It's been--what's the word?--quiet around here lately. To be honest, I've been feeling under the weather all week, but it's not just that. I've really been stuck for things to write lately. Or more accurately, I spend too much time trying to think of things to write. I wake up an hour early every morning just to give myself time to put a piece together. But this isn't something I do for a living! Doesn't this process seem a bit extreme?
Yes. Yes, it does. Even a flyweight placeholder post--yesterday's archly-ironic celebration of Ben Murphy, for instance--took me a half-hour to forty-five minutes to research. I had to make sure the clips I chose showcased the actor at his cheesiest. All well and noble, but...seriously? Taking time to pick the right Ben Murphy clips, for God's sake! Who the hell cares?
Evidently, I do, but I'm going to have to step back, spend just a little less time here. This may mean more hastily-written, poorly-reasoned screeds, an over reliance on clip jobs (or, more accurately, a greater over reliance on clip jobs) or just plain fewer posts. I suspect the latter, but we'll see.
Um...I wish I had some clever way to end this...
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Friday, March 06, 2009
ALL HAIL BEN MURPHY!
It's Ben Murphy's birthday!
You know, Ben Murphy? Ubiquitous presence on seventies TV? Alias Smith And Jones? Gemini Man? The living definition of smarm? Ben Murphy!
Turns out, he has a website and everything. Because even though he seemed like just another blandly smug TV actor, indistinguishable from a Gil Gerard or a Mark Harmon, he cares about his fans. Because that's the Ben Murphy way. Also part of the Ben Murphy way? Wearing lots of denim.
So let's all pause for a second and remember a time, not so long ago, when the airwaves--the public airwaves, dammit, not this digital crap--were filled with time-killing mediocrities nobody in their right mind ever cared about. Somebody had to appear in these things, and if the part called for a lead who was blandly affable (or even affably bland), and if Marjoe Gortner was busy or Dennis Dugan had another gig, Ben Murphy would answer the call. Because he's Ben Murphy, and that's how he rolls.
Or rolled, back when he could still find work.
You know, Ben Murphy? Ubiquitous presence on seventies TV? Alias Smith And Jones? Gemini Man? The living definition of smarm? Ben Murphy!
Turns out, he has a website and everything. Because even though he seemed like just another blandly smug TV actor, indistinguishable from a Gil Gerard or a Mark Harmon, he cares about his fans. Because that's the Ben Murphy way. Also part of the Ben Murphy way? Wearing lots of denim.
So let's all pause for a second and remember a time, not so long ago, when the airwaves--the public airwaves, dammit, not this digital crap--were filled with time-killing mediocrities nobody in their right mind ever cared about. Somebody had to appear in these things, and if the part called for a lead who was blandly affable (or even affably bland), and if Marjoe Gortner was busy or Dennis Dugan had another gig, Ben Murphy would answer the call. Because he's Ben Murphy, and that's how he rolls.
Or rolled, back when he could still find work.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
'TIL MY BITING WIT BITES LIKE HIS
Well, the good news is, I didn't do any NyQuil last night. The bad news is, I've got sinus drainage like you wouldn't believe, and my night visions still seemed chemically altered: I dreamed of Humphrey Bogart stalking Gertrude Stein Most Dangerous Game-style. Does that make any sense? From what possible part of my subconscious did that arrive?
So I guess my point is, don't look for any cogent analysis of anything around here. Between the watery eyes and the runny nose and the hacked-up phlegm, it's all I can do to type. But I'm going to bring some entertainment, dammit, from one of my favorite bands, Sparks, with a song from their most recent album, Exotic Creatures Of The Deep.
Someday I'll get around to writing about just how great a band Sparks is, and why. But first, a pointless personal aside: Many years ago--so far it seems like a whole other life--I spent some time with, to use her phrase, a recovering Goth chick. At least, she said she was recovering, but she still wore black mascara and wore a The Queen Is Dead t-shirt. And, needless to say, was obsessed with Morrissey. Not to the level of her obsessions with Kate Bush, Anne Rice and The Bell Jar, but still, she had a mini-poster of The Sainted One over her bed, which was a bit of a buzzkill. We only dated for a little over a month, and ultimately my feelings for her were as ambiguous as her sexuality, but still, this song makes me think of her.
The title? Lighten Up, Morrissey.
So I guess my point is, don't look for any cogent analysis of anything around here. Between the watery eyes and the runny nose and the hacked-up phlegm, it's all I can do to type. But I'm going to bring some entertainment, dammit, from one of my favorite bands, Sparks, with a song from their most recent album, Exotic Creatures Of The Deep.
Someday I'll get around to writing about just how great a band Sparks is, and why. But first, a pointless personal aside: Many years ago--so far it seems like a whole other life--I spent some time with, to use her phrase, a recovering Goth chick. At least, she said she was recovering, but she still wore black mascara and wore a The Queen Is Dead t-shirt. And, needless to say, was obsessed with Morrissey. Not to the level of her obsessions with Kate Bush, Anne Rice and The Bell Jar, but still, she had a mini-poster of The Sainted One over her bed, which was a bit of a buzzkill. We only dated for a little over a month, and ultimately my feelings for her were as ambiguous as her sexuality, but still, this song makes me think of her.
The title? Lighten Up, Morrissey.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?
Here's the thing: Last night I took NyQuil for the first time in...um, what? Sorry, lost my train of thought. Might be the NyQuil. I took some last night and...wooo. Did you hear that? It's like an echo chamber in here. It's like an echo chamber in here. Did I say that? Hello? What?
Anyway, so I took some NyQuil last night--I haven't mentioned that, have I?--and everything is just, um, weeeiiirrrd. I'm crazy lightheaded, and my ears feel like somebody shoved mashed potatoes into them, and they solidified. The potatoes solidified, that is, not my ears. They're already solid. HAHAHAHAHA!
Wow. This is worse than being stuck inside an early seventies TV movie trip sequence. If my mind functioned properly, I'd say something about the release of all those secret memos from the Bush administration, including a plan (never implemented, as far as we know) to use the U.S. military as a sort of private police force within America itself, able to conduct search and seizures on anyone the Bushinistas may have determined to be "suspicious". In other words, Sith Lord Cheney sought legal ways to set up his own stormtroopers and...ah, a Star Wars analogy! Didn't I say I'd stop doing those?
I think so, but I can't quite remember. Did you know I took some NyQuil?
Anyway, so I took some NyQuil last night--I haven't mentioned that, have I?--and everything is just, um, weeeiiirrrd. I'm crazy lightheaded, and my ears feel like somebody shoved mashed potatoes into them, and they solidified. The potatoes solidified, that is, not my ears. They're already solid. HAHAHAHAHA!
