The Mystical Dream City of... Buford Pusser???
Now Playing: Hooverphonic--"Out of Sight"
The "dream city" arose once more, in markedly different circumstances than before. I recently read Jan Morris' 1984 Last Letters From Hav, her own journalistic account of a city very much like mine, with an ambience at once both Eastern European and Mediterranean, and an out-of-time, out-of-place atmosphere. Of course, Morris' city, again like mine, never existed--she wrote the book as a personal exercise in imaginary travel writing, a series of articles for Esquire. During her time in "Hav," Morris talked to local citizens and drank in the local culture with her own indomitable elan. How did I spend my time in "whatever the fuck it's called?" Well, I started my visit locked in the fortified villa of a notoriously insane local countess and her prolific, "by the claw divided" would-be progeny of cats and dogs. I was nuzzled quite ferociously. I must have pissed someone off, because the next thing I knew, I was bound to a lock in the local dam system (don't ask, because I don't know why there was a dam system), and the thing was filling with water. I must have fainted from terror or having to pee, and woke up in a local sanitarium, waiting to see one of the doctors. I was shocked to find that one of my fellow patients was none other than Joe Don Baker. I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed his performances in Charley Varrick (1973) and Edge of Darkness (1985), but then grew fearful that one of the others would tell him (accurately) of how hard I laughed during the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode of "Mitchell" (during which poor Joe Don was mercilessly skewered--apparently much to his displeasure), and ran away. I think I woke up afterward, and it was probably for the best.

Sunday night I waddled over to the UMMA to hear Frank Pahl and "The Little Bang Theory," a show inspired by the principles of improvisational music and featuring a wondrous array of toy-band instruments. I won't even try to describe what was present, although I recognized the kazoo and keyboard. The art museum didn't seem to me the likeliest place for such a show, but it seemed alright as soon as I saw the atrium packed with people in chairs, with more above lining the second floor gallery in front of the ancient Hindu statuary. I sat near the back, eventually drifting up along the sidelines. The show was sponsored by WCBN along with the museum, and the whole crowd, in sum, definitely seemed a little more well-heeled than my usual fellow audience members. Nick Schillace came first with some elegant, quasi-classical guitar work; he'd played the New West Fest at the Madison, and I couldn't remember if I'd actually heard him or not, but he was pretty good. The Little Bang Theory gave us "Toy Suites" and something called "The Magnificent Seven Samurai". The latter was a medley of the theme music from The Magnificent Seven (1960) and The Seven Samurai (1954), with "Cheyenne's Theme" from Morricone's score for Once Upon A Time In The West (1969) tacked on at the end. I know it was supposed to be all quirky and whimsical, but I found my leg shaking and my foot tapping in a deadly serious manner. Wondering if a mood was coming on, and having to work early in the morning, I left after that, the tinkling of God-knew-what still ringing in my ears.

Pot-Bellied Pigs and Levitating Cigarettes
Now Playing: The Jam--"That's Entertainment"
I've had trouble writing fiction for a few weeks, trouble I hope doesn't become permanent. I wonder if it's due to the blog, or maybe if I've reached some saturation point with my obsessive reading. I can't really calm down intellectually--if I'm not reading or writing something, or not talking to someone or looking at artwork or listening to music or cooking or watching some (preferably obscure) movie, I get really antsy and morose at the same time. Maybe there need to be more silences, on my own or spent in the company of others. Maybe it's not something about which to worry.

"We feel so close to you--all eight of you."

Saturday night found me at Natural Canvas Studios on North Main Street, a popular venue for local acts to which I'd never been. From what I can tell, it's an all-purpose community arts space, specializing in music, visual and body art. I arrived excruciatingly early--the time was right but two of the bands had cancelled, so I spent a great deal of time simply milling about the place. It was a simple old house with a strong "rooming" feel, full of paintings and miniatures, metal jewelry, and electronic gadgetry. Natural Canvas is deceptively small from the outside, but takes in the adjoining house as well--it's hard to figure out where one ends and the other begins, not that it really mattered.

