Instead of spending time answering e-mails (tomorrow, people. tomorrow) I decided to download some albums from the newsgroups to throw on the ol' iPod for my city commute tomorrow (kind of pointless as I'm currently obsessed with the new Patti Smith record). While deciding if I should grab a Green Day compilation I read this on the inconsistently reliable AllMusic.com...
So, even if they were unintentionally working within a familiar framework, they infused it with passion and unpredictability - particularly in the sense that nobody would have guessed that Billie Joe Armstrong was such a damn good songwriter, no matter if he was writing frenzied punk like "Brain Stew/Jaded," sub-Stray Cat strut like "Hitchin' a Ride," or affecting pop, like "When I Come Around" and "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)." Better still, that just scratches the surfaces of his talents, and it doesn't even acknowledge that he partnered with a band that could deliver those songs, resulting in a body of work more consistent and thrilling than the Sex Pistols and more ambitious than the Ramones. If that sounds like sacrilege, well, you just haven't listened with open ears, as this stellar collection proves.
Err... Okaaaaay. Discuss.
Am I the only one religiously setting my PVR for "Rocked with Gina Gershon" in IFC? It certainly ain't great rock 'n' roll but it's highly, highly entertaining. It's a show of crazy dichotomies. The music is both elementary and interesting. Gina herself comes off as both cool and a gigantic pain in the ass. The devotion of her fans is simultaneously creepy and touching. Highly recommended. As always, check your local listings.
So. I finally got around to watching "Demonlover" tonight. Um. Yeah. Not so good. I can handle films that don't have any narrative. I can handle films that have a narrative that is absurdly disjointed. I can handle films that are just a pleasure to look at. I can't handle a film that's so schizoid that it has no clue as to what it's doing.
For the first fifty minutes I thought that Jesse and Linus were just, well, wrong. I found it to be a fairly interesting conceit. Chloe Sevigny's high school French was much worse than mine, but I thought acting was pretty good, the plot interesting and found a lot of the visuals to be almost breathtaking.
Without too many spoilers, Gina Gershon then leaves the film and apparently takes the film's sense with her. It's bad, kids. I can almost piece together what happens, but the plot holes are simply laughable. Character development exists only to completely reversed in the very next scene. Good films with loose plots generally make more sense upon further reflection (Think Lynch. Think Cronenberg). "Demonlover" makes less and less sense as it burrows its absurdity into your skull.
Critics who liked the film (and there were a few) were willing to give director Olivier Assayas a pass on the logic. The visuals, they thought, were too stunning and the mood too hip to simply pan. In some ways they're right. I did enjoy looking at it and don't regret seeing it. However, any film that makes "Mulholland Drive" look like "Sleepless in Seattle" is doing something wrong.
I realize that the little media bits in the right-hand column do you no good if they're only updated once a month. Oops! I'll try to do better. They're fresh and clean today, though.
Very, very few of you know all the tawdry details of how I ended up living in the Tri-State as opposed to, egads, Milwaukee. That's not going to change, I'm afraid. Some things I don't even want to drudge up here. In retrospect, though, it all turned out for the best. It could have been, however, a depressing tale.
I think I have randomness and the great people I've met via my ramblings to thank for that. Seriously. I never cease to be amazed at the great people who I've encountered in this fine city via randomness. It's almost weird, really. Like minds, I guess. Yeah. That has to be it. Whatever it is it's simply the greatest.
Working in the city this week afforded me the opportunity to visit with many of you. I'm going to be in Manhattan more often than not this spring and summer. That's a good thing. Every last one of you will be getting damn tired of seeing me, I'm afraid. Consider yourself warned.
Oh, one more thing. Go wish Jesse luck on his marathon this weekend!!!
I realized this evening that I can sing along with three songs that no human being should be able to sing along to.
Elvis Costello's "Pump it Up"
R.E.M.'s "It's the End of the World as We Know it"
The Pet Shop Boys' "West End Girls"
Shouldn't that make me uniquely qualified for some sort of prize or job? Yeah. I guess not.
I also realized that R.E.M.'s New Adventures in Hi-Fi might be on one the most under-appreciated albums of the last twenty years.
First, I know I owe about 82 of you an e-mail. I'll respond sooner or later. I've just been busy running around Manhattan and don't feel like staring at a screen when I get home.
Spring and autumn, however, are when I realize that I wouldn't make a very good girl. My problem, you see, is that I don't have enough "good" jackets. By "good" I mean stylish and in Manhattan that's a perfect crime. My excuse is that I wear them out way too quickly. Most jackets simply aren't made for wheels. I also have to have a jacket that I can simply wash. You really wouldn't believe how dirty a jacket becomes after a day with mrw in the city. No. I'm serious. It ends up looking like something a homeless dude would reject.
I do have some faithful standbys that are all, of course, black. I rarely wear anything these days that isn't black. My CK raincoat? That I like. My black faux leather (complete with PETA "Fake for the Animals' Sake" patch) wore out in less than a month. My recently purchased black canvassy jacket? Wore a big hole in that last weekend. My black jean jacket? The cuffs now look like the fringe on Daisy Duke's shorts.
Fortunately it's raining tomorrow...
* Almost finishing the brilliant, brilliant Moneyball and realizing that its author, Michael Lewis, is married to my one-time MTV infatuation, Tabitha Soren (This, of course came many years after my infatuation with Martha Quinn).
* The guy sitting next to me trying to do the NYT Crossword. If you can't even get 10% done on Tuesday, buddy, you're gonna be in trouble.
* Listening to the simply truths of Mr. Springsteen -
struck me kind of funny
seemed kinda funny, sir, to me
how at the end of every hard earned day
people still find some reason to believe
I'm out of the office for pretty much the entirety of this week. In the city today I saw so, so many things that I wanted to capture to share with you, my devoted readers. I so, so want a moblog. Alas, though, randomness spent way too much money on a nice digital camera and a decent small phone. I just can't justify yet another toy. But I want one, dammit!!
A quick break from a simply glorious weekend outdoors to report that I've broken out of my CD moratorium yet again. But they were all on sale!! Doesn't that make it okay?
Purchased today (and linked to proper reviews for your hipster pleasure) -
"Grown Backwards" by David Byrne. David tackles Lambchop, Bizet and Verdi. What's not to love?
"Our Endless Numbered Days" by Iron & Wine. Vic Chesnutt meets Will Oldham. You would most likely hate it. I happen to find it delightful.
"Rumours" (Extended Version) by Fleetwood Mac. No, I'm serious. Take out "Songbird" and this just might be the greatest pop/rock record ever recorded. The new version sounds amazing, too. I'm a bit miffed by the revisionist inclusion of "Silver Springs" in the middle of the first disc (wouldn't it have made more sense on the bonus disc?) but otherwise the perfect soundtrack for a summer weekend.
"The Duel" by Allison Moorer. I've actually had a signed promo copy of this for quite some time but felt the need to bolster Allison's sales. Yeah, I'm a sucker. It's also damn brilliant songwriting.
So, I was going to write about being really busy at work. Too boring. I was going to write about being excited that it was going to be in the 70s this weekend. Even more boring. I was going to write about how much I hate "The Apprentice." Needlessly bitchy. I was going to write about my misplaced love for Paul McCartney's "Let 'em In." Too embarrassing. Then I decided to write about, well, nothing.
Tomorrow I'll write about joining a gym and weekend delirium.
My first attempt at an analog day went, well, less than swimmingly. But it's not my fault, you see. Some backstory...
On Saturday afternoon I attempted to see Lars von Trier's Dogville. This wasn't my first attempt to see the film. On opening weekend I tried all three theaters in Manhattan where it was playing and the times never worked out right. I was very excited, however, when I saw that it was playing at the newly restored Avon Theatre directly across the street from my building.
The Avon is an old venue that was one of the glorious movie houses of past decades. It sat closed for several years until recently renovated as an art house. An art house. Across the street. Can you imagine how happy this made randomness? However, these being the days of the megaplex, the owners put two smaller theaters in the basement of the building. This being a building from the '20s there was also no space for an elevator.
You guessed it. Dogville was playing downstairs. However the manager overheard my dilemma and, get this, offered to move the film into the main theater for me. In fact he offered to do this whenever there was a film that I wanted to see that was playing downstairs. An incredibly nice gesture and one I couldn't pass up. So, you see, I had to go to the movies last night.
Unable to find any friends willing to sit through a three-hour anti-American film with no sets, I departed into the rainy night. The Avon is truly a jewel of a theater. The whole viewing experience is really a joy. It's far from the sterile environment of the mall megaplex and programmed by people who clearly know what they're doing. Joseph Mankiewicz's widow is introducing "Suddenly Last Summer" next week for cryin' out loud. I'll certainly be a regular now. The theatre itself is worth the price of admission.
Oh. The film. Um. Wow. It's an onion that I really can't even begin to peel without spoilers galore. Visually it's both flat and ornate. The plot untangles like Our Town meets Lord of the Flies. The ensemble cast (Nicole Kidman, Lauren Bacall, Patricia Clarkson, James Caan, Philip Baker Hall, et. al.) is fantastic. John Hurt's superb narration channels Orson Welles. It provokes thought from from the opening frame until the credits roll three hours later. That said, I can't really recommend that my dear readers run out to see it. It's not for everyone. It's slow. It's a bit pretentious. It's a bit absurd. It's violent. It's disturbing. Hell, it's Lars von Trier. Anyone who has seen Dancer in the Dark and Breaking the Waves and actually enjoyed them probably has some serious issues. This film is at times tougher than either of those to watch. Seriously. And I'd sooner gouge by eyes out with a rusty spoon than watch Breaking The Waves again. But it also has some brilliant passages that I'm glad I witnessed. In the end I give it a hesitant recommendation. Just don't blame me if you hate it.
I spent way too long today trying to make some goofy Moveable Type plugin for Netflix work. It's supposed to show you everything that I have in my rental queue. It was supposed to illustrate how backlogged I am. Instead, I decided that leaving it on the page would merely demonstrated that I'm a gigantic dork.
So, I did the next best thing. I made a flat-file...
Making use yet again of the extended entry, you can see all 134 DVDs in my queue and the gigantic list of those that I'm also waiting on release dates for. The purpose of this exercise is not for you to say "what the hell are those films?" (which I'm sure many of you will) but, rather, to show you that I'll never catch up.
DVDs You Have Out
One of my least favorite in vogue expressions is "living off the grid." However, it seems pretty relevant in today's day and age. In my life, at least, it conjures up appealing thoughts of not being a slave to technology and no longer addicted to the bits and bytes of the 21st century.
Before randomness I used to take a week every few months and evade it all. No television, no movies, no video games, no computer. Just a lot of reading, a lot of thinking, a lot of friends and a lot of nature. I used to call it my Amish Week and allowed myself but one bit of modern technology, music.
After taking a silly quiz yesterday in Time Out (reproduced with no permission whatsoever in the extended entry) I decided that it's time to take the practice up again. I can't do a week anymore, though. Being out of contact for an extended time like that isn't really feasible. So I'm going to take a day a week and see how it goes. I'll rotate the day and will start with this Monday. It will, obviously, only apply to non-working hours. It may extend to no workday e-mailing, IM'ing or blogging other than for work-related items. Haven't decided on that yet.
Click below to take the quiz that started me thinking. I scored 39, way too high. What's your score? If you score 36 or over I think you should be joining me...
What's Your Overloaded Quotient? from Time Out New York April 8-15, 2004.
Give yourself four points for every (a), three points for every (b), two for every (c) and one for every (d).
How obsessed are you with your cell phone?
(a) I have unlimited minutes and 30 ring tones. I spit in the face of harmful radiation.
(b) Rarely do I leave home without it, but it's off while I'm on vacation.
(c) I still call it "my car phone."
(d) I don't have one -- isn't an answering machine enough?
In recent years, how have you met the majority of your romantic interests?
