Entertainment Rules the Nation

The Bearista Agenda

2006-04-25T21:51:00.000-04:00

or
Do People Still Use the Bandana Code?

We got a Starbucks in the hood a couple of years ago, and I became slowly, insidiously inculcated into their cult of ridiculously fancy cawfee drinks. It doesn't hurt that everyone plies me with *$s gift cards at holiday times or when I do favors for them. And since they actually filled a grande-sized void in the No-Man ghetto (we didn't have any local cafes that were open before or after work) I had no qualms about drinking the koolaid latte and becoming one of them.

As most of you know, Starbucks sells peripheral tchotchkes like mugs, horrible horrible CDs, and bears dressed in seasonal costumes, or as other animals, because that's what bears do in the wild. The smallish plush bears are called bearistas because that's funny if you're the *$s marketing veep. They've had the adorable goth bearista--a bear wearing a skeleton suit--the bizarre Easter Lamb Bearista (bizarre because really, what bear would dress itself up as a sacrifice? They're not that dumb), the kitschy Holiday Snowglobe Bearista. This season's bearista was the Gardener Bearista, a cute tan bear dressed in jeans, and a sun hat (not to be confused with the Constant Gardener Bearista, who had a gun disguised as a spade). How adorable! The bear also had an apron, and a pale blue handkerchief/bandana-looking thing in its back pocket.

What? What does that bear need a handkerchief for? Does a bear not want to wipe snot on his sleeve? And why in the back pocket? Surely it could have been designed to go into the pocket in the apron. Well, some of you may be aware of something called the bandana code, and now I will tell you that this link is NOT SAFE FOR WORK, nor is any discussion of the bandana code. Do not under any circumstances bring up the bandana code at a business lunch or especially not when having brunch with your parents.

How widely known is the bandana (sometimes called the hanky) code? These days not very. I think the heyday of the code was the 70s. I learned about it when I went to visit my aunt in San Francisco and I used to go for walks so I could smoke. I was 13. I'd walk around up and down Castro Street and once I finished my Malboro Light I'd wander into Hot Flash, an adorable store that sold condoms and dildos and pillows shaped like breasts, and publications. Informative publications! With things about local bands and bars and the hanky code. If you learn about the hanky code when you're 13, you never forget it. The hanky code teaches you about behaviors you can't even believe people think about, let alone participate in. They do what with what? How does it fit?

Anyway, the gardener bearista has a pale blue hanky in its back left pocket. At least what the bear wants isn't too outrageous, although red with black stripes may have been more appropriate.

Most of the Starbucks are sadly sold out of the gardener bearista, but you can find the on ebay if you have any friends who are aficionados of the hanky code.

Now, I'm not saying the gardener bearista designer is aware of the hanky code. However, most designers I know are well-versed in pop-cultural references. I'm just saying is all.

Live Book Blogging

2006-04-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

Today’s Book: The Areas of My Expertise by John Hodgman

I’m a big fan of the concept of live blogging. No, I’m lying. I think it’s self-indulgent and it indicates that the blogger has a much bigger sense of self than is usually warranted. Also, sometimes it’s better to sit and think about things. That’s what I learned, every time I did something stupid when I was a kid. Binky, go in your room and think about what you’ve done. Usually I came to the conclusion that I didn’t go far enough, and perhaps if I had thought things out beforehand I wouldn’t be sitting in my room thinking about things. I’d be at the hospital or the police station thinking about things.

That said, I have decided to join the world of live bloggers. Not because I think what I have to say “on the fly” is that interesting, but it’s just easier than having to consider my essay and structure it and so on. That’s such a lot of work! I’ve already live-blogged Puppy-Bowl II, but actually, that was a lie. I wasn’t really live-blogging. I was tivo-blogging. So, I guess that makes me a real journalist now!

My first live blogging experiment will be John Hodgman’s The Areas of My Expertise. Of course, this led me into a sticky corner—how to live-blog a book? I suppose I could bring a tape recorder with me when I read on the subway, and record my thoughts as I read, but I don’t have enough hands. Also, then I’d join the ranks of crazy people who talking into tape recorders about books on the subway.

So my solution was to simulate live-blogging, by trying to remember what I thought while I was reading on the subway, and also listening to Chris Weingarten’s best of 2005 mixtape CD. I know that’s kind of an oxymoron—there was no “best of” in 2005! And the CD bears that out beautifully.

At the beginning of the book, Mr. Hodgman invites the reader to write if he/she finds any actual facts that have accidentally gotten into the book. Unfortunately, there are too many facts, so I have decided to keep a list of the errors to those facts, most of which I think were entirely unintentional.

1. Mr. Hodgman, your name is misspelled. It should be Hodgeman. That’s on the cover. Oh, did I tell you we’re going in sequential order by age? We are.

2. How is it that my edition is the 4th printing? Really?

3. This book is paginated in the European fashion. That’s a bug, I believe, and not a feature.

4. I was not reading your Good Evening chapter in the evening, nor did I have a window to gaze out of. Now I feel as cheated as when I found out that the vinyl version of De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising was missing a song that was listed on the jacket. I’ve forgotten which song, but it was the best one.

Page 34: my cats say that illustration is photoshopped.

Page 36: The zipcode for the fake PO Box is incorrect. It should be 10116.

7. Damn, this song by The Streets f. Kano, Donae’o, Lady Sovereign and Tinchy Stryder sucks. Also, why did it take so many of them to make such a terrible song?

8. Lady, make your kid sit still. Also, next time? Go a little lighter on the parfum.

Table. 9: You cannot be a lawful neutral Paladin. You have to be lawful good.

OK. More to be added.

Live Puppybowl II blogging

2006-02-05T22:40:00.000-05:00

For all of you out there who are not fans of the best TV on cable for the depressed and demented, Animal Planet, perhaps Puppybowl requires an explanation. Puppybowl, which conicidentally runs against the Superbowl, is an entire day of puppies running around on a tiny football field filled with things puppies enjoy--squeaky toys, water, and other puppies. There are instant replays, an occassional foul, and a bowlcam where we get to see puppy tongue up close and personal. I guess that's the puppy equivilent of being in the lockeroom. Now, after watching 20 minutes or so (OK, AN HOUR) of Puppybowl last year, I would have bet good money that there would be not a Puppybowl this year. Sure, 8 hours of 2 hour loops of cavorting bulldog and terrier babies was adorable, but that's not really entertainment, not even for a cable channel that's one step above public access. So, imagine my surprise to see that Puppybowl TWO was on all day on Animal Planet! Was I thrilled? Intrigued? Not exactly, but I was bored, so I did tune into Puppybowl TWO.

First off, TWO, like most sequels, is a poor substitute for the original. Gone are the adorable LITTLE puppies--this years crop seemed to be made up of almost exclusively adolescent hunting dogs, including no less that two springer spaniels, two beagles, a chow, and an angry and highly aggressive poodle who obviously felt out of place and isolated. Can you imagine his tantrum in the green room, on the phone to his agent?? "You promised me frenchies and puggles, and I'm competing with these butch monsters looking for ducks and foxes? If I make it out here alive, you are so fired, Sparky." I must at this point directly address the show's producers--if Puppybowl is an alternative to the Superbowl, why populate the playing field with dogs that appeal to people to watch the Superbowl? Are you mocking me, Puppybowl producers? I am not a 9 month old standard poodle--I am not to be mocked.

I was about to turn away, when lo! and behold, they began the halftime show. WITH KITTIES. Thank BAST. Kitties are much more entertaining than puppies, and even the producers, cruel people that they are, seemed to know this. The kitties get an upbeat disco, and then swing, soundtrack, while the puppies had some weird musak version of "Turkey in the Straw." For 20 minutes or so the kittens cavorted and gamboled, swatted at things, and practiced the art of surprise attack. And this is what truly separates the puppies from the kittens--the kittens are just much sneakier, and that makes them seem smarter. But the kittens didn't seem to enjoy the "finale," which consisted of a 5 minute confetti drop. It seemed as if some of the kittens were in danger of getting smothered by confetti.

But producers, again I am addressing you directly, there is no point in going back to the puppies after the halftime show. I changed the channel and watched a dating show starring Lisa Loeb. And I didn't even like "Stay"! Although you may want to add that to your Puppybowl III soundtrack. I hear that's popular with the dogs.

A Million Dry, Permanently Smashed Pieces

2006-01-10T19:45:00.000-05:00

Of course it's been on a desktop sticky for months to write about my favorite scoopy genre of fiction--the addiction memoir. Girl, did you say fiction? Didn't you mean...? Wait for it.

I knew the Frey story depicted in A Million Little Pieces was fake. If you've ever known anyone who went through rehab, or was a passenger on a plane for that matter, you'd know it too. It felt fake, and was poorly written, and so as fiction it was a failure. As non-fiction, it was gritty and real. So, hey, whatever, no one has any integrity these days. Why should that stop someone from trying to sell a book? More than the lie, though, I was offended by the weird Capitalization throughout the book, and the two dimensional characters--the mafia don with a heart of gold, the boxer with a heart of gold, the hooker with the heart of gold, the beaver with the tail of... etc. But I was never going to do the research to find out. I mean, why? I got a job, I'm not tryin to hear that! Thank god the guys at The Smoking Gun did it for me. But I'm pretty sure most addiction memoirs are cross-genre amagams of fact and fiction, with the former being the least of the mix.

The addiction memoir tends to be a compendium of increasingly excitingly and dangerous experiences from the POV of a priviledged upper-middle class white person. They will tell you they are telling you this as a caution--don't try this at home!--but what they are really doing is bragging. Can you believe I drank a whole bottle of $10 champagne? My parents would be so ashamed that my addiction took me to those depths. I threw up all over my Marcs!! Eventually, at some point in the writing process, your editor is going to force you to up the ante, and that's where the fiction comes in. Falling asleep mid-blowjob becomes full-blown gay prostitution, and a warning from someone in the parking lot of the in-and-out becomes the time you killed a guy for looking at you funny.

I've read a lot of these, because I enjoy making myself angry. I used to read Dondi when I was a child for the same reason, and each word balloon would bring me closer to wanting to poke Dondi's little dot eyes outta his mushy, round cranium with a sharp no. 2 pencil. I read Dry, which was so boring that Augusten Burroughs had to make the HIV dude the focus of the book, because his own liquor drinking wasn't interesting enough. I read Rick Moody's The Black Veil, and all I can recall is some passages from a diary from the 18th century. And Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood? That girl doesn't even consider herself an alcoholic. That girl can't wipe the vomit off the shoes of my teenage friends, half of whom ended up hospitalized for the old "alcoholic coma" before 10th grade. That girl was no drunken than I ever was, and I never once considered that bile, bad sex, and not knowing where your bra was the next day were interesting topics for a book.

Most people's addictions are not that interesting, but if you want some juicy addiction prose, try Jerry Stahl's Permanent Midnight. He might be bragging too, but he tempers it with enough self-deprecation that you almost feel sorry for the guy.

The Bitterest xmas

2005-12-21T20:05:00.000-05:00

When I was a tiny child, I had many rivals for my grandparents’ affection. Rival no. 1 was my overly-adored brother, the first male heir. Yes, I was the first born, but he was the first male. Have you ever been a female child in a South American immigrant family? It’s not so bad, if your mother is the South American one. They have a complex pattern of loyalties and relationships, the Chileans do. Female children are very close to their mothers, and the males are raised (and praised, and exalted) by the fathers. My father being the Chilean one was ecstatic upon the birth of the boy, so much so that he forbade my mother (the evil American) to have an additional child. He was done. My mother, being American, paid little attention to either of us, except when we fought. Because that was as entertaining as my mother’s favorite tv show, the roller derby. So, already I was deprived. But the first year of my life I had no competition for my paternal grandmother’s affection, especially since I was fortunate enough to look like their side of the family.

But all that changed when my aunt, my father’s twin and my grandmother’s beloved only daughter, had her first little girl, a perfect blond, blue eyed chubby baby. Sure, she looked more like a baby Barbie than a South American but that didn’t matter. What did matter is that I’d been replaced. And just to rub it in, a year later my aunt had another little girl who looked just like my grandmother.