First, I met Ian, alias "MC Trashpedal", who had earlier contacted me over myspace, one of the reasons that intrigued me enough to check out this particular show. Half of the electronic group Drafted By Minotaurs, he performed with his bassoonist chum as Pedal Ophelia (I thought it was cute), followed by Seahorse Napkin Force. The latter's title alone had long excited my curiosity, and it was fun to finally see them play. Pedal Ophelia was unexpectedly fascinating to watch. Electronic music runs hot and cold with me. Much of it is enjoyable, but sometimes it can be too "samey". I found myself wondering whether I'd have to clear the palate with some Doug Sahm when I got home. Fortunately, this turned out not to be the case. Their music reminded me alternately of the Gyorgy Ligeti stuff from the stargate scene in 2001, and of the musical communication with the aliens at the end of Close Encounters. It was great fun, believe it or not, and I don't think I was able to avert my gaze for more than a few seconds at a time, so fascinated was I by all the knob-fiddling and thingy-working.

Seahorse Napkin Force followed with some old-fashioned, straight-up guitar-based indie rock, something I actually hadn't heard in a long time. Most of the live music I've recently heard has been really avant-garde, heavily folk- or country-influenced, neo-garage, or the kind of retro magic worked by Saturday Looks Good To Me. These guys were simply a little bit punk, a little bit rock and roll, and that worked for me and everyone else. The last two songs were particularly fine, with some excellent guitar and drum work, respectively. It got pleasantly weirder since the Natural Canvas guy was busy projecting the 1971 erotic vampire classic Daughters of Darkness on the wall behind the band (and I still need to see it properly). It's a lot more fun listening to live music when you're also watching a larger-than-life Delphine Seyrig diabolically knitting an innocent couple into a world of carnal terror.

The show was one of the most enjoyably low-key I've seen in Ann Arbor, possibly anywhere. It probably helped that there were all of eight or nine people in the audience. Brian from Black Elk was there, as was Tim, veteran of a few Madison and Arborvitae shows. Andrew showed up with some friends for about a minute, but then decided to split. We were also treated to an impromptu birthday celebration (the guy's cake said "FUCKER!"), the appearance of an adorable pot-bellied pig, the first I'd ever seen in real life (the pet of a woman who lived next door), and someone levitating a cigarette (I would have asked how, but the world's seen enough magic laid waste, yes?).

I left after Seahorse, content with what I'd seen and strangely rested. Here's hoping I feel the same way in another couple of days.

Concussions, Cuts, They Came And Went
Now Playing: Super Furry Animals--"Y Gwyneb Iau"
Yesterday afternoon saw some of the nicest weather I've seen in Ann Arbor for a while--cold but not too cold, cloudy but not too cloudy. My malady, whatever it is, seems to recede by the day. There was a balefulness to my walk home, though, that made me wonder about the future. Some jackass driving one of the Michigan campus buses nearly ran me over at South University and Washtenaw, soon after a lump of flannelled hippie offal accosted me on Liberty, asking me something belligerently unintelligible. He yelled some more shit after me, but I didn't stop to hear.

Tuesday saw elections held all across southeast Michigan. The big one, of course, was the Detroit mayoral contest between Freman Hendrix and incumbent Kwame Kilpatrick. Detroit, by my own account and others', is a much more interesting and enjoyable city than many people credit, but it could be a lot better, and it was nice to think that the metro area in general would be in more responsible hands than Kilpatrick's. Sadly, that didn't turn out to be the case--Kilpatrick won with 53%, last I checked.

Closer to home, we had city council elections in Ann Arbor. I haven't written a great deal about local politics, mainly because it's done so much better here, here, here, here, and here. For those unfamiliar with the local situation, Ann Arbor politics hinge on the rich ruling the poor. Mind you, this situation essentially prevails throughout the world, but in a country like the United States, and especially in a city with Ann Arbor's ostensibly liberal reputation, it's intolerable. How does the old tale play out here? Middle- and upper-class homeowners (in general) attempt to limit development (and usually succeed) in the seemingly progressive interests of environmental responsibility and historical preservation. Unfortunately, they do this at the expense of lower-income residents, primarily students and renters, through insisting on nonsensical, purely superficial "improvements" such as a "greenway" running through the city center, and preventing building downtown above a ridiculously low set height, which limits density, thereby raising grocery and retail prioces, as well as commercial and domestic rents. I voted for Democrat Stephen Rapundalo in the 2nd Ward, as he's gone more often on record in supporting lower-income interests. That's all I really have to go on, but it'll do for now, I suppose. He won with 52%. Dale Winling ran as a write-in for the 5th Ward on an outstanding platform, and I wish I could have voted for him.

Why do I go on about all this stuff? I take voting very seriously; like an hourly wage and overtime, it's something directly related to my welfare and society's that was bought with the lives of fellow Americans. Of course, one can make the choice not to care at all, but that's a choice I've never made and hopefully never will.

I will take the GRE on December 15 at 3:00 p.m. Since the statute of limitations ran out on my first test four years ago, I've been constantly talking about retaking the thing, and actually making the commitment feels like overcoming an obstacle in itself.

I also finished Uncle Silas, but I can't talk about it until December, only to say that it was much, much better the second time around.

The Simplest Song For A Corpse To Sing
Now Playing: The Sir Douglas Quintet--"Catch the Man on the Rise"
There's nothing that's made me look forward to death so much as going to work sick.

The days are actually starting to look like autumn--leaves visibly turning and everything.

I've started reading Sheridan Le Fanu's Uncle Silas (1864) again for an ad hoc internet "book club." Without giving anything away for any readers, Madame de la Rougiere is one of the coolest characters in British literature, certainly the "Gothic" variety.

I got a packet from the University of South Florida library school in the mail--a friend of my dad's says it's supposed to be really good, so that's a definite possibility. I'll be scheduling my GRE this weekend, something I should have scrimped for a long time ago.

Last night, against my better judgment (because I was still somewhat ill, you see), I went to a show at the "Half-Ass," a student "music hall", featuring Chris Bathgate and Matt Jones. It was pretty close to home, so I didn't have to make much of an effort. There's not much I can really say--it was awesome, but I didn't feel well enough to stick around for Fred Thomas' set. Nice and intimate, with most people sitting on the floor. I re-met (meeting someone after a long time without remembering for absolutely certain who they were) Erin, a urban planning classmate of Brandon's (who was wearing a stunning outfit on which I forgot to compliment her and which briefly made me wish I was female so I could bring off something like that), and Matt concurs that I look vaguely like Lincoln assassination conspirator David Herold. I drank much grape juice.

I have a new housemate, a guy named Alex. We hardly see each other. He rises at about four-thirty in the morning and goes straight to his room after returning, usually around seven in the evening. I don't know what he does or what his deal is, mainly because he knows one word and one phrase in English--"Hello" and "I speak no English." I know five words or phrases in Russian, but they're not going to be much use, especially since one of them isn't "I speak no Russian."* It'll be interesting to see how this vaguely sitcommy situation pans out.

If you're approached by a guy who looks like Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots, walk away.

*I actually know about twenty others, including (but not limited to) zemstvo, apparatchik, oprichnina, starets, soyuz, and vremya, but I strongly suspect they won't be of much use.

Night Over Europe
Now Playing: Mirah--"Make It Hot"
"Any resemblance to any other world known or unknown is purely coincidental."

"This is the universe. Big, isn't it?"

A movie that begins that way--a printed disclaimer and a voiceover narration--will very likely be something special, and so this one was. A Matter of Life and Death (1946) is one of the most entertaining and thought-provoking movies I've ever seen, one that saw me choked up in awestruck bemusement about five minutes after it ended. Filmed by "The Archers," Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, Matter starts with an unforgettably enthralling and hypnotic nine-minute opening sequence. Towards the end of the Second World War, British bomber pilot Peter Carter (David Niven) makes contact with American radio operator June (Kim Hunter), and the two fall in love over the air as Peter's crippled Lancaster prepares to crash. Preferring death by falling to death by fire, Peter jumps from his plane--landing safely and unscathed on the seashore, and meeting June in the flesh soon afterward. This miracle results from a heavenly clerical error, and Peter has to prove in a celestial court that the blossoming love between himself and June entitles him to go on living.

What a flick. The acting is uniformly excellent, especially Niven and Hunter, along with Roger Livesey as their friend Dr. Reeves and Marius Goring as "Conductor 71," the Revolutionary-era French fop whose mistake sets the plot in motion. It's impossible, in a way, to adequately describe Matter to people who haven't seen it, and my views will likely seem inadequate to those who have. It accomplishes the difficult task of telling a profoundly humanistic fable while touching on subsidiary themes (such as the relationship between Britain and the United States) that should seem forced or unnatural, but which somehow work. And that's setting aside the set design, direction, and cinematography, the latter courtesy of the legendary Jack Cardiff. Heaven, in Powell and Pressburger's view, appears as a divine transit hub that fits with the utilitarian, military atmosphere familiar to the main characters, living or dead. The earthly scenes are in color while heaven is presented in monochrome--black and white with a slight color tint. All these factors combine with the unorthodox, personal direction to produce a timeless feel--Matter feels a lot more contemporary than 1946, with gruesome shots of the dead (with their eyes open, no less) and all sorts of intimate, pleasantly jarring touches. In the end, I suspect Powell and Pressburger were trying to say, "this is the sort of thing we were fighting for." "Love conquers all" is a pretty jaded concept when it comes to the cinema, but Powell and Pressburger give it a brilliantly romantic yet clear-eyed spin that makes one want to cry but leaves one too busy furiously thinking to do so.

The Quatermass X-Periment (1955), a more orthodox "Halloween" flick, somehow managed not to suffer in comparison. The tense and relatively realistic tale of a mysterious force trying to take over the Earth, it's perfectly reviewed over at British Horror Films. Seriously--Chris said practically everything I wanted to say already, with two exceptions. After watching Matter, I thought it a pity that Roger Livesey wasn't cast as cranky British rocketry x-pert (hey, this is fun!) Bernard Quatermass, leaving the role open for... wait for it... Brian Donlevy!! Maybe the filmmakers (including writer and Quatermass creator Nigel Kneale) felt the audience would be more receptive to a cautionary tale of technology gone berserk if the main scientist guy was a whiny, sneering dipso jackass. At one point, Quatermass--okay, screw that, Donlevy--says, "I'm a scientist, not a fortune-teller who predicts what will happen!" I then considered myself free to believe that he could have been the kind of fortune-teller who shaves kittens and blows glass for "kicks," but I didn't take it too far.

Happy All Saints'!

My Hands Smell Great
Now Playing: Sleater-Kinney--"Dance Party '97"
It might be an effect of encroaching age, but every morning after I go out dancing I wonder just a little how I ever survived the night.

This weekend's been a combination of the weird and the ecstatic, which is actually a pretty good mix, now that I think about it. Friday and Saturday, I popped into work on a request from my boss to catch up on some of the baking we needed to do for the next week, mainly cookies. We were out of one or another vital ingredient each time, so I got nowhere near as much work done as I wanted. Working alone is a blast, especially if I've got my CDs on the stereo and am able to jack up the fucker without any hassle. I got through two Saturday Looks Good To Me albums before I realized that we had no eggs. The next day, I got through one by the Super Furry Animals before I realized I (a) hadn't got enough eggs to finish all the doughs, and (b) didn't have the feta cheese for the quiche florentine. It was still fun, and I hope I get further opportunities to bake alone.

I finally saw The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) yesterday evening while resting up. I've decided to stop going into WRAP on Saturday afternoons, as I want my weekends back. I've become convinced that my occasional surliness at work might be due to not having a couple of days completely free. I'll start going in on Monday and Tuesday evenings to maintain the library. Of course, the first weekend this happens, I would end up going into work, but I could use the money, and it was fun. Bride was fantastic. I love Halloween, but I never seem to have much time or energy for dressing up, and I rented Bride and Frankenstein Created Woman (1967) without much awareness of their being "theme" rentals. Bride? First-class, top-drawer all the way. Above all else, the movie highlights Elsa Lanchester's unconventional beauty, both as Mary Shelley and the title character, and offers a glorious performance by that squint in human form, Ernest Thesiger as the corrupt and prune-like Dr. Pretorius. "Oh, he's harmless... until crossed!!!"

Saturday night, I decided at long last to visit The Bang!, the dance party that hits the Blind Pig on a semi-monthly basis, mostly 60s-80s stuff with a heavy emphasis on garage and hard rock. I hadn't known anyone who went regularly before, and it's one thing to go check out a band on one's own, but a dance party? That's another matter. As it turned out, I don't think I should have worried, but a lesson learned late is better than a lesson unlearned until a later... yeah. I had planned on dressing up as Charles Nelson Reilly, but then decided maybe George Bernard Shaw, as all I would need for that would be a cap, a false beard, and a pair of glasses I could probably grab from Kiwanis. Upon finding nothing at Kiwanis that morning (I probably wasn't looking very hard), I just decided to dress in my general early-20th-century finery, jacket, tie, and slacks.

All of the last mentioned items had either come off or were largely drenched in sweat by the evening's end. I think I broke my ass twice, but it was worth it. There were some great costumes--A gaggle of Jesuses and or Apostles, corpses, devils, cats, the Lego guy, Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5 (inevitable, I suppose, at the Blind Pig), all manner of critters packed the joint. I'm proud to say that some of my people had some of the most creative costumes--Dustin came as "the ghost of grunge," Brandon came as a member of Johnny Headband, and Chuck finally put me at enough ease to remark on his unavoidable resemblance to Billy Joe Anderson of Green Day. I think Katie and Aaron were a cat and a ninja, respectively. I re-met Becca (something to do with a zebra-patterned cowboy hat), of a couple of previous Madison shows, Alex (Travolta in Saturday Night Fever), likewise, and Sarah Gardiner (a "space explorer"--you could tell because she wore a silvery hat that said "Space Explorer"), who had hosted, with her sister Mary (who knew Jessica from Planned Parenthood, which is how I found out about it, etc.), the last New Year's Eve party to which I'd gone. And then there was Betsy from Black Elk, who I'd met but then whose name I'd forgotten, despite seeing her several other places, and her friend Daliah. The music was surprisingly varied--among the usual dance party suspects we also had stuff from the Jam and Le Tigre (the last was an almost total shock). We all migrated between the Blind Pig and the Eight-Ball several times over the course of the evening, which lasted an hour longer than most because of the Daylight Savings switchover, which I commemorated by prissily moaning, "oh man, another hour???". I felt a little awkward dancing by myself at first (Billy Idol said it was okay, so that really ought to be good enough for me), and then realized I didn't care all that much, ending up on the fucking stage by the end of the evening. This dancing malady is one of those oft-dormant things that I've got inside, something I think has to be fed every now and again to prevent my degeneration into lunacy. So that worked out. In the process, I cut my hand on a broken glass while indulging in one of those weak, feckless philanthropic urges of mine by bussing a few bottles (you've gotta feel bad for the staff at that place after a night like that), drank, chatted with an archbishop about Russian musical nymphets TaTu, and generally dove into debauchery (I wish there'd been more, but I think that's always the case). We all congregated outside after the end, running into Chris Bathgate and fellow Descent of the Holy Ghost Church member Jansen, from the last Arbourvitae show, and I ended up walking Becca home on my way to a well-deserved rest (which didn't last too long, as per usual). Before I left, I realized that one of the photographers (I think) was dressed as Number Two from "The Prisoner." I showered some rather embarrassing compliments on his costume and he gave me a spare Number Two pin he inexplicably had (perhaps he already anticipated being outwitted by Number Six that evening and had resigned himself to being "replaced"--"that wasn't the reason I resigned"). I'm probably going to start wearing it around, because I love it so much.

"By hook or by crook, we will!!"

Hey, I think this is the first time ever that what I've "had playing" has any actual relevance to my post topic. I feel a new man, by Heaven!

Eli, Eli, Hide Your Heart, Girl
Now Playing: The Flaming Lips--"Be My Head"
I'd actually like to apologize for today's post heading, but once I'd thought of it, there's no fucking way I wasn't going to use it, especially as it relates to what I think are some very troublesome aspects of the movie I last saw.

The Passion of the Christ (2004) reminds me of a story idea I had some years back. A twisted malcontent, based loosely on someone I knew in college (not me), wrote, claiming divine inspiration a la Joseph Smith (or, for that matter, Matthew, Mark, Luke or John), "The Book of Zebedee," purporting to be an account of the early years of Christ as described by one of the less famous Apostles. These halcyon days mainly consisted of Jesus defending Earth from an invasion of laser-wielding "Ravagons" from the "Ninth Galaxy." The thought came to me while watching the movie that in some ways, Mel Gibson had done the exact same thing.

I found it at the library, which was fortunate as I'd been leery of paying for it, just in case my money found its eventual way into the hands of some freaky right-wing lunatics. As far as anti-Semitism is concerned, I couldn't see it so much as the Jews themselves were concerned. The portrayal of the mob? Well, it was a mob, and that's usually how a mob behaves, especially for religious reasons. The portrayal of the Jews in relation to the Romans, though, was bizarre and rather imperialistic in places. Pilate seemed like a reluctant colonial ruler, sensitive and ever fearful of native uprisings, "Sanders of the River" without the firm decision and curious resemblance to Leslie Banks. There were a few Romans shown as anti-Semitic themselves, but the whole situation seemed incredibly lopsided to me. I also didn't get why Mary and Mary Magdalene started reciting the Passover prayer when frightened for Jesus, unless Gibson was trying to link the Exodus with Jesus' deliverance of humanity. I heard a lot of people got het up at that scene, and, frankly, I can see why.

The accusations of sadomasochism stick a little more firmly, as the scourging and crucifixion scenes dare themselves to coat the camera lens with red food coloring (although never actually doing so). Jesus' torment by the Romans is lovingly portrayed in a way that's hard not to find creepy. I think Gibson claimed that this was done to make the viewers feel what Jesus was going through and also feel complicit in his death, in which, I understand, he approximates traditional Catholic teachings on the Crucifixion (allegedly even going so far as to wield the hammer himself during one of the thwacks). If that was the case, he could have done better on the special effects. At one point, the cat-o'-nine-tails (or whatever they called them back then) rips out part of Jesus' midsection in an incredibly tinny and unrealistic scene which had CGI stink all over it. Such use of special effects make me think less about my supposed personal complicity in the Crucifixion and more about what the F/X guys were talking about when putting this together. "Oh, man, this is gonna look so cool!!!"

Don't get me wrong. Some of it was pretty compelling--hearing the characters speak in the original languages was an undeniable kick. It'd be cool if the success of the movie made filmmakers think about making more movies in supposedly "dead" languages--there were snatches of Latin in The Thirteenth Warrior (1999), too, and I wonder what other historical stories could be done in such a manner. I also thought James Caviezel did a good job as Jesus. Playing Christ figure Witt in The Thin Red Line (1998) must have been good practice, and I was one of those who found his gross miscasting as The Count of Monte Cristo (2002) more hilarious than offensive. The scenes in flashback of the Sermon on the Mount... every time that gets put on film, it sends the willies up my spine, as I believe that to be one of the supreme moments in human consciousness, be it historical or legendary. I'd expected great things from Caleb Deschanel's cinematography, which I heard was supposed to be patterned after Caravaggio's use of light. It was generally successful and gorgeous, although I couldn't help thinking that The Passion would make a great double bill with Derek Jarman's Caravaggio (1986) (which I liked), especially given Gibson's apparent feelings towards gays, filmmakers or not.

The overall treatment of the story, though, was a litle offputting. Some enormously moving moments alternate with a weird Hollywood sensibility that was mostly absent from more artistically orthodox treatments such as Franco Zefferelli's glorious 1977 TV Jesus of Nazareth miniseries with the great Robert "Asylum" Powell. Judas sees a cheesy CGI demon and there's lots of divine payback towards the end of the movie. I wonder if, while watching this, anyone was ever tempted to yell "Yeah! Get 'em, Jesus!!" during these little episodes). Satan and what I imagined to be his demonic spawn were actually pretty cool, but a little incongruous under the present circumstances. If the Horned One is trying to seduce the Messiah, I figure he'd probably assume a more seductive form than a pasty, androgynous imp with bad teeth. Unless, of course, Gibson was suggesting that Jesus was into pasty androgynous imps (inasmuch as he was "into" anything), which would be very, very funny. Lastly, John Debney's score was rather generic, sounding almost like James Horner's score for Glory (1989), but the drugstore version rather than the actual brand name. Of course, this seems to be the way most film scores are going these days, the ones that aren't still being written by my man John Barry.

In the end, I was glad I got to see it, but I probably wouldn't see it again, and was glad I didn't shell any hard-earned out either. This is true of most movies that come out these days, but much, much more so of The Passion.

Fortunately, it's inspired me to read the Beatitudes tonight, something that always manages to cheer me up. Well-done on that score, Gibson, but it'll take me a long time to forgive you for Braveheart.

Oh, For A Muse Of Fire
Now Playing: Lush--"Single Girl"
What a day.

When I was a kid, the highlight of a Saturday morning, as I suppose it was for many of us, was watching cartoons on TV. Taking a cue from C.S. Lewis and attempting to preserve the best things of childhood, I find myself increasingly enamored of the weirdness on offer these days from UPN and Detroit Public TV. I'd never before sat through an entire single episode of "The Joy of Painting," with iconically frizzy-haired canvas guru Bob "Happy Little Trees" Ross, and I considered myself amply rewarded for doing so. He painted a winter scene from scratch, all snowy mountains and, yes, happy little trees, and it was simply fascinating to watch it all come together (oddly reminiscent of Clouzot's The Mystery of Picasso). In the meantime, Bob went on in an insinuatingly threatening manner about his "ecology kick" ("The animals disappear and guess who goes next?") and welcomed and fed a delegation of fox squirrels presented by his friend Terry.

I tried watching "Night Stalker" again, and it wasn't too bad, I suppose. Michael "Noonan!" O'Keefe guested as a troubled FBI agent helping Perry and Kolchak hunt down a Unabomber-style terrorist, and there was some pretty impressive editing and special effects. I'm very slowly beginning to find Stuart Townsend less annoying, and Gabrielle Union continues to hold me in a state of helpless thralldom with her acting ability and sheer inhuman gorgeousness (even if too much of both has to be devoted to wondering glances at Townsend that say, "Kolchak, you're such an unsettling yet compelling loner/maverick" or "Kolchak, I can't believe you just did/said that"--we got enough of that on "The X-Files," I think). It's decent, all part of soothing myself for what lay ahead.

Saturday afternoon, I went to "Connect with SI," an orientation session given by the University of Michigan School of Information for potential students. I'd been dreading it, quite frankly, and I couldn't help feeling a great deal of trepidation as I went in there. I finally got my M.A. in history from Akron in December of 2004, and so felt a little less strange about the thought of pursuing other academic options, but the effect of spending three years in Ann Arbor as not quite a townie and not quite a student have had a pretty big impact on me, probably retarding my social skills and making me just a little paranoid. Wondering if I was going to get looks from people that meant "What are you doing here? Go away!" (as if they could somehow tell that I was a 30-year-old cook making $9.30/hr. with no benefits by sight alone) isn't the best way to handle the world. Fortunately, I was a little disarmed by the actual session. Everyone was very welcoming and encouraging, and it was very informative to hear from students and faculty about the different kinds of things people were doing with MSI degrees (it pays to read the paper sometimes--one of the professors mentioned the same story I'd seen that day, about a new internet service that handled DVD swaps). It was also good to hear that I was at the exact median age for the student population at SI--I was a little concerned about that. Even if I don't end up going to this particular school, it was good to see how things stood.

The previous night, I'd gone to check out the Kelly Caldwell farewell show at the Natural Canvas Gallery on North Main, only to find that it was cancelled, a discovery that propelled me towards the Tim Monger show at Crazy Wisdom instead. I ran into Sara, the boys of Starling Electric, and Mr. Josh, and chatted a bit, all the while listening to Tim Monger's gloriously heartfelt and keening whimsical confessions (including a slightly nauseating revelation about ear care)--"Luna Pier" was particularly good. As I sat there, I formed a resolution for Saturday, which presented an embarrassment of musical riches. First, the No Fun Records showcase was playing at the Blind Pig, featuring the Hard Lessons and the Avatars; the 2004 show was possibly the most fun I'd ever had at that particular venue, and so I was immediately drawn towards going there. A couple of weeks ago, though, Brandon had told me that Saturday Looks Good To Me was playing the Bad Idea house down the street from Natural Canvas, and that it was likely to be one of the last times one would probably see SLGTM playing a house party. I subsequently discovered from posters at Village Corner that it would be the last show ever at the Bad Idea, at least in the conceivable future. So I was in something of a dither over what to do, and then it hit me that night at Crazy Wisdom--I'd go to both of them. It was maybe a ten minute walk from the Pig to the Bad Idea, so the idea wasn't complete lunacy.

The next day, I decided it was. Then, halfway through the No Fun show, which was my first choice, I decided it wasn't again and took off for the Bad Idea. I think what tipped the scales in the latter's favor was that it would be the last show there, and I'd never seen inside of the Bad Idea or into the backyard (the front of the house looks like the proverbial crazy old cat lady went completely fucking apeshit with the deep blue paint and the found objects, no doubt cackling insanely throughout). The No Fun show was a good time, to be sure; I had a few beers and got halfway through Anthony Trollope's Dr. Wortle's School (1880--this guy's great!), and heard some stuff from the Dead Bodies and the Boomerangs, both of them pretty good.

I presented myself about ten minutes later at the Bad Idea, to receive a handshake from Fred Thomas, the SLGTM headfellow, a very nice guy, by all accounts (and I love his fucking band; I can't help it). Brandon, Katie, and Chuck were all there, as was Chuck's friend Maggie from the Madison House party of a couple of months past, and I got to meet Aaron, a DJ and frequent musical connoisseur about town who works at Schoolkids Records, one of the two really good places in Ann Arbor for new music. I'd gotten there halfway through Narwhals Collide's set, which was hilarious fun to watch. Brandon Kierdorf, who'd played the Madison House a couple of times, and bandmates were decked out in the kind of outrageous garb that reminded me more than anything of GWAR.

Saturday Looks Good To Me's set... I was so glad I decided to go to the Bad Idea. The performance space is slightly larger than my kitchen and "living room," which is saying absolutely nothing, and we managed to cram into it in numbers of maybe thirty or forty at a time, possibly more. Almost at once, people started shoving each other about the room in front of the performers (Brandon and I discussed afterward whether it was slam-dancing or moshing; I really didn't know), myself included. Shirts came off and mine nearly did, too (I was down to my T-shirt before I decided I'd had enough for the evening). I mentioned later, my voice hoarse from drinking, screaming, and laughing, that I don't think I've thrashed that hard since Lollapalooza '94, but I think I probably did a pretty decent job at the Dirtbombs and Casionauts shows, too. Songs I recognized: "Alcohol," "Dialtone," "The Girl's Distracted," and a wonderful surprise at the end with a boisterous cover of "Roadrunner," by the Modern Lovers. "Radio ON!!!!" There was something for everybody, it seemed: music, dancing, drinking, smoking, male and female toplessness... After the show, Chuck, Maggie, and Katie melted away, and Brandon and I wound up at this "sweaters and cider" party on South Fifth given by some of his urban planning chums. The cider was out, but we each had a mug of Leinenkugel, which proved a perfect chaser. After about ten minutes or so, he went off to some party in Ypsi and I decided to give myself a very well-earned rest, trudging home a pretty happy camper and virtuously resisting the temptations of NYPD (New York Pizza Depot, for non-residents), which was still open on the other side of William. What a night.*

Thinking of the journey home and reading the paper this morning at the Fleetwood (in between Kathy trying to use me as a reluctant witness to Maggie's tyrannies, whatever those were--I love those two), I notice that the mysterious rash of street robberies over the past couple of months has hit the front page. Just what this town needs--a crime wave. Some girl actually got stabbed on Ann Street; I'll have to follow this one pretty closely.

*The only sour note came from a couple of those jackass high school kids (I imagine--I actually know a couple of high school kids in town and more upstanding, creative, and wonderful characters you can't imagine--I'm not generalizing at all, but I'm just going from snatches of conversation I've heard) who propped a couple of crutches against the door to stop people from getting out--this with about thirty or forty people inside a fucking sardine tin; there's nothing I like better than a good fire hazard, you diseased little twats. In a related issue, I read a pamphlet given out at the house last night that explained the reasons for the Bad Idea's discontinuance as a music venue:

"On the other hand.

Some drunk once told me that, 'if you don't want things to get broken you shouldn't have shows.' Okay, sweet, that's what I want to hear idiot. