefully scoped out the Ideal seat that stood just above the heads of the standing crowd yet offered the perfect balance of comfort, acoustic fidelity, and eye-lines. I, on the other hand, am of the genre who has to be there nice and early so I don't miss Anything. I went to see Stars at the Mercury Lounge about a year ago and it still bugs me that I missed most of the opening set featuring I Am Kloot. Yep, I'm That Guy.
Kat spotted a row of wooden seats against a side wall so we snagged them. It gave us seats and a good vantage point to people-watch and ruthlessly judge others... that being the only alternative to drinking. Besides, my standing endurance was running low and even with my steel-tipped, Doc Martens with heel supports, I was gonna be struggling by the end of the night. It sucks getting older, sometimes. Kat and I baby-sipped our beers and entertained ourselves by making sweeping generalizations of everyone who passed. The flock of Hispanic senoritas swept from one end of the performance space to another, searching for a land where they could see the band, be seen by everyone in the club, and find butt accommodations for the entire group. It was hypnotic.
The first band of the night was a 5-piece group called Eiffel Tower. I vaguely recognized the name from my perusal of KEXP playlists (the no-streaming policy at my day job has effectively eliminated my morning dose of online radio). I was eager to check them out. Well, I am eager no more. It's always a bad sign when the opening band is really loud. It's like guys who drive jacked pickups - you just know the dick has gotta be small. Screeching loud generally means that they're making up for other insecurities. It's not like Eiffel Tower was lacking in the indie cred- they had the nerd-savant on rhythm guitar, the T-Rex backup wannabe on bass and a wry, blond keyboardist who was affable and humble. Had the band been tight, the singing been consistently in tune or the hooks solid, this might have been a solid band. Maybe it was an off night. Maybe the lead singer had been rooting for his alma mater during an afternoon football game, but this was not their night. It's a tough career they've chosen and tonight, they inspired me with their tenacity and ability to get gigs!
There is a chance that I was getting a bit jaded by this time. I'm not a newbie to the scene. I'm not floored simply by the ability of the band to vibrate the air around me with a great half-stack. With no beer buzz to propel me through the evening, I only had a pair of earplugs to separate me from suck and I was starting to feel bad for dragging Kat's beloved ass to some vacuous corner of New York. Just then, I noticed a willowy fellow take to the stage. He looked like a member of the 1930's worker party or a roadie for Woody Guthrie, if such a thing were possible. He was soon joined by a platinum blonde that Kat had earlier pegged as an A&R exec. A ripped jeans guy who I'd mockingly pronounced to be a spoiled-rich producer type turned out to be the drummer. I have no future as a detective. The band was 'The Rosebuds'.
There are two things I'm a sucker for when it comes to bands - solid drumming and a guitarist who can play an entire show with ONE guitar. Nothing can kill a show quicker than sloppy drumming or a guitarist who has to swipe out and re-tune his/her guitar between every. single. song. If you're playing power chords through a distortion pedal and your low 'E' is a half step off, I'm probably not going to be put out. Making me sit through a couple minutes of you staring at a BOSS tuning pedal, trying to get it just right, well just shoot me now. Either learn to play an entire set in drop D tuning or learn to fret it standard. The Rosebuds had a good drummer, a good guitarist and what resulted was a rousing set of unmemorable songs. The blonde beauty was, unfortunately, completely mixed out of the set. The brief flashes from her keyboard and mic gave me cause for hope, however. The band showed hints of The White Stripes and they had some fun hooks, but they never quite seemed to take a full bite from what they wanted. Of course, not every one would agree with me. The best entertainment of the night might have been a cute, young woman who knew all The Rosebuds's lyrics and had a natural, rhythmic dance going that was just fun to watch- and not in that creepy, sexual way. In New York, such dancing is a notable anomaly. NYC is mostly known for white-boy nodding or stilted, cooler-than-thou posing. Even Kat was taken aback by this lady's inappropriate display of enjoyment. If only other New Yorkers could learn to enjoy a night out...
The Rosebuds finished their set and our free-spirited dancer consummated the evening by proclaiming, to the lead guitarist, that he was awesome. I love small venues like this. Kat and I rose and shuffled towards center stage. A short, young man with a greaser's pompadour raced about the stage. He tuned his guitars, set up the mic stands and fitted windsocks on the microphones before whisking himself offstage. I would later discover that his name was (and probably still is) Scott Paterson and he is the best reason to go see the band Sons and Daughters. When the four-member band finally launched into their opening song, it took all of two seconds to see that Scott was the Real Deal. From the opening power chords through the final crescendo, he was On Task, cranking out with an intensity normally reserved for drummers on coke. He immediately reminded me of a Joe Strummer-type of player. Sons and Daughters are not, however, anything like The Clash. Adele Bethel was the vocal engine of the band, providing a solid performance and a hypnotic, to-and-fro rocking motion. Ailidh Lennon, the bass player, blew something on her amp stack on the second song and spent the rest of evening being the World's Poutiest Cute Irish Woman in a Red Dress.
The band had opened for The Decemberists at Webster Hall on Tuesday and although I wanted to go, my boycott of Webster Hall remains in effect. I didn't expect Sons and Daughters to play at a particularly high level on this night but I was pleasantly surprised. The band really shone when Scott was cut loose and allowed to run. Their rendition of "Johnny Cash" was particularly strong. There was a disturbing moment during song that required audience participation. The whole band suddenly swapped out from performing to hand clapping. Parts of the audience joined in. Kat, however chose to sit this clap-fest out. The drummer, seemingly put out by the fact that a cute, blonde woman in the audience was not dying to participate, attempted to Will her to clap through an extended, intense stare that elicited raised eyebrows and an uncomfortable laugh from Kat. Having never seen another man attempt to hypnotize my girlfriend in the midst of a concert, I was momentarily taken aback. Fortunately, Kat's laugh ended Rasputin's seduction as quickly as it had begun. The band did a one-song encore after promising us that they had to go. It was just as well. Kat and I were at least hour of subway riding away from home.
Monday, October 03, 2005
murder by BIOS
My computer died yesterday, and I killed it. I've spent a lot of time in front of a computer monitor and I've read more than a fair number of hardware and software guides. I took BASIC and Pascal programming classes in high school, taught myself SQL 4 years ago, but I always feel like I don't know enough. Murder always feels a step outside my tunnel vision of knowledge- there's always something that I could miss. I killed partially out of ignorance. I was playing with a gun I didn't know I was loaded called a system BIOS. Unfortunately, the manufacturer of my motherboard neglected to tell me that they were handing me a loaded firearm.
I built my computer three years ago. I'm very proud of it. I had never built a computer before. I did the researh. I studied a number of techie websites, including the fantastic Tom's Hardware Guide and My Super PC. I picked out the components and, for less than a thousand bucks, built a smokin'-yet-affordable system:
Looks great and technical, doesn't it? I went from a crap-ass Dell 'laptop' with a failed battery and floppy drive to an unbelievably fast and stable system completely of my own creation. I could cruise through Battlefield 1942 or Medal of Honor smooth as silk... not counting the occassional dirty look from Kat.
The Achilles heel of the system, however, was the O.S.. Eight months ago, Windows 2000 started giving me error messages. It had developed a glitch wherein Explorer would crash after closing file folders. I lived with it for a while, tried Googling the problem, performed a few tweeks, then endured a little more. Finally, I decided that it was time to start anew. I had a new, 160 GB hard drive to hold my new media files and now was a good time to format the new drive and re-install my system software.
The last 2 weeks have been spent on backup. On Saturday, I unplugged the Beast, hauled it out from under my desk, wrangled the dust bunnies from its innards, then carefully installed the new drive. I'd been dreading the whole process of formatting and re-installing Windows, but by that evening, I had a renewed system with a new, formatted hard drive, and an internet connection. Life was good. It was the easiest installation I'd ever done... then I made the foolish mistake of speaking out loud and telling Kat.
Sunday morning, I was up early and eager to go. I was convinced that I could have my Adobe Creative Suite and iTunes fully installed before Kat even knew the bed was getting cold. I peformed the Dance with Windows Updater and re-booted the system a few times, without incident. I went to ASUS's website to find the newest drivers for my motherboard. As I clicked through, I noticed that there was this convenient, new utility that proudly told me that it could perform a BIOS update without the aid of flash disks.
'Fantastic,' I thought, ' I can update the BIOS, reboot then install Adobe. I ran the utility, chose the newest BIOS, then started the update. The meters filled, telling me that my old BIOS was removed, that the new BIOS was being entered then the install was confirmed- no, wait a sec.
Error.
Did I want to RETRY the installation or EXIT and cancel the installation?
I clicked RETRY, watched the meters do their thing then... another error.
'Ah well,' I thought, fuck it. Best not get too greedy. I'll do the BIOS update some other time.
I EXIT from the utility, then Restart Windows to... a blank screen.
Huh.
I hold down the RESET button on my PC case.
Blank screen. The machine is running, the fans are turning, but nothing is loading. Nothing. Blank.
RESTART.
Nothing.
Oh shit.
RESTART.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh-
Nothing.
I scrambled into the bedroom where my Flintstone-era laptop lies. It was slow, but I had a simple ethernet connection going and right then, it was all the technology I had in the world. I went to ASUS's website. Troubleshooting. I swore. Forums. More swearing. I'm Googling.
Kat peered over the rim of the covers at the tall, sweaty boyfriend who's swearing like a sailor under his breath.
"Are you all right, sweetie," she asked from somewhere between a dream and the adrenaline-fueled reality where I was living.
I dragged my computer out from under my desk. With the motherboard instructions in my hand, I'm threading my hand through the maze of wires, carefully extracting the pin jumper from one set of pegs, and sliding them onto another. Supposedly, I am clearing the CMOS from my drive, but I felt like I was about to turn into one of the apes from 2001: A Space Odyssey and start hopping around hysterically around the Monolith.
I plug the monitor and keyboard back in and turn on the power.
Nothing.
I take it apart. Try it again. I plug it in, turn it on.
Nothing.
I try removing the motherboard battery - the power supply that keeps the BIOS alive in the motherboard. I plug it back in.
Nothing.
I have a boot disk. I install a floppy drive, enter the boot disk. I plug it back in.
Nothing.
CD-ROM boot disk.
Nothing.
I'm pleading, negotiating, offering my first born for the return of functionality.
Nothing.
I'm telling Kat all about the CMOS. I show her the directions and explain what I'm doing and ask her to read the directions and tell me I'm doing it right. She even holds the flashlight as I try to reset the CMOS for the upteenth time.
Nothing.
Kat Googles. Can't find anything new.
Finally, I had to Admit that... I did it. I had killed my computer with a poisonous BIOS.
Well, what's a credit line if you can't use it, right? I haven't ordered from Newegg in so long... maybe it's time to catch up on old times.
I built my computer three years ago. I'm very proud of it. I had never built a computer before. I did the researh. I studied a number of techie websites, including the fantastic Tom's Hardware Guide and My Super PC. I picked out the components and, for less than a thousand bucks, built a smokin'-yet-affordable system:
Intel P4 - 2.4GHz Processor
ASUS P4PE motherboard
Corsair 512MB memory
Western Digital 120MB 7200RPM hard drive
Gainward GeForce4 Ti4200
ASUS P4PE motherboard
Corsair 512MB memory
Western Digital 120MB 7200RPM hard drive
Gainward GeForce4 Ti4200
Looks great and technical, doesn't it? I went from a crap-ass Dell 'laptop' with a failed battery and floppy drive to an unbelievably fast and stable system completely of my own creation. I could cruise through Battlefield 1942 or Medal of Honor smooth as silk... not counting the occassional dirty look from Kat.
The Achilles heel of the system, however, was the O.S.. Eight months ago, Windows 2000 started giving me error messages. It had developed a glitch wherein Explorer would crash after closing file folders. I lived with it for a while, tried Googling the problem, performed a few tweeks, then endured a little more. Finally, I decided that it was time to start anew. I had a new, 160 GB hard drive to hold my new media files and now was a good time to format the new drive and re-install my system software.
The last 2 weeks have been spent on backup. On Saturday, I unplugged the Beast, hauled it out from under my desk, wrangled the dust bunnies from its innards, then carefully installed the new drive. I'd been dreading the whole process of formatting and re-installing Windows, but by that evening, I had a renewed system with a new, formatted hard drive, and an internet connection. Life was good. It was the easiest installation I'd ever done... then I made the foolish mistake of speaking out loud and telling Kat.
Sunday morning, I was up early and eager to go. I was convinced that I could have my Adobe Creative Suite and iTunes fully installed before Kat even knew the bed was getting cold. I peformed the Dance with Windows Updater and re-booted the system a few times, without incident. I went to ASUS's website to find the newest drivers for my motherboard. As I clicked through, I noticed that there was this convenient, new utility that proudly told me that it could perform a BIOS update without the aid of flash disks.
'Fantastic,' I thought, ' I can update the BIOS, reboot then install Adobe. I ran the utility, chose the newest BIOS, then started the update. The meters filled, telling me that my old BIOS was removed, that the new BIOS was being entered then the install was confirmed- no, wait a sec.
Error.
Did I want to RETRY the installation or EXIT and cancel the installation?
I clicked RETRY, watched the meters do their thing then... another error.
'Ah well,' I thought, fuck it. Best not get too greedy. I'll do the BIOS update some other time.
I EXIT from the utility, then Restart Windows to... a blank screen.
Huh.
I hold down the RESET button on my PC case.
Blank screen. The machine is running, the fans are turning, but nothing is loading. Nothing. Blank.
RESTART.
Nothing.
Oh shit.
RESTART.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh-
Nothing.
I scrambled into the bedroom where my Flintstone-era laptop lies. It was slow, but I had a simple ethernet connection going and right then, it was all the technology I had in the world. I went to ASUS's website. Troubleshooting. I swore. Forums. More swearing. I'm Googling.
Kat peered over the rim of the covers at the tall, sweaty boyfriend who's swearing like a sailor under his breath.
"Are you all right, sweetie," she asked from somewhere between a dream and the adrenaline-fueled reality where I was living.
I dragged my computer out from under my desk. With the motherboard instructions in my hand, I'm threading my hand through the maze of wires, carefully extracting the pin jumper from one set of pegs, and sliding them onto another. Supposedly, I am clearing the CMOS from my drive, but I felt like I was about to turn into one of the apes from 2001: A Space Odyssey and start hopping around hysterically around the Monolith.
I plug the monitor and keyboard back in and turn on the power.
Nothing.
I take it apart. Try it again. I plug it in, turn it on.
Nothing.
I try removing the motherboard battery - the power supply that keeps the BIOS alive in the motherboard. I plug it back in.
Nothing.
I have a boot disk. I install a floppy drive, enter the boot disk. I plug it back in.
Nothing.
CD-ROM boot disk.
Nothing.
I'm pleading, negotiating, offering my first born for the return of functionality.
Nothing.
I'm telling Kat all about the CMOS. I show her the directions and explain what I'm doing and ask her to read the directions and tell me I'm doing it right. She even holds the flashlight as I try to reset the CMOS for the upteenth time.
Nothing.
Kat Googles. Can't find anything new.
Finally, I had to Admit that... I did it. I had killed my computer with a poisonous BIOS.
Well, what's a credit line if you can't use it, right? I haven't ordered from Newegg in so long... maybe it's time to catch up on old times.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
rockin' our World
"An object at rest will remain at rest until an unbalanced force acts on it.
An object in motion will remain in motion until an unbalanced force acts on it."
-Newton's First Law of Motion
One of the easiest selling points of Conservatism is comfort. Societies are always changing, whether we like it or not, and there is a fantasy held by many that things can (and should) remain 'As Is'. This often arises from an erroneous belief that there was a 'Good Old Days' where things were simpler (meaning better) and that Things are getting Worse because people (insert caption of 'Liberal') keep trying to change things. Not all conservatives are inert, but it is a core belief that lies beneath many conservative talking points.
Why am I rambling on about this? No reason.
A couple weeks ago, a friend e-mailed me an invite to a global warming lecture. It was with this guy named Andy Revkin, a noted (or so I've been Told) science journalist for the New York Times and was being hosted by the Rainforest Alliance. Kat and I showed up in our eco-friendly garb - denim, concert T-shirts, steel-tipped Doc Martens, and nice, vaguely-hippie clothes. Our first cue that we might be swimming in strange waters was when we stepped off the elevator and were greeted with a sea of nametags. Kat had been listed as my guest so she was relegated to pencilling in her name. I hadn't a suitable pocket to attach my tag so I clipped it to my belt buckle and headed inside.
The room was stuffed with khakis, business shirts and dress-pants. Kat and my nametags looked woefully inadequate beside the corporate names and titles that began with the words Vice President. Many looked as if they had just shared a taxi from the East Side where they had just attended a U.N. summit on deforestation. Fortunately, awkwardness can be overcome with an adequate dose of alcohol and/or pills and the Rainforest Alliance provided free wine and beer exclusively for that purpose... that's what I choose to believe, anyway. Kat and I huddled near one another for comfort. Our previous notion of an environmental meeting involved refreshments provided by a vending machine accessed "down the hall and to the right". If it wasn't for a diorama-style room of glossy testimonials to fighting deforestation and supporting self-sustaining businesses, I'd have thought I was standing outside a board meeting for an Upper East Side non-profit group (also known as the 'Thing To Do When You're Rich and Bored').
I stared at the shiny, bright handouts and my first thought was 'This doesn't look like recycled paper'. Fortunately, my friends arrived and bailed me out of further observation. I had more primal needs to attend. The lecture was going to start and the gravy train of foccachia snacks, chocolate-dipped strawberries and free wine would soon dry up. I had to make my move. I approached the dour woman who manned the bar. I smiled pleasantly and offered my wine glass and a nonchallant play for a refill. The woman offered a "eat hot death, deadbeat" glare, then begrudgingly offered me 1 inch of red wine... somebody was a little bitter about working overtime.
Kat and I scored a pair of fold-out chairs in the back and set our paper-plate booty on our laps. Despite our spoils, now was the moment I secretly dreaded. Although I am passionate about the environment and do my best to spend my money as eco-friendly as possible, I am gun-shy about environmental lectures. They tend to make me feel ineffectual and angry. Lecturers often talk about atrocities of such scale and in lands so far away, I feel like I've been trying to piss on a forest fire. When I go to an environmental discussion, I want it to be focused and, preferably, local. I want to be able to wrap my hands around it and affect it and mobilize myself against it. It's not that I don't want to affect international issues, but I believe that the best way to get others to change is to live as an example and do it first in your own back yard.
So... how was the lecturer?
Over the years, my tolerance for bullshit has dropped to zero. I have even less patience for politicians and corporate PR. They wield masks that present me well-crafted lies and dreamy appraisals of how they want me to think as they prey that I'm not intellectually curious enough to learn any more than they have fed me. Political/scientific journalists are, sadly, cut from much of the same cloth. In order to stay on the Inside and, hopefully, find an opportunity to break the Big Story, reporters must convince the Public, and the Insiders, that they're probably (wink wink) on the Right side while maintaining the facade that reporting is a non-partisan act. It's the same delusion that documentaries are non-fiction. We all hope that the responsible reporter will convey the 'truth' of a moment, but these things cannot always be found without pointing a few fingers and making a few enemies.
Mr. Revkin offered no finger-pointing on this evening. Before he began his lecture, he had to read a disclaimer that anything he said did not represent the opinion of The New York Times. Thank God for that, otherwise I'd think that he was speaking the opinions of an inanimate, corporation and not speaking as a regular human being. He told us about how busy and tired he was from following hurricane news over the last 3 weeks. He told us how journalism isn't good for environmental reporting because it happens slowly instead of in big, catastrophic bangs. He told us that we need to educate our children better if we are going to have any hope of properly addressing global, environmental issues. Basically, he showed us that he was burnt out, frustrated, world weary and needed some sleep. He was a notch off of completely cynical, but I'd give that a couple years. I didn't find myself pissed off at the end of the lecture, but I wasn't exactly raring to get out there and have babies so I could educate them, either.
The wine and snacks were good, though.
An object in motion will remain in motion until an unbalanced force acts on it."
-Newton's First Law of Motion
One of the easiest selling points of Conservatism is comfort. Societies are always changing, whether we like it or not, and there is a fantasy held by many that things can (and should) remain 'As Is'. This often arises from an erroneous belief that there was a 'Good Old Days' where things were simpler (meaning better) and that Things are getting Worse because people (insert caption of 'Liberal') keep trying to change things. Not all conservatives are inert, but it is a core belief that lies beneath many conservative talking points.
Why am I rambling on about this? No reason.
A couple weeks ago, a friend e-mailed me an invite to a global warming lecture. It was with this guy named Andy Revkin, a noted (or so I've been Told) science journalist for the New York Times and was being hosted by the Rainforest Alliance. Kat and I showed up in our eco-friendly garb - denim, concert T-shirts, steel-tipped Doc Martens, and nice, vaguely-hippie clothes. Our first cue that we might be swimming in strange waters was when we stepped off the elevator and were greeted with a sea of nametags. Kat had been listed as my guest so she was relegated to pencilling in her name. I hadn't a suitable pocket to attach my tag so I clipped it to my belt buckle and headed inside.
The room was stuffed with khakis, business shirts and dress-pants. Kat and my nametags looked woefully inadequate beside the corporate names and titles that began with the words Vice President. Many looked as if they had just shared a taxi from the East Side where they had just attended a U.N. summit on deforestation. Fortunately, awkwardness can be overcome with an adequate dose of alcohol and/or pills and the Rainforest Alliance provided free wine and beer exclusively for that purpose... that's what I choose to believe, anyway. Kat and I huddled near one another for comfort. Our previous notion of an environmental meeting involved refreshments provided by a vending machine accessed "down the hall and to the right". If it wasn't for a diorama-style room of glossy testimonials to fighting deforestation and supporting self-sustaining businesses, I'd have thought I was standing outside a board meeting for an Upper East Side non-profit group (also known as the 'Thing To Do When You're Rich and Bored').
I stared at the shiny, bright handouts and my first thought was 'This doesn't look like recycled paper'. Fortunately, my friends arrived and bailed me out of further observation. I had more primal needs to attend. The lecture was going to start and the gravy train of foccachia snacks, chocolate-dipped strawberries and free wine would soon dry up. I had to make my move. I approached the dour woman who manned the bar. I smiled pleasantly and offered my wine glass and a nonchallant play for a refill. The woman offered a "eat hot death, deadbeat" glare, then begrudgingly offered me 1 inch of red wine... somebody was a little bitter about working overtime.
Kat and I scored a pair of fold-out chairs in the back and set our paper-plate booty on our laps. Despite our spoils, now was the moment I secretly dreaded. Although I am passionate about the environment and do my best to spend my money as eco-friendly as possible, I am gun-shy about environmental lectures. They tend to make me feel ineffectual and angry. Lecturers often talk about atrocities of such scale and in lands so far away, I feel like I've been trying to piss on a forest fire. When I go to an environmental discussion, I want it to be focused and, preferably, local. I want to be able to wrap my hands around it and affect it and mobilize myself against it. It's not that I don't want to affect international issues, but I believe that the best way to get others to change is to live as an example and do it first in your own back yard.
So... how was the lecturer?
Over the years, my tolerance for bullshit has dropped to zero. I have even less patience for politicians and corporate PR. They wield masks that present me well-crafted lies and dreamy appraisals of how they want me to think as they prey that I'm not intellectually curious enough to learn any more than they have fed me. Political/scientific journalists are, sadly, cut from much of the same cloth. In order to stay on the Inside and, hopefully, find an opportunity to break the Big Story, reporters must convince the Public, and the Insiders, that they're probably (wink wink) on the Right side while maintaining the facade that reporting is a non-partisan act. It's the same delusion that documentaries are non-fiction. We all hope that the responsible reporter will convey the 'truth' of a moment, but these things cannot always be found without pointing a few fingers and making a few enemies.
Mr. Revkin offered no finger-pointing on this evening. Before he began his lecture, he had to read a disclaimer that anything he said did not represent the opinion of The New York Times. Thank God for that, otherwise I'd think that he was speaking the opinions of an inanimate, corporation and not speaking as a regular human being. He told us about how busy and tired he was from following hurricane news over the last 3 weeks. He told us how journalism isn't good for environmental reporting because it happens slowly instead of in big, catastrophic bangs. He told us that we need to educate our children better if we are going to have any hope of properly addressing global, environmental issues. Basically, he showed us that he was burnt out, frustrated, world weary and needed some sleep. He was a notch off of completely cynical, but I'd give that a couple years. I didn't find myself pissed off at the end of the lecture, but I wasn't exactly raring to get out there and have babies so I could educate them, either.
The wine and snacks were good, though.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
my 'seven things' answers
My blogs are running thin, so I am happy to accommodate Muse's blogging questions...
Seven Things Quiz
SEVEN THINGS
Seven things you plan to do before you die
1. Travel around the world.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Live abroad.
4. See my abs again.
5. Sustain a living through my art.
6. Let 'it' go.
7. Have a kid. (those two thumps were Kat and my mother hitting the floor)
Seven things you can do
1. Write
2. Talk movies
3. draw
4. vent my frustration
5. worry
6. play guitar
7. cook
Seven things you can't do
1. Give myself a break
2. Work a 9-to-5 office job
3. Work on an oil rig
4. Dance to techno or rock music
(unless pogoing, tapping my foot, or moshing counts)
5. Conduct a non-emotional discussion on the environment
6. Keep it to myself
7. Sing
Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex
1. Challenging (punky) attitude
2. Intelligence
3. Wit
4. Adventurous nature
5. Gothy or Hippie style
6. Butt (not big, just perky)
7. Piercing eyes
Seven things you say most
1. "You know what I can't stand?!" (the answer is usually yes)
2. "What the fuck was that?!" (when I'm watching the news)
3. "What? What?! What do you want from me?!" (directed at Pippin (one of our cats) when he meows then flops down next to my computer desk for the umpteenth time, soliciting another petting session. Immediately followed by perfunctory petting.)
4. "I am Switzerland. I have no opinion." (when I refuse to answer a loaded question)
5. "Cool as the other side of the pillow." (when I'm stoned or have reached the sweet spot of drunkenness)
6. "God-dammit!" (When I have gotten my ass soundly kicked in a computer game. Usually requires a cooling off period of 5 minutes. With no context, this usually makes Kat and our two cats, jump.)
7. "I need a drink!" (Normally presented in an e-mail to Kat after I've emerged from another mind-numbing meeting with incompetent co-workers.)
Seven celebrity crushes
1. Cate Blanchett
2. Lauren Bacall
3. Audrey Hepburn
4. Allison Mosshart (singer for The Kills)
5. Helena Bonham Carter (in Fight Club)
6. Karen Allen (in Raiders of the Lost Ark)
7. Gwyneth Paltrow (in The Royal Tenenbaums)
Seven Things Quiz
SEVEN THINGS
Seven things you plan to do before you die
1. Travel around the world.
2. Publish a novel.
3. Live abroad.
4. See my abs again.
5. Sustain a living through my art.
6. Let 'it' go.
7. Have a kid. (those two thumps were Kat and my mother hitting the floor)
Seven things you can do
1. Write
2. Talk movies
3. draw
4. vent my frustration
5. worry
6. play guitar
7. cook
Seven things you can't do
1. Give myself a break
2. Work a 9-to-5 office job
3. Work on an oil rig
4. Dance to techno or rock music
(unless pogoing, tapping my foot, or moshing counts)
5. Conduct a non-emotional discussion on the environment
6. Keep it to myself
7. Sing
Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex
1. Challenging (punky) attitude
2. Intelligence
3. Wit
4. Adventurous nature
5. Gothy or Hippie style
6. Butt (not big, just perky)
7. Piercing eyes
Seven things you say most
1. "You know what I can't stand?!" (the answer is usually yes)
2. "What the fuck was that?!" (when I'm watching the news)
3. "What? What?! What do you want from me?!" (directed at Pippin (one of our cats) when he meows then flops down next to my computer desk for the umpteenth time, soliciting another petting session. Immediately followed by perfunctory petting.)
4. "I am Switzerland. I have no opinion." (when I refuse to answer a loaded question)
5. "Cool as the other side of the pillow." (when I'm stoned or have reached the sweet spot of drunkenness)
6. "God-dammit!" (When I have gotten my ass soundly kicked in a computer game. Usually requires a cooling off period of 5 minutes. With no context, this usually makes Kat and our two cats, jump.)
7. "I need a drink!" (Normally presented in an e-mail to Kat after I've emerged from another mind-numbing meeting with incompetent co-workers.)
Seven celebrity crushes
1. Cate Blanchett
2. Lauren Bacall
3. Audrey Hepburn
4. Allison Mosshart (singer for The Kills)
5. Helena Bonham Carter (in Fight Club)
6. Karen Allen (in Raiders of the Lost Ark)
7. Gwyneth Paltrow (in The Royal Tenenbaums)
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
the blue birthday
Last Wednesday, I celebrated my 34th birthday. It was a mellow affair. We ate sushi and wine then, later in the evening, Kat presented me with a lemon-blueberry cake that was fantastic... and it got me to thinking about my blue, birthday cake. (cue hazy, flashback sequence)
It was an old war in my family.
"What color cake do you want," my mother would ask... but she knew what I wanted.
"Blue," came the swift reply.
"Ugh," she would groan in that cataclysmic way that drives a refuted child into madness. "I'm not making a blue cake."
"Why not?"
"It's unnatural," she answered. It was as if I'd asked a Southern Baptist minister what was wrong with being gay. "Nothing in nature is blue."
"The sky is blue."
"The sky isn't a thing," she would proclaim as if it made perfect sense.
Thus began The Exchange wherein I would offer evidence of all the blue things in the world and she would condemn them to some off-shade of purple or lavender. Inevitably, my single-digit experience would lose to Mom's debating skills and a chocolate or yellow box cake would arrive on the 7th, clad in yellow or green frosting. Sometimes, a blue candle or piece of rock-hard cake candy would be added to placate my wounded ego (or mock my frustration).
But then, my 11th birthday arrived and Mom decided that she'd had enough and it was time to Prove how hideous a blue cake would look. We were enjoying a front-yard birthday/barbecue bash with the neighbors. Mom emerged from the front door, cleared the bags of hot dog buns and potato chips from the picnic table and presented a brilliant, blue cake.
"There you are," she said as if she were absolving herself for having constructed a biological weapon.
I approached it like Roy Neary in Close Encounters of the Third Kind as he cautiously ascended a hill at the side of the road and beheld Devil's Tower for the first time- wonder and awe. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Mom was right. Nothing in nature could quite achieve the hue of blue that stood before me in the guise of a confectionary spread. It was a swirly monolith of anti-matter that defied the label of ''food' and Dared us to eat it.
It was perfect.
The mad gleam in my eye told my mother instantly that she had lost. Rather than greet this pulsating mass of radioactive buttercream, I had fallen in love. Mom refused to cut the cake or even eat a slice. In fact, none of the adults had apparently saved enough room for dessert that day. So much the more for me.
After running family and neighbors ragged from a already-manic kid now hopped up on 'blue cake', sugar shock, I slept well that night, with a brilliant, blue tongue.
I was never again asked what color cake I wanted, but I was cool with that... I'd got mine.
It was an old war in my family.
"What color cake do you want," my mother would ask... but she knew what I wanted.
"Blue," came the swift reply.
"Ugh," she would groan in that cataclysmic way that drives a refuted child into madness. "I'm not making a blue cake."
"Why not?"
"It's unnatural," she answered. It was as if I'd asked a Southern Baptist minister what was wrong with being gay. "Nothing in nature is blue."
"The sky is blue."
"The sky isn't a thing," she would proclaim as if it made perfect sense.
Thus began The Exchange wherein I would offer evidence of all the blue things in the world and she would condemn them to some off-shade of purple or lavender. Inevitably, my single-digit experience would lose to Mom's debating skills and a chocolate or yellow box cake would arrive on the 7th, clad in yellow or green frosting. Sometimes, a blue candle or piece of rock-hard cake candy would be added to placate my wounded ego (or mock my frustration).
But then, my 11th birthday arrived and Mom decided that she'd had enough and it was time to Prove how hideous a blue cake would look. We were enjoying a front-yard birthday/barbecue bash with the neighbors. Mom emerged from the front door, cleared the bags of hot dog buns and potato chips from the picnic table and presented a brilliant, blue cake.
"There you are," she said as if she were absolving herself for having constructed a biological weapon.
I approached it like Roy Neary in Close Encounters of the Third Kind as he cautiously ascended a hill at the side of the road and beheld Devil's Tower for the first time- wonder and awe. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. Mom was right. Nothing in nature could quite achieve the hue of blue that stood before me in the guise of a confectionary spread. It was a swirly monolith of anti-matter that defied the label of ''food' and Dared us to eat it.
It was perfect.
The mad gleam in my eye told my mother instantly that she had lost. Rather than greet this pulsating mass of radioactive buttercream, I had fallen in love. Mom refused to cut the cake or even eat a slice. In fact, none of the adults had apparently saved enough room for dessert that day. So much the more for me.
After running family and neighbors ragged from a already-manic kid now hopped up on 'blue cake', sugar shock, I slept well that night, with a brilliant, blue tongue.
I was never again asked what color cake I wanted, but I was cool with that... I'd got mine.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
looking for the Cure
The last few weeks have felt like a year. That happens when you're going through a growth spurt and things are really Happening. On Saturday, the Study Abroad on the Bowery program wrapped up our three week workshop with a final performance and 'graduation ceremony'. Names were called out while workshop students whistled a heinous rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance". I met some really cool people over the last few weeks and was sad to see them go, but I'm ready for a break. By a break, I mean that I have to start applying all the shit I've been absorbing over the last few weeks. It's like I've spent too much time in a good art museum. After a while, I overload on the visual stimulation and just start mindlessly looking at blotches of color mounted on walls.
I've been obsessed with Spalding Gray over the last few weeks. Actually, I have been a huge fan of Spalding Gray for years. I have always been a huge fan of The Killing Fields and when I heard that a performance artist had done a monologue of his experiences in making the film, I immediately went out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. The movie was incredible. Here was a guy who sat at a desk with a glass of water and a microphone and delivered a stunning, storytelling display that effortlessly blew away 90 percent of the acting I'd seen. I immediately went out and rented Monster in a Box and Gray's Anatomy which proved to be equally-fulfilling. When he committed suicide early last year, I was crushed. His style of performance was referred to as a 'talking cure' and his neuroses, insecurities, and discoveries often seemed to mirror my own. Spalding felt like a passive-aggressive member of my unspoken club where We all struggled to Keep It Together through our art. I had never met the man nor had an opportunity to see one of his live performances, but I felt a kinship. It's hard not to when the work you love is of such a personal nature.
After I'd graduated with my MFA in playwriting, one of my professors told me that my writing style was similar to Spalding's work. He suggested that I rent out a theater and put on a one-man show. Of course, I was flattered to have my writing compared to Spalding's, but the idea of memorizing and performing anything over 10 minutes was laughable and the suggestion that I do it solo was a double-decker sandwich of Laughable and Horrifying. After 3 weeks of performance poetry though... I've been watching my copy of Swimming to Cambodia and thinking that, maybe, the sandwich has become more of a Snort and Grimace affair... and not so ludicrous an idea.
NPR did a very good retrospective on Spalding and his work.
I've been obsessed with Spalding Gray over the last few weeks. Actually, I have been a huge fan of Spalding Gray for years. I have always been a huge fan of The Killing Fields and when I heard that a performance artist had done a monologue of his experiences in making the film, I immediately went out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. The movie was incredible. Here was a guy who sat at a desk with a glass of water and a microphone and delivered a stunning, storytelling display that effortlessly blew away 90 percent of the acting I'd seen. I immediately went out and rented Monster in a Box and Gray's Anatomy which proved to be equally-fulfilling. When he committed suicide early last year, I was crushed. His style of performance was referred to as a 'talking cure' and his neuroses, insecurities, and discoveries often seemed to mirror my own. Spalding felt like a passive-aggressive member of my unspoken club where We all struggled to Keep It Together through our art. I had never met the man nor had an opportunity to see one of his live performances, but I felt a kinship. It's hard not to when the work you love is of such a personal nature.
After I'd graduated with my MFA in playwriting, one of my professors told me that my writing style was similar to Spalding's work. He suggested that I rent out a theater and put on a one-man show. Of course, I was flattered to have my writing compared to Spalding's, but the idea of memorizing and performing anything over 10 minutes was laughable and the suggestion that I do it solo was a double-decker sandwich of Laughable and Horrifying. After 3 weeks of performance poetry though... I've been watching my copy of Swimming to Cambodia and thinking that, maybe, the sandwich has become more of a Snort and Grimace affair... and not so ludicrous an idea.
NPR did a very good retrospective on Spalding and his work.
Monday, August 29, 2005
Volunteering at the Howl Festival
The last weekend was the final Movement in the 3rd Annual Howl Festival. "Howl", for those of you non-poetics, is the poem that Allen Ginsberg wrote that happened to revolutionize the poetic world and embolden the a whole generation of writers who would later be known as The Beats (and a few generations beyond). Even today it is a powerful piece and very appropriately named. There is no underestimating the profound effect "Howl" had on so many artists.
Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:
1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.
The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.
The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.
Of course, none of this was on my mind as I dragged myself out of bed at 5:00 A.M. and staggered into the shower. By 7:00, I was standing in Tompkins Square Park with the task of zip-tying hand-painted banners to cheap plastic poles. I had volunteered for the Howl Festival because the Study on the Bowery program required an 'internship' under the auspices of learning the 'ins and outs' of a festival. Let me summarize the experience that is volunteering, coming from a person who has volunteered thousands of hours in the name of film festivals, theater festivals, and writing festivals:
1. Denial. For those doing a festival for the first time, mistaken for Enthusiasm. Lots of fantastic ideas and a desire to inspire and ennoble all to do Great Things. All of this, of course, without the recognition that there are No Funds to realize such lofty dreams. Organizers are often heard uttering phrases like "Of course the city/town of XXXXX will give us whatever money we need." and "Of course they'll let us close down all the major avenues for 4 days straight?"
2. Anger. 'Why won't people give us the money and credit we deserve? Can't they See what we are Doing for the community? This is XXXX's fault!'
3. Bargaining. This is where the throngs of newbie volunteers arrive. 'The Problems Shall Be Defeated with manpower!' immediately becomes the New mantra.
4. Depression. This is the stage where the Real Deals are separated from the Pretenders. Often signaled by the departure of volunteers or mid-level employees who realize that 16 hour workdays for months on end might not be worth that one, extra line on their resume. Volunteer coordinators are often the first staff culprits as they regularly bear witness to both the self-righteous entitlement of the freebie volunteers who expect loads of comps and the staff politics/mental games that have ripened amongst a group that shares too many traits with a mental ward.
5. Acceptance (a.k.a. Fuck It) The day has arrived. Armed with no money, tons of volunteer no-shows and a Plan that has been reduced to a vague Improv sketch of massive proportions. The weak have usually been weeded out by this time, so all that's left is to get it done.
The Miracle of festival volunteering, however, is that It Still Happens. Somehow, it all comes off. Although the initial vision has been whittled down to a nubbin and most of the staff has achieved a thousand-mile stare, the survivors gain that special bond, not unlike that found amongst hostage survivors and war veterans. Then there's that small extra of doing a tremendous service to the community and Art. We don't grow without a little pain, right? There are even a sick few who become addicted to the experience and make careers out of this chaos. They are also known as 'National Treasures'.
The festival, by the way, was fantastic. I had a great time volunteering, I ended up carrying the lead banner in a kick-ass parade, I met some wonderful people, and I feel better for having done something other than sleep in an extra 4 hours.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Yesterday, I sat through an extended lecture from Hettie Jones, one of the self-labelled 'beat chicks' from the Beat Era. I had read an autobiography by Diane DiPrima called Recollections of My Life as a Woman. It was an ingriguing piece and gave me an interesting perspective on the NYC art scene of the mid-50's to mid 60's. DiPrima hadn't painted a very flattering portrait of the times but, like anyone speaking of their childhood, she still managed to give it that nostalgic, sepia lighting.
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Hettie's lecture was interesting, but it had a densive tone. I have often heard that the beats were mysoginistic and it's only been in the last 10-15 years that the women have even been mentioned. As I get older, I am fascinated by how my history is twisted, repeated until it is blindly accepted as fact. I can't imagine what it must be like to be a part of such a Tiny community as The Beats and have that small window in your life scrutinized by outsiders. Worse, what happens when the insiders say things that you completely disagree with? At the end of the first hour, we took a 5 minute break and I took the opportunity to approach this diminutive woman to ask her about the DiPrima book.
Let's just say that she wasn't receptive to a discussion on DiPrima or her book. A lot of scars were handed out during that movement. There's a reason why most of them are dead.
I have never particularly liked most of the work of the beats (with the exception of Kerouac's On the Road). I have yet to manage a full reading of Howl, despite repeated attempts. The Beat Era was Incredibly important to the evolution of writing and poetry, but
Friday, August 19, 2005
three-drink minimum Before performing
I have had exactly One positive performance experience in my life. I was drunk and I had three hot, extroverted actresses who were eager to be my backup singers. I did a late-night karaoke performance of "Love Shack" (I didn't pick it). My success that night hinged upon a complete disintegration of restraint and an ability to channel blinding terror into one of the loudest, gayest Fred Schneider impersonations ever witnessed by humankind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance that I remember fondly. I am certain that such a feat couldn't be repeated for all the vodka in Russia.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.
My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.
Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
shakin' it at the Bowery Poetry Club
The only shot I've got of getting blog entries out over the next three weeks is to do it fast-and-dirty, so hang with me.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.
I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.
On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.
I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.
I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.
One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.
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