(a) In an exclusive chatroom full of cyberdenizens exactly like me.
(b) Through a major online personals service.
(c) The traditional way: in a bar full of shouting idiots.
(d) Everything was arranged by the village elders.
What is your portable music setup?
(a) Fully outfitted MP3 player with 80 playlists and peer avoidance technolgy.
(b) Dropped the dough on an iPod, but I'm still figuring out how to program it.
(c) Still carting around an old-timey CD player.
(d) I can whistle a pretty mean "Kumbaya."
What gets delivered to your postal address?
(a) A universe of magazines, a galaxy of Netflix selections, a solar system of crap I bought on eBay.
(b) Just enough publications to make me feel guilty for reading only half of them.
(c) Not much besides the Times. I like the way they surround a story.
(d) Hallmark cards from Mother.
Do you use a PDA?
(a) The question is: does it use me?
(b) Yes, but what a ball and chain (er, stylus and display).
(c) Absolutely not. Death to status symbols.
(d) I keep my displays of affection private, thank you.
Have you indulged in the Friendster phenomenon?
(a) Of course - did you know I'm linked to Vladimir Putin?
(b) A bit, but it's mostly a borderline perverted-voyeurism thing.
(c) As if my offline friends aren't weird enough...
(d) Never heard of it -- the 7,000 magazine articles about it passed me by.
What's the last time you put pen to paper and wrote a letter the old-fashioned way?
(a) Paper?
(b) Years. Although I think I have some $0.29 stamp somewhere.
(c) Within the last few months -- the personal touch still has its place in our impersonal society.
(d) Last week -- didn't you get my illegible, scathing letter to the editor?
How do you record your favorite TV programs?
(a) God bless TiVo for keeping me up to date with Mama's Family reruns.
(b) I dibble in the fancy technology, but only for Sopranos-caliber fare.
(c) The VCR gets the job done.
(d) My Betamax is in the shop.
Do you text message?
(a) R U K Din? 4 sure. OK. ]:-)
(b) I want to -- it's reason No. 12 that I need a cell phone upgrade.
(c) No, I find yet another form of communication superfluous.
(d) Does Morse code count as "text?"
What do you consider multitasking?
(a) Reading Wired while IM-ing my cousin while downloading The Grey Album while romancing my sweetheart while going through a bout of existential dread.
(b) Being somewhat productive (paying bills, raising my children) while watching TV.
(c) Getting away with personal business while on the company clock.
(d) Chewing gum while not spontaneously combusting.
How do you preserve those treasured moments in your life?
(a) I use my camera phone. It lets me sneak peeks at people's ATM codes.
(b) A digital contraption, although those Fotomat huts were cool, weren't they?
(c) There's nothing like an old-fashioned camera to cherish those moments of accidently exposing the film.
(d) Maybe some of us aren't going to take a picture, because we don't want it to last longer.
* I'm off work today.
* I'm going into the city and it's going to be a balmy 60 degrees.
* The effing Tigers are 4-0.
Have a great holiday weekend, evuraybody!
"All the nurses at Tully keep asking about how 'that really nice guy' is doing." -mrw's doctor this morning.
"You are about the fucking nicest guy I know." -deli guy tim to mrw this morning
Thus is my curse. Throughout this fine land I'm known to one-and-all as "Mike, the Nice Guy." I've gotten used to such statements over the years. There certainly are worse things that could be said about one. It's rare, for instance, that somebody meets me and declares me unlikeable.
I just don't think that I'm really that nice. I often want people to meet my father. He's awfully nice. When I interned at his plant in college people constantly came up to me and asked if he was "really that nice." Yes, I assured them, it was no act.
Dad, though, is an absolute ogre when compared to his father. My grandfather is seriously the kindest, warmest person you will ever meet. At 87 years-old, he still drives the Amish family down the street (who he really doesn't know) to the grocery store several times a week. Any of my friends who he has met are instantaneously family members. He still asks about people that he met twenty years ago who I haven't spoken to in ages (one of you lurkers is often asked about).