Wow. This is worse than being stuck inside an early seventies TV movie trip sequence. If my mind functioned properly, I'd say something about the release of all those secret memos from the Bush administration, including a plan (never implemented, as far as we know) to use the U.S. military as a sort of private police force within America itself, able to conduct search and seizures on anyone the Bushinistas may have determined to be "suspicious". In other words, Sith Lord Cheney sought legal ways to set up his own stormtroopers and...ah, a Star Wars analogy! Didn't I say I'd stop doing those?
I think so, but I can't quite remember. Did you know I took some NyQuil?
Monday, March 02, 2009
ALWAYS WEARING A FROWN
Typical of me, eh? I had a pretty good (if painfully abbreviated) vacation, but rather than dwell on the good, I come back here and write a lengthy piece about the one moment of melancholy during the whole trip. Why dwell on the negative? Why not accentuate the positive?
It's just what I do, I guess. A friend of mine told me yesterday that I spend too much time worrying, an echo of words spoken to me by several therapists, a string of ex-girlfriends and, well, pretty much everyone who has ever known me. If I could just overhaul my entire personality, my life would be so much better.
But, dammit, somebody's gotta be cranky and whiny. Somebody needs to complain incessantly. The world needs a guy to bust out convoluted Star Wars analogies, who can't shut up about the greatness of Meet Me In St. Louis, who is ready with an obscure Steely Dan reference at a moment's notice. And my pledge to you, dear reader, is to continue to be that guy.
Oh, and due to popular demand, I'm always willing to bring you more Lynda Carter clips!
It's just what I do, I guess. A friend of mine told me yesterday that I spend too much time worrying, an echo of words spoken to me by several therapists, a string of ex-girlfriends and, well, pretty much everyone who has ever known me. If I could just overhaul my entire personality, my life would be so much better.
But, dammit, somebody's gotta be cranky and whiny. Somebody needs to complain incessantly. The world needs a guy to bust out convoluted Star Wars analogies, who can't shut up about the greatness of Meet Me In St. Louis, who is ready with an obscure Steely Dan reference at a moment's notice. And my pledge to you, dear reader, is to continue to be that guy.
Oh, and due to popular demand, I'm always willing to bring you more Lynda Carter clips!
Sunday, March 01, 2009
RESCUED AND CARRIED ALONG
Rain. I stand at the window, watching it fall. It's late February, but this looks and feels like an October rain, cold, relentless and melancholy. This is my vacation.
I've been spending some time in a town I once called home, a town I still recall with great fondness, with well-stocked bookstores, a lively music scene and countless wonderful restaurants. I love this place, and I love coming back, but as the afternoon blends into my last night here and my thoughts turn to the trip home, the skies darken and the rain falls. How nice--every vacation should come complete with its own heavy-handed metaphor.
Between the weather and the fact that I've done most of what I wanted to do, I've been holed up in my room for the last two hours, watching Almost Famous on HBO. I'd only seen it once before, in the theater when originally released. It was a Monday night, and I was with my wife, because I was married then. And it was strange that we were there, because we seldom went out during the week. It was a big deal for us if we stayed up until nine.
Why did we go to a movie that night? Was there a reason for it? Had we dropped off one of our cars at the shop? Did I pick her up after work, and was there a reason I would have done so? Or did we just go out because we could? Was it a date night? Did we go out to eat first? Did we talk, did we laugh, did we have fun?
How has it come to this? How can I remember the experience of seeing a movie, the time and the place, but not the real life surrounding the event? It's not like Almost Famous is a movie I even care that much about. It's not as important to me as she was. Right?
I'm finding a lot of that on this trip: Memories of places I went with her, things I did with her, only she's no longer there. The physical locations now exist independent of her. Trace amounts can be found, of course: in this alley we kissed in the rain, on this doorstep we argued, at this now-shuttered record store we first met. But these memories are brief, they flicker and are gone. The town is its own reality, the shops and the restaurants. I love it here, and it has nothing to do with her.
Which is good, of course, but...strange. This is a person I lived with every day for several years. We ate and bathed and slept together. We joked and we fought. I know we did these things, even if I can't quite recall them. Sometimes the whole marriage feels like something I only imagined, or something that happened to somebody else, a story told so often it takes on its own reality, a sitcom only experienced vicariously.
Yes, forgetting is necessary. No one should be defined by their past. After all, one subsequent relationship I cared about very much was derailed in part by my inability to let go of the past. And yes, maybe it's true: all that matters is to live for the moment. But who would want to live for this moment: Standing in a motel room, looking out the window in a daze?
Cars prowl the parking lot, the squish-squish of tires on wet asphalt louder than the roar of engines. This place is starting to fill up now, mostly guys, mostly alone, some couples, no families on a weeknight. So many people staying here for one night, or two, or who knows how many. Are they pilgrims on a longer journey, or is this their destination? When morning comes and they move on, will they remember their time here at all? Or will it be forgotten, like a passing, dreary rain?
I've been spending some time in a town I once called home, a town I still recall with great fondness, with well-stocked bookstores, a lively music scene and countless wonderful restaurants. I love this place, and I love coming back, but as the afternoon blends into my last night here and my thoughts turn to the trip home, the skies darken and the rain falls. How nice--every vacation should come complete with its own heavy-handed metaphor.
Between the weather and the fact that I've done most of what I wanted to do, I've been holed up in my room for the last two hours, watching Almost Famous on HBO. I'd only seen it once before, in the theater when originally released. It was a Monday night, and I was with my wife, because I was married then. And it was strange that we were there, because we seldom went out during the week. It was a big deal for us if we stayed up until nine.
Why did we go to a movie that night? Was there a reason for it? Had we dropped off one of our cars at the shop? Did I pick her up after work, and was there a reason I would have done so? Or did we just go out because we could? Was it a date night? Did we go out to eat first? Did we talk, did we laugh, did we have fun?
How has it come to this? How can I remember the experience of seeing a movie, the time and the place, but not the real life surrounding the event? It's not like Almost Famous is a movie I even care that much about. It's not as important to me as she was. Right?
I'm finding a lot of that on this trip: Memories of places I went with her, things I did with her, only she's no longer there. The physical locations now exist independent of her. Trace amounts can be found, of course: in this alley we kissed in the rain, on this doorstep we argued, at this now-shuttered record store we first met. But these memories are brief, they flicker and are gone. The town is its own reality, the shops and the restaurants. I love it here, and it has nothing to do with her.
Which is good, of course, but...strange. This is a person I lived with every day for several years. We ate and bathed and slept together. We joked and we fought. I know we did these things, even if I can't quite recall them. Sometimes the whole marriage feels like something I only imagined, or something that happened to somebody else, a story told so often it takes on its own reality, a sitcom only experienced vicariously.
Yes, forgetting is necessary. No one should be defined by their past. After all, one subsequent relationship I cared about very much was derailed in part by my inability to let go of the past. And yes, maybe it's true: all that matters is to live for the moment. But who would want to live for this moment: Standing in a motel room, looking out the window in a daze?
Cars prowl the parking lot, the squish-squish of tires on wet asphalt louder than the roar of engines. This place is starting to fill up now, mostly guys, mostly alone, some couples, no families on a weeknight. So many people staying here for one night, or two, or who knows how many. Are they pilgrims on a longer journey, or is this their destination? When morning comes and they move on, will they remember their time here at all? Or will it be forgotten, like a passing, dreary rain?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
HAVIN' LOTS OF FUN, GOD WILLING
I'll be gone for awhile, because..well, I'll let Connie Francis explain:
Yeah! That's exactly what my vacation will be like. Except for the huggin' and kissin' and love letters in the sand. Also, probably no dancing. And it's not summertime. Actually, it won't be anything like this. In fact, go to hell, Connie Francis!
The point is, no new posts until next week, most likely. TTFN!
Yeah! That's exactly what my vacation will be like. Except for the huggin' and kissin' and love letters in the sand. Also, probably no dancing. And it's not summertime. Actually, it won't be anything like this. In fact, go to hell, Connie Francis!
The point is, no new posts until next week, most likely. TTFN!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
YOU CAN BANK ON IT, MY FRIEND
1) A nonsensical Larry King quote used for a title? It must be a Random Thoughts post--the greatest placeholder this side of a clip job!
2) As I believe I've mentioned, posting has been light around here because...well, just because, that's why. Partly I've had other things to do, partly I've been planning other things to do, partly I've been incredibly tired. Mostly, though, it's ennui--I'm finding I just don't care as much anymore. I've gone through these periods before, so presumably I'll be back more regularly. I may put something up tomorrow morning, but after that, it'll be dark here at least until the weekend, and probably until next week.
For both of you regular readers, this news is surely devastating.
3) Here's an interesting slip: When I first tried typing ennui, I inadvertently typed emu instead. As in, the large, flightless Australian bird. As in, also, the large, flightless birds raised on a farm not far from here, several of which escaped one night seven years ago, one of which my oldest brother Keith smacked into with the vehicle he was driving, the impact blasting him out of his seat and through the back of the minivan. There's no way to tell a story that involves running into an emu without it sounding like the setup for a joke. Unfortunately, there's no punchline--my brother was killed immediately.
4) Man, that turned depressing, didn't it?
5) Speaking of depressing, hey, how 'bout that economy, folks? Specifically, how 'bout those Republican governors threatening to refuse any money earmarked for their states as a result of Obama's stimulus program? I know if I happened to be a newly laid off worker in, oh, say Louisiana, and Gov. Bobby Jindal refused federal aid money that might help me get back to work simply because it's part of a program devised by the opposition party, I'd be calling for a special election to remove Jindal's sorry ass from office. Most likely, I wouldn't be alone.
6) Due to the fact that this site frequently offers some sort of pop culture commentary, I feel duty-bound to offer some sort of comment about Sunday night's Oscar ceremony. But really, what is there to say?
It was the first time I watched the thing in three or four years, and honestly, the only way I got through it was with the help of The AV Club's live blog, which was funny and occasionally erudite (eight minutes into the thing, they were already making Takashi Miike references), something the ceremony itself most certainly was not. It wasn't anything; not good or bad, just kind of there, existing for no reason. Oh, Steve Martin and Tina Fey were funny together (I still think Martin remains the least-appreciated Oscar host of recent years), and there was the odd spectacle of watching Hugh Jackman duetting with Beyonce (he sang live, she lip-synched) and, um...that was about it. Three and a half hours of pure tedium.
But again, The AV Club was hilarious.
7) Since it's a Random Thoughts tradition, I should finish with a mention of the cats. I had a guest over yesterday, a female--No, nothing happened. No, nothing is going to happen--and the usual pattern occurred: Monika merely ignored her, but Delmar growled and hissed.
If I ever brought a woman over and Del immediately took to her, would it be some kind of sign, would it mean I've found my true love at last? Or merely that Del found a dark soul mate of his very own, and soon the two of them would band together to gouge my eyes out?
2) As I believe I've mentioned, posting has been light around here because...well, just because, that's why. Partly I've had other things to do, partly I've been planning other things to do, partly I've been incredibly tired. Mostly, though, it's ennui--I'm finding I just don't care as much anymore. I've gone through these periods before, so presumably I'll be back more regularly. I may put something up tomorrow morning, but after that, it'll be dark here at least until the weekend, and probably until next week.
For both of you regular readers, this news is surely devastating.
3) Here's an interesting slip: When I first tried typing ennui, I inadvertently typed emu instead. As in, the large, flightless Australian bird. As in, also, the large, flightless birds raised on a farm not far from here, several of which escaped one night seven years ago, one of which my oldest brother Keith smacked into with the vehicle he was driving, the impact blasting him out of his seat and through the back of the minivan. There's no way to tell a story that involves running into an emu without it sounding like the setup for a joke. Unfortunately, there's no punchline--my brother was killed immediately.
4) Man, that turned depressing, didn't it?
5) Speaking of depressing, hey, how 'bout that economy, folks? Specifically, how 'bout those Republican governors threatening to refuse any money earmarked for their states as a result of Obama's stimulus program? I know if I happened to be a newly laid off worker in, oh, say Louisiana, and Gov. Bobby Jindal refused federal aid money that might help me get back to work simply because it's part of a program devised by the opposition party, I'd be calling for a special election to remove Jindal's sorry ass from office. Most likely, I wouldn't be alone.
6) Due to the fact that this site frequently offers some sort of pop culture commentary, I feel duty-bound to offer some sort of comment about Sunday night's Oscar ceremony. But really, what is there to say?
It was the first time I watched the thing in three or four years, and honestly, the only way I got through it was with the help of The AV Club's live blog, which was funny and occasionally erudite (eight minutes into the thing, they were already making Takashi Miike references), something the ceremony itself most certainly was not. It wasn't anything; not good or bad, just kind of there, existing for no reason. Oh, Steve Martin and Tina Fey were funny together (I still think Martin remains the least-appreciated Oscar host of recent years), and there was the odd spectacle of watching Hugh Jackman duetting with Beyonce (he sang live, she lip-synched) and, um...that was about it. Three and a half hours of pure tedium.
But again, The AV Club was hilarious.
7) Since it's a Random Thoughts tradition, I should finish with a mention of the cats. I had a guest over yesterday, a female--No, nothing happened. No, nothing is going to happen--and the usual pattern occurred: Monika merely ignored her, but Delmar growled and hissed.
If I ever brought a woman over and Del immediately took to her, would it be some kind of sign, would it mean I've found my true love at last? Or merely that Del found a dark soul mate of his very own, and soon the two of them would band together to gouge my eyes out?
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I DON'T LIKE A PHONY
It's perhaps worth mentioning that I'm on vacation this week, which means posting around here may be even more erratic than it has been lately. I've got things to do, and perhaps even places to go, so no way of knowing whether I'll be frequenting this space much. I guess we'll find out, won't we?
Anyway, the Oscars are tonight, and mostly I couldn't care less, but hey, they're giving one of those honorary "Sorry we've ignored you but we're glad you're not dead" awards to Jerry Lewis, and I always tune in to all things Lewis-related. I admit it: I'm a fan.
I used to think my appreciation for Lewis was ironic, somewhat akin to my fondness for bad seventies variety shows, but that's not true. For one thing, when he's on, Lewis is absolutely, side-splittingly funny. And all those claims auteurists have made about his genius as a filmmaker? They're true. Admittedly, he's never made a movie that was an artistically successful whole--and his self-directed efforts tend to be notably light on laughs--but it's hard to deny his sharp visual sense, his masterful deep-focused compositions, brilliant staging and razor-sharp editing skills.
Of course, Lewis wasn't a born auteur; he learned how to do it from one of the best comedy directors of all time, Frank Tashlin. Manohla Dargis writes about this scene from Cinderfella at some length in her excellent piece on Lewis in today's New York Times, but I would just add that, the jaw-dropping brilliance of Lewis' performance aside (honestly, I could watch him spazz dance all day...and sadly, I have), the formal brilliance of this scene is obvious. That dazzling shot from the top of the staircase, the couples parting as Lewis descends, the camera gliding along Lewis and Anna Maria Alberghetti as they zip madly across the floor, the camera's sly retreat as the two assume a more romantic form, swallowed by the crowd, Lewis' final mad dash up the stairs as those ominous balloons descend--if Vincente Minnelli ever directed a Jerry Lewis vehicle, it would have looked exactly like this.
Anyway, the Oscars are tonight, and mostly I couldn't care less, but hey, they're giving one of those honorary "Sorry we've ignored you but we're glad you're not dead" awards to Jerry Lewis, and I always tune in to all things Lewis-related. I admit it: I'm a fan.
I used to think my appreciation for Lewis was ironic, somewhat akin to my fondness for bad seventies variety shows, but that's not true. For one thing, when he's on, Lewis is absolutely, side-splittingly funny. And all those claims auteurists have made about his genius as a filmmaker? They're true. Admittedly, he's never made a movie that was an artistically successful whole--and his self-directed efforts tend to be notably light on laughs--but it's hard to deny his sharp visual sense, his masterful deep-focused compositions, brilliant staging and razor-sharp editing skills.
Of course, Lewis wasn't a born auteur; he learned how to do it from one of the best comedy directors of all time, Frank Tashlin. Manohla Dargis writes about this scene from Cinderfella at some length in her excellent piece on Lewis in today's New York Times, but I would just add that, the jaw-dropping brilliance of Lewis' performance aside (honestly, I could watch him spazz dance all day...and sadly, I have), the formal brilliance of this scene is obvious. That dazzling shot from the top of the staircase, the couples parting as Lewis descends, the camera gliding along Lewis and Anna Maria Alberghetti as they zip madly across the floor, the camera's sly retreat as the two assume a more romantic form, swallowed by the crowd, Lewis' final mad dash up the stairs as those ominous balloons descend--if Vincente Minnelli ever directed a Jerry Lewis vehicle, it would have looked exactly like this.
Friday, February 20, 2009
AS HAPPENS WITH ALARMING FREQUENCY AROUND HERE, I GOT NOTHIN'
Just not in writing mode lately, and I don't know why. Sometimes it seems like I spend too much time here, trying to find something to say, when I could be doing something more productive, like (considering the time) sleeping. Posting on a semi-daily basis has always been a goal around here, but lately it seems like a burden, like cleaning the droids in the garage.
Ah, Toshi Station, how I long to be there!
Incidentally, even in the writing of this brief, time-killing placeholder, I wasted ten minutes researching the correct spelling of "Toshi". (Turns out, there's no consensus.) The things I do for this site--I just knowingly and willingly spent time at Wookiepedia!
Sad, really.
Ah, Toshi Station, how I long to be there!
Incidentally, even in the writing of this brief, time-killing placeholder, I wasted ten minutes researching the correct spelling of "Toshi". (Turns out, there's no consensus.) The things I do for this site--I just knowingly and willingly spent time at Wookiepedia!
Sad, really.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
THE MOST ADORABLY SWEET TRANSVESTITE OF ALL
Okay, so the other day Tabbatha posted a meme on her Facebook page listing 113 apparently randomly-chosen movies, with the premise being that the person posting it would check off the ones on the list he or she has seen. Which is how I came to discover that Tabbatha, who is, after all, the woman I once wanted to marry, had never seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Which just kind of floored me, because I just sort of assume anyone in my immediate orbit has seen Rocky Horror. (She'd also never seen Airplane, and when I expressed my disbelief, she admitted she'd never even heard of it. I wanted to say, "Surely you're not serious," hoping she would inevitably respond, "I am serious. And don't call me Shirley.") I'm not one of those people who dresses up and goes to the midnight shows, but then again, this movie is basically in the mainstream now, sort of a Wizard Of Oz for a new generation, something I can freely quote from with the belief everyone will get it.
The point is, this got me to thinking about my deep love for Rocky Horror, which as a movie is crushingly underrated even by some of its most ardent cultists. So I planned to write a piece exploring my admiration, not only of the film (which I think is clearly one of the best stage-to-screen adaptations of all time), but also of Richard O'Brien's amazing score, which has also never really gotten its critical due.
Sadly, YouTube, my go-to option for all things clip related, currently had no clips available I intended to use to make my points, so the whole thing fell apart. I did, however, find a clip somebody had cobbled together of Littlefoot, the plucky dinosaur protagonist of the terminally upbeat Land Before Time series, apparently singing Rocky Horror's signature tune, Sweet Transvestite. The lip synch isn't really very good, and the joke wears off after half a minute or so, but hearing it in this weirdly wholesome context only makes the playfully Goth sensibility of O'Brien's hilarious lyrics stand out in sharper relief. Something about Littlefoot inviting us up to the lab to see what's on the slab just makes me happy.
Which just kind of floored me, because I just sort of assume anyone in my immediate orbit has seen Rocky Horror. (She'd also never seen Airplane, and when I expressed my disbelief, she admitted she'd never even heard of it. I wanted to say, "Surely you're not serious," hoping she would inevitably respond, "I am serious. And don't call me Shirley.") I'm not one of those people who dresses up and goes to the midnight shows, but then again, this movie is basically in the mainstream now, sort of a Wizard Of Oz for a new generation, something I can freely quote from with the belief everyone will get it.
The point is, this got me to thinking about my deep love for Rocky Horror, which as a movie is crushingly underrated even by some of its most ardent cultists. So I planned to write a piece exploring my admiration, not only of the film (which I think is clearly one of the best stage-to-screen adaptations of all time), but also of Richard O'Brien's amazing score, which has also never really gotten its critical due.
Sadly, YouTube, my go-to option for all things clip related, currently had no clips available I intended to use to make my points, so the whole thing fell apart. I did, however, find a clip somebody had cobbled together of Littlefoot, the plucky dinosaur protagonist of the terminally upbeat Land Before Time series, apparently singing Rocky Horror's signature tune, Sweet Transvestite. The lip synch isn't really very good, and the joke wears off after half a minute or so, but hearing it in this weirdly wholesome context only makes the playfully Goth sensibility of O'Brien's hilarious lyrics stand out in sharper relief. Something about Littlefoot inviting us up to the lab to see what's on the slab just makes me happy.
Monday, February 16, 2009
BIG LIKE AN OCEAN, OR IMPORTANT LIKE A MOUNTAIN, OR TALL LIKE A TREE
Three years ago. Three years today.
In the hallway outside my apartment, heading back to the hospital. A phone rang somewhere, I paused, realized it was mine, raced back and answered. My sister Ann said, "Mom passed a few minutes ago, she's gone, oh Eddie, she's gone," and I said, "No?" phrased as a question, and she said, "Yes, just a few minutes ago," and I repeated it, louder this time,"No!" as if that could make it true, as if I could change reality by simply wishing it away.
In a way, I did. At that moment, part of me simply stopped being a part of the real world, stepped outside my corporeal form and floated above, watching, never participating. My body shambled through life for the next few days and weeks and months, but the essence of me--whatever it may be--was no longer there. It observed dispassionately, a reserved audience at a Strindberg play, noting all the emotional beats without ever once feeling them.
The most important thing in the world had been taken from me. I had been in denial as Mom's health faltered, but the reality of death couldn't be denied, so all I could do was ignore it. And the only way to do that was to stifle all feeling, any feeling, pain, yes, but also joy, or love, or anything.
Time passed. I rejoined the world. Feelings returned, though perhaps in a more muted form. And I realized my time spent wandering in the emotional desert had been productive. I matured, I grew, I became a different person, a shade more confident, perhaps, a bit more emotionally aware.
I healed, mostly.
But no matter how hard I try, I can't wrap my mind around what was lost three years ago. After all this time, I still can't feel it. I cry when I remember my beloved cat Scotchie, I cry for my much-missed German Shepherd Elinore, I cry when I hear John Lennon sing Julia, hell, I even cried at the last scene in Revenge Of The Sith. But for Mom I can only wait, wait for the tears that will someday fall.
In the hallway outside my apartment, heading back to the hospital. A phone rang somewhere, I paused, realized it was mine, raced back and answered. My sister Ann said, "Mom passed a few minutes ago, she's gone, oh Eddie, she's gone," and I said, "No?" phrased as a question, and she said, "Yes, just a few minutes ago," and I repeated it, louder this time,"No!" as if that could make it true, as if I could change reality by simply wishing it away.
In a way, I did. At that moment, part of me simply stopped being a part of the real world, stepped outside my corporeal form and floated above, watching, never participating. My body shambled through life for the next few days and weeks and months, but the essence of me--whatever it may be--was no longer there. It observed dispassionately, a reserved audience at a Strindberg play, noting all the emotional beats without ever once feeling them.
The most important thing in the world had been taken from me. I had been in denial as Mom's health faltered, but the reality of death couldn't be denied, so all I could do was ignore it. And the only way to do that was to stifle all feeling, any feeling, pain, yes, but also joy, or love, or anything.
Time passed. I rejoined the world. Feelings returned, though perhaps in a more muted form. And I realized my time spent wandering in the emotional desert had been productive. I matured, I grew, I became a different person, a shade more confident, perhaps, a bit more emotionally aware.
I healed, mostly.
But no matter how hard I try, I can't wrap my mind around what was lost three years ago. After all this time, I still can't feel it. I cry when I remember my beloved cat Scotchie, I cry for my much-missed German Shepherd Elinore, I cry when I hear John Lennon sing Julia, hell, I even cried at the last scene in Revenge Of The Sith. But for Mom I can only wait, wait for the tears that will someday fall.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
REPUBLICANS TO AMERICA: DROP DEAD
The Republican party is going all-out to make sure Al Franken can't be named as the winner in the Minnesota senate race. Though the votes have been counted and re-counted, and the numbers seem to favor Franken, his opponent Norm Coleman has filed a lawsuit challenging Franken's legitimacy, and if that doesn't work, Republicans intend to filibuster or do anything they can to keep Franken out of office.
Yes, this is the same party that went to the Supreme Court to stave off Al Gore's challenge to Bush's presidency, claiming it was more important to get down to the business of running the country than making sure the process of democracy was allowed to play out.
But the hypocrisy isn't even the most infuriating thing here. The party is throwing away obscene amounts of money on Coleman's campaign, at a time when money is in short supply in the real world. They're doing this for the same reason they fought Obama's stimulus package: Because they can.
I should point out that I'm no Obama partisan, and my feelings towards Franken border on outright contempt. In particular, the efforts by Obama's brain trust to jumpstart the economy have been dismayingly similar to Bush's late-term efforts (which were also largely opposed by Republicans), with a curious determination to help out the bankers and Wall Street barons that helped get us into the mess in the first place. Still, at least it was an effort to do something; Coleman's cohorts have absolutely nothing to offer. Many in the party have openly agreed with Rush Limbaugh's claim that he wants to see Obama fail. They can't see that Obama's failure could well mean the failure of the entire nation.
They can't see, or more likely don't care. Sure, the last eight years may have been hell for the nation, but it's been a great time for Republicans. Their sense of entitlement seemed to be validated by the haplessness of the Democrats and their ability to silence any meaningful opposition. And they'll keep doing what they've been doing, because it feels so damned good. Let the world go to hell, because even though everything else has changed, it hasn't changed for them. It's still 2002, and things couldn't be better.
Yes, this is the same party that went to the Supreme Court to stave off Al Gore's challenge to Bush's presidency, claiming it was more important to get down to the business of running the country than making sure the process of democracy was allowed to play out.
But the hypocrisy isn't even the most infuriating thing here. The party is throwing away obscene amounts of money on Coleman's campaign, at a time when money is in short supply in the real world. They're doing this for the same reason they fought Obama's stimulus package: Because they can.
I should point out that I'm no Obama partisan, and my feelings towards Franken border on outright contempt. In particular, the efforts by Obama's brain trust to jumpstart the economy have been dismayingly similar to Bush's late-term efforts (which were also largely opposed by Republicans), with a curious determination to help out the bankers and Wall Street barons that helped get us into the mess in the first place. Still, at least it was an effort to do something; Coleman's cohorts have absolutely nothing to offer. Many in the party have openly agreed with Rush Limbaugh's claim that he wants to see Obama fail. They can't see that Obama's failure could well mean the failure of the entire nation.
They can't see, or more likely don't care. Sure, the last eight years may have been hell for the nation, but it's been a great time for Republicans. Their sense of entitlement seemed to be validated by the haplessness of the Democrats and their ability to silence any meaningful opposition. And they'll keep doing what they've been doing, because it feels so damned good. Let the world go to hell, because even though everything else has changed, it hasn't changed for them. It's still 2002, and things couldn't be better.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
I CAN MAKE LOVE DISAPPEAR
Valentine's Day, and you really don't want me whining about my non-existent love life, do you? Of course not. But the only way to avoid such a topic on a day like this is the clever use of my favorite fall-back option: A clip job!
In the spirit of the day, here are two of my all-time favorite love songs. First up, a Rodgers & Hart classic, and who better to sing it than Frank Sinatra? A perfect song, a gorgeous Nelson Riddle arrangement and, man, that voice.
This next song I've posted before, but in a different performance. This is Richard Thompson with a stark, elemental rendition of his classic expression of desperate longing, Dimming Of The Day. This is much more than a simple love song, but hey, who said love was simple?
Not to be cynical but--the hell with love. It's just an illusion anyway, a cheap parlor trick, and not always a very good one. The late, much-missed Warren Zevon offers an explanation.
And when it's all over, as Cab Calloway can tell you, there's nothing to do but sing Blues In The Night.
In the spirit of the day, here are two of my all-time favorite love songs. First up, a Rodgers & Hart classic, and who better to sing it than Frank Sinatra? A perfect song, a gorgeous Nelson Riddle arrangement and, man, that voice.
This next song I've posted before, but in a different performance. This is Richard Thompson with a stark, elemental rendition of his classic expression of desperate longing, Dimming Of The Day. This is much more than a simple love song, but hey, who said love was simple?
Not to be cynical but--the hell with love. It's just an illusion anyway, a cheap parlor trick, and not always a very good one. The late, much-missed Warren Zevon offers an explanation.
And when it's all over, as Cab Calloway can tell you, there's nothing to do but sing Blues In The Night.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
YOU'D SAY TO THE WIND WHEN IT TOOK YOU AWAY: "THAT'S WHERE I WANTED TO GO TODAY!"
The deep blue of the sky somehow emphasized by the skeletal branches of the trees along the street, moving slightly, daintily in the wind, somehow sorrowful in their leafless state, as if knowing they are incomplete, as if missing something.
This is what I saw as I stepped outside this morning, a beautiful February day, clear and warm. Nothing unusual about that, normally a welcome sight, except it conjured a memory of a nearly identical day almost exactly three years ago, when the two of us passed through this very neighborhood.
Mom had a doctor's appointment, and I'd taken the day off from work to give her a ride. When I arrived at her home that morning, I was horrified by what I saw: Not just the large, tumorous bump on her head from a fall the night before, but the slight, fragile spectre of her former self. She'd been in and out of the hospital the previous summer, and I'd seen her look vulnerable and weak, but I'd never seen her look so...old.
Since her appointment wasn't until mid-afternoon, we tried to enact the regular rituals of the morning. She had her usual breakfast of donut holes and weakly-brewed tea, and we watched the next-day repeats of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, though Mom didn't laugh much. I played with her dog and cats and took a short walk while she watched The Young And The Restless, then it was time to leave.
She hallucinated the whole way to Des Moines. Odd. She wasn't on any new medications I was aware of, and though presumably her cancer grew worse by the day, I didn't believe it was a thing that could cause a person to hallucinate. But she saw the ghosts of long-dead pets along the roadside and mazes in the cornfields and castles on non-existent hills, warning me at one point not to run over the scarecrow in the middle of the highway. When we continued moving forward without hitting anything, she realized there was no scarecrow, and, strangely, seemed comforted rather than terrified by the knowledge that the things she viewed weren't real.
The doctor's office was in the basement of Methodist Hospital, right in my neighborhood. We drove down my street along the way, and she commented how pretty it looked on a day like this, how welcoming, how homey. I asked if she saw any things that weren't there, and she said no, it looked like it always looked, she'd just never taken the time to appreciate its beauty before.
We sat in the waiting room, joined shortly by my sister Ann, who had talked to Mom the night before and was prepared for the sight of the bump on the head, but who was taken aback by the news of hallucinations. "Could be meds," she said vaguely, and I wondered if she knew more than she was telling.
Finally, after the doctor examined her vitals, some good news, or at least somewhat reassuring--her blood pressure was alarmingly low. Mom had spent decades on medication due to high blood pressure, but apparently her current meds conflicted with the chemo she'd undergone recently, and put the whammy on her. Serious and unfortunate, but it explained the hallucinations: Blood wasn't flowing to her brain.
The doctor cut off the meds she'd been taking, ordered a different prescription and sent her on her way. She was noticeably more cheerful on the way home, full of jokes and funny asides, acting very much her usual self. I dropped her off at home while I ran down to pick up her new prescription. When I got back to the house, she sat watching People's Court, making fun of the participants as she always did. Surely she was okay now. Surely she was back to normal. Wasn't she?
The next day, she fell again, landing in the hospital. The day after that, she died. After that, nothing could ever be normal, not quite, not like it had always been, as I imagined it would always be.
This is what I saw as I stepped outside this morning, a beautiful February day, clear and warm. Nothing unusual about that, normally a welcome sight, except it conjured a memory of a nearly identical day almost exactly three years ago, when the two of us passed through this very neighborhood.
Mom had a doctor's appointment, and I'd taken the day off from work to give her a ride. When I arrived at her home that morning, I was horrified by what I saw: Not just the large, tumorous bump on her head from a fall the night before, but the slight, fragile spectre of her former self. She'd been in and out of the hospital the previous summer, and I'd seen her look vulnerable and weak, but I'd never seen her look so...old.
Since her appointment wasn't until mid-afternoon, we tried to enact the regular rituals of the morning. She had her usual breakfast of donut holes and weakly-brewed tea, and we watched the next-day repeats of The Daily Show and The Colbert Report, though Mom didn't laugh much. I played with her dog and cats and took a short walk while she watched The Young And The Restless, then it was time to leave.
She hallucinated the whole way to Des Moines. Odd. She wasn't on any new medications I was aware of, and though presumably her cancer grew worse by the day, I didn't believe it was a thing that could cause a person to hallucinate. But she saw the ghosts of long-dead pets along the roadside and mazes in the cornfields and castles on non-existent hills, warning me at one point not to run over the scarecrow in the middle of the highway. When we continued moving forward without hitting anything, she realized there was no scarecrow, and, strangely, seemed comforted rather than terrified by the knowledge that the things she viewed weren't real.
The doctor's office was in the basement of Methodist Hospital, right in my neighborhood. We drove down my street along the way, and she commented how pretty it looked on a day like this, how welcoming, how homey. I asked if she saw any things that weren't there, and she said no, it looked like it always looked, she'd just never taken the time to appreciate its beauty before.
We sat in the waiting room, joined shortly by my sister Ann, who had talked to Mom the night before and was prepared for the sight of the bump on the head, but who was taken aback by the news of hallucinations. "Could be meds," she said vaguely, and I wondered if she knew more than she was telling.
Finally, after the doctor examined her vitals, some good news, or at least somewhat reassuring--her blood pressure was alarmingly low. Mom had spent decades on medication due to high blood pressure, but apparently her current meds conflicted with the chemo she'd undergone recently, and put the whammy on her. Serious and unfortunate, but it explained the hallucinations: Blood wasn't flowing to her brain.
The doctor cut off the meds she'd been taking, ordered a different prescription and sent her on her way. She was noticeably more cheerful on the way home, full of jokes and funny asides, acting very much her usual self. I dropped her off at home while I ran down to pick up her new prescription. When I got back to the house, she sat watching People's Court, making fun of the participants as she always did. Surely she was okay now. Surely she was back to normal. Wasn't she?
The next day, she fell again, landing in the hospital. The day after that, she died. After that, nothing could ever be normal, not quite, not like it had always been, as I imagined it would always be.
FARCE? TRAGEDY? DOES IT MATTER?
Like pretty much everyone else who takes up space on the Interweb, I had the Pavlovian reaction to the video that surfaced of Joaquin Phoenix, uh, rapping: I wrote about it.
Speculation ran high at the time as to whether Phoenix, who had announced his intention to quit acting in favor of his music career, was joking. This was, after all, a pretty dire performance, and Phoenix is, if nothing else, a professional.
And now there's this, his appearance last night on David Letterman's show:
So this was a joke, right? He's merely affecting a clueless persona; no publicist would allow their client to appear that zonked out on national television. And he gives the game away--doesn't he?--by breaking character occasionally, as when he laughs at Letterman's Unabomber reference.
But if it's a joke...why? If he's doing some sort of conceptual comedy piece, he's merely treading the same ground as Andy Kaufman and Crispin Glover, who not only did the same sort of thing better, they even did it on Letterman's show. Isn't a smug, self-amused prank kind of an insult to whatever fans Phoenix still has? And isn't pretending to be a zoned-out guy on a downward spiral kind of tasteless (and supremely unfunny) when his more-talented older brother famously overdosed on heroin?
Which leads to the other possibility--maybe it's not a joke. Maybe this guy really is a casualty waiting to happen, and Letterman's treatment of him was unbearably cruel. But no, I think Letterman got it just right. After all, if Phoenix is on some sort of death trip (and he certainly is career-wise), he deserves to be called on it. Whether he's joking or dying, he's clearly not doing it alone, and either way, his appearance here reveals him to be thoroughly detestable, entirely worthy of Letterman's scorn and everyone else's.
Speculation ran high at the time as to whether Phoenix, who had announced his intention to quit acting in favor of his music career, was joking. This was, after all, a pretty dire performance, and Phoenix is, if nothing else, a professional.
And now there's this, his appearance last night on David Letterman's show:
So this was a joke, right? He's merely affecting a clueless persona; no publicist would allow their client to appear that zonked out on national television. And he gives the game away--doesn't he?--by breaking character occasionally, as when he laughs at Letterman's Unabomber reference.
But if it's a joke...why? If he's doing some sort of conceptual comedy piece, he's merely treading the same ground as Andy Kaufman and Crispin Glover, who not only did the same sort of thing better, they even did it on Letterman's show. Isn't a smug, self-amused prank kind of an insult to whatever fans Phoenix still has? And isn't pretending to be a zoned-out guy on a downward spiral kind of tasteless (and supremely unfunny) when his more-talented older brother famously overdosed on heroin?
Which leads to the other possibility--maybe it's not a joke. Maybe this guy really is a casualty waiting to happen, and Letterman's treatment of him was unbearably cruel. But no, I think Letterman got it just right. After all, if Phoenix is on some sort of death trip (and he certainly is career-wise), he deserves to be called on it. Whether he's joking or dying, he's clearly not doing it alone, and either way, his appearance here reveals him to be thoroughly detestable, entirely worthy of Letterman's scorn and everyone else's.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
CRY, CRY, CRY
Hey, remember election night and the inauguration and those vague, shiny feelings of hope?
Remember thinking how great it was to have a president who wasn't a stooge to his Sith Lord second-in-command (and remember when I said I'd stop making Star Wars analogies?), who could form a coherent sentence, who seemed, dammit, presidential? Remember thinking things will be, at least a little bit, better?
But then came the cabinet stuffed with Washington insiders determined to cling to the same old ways, an economic stimulus package and a bank bailout scheme that are indistinguishable from Bush's similar efforts (and, like Bush's, presented by an administration staffer who was an active part of the problem when the whole meltdown began) and, most depressingly, a defense of Bush's use of torture.
Maybe things will turn around, maybe the new president will see the light. But for now, Obama's stated intention to turn the nation around seems like just another empty campaign promise, and all that hope, all that change has gone.
Remember thinking how great it was to have a president who wasn't a stooge to his Sith Lord second-in-command (and remember when I said I'd stop making Star Wars analogies?), who could form a coherent sentence, who seemed, dammit, presidential? Remember thinking things will be, at least a little bit, better?
But then came the cabinet stuffed with Washington insiders determined to cling to the same old ways, an economic stimulus package and a bank bailout scheme that are indistinguishable from Bush's similar efforts (and, like Bush's, presented by an administration staffer who was an active part of the problem when the whole meltdown began) and, most depressingly, a defense of Bush's use of torture.
Maybe things will turn around, maybe the new president will see the light. But for now, Obama's stated intention to turn the nation around seems like just another empty campaign promise, and all that hope, all that change has gone.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
DAMN KIDS WITH YOUR JITTERBUGS AND SWING MUSIC AND WHATNOT
At some point while finding clips from yesterday's post--The Who and The Jam, for those of you who missed it--I realized I should probably include something somewhat more contemporary in the mix, just to prove that I do indeed listen to music recorded in this century. I hastily attempted to find a clip of the New Ponographers song Sing Me Spanish Techno, but the official music video is one of those self-consciously oblique affairs that actually detracts from the music, and the live clips I found were substandard, and well, you may have been left with the impression that I'm some cranky old guy who doesn't give a damn what the kids are listening to these days.
(And just to clarify, The Jam's In The City may have been released in '77, but do you think I was actually listening to anything like that back then? I was a farm kid in the middle of nowhere, and the local pop stations offered either The Bee Gees and Shaun Cassidy or Styx and REO Speedwagon. Me, I was too busy listening to the Star Wars soundtrack for the millionth time to be aware of any other kind of music. Fact is, my musical tastes have always existed somewhere out of time.)
Anyway, though I pay very little attention to whatever's popular at any given moment (though this might be a good time to sheepishly admit that I kinda like Britney Spears' Womanizer), I find my musical tastes are fairly wide-ranging. I like what I like, regardless of its age, popularity, coolness factor, whatever. In that spirit, here's TV On The Radio with Dancing Choose--
--and Bernard Herrmann's Concerto Macabre, written for the film Hangover Square.
(And just to clarify, The Jam's In The City may have been released in '77, but do you think I was actually listening to anything like that back then? I was a farm kid in the middle of nowhere, and the local pop stations offered either The Bee Gees and Shaun Cassidy or Styx and REO Speedwagon. Me, I was too busy listening to the Star Wars soundtrack for the millionth time to be aware of any other kind of music. Fact is, my musical tastes have always existed somewhere out of time.)
Anyway, though I pay very little attention to whatever's popular at any given moment (though this might be a good time to sheepishly admit that I kinda like Britney Spears' Womanizer), I find my musical tastes are fairly wide-ranging. I like what I like, regardless of its age, popularity, coolness factor, whatever. In that spirit, here's TV On The Radio with Dancing Choose--
--and Bernard Herrmann's Concerto Macabre, written for the film Hangover Square.
Monday, February 09, 2009
I WANNA COME HOME ALL COVERED IN MUD
Sure, recent posts around here have been a bit abbreviated and hastily-written, but dammit, I haven't resorted to a clip job for, gosh, days. So I'm overdue, don't you think?
Here's The Who in '66 (NOT '67, no matter what the graphic on the video frame below claims), from the brief period when they (like The Kinks) could make a legit claim as being the greatest band in the world. Of course, that was the year The Beatles released Revolver, so it wasn't a claim they could make for very long, but still, I'm A Boy, with its furious instrumentation, instantly memorable melody and lyrics that play like a depraved version of one of A.A. Milne's odes to childhood, is a perfect pop song.
Incidentally, the original UK 45 of I'm A Boy had a song called In The City as its flip side, and that title, of course, would be picked up by Paul Weller a decade later when he began his run of churning out classic after classic for The Jam, a band that, unlike The Who, broke up when the time was right. Weller also managed another trick Pete Townshend has never pulled off--he's still a fantastic songwriter decades after the height of his career. But here he is back at the beginning, with In The City.
Here's The Who in '66 (NOT '67, no matter what the graphic on the video frame below claims), from the brief period when they (like The Kinks) could make a legit claim as being the greatest band in the world. Of course, that was the year The Beatles released Revolver, so it wasn't a claim they could make for very long, but still, I'm A Boy, with its furious instrumentation, instantly memorable melody and lyrics that play like a depraved version of one of A.A. Milne's odes to childhood, is a perfect pop song.
Incidentally, the original UK 45 of I'm A Boy had a song called In The City as its flip side, and that title, of course, would be picked up by Paul Weller a decade later when he began his run of churning out classic after classic for The Jam, a band that, unlike The Who, broke up when the time was right. Weller also managed another trick Pete Townshend has never pulled off--he's still a fantastic songwriter decades after the height of his career. But here he is back at the beginning, with In The City.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
ALL THAT HEAVEN ALLOWS
Paul and I went to a birthday party yesterday, after which we came back to my place and hung out until he decided it was time to go to bed. As per tradition, he got the bed while I slept on the floor, cats guarding either side of me.
This morning I woke up before him and flipped channels absent-mindedly. He stumbled out of bed just as The Road Warrior happened to be coming on. I asked him if he wanted to go to Krispy Kreme--his usual breakfast place of choice--and he said, "No. You still have cookies, right? Why don't we have those for breakfast and watch this? It looks pretty good."
So we did--the R-rated movie played uncut on a premium channel, so I just made him look away during the one inappropriate scene--then we hung around some more before heading off to Barnes & Noble, which happened to have the latest issue of Shock Cinema in stock. I told Paul he could get something as long as he kept it in the five dollar range, so he found a book about Boba Fett(!) and it was time to drop him off at his Mom's. After that, I relaxed at the neighborhood Chinese restaurant with the Sunday New York Times, and just got home in time for a quick nap.
Maybe I'm getting old, but much in that description--chocolate chip cookies, a Mad Max picture, bantering with a quick-witted (and proudly weird) nine year old, Chinese food, reading a newspaper and taking a nap--suggests a nearly perfect day. And so it was.
This morning I woke up before him and flipped channels absent-mindedly. He stumbled out of bed just as The Road Warrior happened to be coming on. I asked him if he wanted to go to Krispy Kreme--his usual breakfast place of choice--and he said, "No. You still have cookies, right? Why don't we have those for breakfast and watch this? It looks pretty good."
So we did--the R-rated movie played uncut on a premium channel, so I just made him look away during the one inappropriate scene--then we hung around some more before heading off to Barnes & Noble, which happened to have the latest issue of Shock Cinema in stock. I told Paul he could get something as long as he kept it in the five dollar range, so he found a book about Boba Fett(!) and it was time to drop him off at his Mom's. After that, I relaxed at the neighborhood Chinese restaurant with the Sunday New York Times, and just got home in time for a quick nap.
Maybe I'm getting old, but much in that description--chocolate chip cookies, a Mad Max picture, bantering with a quick-witted (and proudly weird) nine year old, Chinese food, reading a newspaper and taking a nap--suggests a nearly perfect day. And so it was.
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