Needless to say, I loved them and hated them. They were pretty and perfect and tinier than me so I could make them do things and hit them and they’d never tell. But their Barbies had fur coats, courtesy of my grandmother’s old minks and ridiculously creative sewing ability. And obviously at holidays they cleaned up. But the harshest lesson I ever learned at their hands was the lesson of Little Miss No Name.

Little Miss No Name was a doll manufactured by Mattel in the mid-60s. It was based on the Keane big-eyed kids paintings that every kool kid had in their rooms back then (not me, but my cousins had two different sets of them). She was a homeless barefoot begger child dressed in a patched burlap sack with ratty hair and a single tear that dripped from one of her huge eye, shivering on her sad, dejected cheek. Her giant head hung heavy on her emaciated child’s body. I swear that if you lifted up the dress you could see her ribs. One grubby palm was turned up, begging for any small change or spare food you might have. She was the embodiment of the archetypal homeless child. Even a stick of gum would have delighted poor Little Miss No Name. Who would want such a doll? Well, we would. We all wanted Little Miss No Name. We wanted to give her a home, a bath, brush her ratty hair, have Grandma make her a fur sack to replace her torn burlap.

As per usual, the gift petitioning would have begun in October. We first would have scoped out our desired toys, enticed by tv commercials and ads in newspapers, and begun our insideous campaigns of "hints" and cajoles. I’m sure there were other things I wanted (Operation, Flintstones Bowling, Hess Truck), but nothing I needed as much as Little Miss No Name.

There was almost no chance of Santa bringing me my desired doll. We lived in the projects, and I think at this time my father was walking nights at the PO and going to school during the day, studying some crazy thing called “computer science.” Working at the PO afforded him insights into what his future may be if he didn’t finish college; everyone else on his shift was crazy--from the mumbler to the guy who recited Shakespeare--and sorting letters would be a fast track to insanity. So even though the pay was decent, all his money was put aside to get us out of the projects, and get him into a good job. Each week, my mother was presented with one special treat--a Baby Watson Cheesecake from D’Auitos. For this she raised two kids on very little money, and suffered through reading “The Skin of Our Teeth” outloud to my father when he was sick with nephritis. I”m still not sure why a CompSci major had to read Thornton Wilder, but my mother can still recite parts of it.

I didn’t understand poverty, or saving for the future. All I knew is that Uncle Chuck didn’t have such a great job, but my cousins had everything--Operation, a Mrs. Beasley doll, a Hoppity Horse! A color tv! Surely Little Miss No Name didn’t cost as much as a color TV.

You must already know that Santa didn’t leave me a Little Miss No Name under our Charlie Brown tree in the West Brighton Projects. I probably got 101 Dalmations ColorForms, and Flintstones Bowling. But imagine my surprise when I got to my grandparent’s house and saw that Santa left, not one, but TWO, Little Miss No Name dolls, one for each of my horrible, spoiled rotten cousins. And left them at Grandma’s house, and I was there while they opened those packages and saw the looks of surprise and elation spread across their perfect faces.

And then. And then. You won’t even believe what happened, it’s so ridiculous. To this day I can hardly believe it myself. My cousins each positioned their Little Miss No Names’ hands in outstretched beggar pose, and went around to each relative, and collected quarters. QUARTERS. Not only did they have my doll, but now they had MONEY.

I would like to say that this story has a happy ending, some sort of redemption or satisfying denoument. It does not. My cousins remained beautiful and continue to get dolls and quarters, while I have to walk miles to work in sub-freezing temperatures and console myself with Flintstones Bowling.

Put Thor Back in Yuletide*

2005-12-04T10:14:00.000-05:00

I was doing some googles and wikis recently looking for appropriate terminology for my cat's holiday cards. My cat's name is Poly and, yes, we already used "Happy Poly-days" last year. It seemed too soon to recycle. Being a not-xtian myself, I prefer my Winter Solstice celebration greetings to be non-x-mas'y. Despite Ronald Reagan's declaration in the 80s of American being a "Christian Country," I find more and more that my friends believe a variety of things about a god or gods who treat them in a variety of fashions, but we all can get excited about a holiday that celebrates the return of the sun.

In case you've been lucky enough to avoid it, you probably know that Bill O'Reilly and others of his ilk each year complain that the liberals and the hippies are trying to stop good Americans from celebrating the birth of their lord. What those who rally around these imaginary slights don't know is that the Christians usurped a variety of pre-christian solstice celebrations, added some coca-cola, and called it Christmas. Take, for example, the Mithraists of ancient Rome. Their celebration takes place three days after the Solstice (roughly December 25). On the Solstice, the sun stands still--that's what Solstice means. Three days after, the sun is reborn to collect his TWELEVE DISCIPLES (12 signs of the Zodiac) and walk the earth again.

They've stolen the word "yule" outright. Yule (or hjol in Old Norse) refers to the moment the sun begins to turn after it's low point (the solstice). It's clear that the Yule Log was taken from the Northern Europeans--there was not a lot of log burning in the Bible. Even the traditional Christman pig was taken from the Icelandic Yule celebration, where a pig was sacrificed for their god Freyr. Why else would we eat a pig on the day a great Jew was born? Because of those goddamn pagans.

The Christians borrowed a lot from the old religions, and who can blame them? There's no reason to reinvent holidays when ones already exist, and how better to convert the pagans than to be celebrating the return of the sun and to really be celebrating the birth of Jesus? See, you godless heathens, you can still have your glorious pig and wonderful log and 12 disciples!

We all know the Christians were persecuted and eaten back in the day. I feel like the Christians are the hot, successful supermodel who breaks down on The Surreal World and cries about how everyone teased her when she was a kid. Perhaps they need some therapy to let go of this complex they still carry with them.

* there's a really interesting article online here

Year-end Wrap Up of the Vexing

2005-11-14T20:54:00.000-05:00

There are alot of things that but the shit outta me. I am a very cantankerous person. But at least I'm cranky now, and won't have far to go when I get older. Consider this practice for my crabby old age.

1. The use of the word "hobo" to describe homeless people. A hobo is specifically a migrating vagrant, and there is a connotation of a hobo being someone who has chosen this lifestyle. A homeless person is someone who lives out on the streets, and not by choice. I see this word used copiously on a certain "I overheard something" website, and since I happen to know that one of the editors is a Republican and a fan of Ayn Rand, I suspect shenanigans in the form of trying to belittle the homeless. Anyhow, I really don't want to see this word re-enter the lexicon in its current neo-con form. We need to make it our duty to correct people!

2. The use of the word "co-ed" when referring to women attending college. Uh, it's 2005, people. I can't think of one university that has recently begun to admit women where this term might be applicable. Again, this is another archaic word that has taken on an essense of deprecation. The men are "eds" and the women "co-eds"? It's like we're just hanging out, waiting to meet the right ed. Which brings u to no. 3.

3. Housewife screeds. There have been a plethora of tomes lately about the joys of being a housewife, all written by women who should know better, as EVERY ONE OF THEM HAS A JOB OUTSIDE THE HOME. Believe me, there is not ONE person I know who would not like to be supported by a more affluent partner and left at home to supervise the nanny and do some charity work in between tennis matches, but this is not a reality for most people. Hang it up, ladies. No one cares to hear the rich upper class opinion on how the rest of us should live our lives. You are as obsolete as co-eds. Which brings us, oddly, to no 4.

4. The Shocker. Not shocking, but annoying. And why? Because as a gesture it is meaningless, and I don't have time for meaningless hand gestures. Let me break it down for you, kiddies. The middle finger has a meaning. It means "fuck you." The thumb between the index and middle fingers? Means "gotcher nose." The shocker? It refers to an act, but there is no contextual meaning. Does it mean "I would like to perform this act on the person to whom my fingers are pointing?" No, it does not. All it means is "I am cooler than my mom." And as such I have no time for this. The Lindy is much more entertaining, and that's hard to believe that references to a two-year-old photo of torture is funnier.

Note: entry no. 4 is where I particularly feel like a crabby old person. the kids today, they can't even come up with a meaningful GESTURE, geez, they're so moronic. it's not like the devil horns!

5. New York Times reporting scandals. OMG, can they just stop this already? I think my high school newspaper had higher standards.

Not At All-Gifted

2005-11-04T14:51:00.000-05:00

Or
Whatever you do, don’t open the box!

Dear Pandora;

I know we only met a few weeks ago, but I feel like I’ve known you all my life. I bought you an expensive dinner and bragged about you to my friends, encouraging them to try your 10 hour free trial. You were too good to keep to myself—I wanted to share you.

But Pan, you’ve made no effort to get to know me. At the beginning you were so eager to please. I told you I liked The New Pornographers, and you played them for me, and other people who kinda sound like them. But then you started playing weird stuff—you apparently thought I would like anything with harmonies and a mix of acoustic and electric instrumentation--so I told you a little more about me: I like The Smiths, The Pixies, Nirvana. I made the mistake of telling you I like Filter. Remember that day? I think you played Mudvayne and Alien Ant Farm.. But no matter how much music I added to my list, you still screwed around with me. Every afternoon you’d start your jam-band set: Phish, Dave Matthews, Blues Traveler and even the Grateful Dead. I had to stop working on my very important spreadsheets to tell you THUMBS DOWN HUNNY! And then I’d get that sad little message from you “We’ll never play that song again.”

Pandy, you’re so smart in some ways, but so dumb in others. You know I like songs with “vamp” (yes, I had to ask Jack what that meant), but what I like about The Decembrists is not the accordion. Sure, I like a squeezebox as much as the next guy, but I don’t want you to play Weird Al because I told you I like “Engine Driver.” Also, what’s the deal with trying to push such crazy shit on my in the late afternoons? There was that one afternoon that you played some Huey Lewis song that wasn’t even a hit (I think it was called “I Know What I Like”). I told you I like the Smiths, and you never play any, or any Morrissey either, or even any of those Johnny Marr projects.

In case you’re baffled, Pandora.com is the online “radio station” portion of The Music Genome Project, a really brilliant project that analyzed thousands of songs and categorized them by certain criteria. Pandora sort of acts as an e-harmony of music—you tell it what you like and it searches the databases for things that have the same musical criteria they’ve applied. You can tell it you like an artist or a specific song. It’s pretty neat. You get 10 free hours and pay $36 for the year if you dig it.

But my time with my new girlfriend Pandy has taught me that music is more than just a check list of things—it’s my response to it (and yours too, I guess). Sure I like mild syncopation, subtle vocal harmonies, and a major key tonality, but I also like quirk. How do you quantify quirk? Or exuberance?

I still like Pandora—she’s cute and easy. I sure wish she was smarter.

Free and Easy

2005-10-17T19:48:00.000-04:00

Or
Bright Eyes is worth every cent I paid for it

So, I have this friend whom I like alot, even though he’s kinda evangelical about things in a way that borders on annoying. He’s always like “buy this!” “read this! I know you’ll like it!” and it’s more often than not it’s something really inappropriate like the novelization of Garfield the Movie. And lately he’s been sending me links for free downloads, and yeah, it’s free, but The Hives? The Strokes? The Worst of Interpol?

You all have the same friend. It’s Amazon*. And I’m probably a little late to the party about this, but Amazon offers an assload of free music downloads. Obviously it’s to get people to buy things, but I’ve been loading up my i-pod with things I’ll never ever buy, like The Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes, and, yes, Elliott Smith. And I put it in it’s own Amazon playlist (this month’s is imaginatively called Amazon 1005) and listen to it at the gym, and I’m always like “What? Is this what the kids like? The kids is stoopit.” So, Amazon, it’s not working! And yet, I cannot stay away. Every few weeks I go trolling for free downloads.

Now, here’s the even weirder thing: people are making those Amazon “Listmania” an “so you’d like to” lists for the free downloads! They’re free! why do you need recommendations? That’s like if I needed some kid in Tampa to write me a list of what chocolates to take on a table of free chocolates. I’m tasting each one! And if I don’t like it I’m spitting it into the garbage! But now I find myself clicking on downloads on the recommendations lists that maybe I wouldn’t have normally. Like if said kid from Tampa doesn’t recommend Interpol and The Strokes, maybe I take his recommendation of Assmen a little more seriously. And now I can honestly say things like “VHS or Beta? They totally suck!” instead of saying that dishonestly because maybe I saw them on New York Noise and they sounded like a bad disco wedding band, but maybe I was confusing them with Ladytron. Now I know. And that’s dangerous. Before I might have kept my mouth shut, and now there is no stopping my constant spewing of hatred of hipster bands! Get out the way! It’s like I’m the fat may in the restaurant and Amazon just gave me a wafer thin mint. Also, I’m not the only gay in the village. OK, that makes no sense in this context, but I just wanted to make a reference to Little Britain.

Now, in case I’m called upon to plug my i-pod into a PA system at a Todd P show, my amazon playlist will be guaranteed to please the urban outfitters in attendence. And I will laugh while you groove to Ladytron because I got it for free, and you could have too and didn’t.

* Here is my secret confession--I came upon the Amazon free downloads when looking for a peppy little goth disco song from the late 90s--Annie Would I Lie to You, by Iris. Go look for it! It's free!

which of these things is not like the other?

2005-10-10T17:55:00.000-04:00

or
NEXT!

I was sick this weekend, and it was raining, so I was positively stuck inside the apartment. Without even the brainspace to figure out what to ask Jack to go rent from the local video store, I was stuck with copious stories of turkeys in Turkey with avian flu and whatever awful stuff was on TV. After attempting to watch a 1-1/2 star movie starring Jerry McConnell as a cartoonist which turned out to be a 1/2 star movie starring Helen Hunt as a woman in love with a guy in the hospital (and why oh why can’t you TV people update anyone regarding what you’re showing?) I ended up on an MTV show that I had managed not only to avoid but not even hear about in any form until Saturday, called Next.

In case you’ve been doing nothing but complicated book layouts and cursing at Alex Trebek (as have I) I will explain what Next is. It’s a dating show. It’s a dating show not dissimilar from Third Wheel or Studs. It’s a cruel dating show with incredibly shallow people, some of whom are highly attractive, and some of whom you would avoid sitting next to on the subway. The way it works is this: one single person, we’ll call him/her Moe, gets to meet 5 other people--let’s call them the Curlys. Moe gets to decide how much time each Curly spends with him/her, and the Larry will win one big fat dollar per minute spent with Moe. Obviously, the Curlys are very very poor that they are willing to subject themselves to this for what, after waiting time, amounts to much less than minimum wage and probably equals about what my mother used to haul in small change on Halloween in 1956. The kicker, if you can call it that, is that the Curlys remain “hidden” on a bus, so Moe may be spending time with Curly Joe, while the real Curly is on the bus talking about her past lesbian experiences. If Moe doesn’t like the first Curly that comes off the bus, Moe says “next!” and a new Curly comes out. Some of the Moes try to humiliate the Curlys, which will always eventually backfire, as when the Curlys go back on the bus they always tawk about how mean Moe was to them. The Curlys spend alot of time on the bus together, so they forge a closer bond than Moe could possibly. The show ends when Moe decides he wants to stay with a particular Curly, and he gives a little speech, that goes something like this. “Curly, you and I have spent the last 72 minutes together having fun. So you have made 72 dollars. You can either take the 72 dollars, or go on another date with me.” The show is much better when Curly says “PSYCH! I’m keeping the money beeyatch!”

Anyway, Next is clearly yet another indicator that we are yet again in the endtimes. Almost no one behaves in a reasonable fashion. Like for example, I would have thought that Lesbian Next would be less catty and more gentile that Hetero Next, but I was way wrong. One girl got nexted for not wanting to go swimming, and another got nexted for allegedly wearing too much makeup. It’s possible that the Lesbian Moe thought that this Curly’s darker skin color was makeup. Anyway, the abrupt speed with which brown Curly was dismissed was rather alarming.

And, as is the custom on most dating shows, the girls are always better-looking than the guys. When a girl Moe is set up with her 5 guy Curlys, at least one of them will be repulsive, two will be wearing golf shirts with popped collars, and one will be dressed in head-to-toe Urban Outfitters. Whereas the girls are always at least presentable. The girls are never anyone that you would be embarrassed to set up a friend with. Why is this? Is it me? Do I just like girls better? Am I one of those closeted, self-hating lesbians? Perhaps these are issues for a therapist, and not a blog.

Anyway, I proclaim Next to be perhaps one of the only marginally watchable shows on MTV. Not as good as my old favorite, Motormouth, but better than the show with the tattoo’d emo band drummer with the bad teeth and his wife.

This Book is Not a Pipe [Bomb]

2005-10-03T12:12:00.000-04:00

Or,

How Ben Marcus Made Me Cry

The October 2005 issue of Harper’s magazine contains an explosive essay written by experimental writer Ben Marcus, entitled “Why Experimental Fiction Threatens to Destroy Publishing, Jonathan Franzen, and Life as We Know It” (an excerpt of which you can read here). The title, of course, is sarcastic—experimental fiction never hurt anyone, except, according to best-selling author Jonathan Franzen, the reader, who, if he is enjoying experimental fiction must be a masochist.

To put this in context for the kids: this is like Coldplay picking on Dillinger Escape Plan. Imagine if the vegetarian from Coldplay did an interview--nay, a lot of interviews--proclaiming that bands like Dillinger Escape Plan were ruining music, and if they continued what they were doing people would stop buying music, and anyone who listened to them was crizazy?

So that brings us to the real problem: Marcus’s essay, which I agree with 100%, and I’ll get into the why and whatfor later, is an answer to essays, interviews, screeds by Jonathan Franzen. Who, let’s face it, is crazy. Where is my proof, you ask. Here is my proof—he consistently bemoans the fact that authors to don’t have rock-star status (see review of Alice Munro’s Runaway, for example [New York Times Book Review, November 14, 2004], wherein most of the review giving the reader, or asking the author, reasons why Munro is not more popular than, say, Philip Roth or Rick Moody, and where he manages to insult both Munro and her readers). This after causing a fuss about his book The Corrections being selected for Oprah’s Book Club (about which you can read a fairly comprehensive, and I think fair-minded, case study here). The point is this: be as conflicted as you like, Franzen, about “corporate ownership” and the “high literary art” you feel you produce—you can’t be a rock star without being part of the corporate publishing machine. Much of the Oprah’s Book Club debate centered on Franzen’s views of being a literary writer who was independent and didn’t want his book co-opted for corporate usury, yet he apparently was not concerned about solicited blurbs that appeared on the back of the original jacket, or of future movie tie-in editions (from the NY Times, October 29, 2001, “He said he had no problem with any number of alterations -- including logos and pictures of actors on paperbacks editions reissued after the book becomes a movie.”). In other words, Franzen is the proverbial guy who does not want to be a member of a club who will have him for a member. And worse, he is an iconoclast who seeks to overthrow--not the traditional or popular--the experimental and the avant garde. He is, is other words, your parents.

I understand why Marcus takes what Franzen says more seriously than what Stephen King said when he won the National Book Award (when he says “There's a great deal of good stuff out there and not all of it is being done by writers whose work is regularly reviewed in the Sunday New York Times Book Review,” he is not talking about experimental literary fiction. He’s talking about his books, reviews of which have been ghetto-ized to the daily edition. Poor dear!). Marcus takes Franzen more seriously because Franzen continues to assert that he is the vanguard of experimental fiction, he is the most ambitious and difficult writer publishing today, and anyone else is just writing nonsense. They’re not writers at all, they’re doms beating up their subservient readers. Additionally, Franzen constantly asserts that he is the ideal reader for avant garde and experimental fiction, yet he holds it in such distain that he can’t read any of it. Dude, I am that reader, not you, and I am requesting that you quit insulting me before I kick your ass.

Essentially I see the problem as this: everyone is beating up on the nerdy kids, even the other nerdy kids. Because publishing is ALL nerdy kids. King and Franzen will gladly cast oblique aspersions at people like Ellen Gilchrist and Don Delillo, people who may not be household names but have had honors bestowed upon then nonetheless (and who get reviewed in the New York Times Book Review). How dare the National Book Foundation award a prize to something as difficult as Cormac McCarthy’s All The Pretty Horses? It’s funny, if you go back and look at the NBA winners for the last 50 years, you’ll see a lot of familiar names. It seems that these awards are indeed going to the big name people, the publishing rock-stars. I guess you wuz wrong Stephen King.

But the real thesis of Marcus’s article is this: the avant garde—Ben Marcus and Lydia Davis, Marianne Robison, David Means and David Gates, and yes, even David Foster Wallace—are the future of fiction. Not that you’re all going to be reading difficult fiction 10 years or 50 years from now, but that fiction will die as an art if it does not go forward. People like Franzen and King don’t want the art to progress. Why do you want to kill what you love, dudes? What, if you can't have literature, no one can hav her? That's crazy talk. I also don’t understand why you want to fight with me. I am a mean and dirty fighter, and I will win. The difficult writers will continue to publish, and will continue not to sell any books, whether you want them to or not. And I and 35 other people will read them and enjoy them.

I guess the problem is this: I’m a really attractive reader, and I am the reader you really want, the one who will get below the sentences of the text, who will be right there with you when you make your linguistic pirouettes. Guess what? Your worst fear has been realized—you’re not good enough for me.

These are not Lake Woebegon Days

2005-09-25T15:35:00.000-04:00

or
Garrison Keillor Writes A Book Report

That cuddly Minnesotan, Garrison Keillor, has been an uninvited geist in my corner of the Zeit lately. First he shows up on my favorite websites, along with some I've never heard of, looking like a humorless humorist suing some guy who made 100 t-shirts parodying The Prairie Home Companion. Oddly, he didn't have a problem with the parody of him in Mike Nelson's Death Rat! A Novel, a written portrayal that made him seem mean-spirited, egomaniacal and petty--a portrayal that made him seem like the sort of guy who would have his lawyer issue a Cease and Desist letter to a guy who made a small amount of humorous t-shirts. Anyway, so there was Keillor--and isn't PHC satirical itself? Parodying some sort of ideal of what people think midwesterners are?--rattling his chains and woo-ing and all, and then I hear that he's written a book review of a new biography of Hank Williams (NY Times, registration required), and I decided I had to go read it, in case Keillor was sending me some sort of secret code.

So, Mr. Keillor, and I'm addressing this to you because I know you can hear me, I am not going to explain to you the laws regarding parody, satire, and fair use. You know best how you want to waste your money. Me, if I had that much money that I could hire a team of lawyers, I might funnel that money to the needy, especially right now. My lawyers call me and say "Yo, Gar, you want us to send a C+D to some blogger? It'll cost you $500" I'd say, no, good sirs, I'm going to take that $500 that you'd just spend on a whore in Vegas and send it to the Red Cross. Good day, sir!" I personally would not send money to the Red Cross, but I bet that you, Keillor, don't have the same ideological differences with them that I do. No, I'm not going to tell you what to do with your money. I'm going to tell you how to write a book review.

In “Tense Present,” (Harpers, April 2001) David Foster Wallace tells us that a book review “is a complicated assignment. ... Rhetorically, its whole project is informed by a question that is too crass ever to mention up front: ’Should you buy this book?’” GK, please read this over and let me know if you understand it. Because you clearly didn’t before writing the review of Paul Hemphill’s “Lovesick Blues: The Life of Hank Williams.” Your review reads like a 10th grade book report (maybe 12th, but certainly better than Geo W’s eulogy for Chief Justice William Rehnquist, which was much closer to a 5th grade level). You had some eloquent sentences in there, retelling a story that I and most of my friends already know, GK. But you never told me why I should buy this book, as opposed to the other Hank Williams bios that are out there. Should I buy it because the author is from Alabama? Because that’s about the only thing you said in the “review” about the author. Should I buy it because Billboard said that Williams sings “with the spirit of a camp meeting”? Because you quote that in your review, but I don’t know how it pertains to THE BOOK. If I’m interested in how Williams sings, I’ll buy a CD. Even 5th graders know this simple sentence: I recommend this book highly. I remember using it all the time! You didn’t even allude to it! I can only assume you hated the book, but didn’t want to say so because you’re from Minnesota.

GK, I know this isn’t all your fault. Your attorneys no doubt forced you into the whole T-shirts fiasco, and you should have had a real editor helping you with your book report--I mean review. OK, it is your fault. Who is the prairie ho? The prairie ho is thee, my friend, the prairie ho is thee.

The New TV Season

2005-09-19T21:27:00.000-04:00

or

I was bored before I even began...

Did it start yet? The new TV season? Because I was semi-excited three weeks ago when the Entertainment Weekly issue w/ the new lineup came out, excited in the way I get excited when my brand of toilet paper is 25 cents off at the supermarket. Meaning not very, but yes, in an ironic way. Ooh! A new crop of X-Files rip-offs! Ooh! A new show from the production assistant on Friends! Shortly after EW came out, Tivo dutifully delivered content to my TV, and I watched previews of the shows and remained underwhelmed. I attempted to get excited about that Earl show, but I needed some new-season Viagra apparently, as I could not maintain my enthusiasm.

So, Monday after Arrested Development is some dumb new show based on the book Kitchen Confidential called logically enough Kitchen Confidential, Since I thought the book was about the wait-staff wanking off into your food (“That’s a very creamy Chicken Kurma!”), I was wondering how this would transfer to the situation comedy format. And after watching it, I still don't know.

During the first few minutes we learn that the lead character, in a brilliant bit of meta-fiction is named after the author of the non-fiction book--Anthony Bourdain--is an alcoholic in recovery and is heterosexual. We learn his breeder status during an expository make-out scene. And here’s how the convo went in my apartment about that...
Me: eww! I don’t need making out in my comedies! Not this kind of making out! David Cross and Fonzi, ok.
Jack: I think this is the exposition.
Me: I don’t need it ever! Arrested Development is all exposition--imagine if everyone was making out all throughout the show? That would be crazy. You know who would watch that? Crazy people!

~later~

Jack: (while the AB character shows off his one-year sober token). That’s not the one-year medallion.
Me: That’s a ten-dollar chip from Caesars!

And so on. Oh, and I almost forgot.. to emphasize the “literary” aspect of this, there is a character named Stephen Dedalus, and someone else makes a reservation under the name “Daisy Miller.” OMG TEHY IS TEH SMRT.

No new shows this season can compare with classics like “Star Trek the Cartoon,” “Open All Night,” “ALF”... There is not even a “Small Wonder” in this tv season’s new crop. I cry, I cry one bitter hot tear for my beloved teevee.

Is it time for the year end wrap-ups?

2005-09-12T09:50:00.000-04:00

Several media outlets have proclaimed The New Pornographers August 2005 release Twin Cinema the year’s best album. I have no quarrel with this. For me it is the best new album of 2005, as it’s the only new album I purchased in 2005. Oh wait, there was Nine Inch Nail’s With Teeth but proclaiming that the best album of 2005 would be like saying that the inappropriate goth guy you dated, the one with the notebooks from high school of D+D characters like Ivo the 18th level half-elf illusionist, the one who wanted you to read his Firefly fanfic, was your best boyfriend.

But, again,I have no quarrel with calling Twin Cinema best album of 2005--it has all the things people like me like, like catchy melodies and harmonies and vaguely enigmatic lyrics that may be hiding the meaninglessness of the words. In fact, I’ll wager that 92% of you reading this will enjoy Twin Cinema on some level. The other 8% are my parents and those of you who are “post-song” and like nothing better than a good improv game like Cobra.

But this got me to thinking--what else was called The Best Album of 2005? Since the year is not yet over, I thought now might be a good time to examine this, and encourage any music reviewers who read this not to make the same mistake.

White Stripes,Get Behind Me Satan Can I say it? The White Stripes suck. There is no worse drummer for a top-selling band than Meg White, and you can’t argue with me on that. Rolling Stone said “Bad news for Satan: Jack White’s mama said knock you out.” They followed that with a sentence telling is that the title is a Biblical reference. So, OK, you can reference an LL Cool J song, but you have to explain the Biblical reference. For the record, the biblical quote, and the Pete Seeger/Almanac Singers song they are more likely referencing is “Get THEE Behind me, Satan.” If only they hadn’t dropped the “thee.”

M.I.A., Arular. Spin said this was the best POLITICAL album of the year, and cokemachineglow proclaims that this “beats out most everything I’ve heard this year in terms of creativity, energy, dance-ability (sic) and fun. “ I don’t have this album--like I said above I have none of these albums--but I’ve seen M.I.A. on TV, and besides having heard this before (because I remember ESG), she dances like she has to pee.

LCD Soundsystem. Tiny Mix Tapes said “this one won’t be beat.” Playlouder said “LCD Soundsystem have set 2005's bar very high indeed.” I say, “makes me miss Happy Mondays in a way I never thought I would.”

Gorillaz, Demon Days All Music Guide had the nerve to say, “stands alongside the best Blur albums.” All I have to say is this--I know Blur, and you, Gorillaz, are no Blur.

It’s good to know that it seems like not too many critics have prematurely proclaimed the Best of 2005. I did come across a new alarming trend in music reviewing, though, which I’ll call “name-checking spot-the-reference.” The purpose seems to be to say to the reader, “I GOT all the references, but I’m not going to outline them here. Or maybe I will.” See Rolling Stone/White Stripes above, and also Pop Matters on LCD Soundsystem (“could be annoying if it turned into a game of ‘spot the references’...") and The Onion AV on Sufjan Stevens’ Illinois (“It's easy to play a spot-the-Illinois-reference game...”). I’m not sure how I feel about this trend. Let’s see if it surpasses the Band One plus Band Two at a picnic method of CD reviewing.

(reviews courtesy of metacritic.com)

Best Celebrity Shoes Ever

2005-08-29T17:34:00.000-04:00

Or
Does Anybody Remember Laughter?

Everyone in New York City who is even peripherally connected to the entertainment industry--and a lot of people who aren’t--knows someone who has worked on one of these abominations on VH1. You know the ones--the titles are always riddled with superlative adjectives: best, hottest, sexiest. Add a couple of nouns, some photos scanned from People magazine, a music bed of marginally appropriate popular music, and some “experts” (local comedians and assistant editors from Conde Nast publications), and you’ve managed to produce a VH1 show. I could probably have someone make a liitle program for me that would write a title, collect the images, download some clips of music from Amazon, and even email the local talent I’ve picked up at open mikes. Voila! instant VH1 producer. Then I could move to Co-op Village on the Lower East Side. I don’t think they pay their producers enough to live in Williamsburg, but they still make more than I do in publishing.

I know all about these shows because I see them when I’m at the gym. The sound isn’t on, and if they don’t have the subtitles on, I can make up my own dialog. It’s real easy, because none of these people are ever funny, so I don’t have to put any effort in to it. Here’s the weird part though: many of the comedians on these shows are funny in other formats, like on stage, or when they’re in front of you on the line for the bathroom. Somehow VH1, with some sort of demonic quality vacuum, manages to make the funniest people unfunny, the prettiest people unpretty, and the best copyeditors... uh, ok. I’ll stop there.

I’ve been making up my own shows when I complain about these programs to people (mostly strangers on the A, because my “real” friends don’t want to hear about this any more. Whatever!), like Sexiest Celebrity Shoes, Hottest Rockstar Ovens. But finally VH1 beat me at my own game last week with the inane and confusing Hottest Celebrity Pets. Who’s hot, the celebrity or the pet? I watched a few minutes of the show (the 3 minutes they had between 5 minute commercial breaks), and I was still confused. All I know is that celebrities taste in pets is identical to that of 60 year old Dominican women--they all have chihuahuas. Very very hot chihuahuas.

Perhaps I’m bitter because I haven’t been asked to be an “expert”. And yet look at my creds! I’ve read really bad stories at open mikes while spectacularly drunk, been involved with ill-conceived attempts at jokes in front of live audiences, and accused of stalking major contemporary authors. I even have the ethnically ambiguous look so popular in Gap ads these days. I know I’ve never written for Spin, but I did interview for production jobs at both Twist and Teen People. Also, I was on a press OK for another magazine when In Touch was also printing. Isn’t that enough?

VH1 peeps, I know these shows are very inexpensive to produce, but you know what’s even cheaper? Showing music videos! I know, crazy idea, but I think it could really take off.

What’s wrong with The 40 Year Old Virgin

2005-08-22T16:21:00.000-04:00

Or
Catherine Keener is better than Wonder Bread

Now, of course I haven’t seen this movie. I never go to the movies. The last movie I saw was the Ingmar Bergman doom-fest, Saraband. And yes, that was two weeks ago, but that was breaking a spell of about a year, and only because it was incredibly hot in New York City that weekend. And actually, Saraband was made for tv. Imagine, I paid to see a made-for-TV Bergman film. But don’t think that this small fact will deter me from critiquing one of the basic premises of The 40-Year Old Virgin—that somehow a geeky, mal-adjusted man who looks like Ed Helms (played by Steve Carrell) can get a woman as beautiful as Catherine Keener.

Let’s get all the reasons out of the way as to why I should like this film. It was written and directed by Judd Apatow, and let’s face it—what woman who loves Keener didn’t also love Freaks and Geeks? And yes, I almost liked The Ben Stiller Show, despite the fact that Ben Stiller was in it (it was his show, after all). And what about The Cable Guy, one of only a handful of tolerable performances from Jim Carrey and Matthew Broderick? Writing this, I realize that Apatow has worked with a lot of actors I actively dislike. Beside the above list, there’s also Will Ferrell. Judd—what’s the problem here? If you threw a party and invited me, I’d have a smack-down with each and every one of these guys. OK—don’t invite me. Really, it’ll be a much better party without me.

Oh, I forgot about the other reasons—Steve Carrell and Keener. I’ll get to more about her later.

Anyway, from what I glean from the teevee commercialsThe 40 Year-Old Virgin is a middle-age guy’s version of any number of teen movies featuring some hot teenage girl with glasses and overalls and a pony-tail, and at the end of the movie she combs her hair and gets contacts and goes shopping at Forever-21, and gets a date with Freddie Prinz Jr. I’m dumbing it down a little, but that’s the idea. I’m sure it’s not so smarmy, and doesn’t have any Icelandic bands on the soundtrack. Only there’s this: Carrell is not beautiful. In or out of argyle. My boyfriend, whom I’ll call Jack (it’s an old joke my cat made—ok??) says Carrell is attractive, but Jack is dating me, so we must assume that his idea of attractiveness is skewed.

My beef with the ugly (Carrell’s not ugly, but I like hyperbole) guy getting the beautiful woman goes way back. I’ve written essays about this in every zine I’ve ever been associated with. But the Kenner thing is particularly stinging for some reason. Because I think that somewhere, someone is thinking that this really could happen. If only… Catherine Keener was a single mother. See, that single mother thing makes her damaged in a subtle, subliminal way, making the whole thing almost plausible. But not! It’s Catherine Keener!!

Let’s look over Keener’s resume: hot bitch who toys with John Cusack in Being John Malkovich. Hot bi bitch in Your Friends and Neighbors. Hot TV exec bitch in Death to Smoochy. And I swear I saw in eating a hot dog in a documentary about unusual architecture. We’ll call that “castrating hot-dog bitch.” And yet, we like her and her bitchiness. She has a smile that says “I’m smiling now, but in the next second I could stab you with a nail file. The wound wouldn’t be deep, but it would be embarrassing.” Also, she’s 45. FORTY-FIVE. How can you not love a woman who plays these roles at 45, and with no hint of “I’m a psycho” in her eyes?

And, although I’m happy to see Keener playing outside of type, I don’t want her to join the long line of ladies who are just good enough for ugly dudes. The list: anyone who dated George Costanza on Seinfeld. Janeane Garofolo. Anyone who dated Drew Carey’s character. Leah Remini. & c.

Catherine, let’s you and I have a talk. I’ll be Blanche and you be Stella. There are such things in the world as music and art. Don’t hang back with the beasts! Go back to being a bitch, and make another movie with John Cusack, cus we used to like him too.