The curse of being nice, though, is that you always have to be "on." Being momentarily cranky or wanting to be a bit reserved becomes a big deal to people. They're not used to it. They think something major is amiss. People literally don't know how to react. As a result, I'm very wary of not being chipper. Sure, I may sulk online a bit but rarely do I allow myself to do so in real life. Randomess is my outlet in that regard.
The other issue, of course, is that the ladies never like the nice guy. Don't tell me I'm wrong. I know I'm not...
Call me retarded, but I totally love this sofa.
I have to confess. I'm not as fired up about this Imaginary Girlfriend thing as I should be. It strikes me as something that I don't really think I am, pathetic. Maybe I am. I dunno.
It also could be a lot of fun and laughs aplenty could ensue. So I'm going to do my best to make it a group effort. Seems only fair as a lot of fine, fine people are coughing up hard-earned cash for the project. Your first task, group, is to help choose the IGF. I have someone in mind and I get, let's say, three votes.
So take a serious look here and pick your favorite. Every vote counts! Even Ken's!
The shortest film review in the history of randomness...
"The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" - Brilliant. Devastating.
Perhaps more when words don't fail me. Right now my heart just, well, hurts.
sometimes it snows in april
sometimes i feel so bad, so bad
sometimes i wish life was never ending,
and all good things, they say, never last
-prince
This has seriously been the sort of suckfest of a winter that creates carpetbaggers.
I hate, hate, hate the NBA. I find nothing whatsoever about it to be compelling. Sure, I'll watch the Pistons in the playoffs but, honestly, that's about it.
NCAA basketball in March and April, on the other hand, is great stuff. This post-season has been particularly joyous at randomness. My hoop allegiances, of course, begin with the Wolverines. We weren't that good this year but we're finally off probation and were able to compete in the loserville NIT. This sorry tourney was brightened, however, when we were able to beat the Donk's Scarlet Knights for the championship.
My two adopted teams have faired even better. When I lived in Atlanta my friend (and occasional contributor) Tim had season tickets for Georgia Tech. I was able to go to a good number of games with him every year and became a pretty big Yellow Jacket fan. Tech, of course, plays Oklahoma State today in the Final Four.
You also can't live in Connecticut and not somehow become a UConn fan. The whole state is crazy for them. Tickets to see the women play are nearly impossible to get even when they play in the 15,000 seat Hartford Civic Center. Both the men and the women play in their respective Final Fours this weekend.
So this weekend will consist of keeping my foot elevated, doing laundry, getting out to see a film or two and watching some basketball. Not too shabby.
Well, I have to admit that the response to my Atlanta post both here and off-blog has pretty much overwhelmed me. You like me! You really, really like me! I will, of course, make every effort to see every one of your smiling faces when I'm there. Bear in mind, though, that I'm staying with my parents in Athens and have to spend some time with them, too.
To that end, let's see how many people we can get together for dinner and drinks on Saturday night. That would be May 28 for those of you scoring at home. Here's what I'm thinking. How about Loca Luna at, say, 7:00. Sound good?
So. I open up my Time Out this evening and encounter a full-page ad for five Morrissey dates in NYC. I'm not ashamed to say I love The Smiths and, to a lesser extent, the man's solo work. I've never seen him live, though, because his shows usually last about twenty minutes or he decides that he's just not going to show up. I think he'll be better this time; his livelihood is pretty much on the line with his new record contract.
Get this, though. Stephen Morrissey is playing five nights at the Apollo Theater. No. I'm not kidding. Morrissey at the Apollo. It just doesn't roll off the tongue, does it? It's easy enough for me to get to (take the train to 125th and walk a couple of blocks) but I have no clue what it's like inside. Has anyone ever been?
By the way, I know that only about three of you will "get" the title of this entry. Take comfort in the fact that you're not alone with your horrible affliction.
Yeah, I'm talking to you. I'm coming to visit you over Memorial Day so you best get ready. I don't want any of this yucky, pollen-covered, humid crap okay? Get that out of your system now. All I want is to see my friends and drink my body weight in sweet tea. Consider yourself warned.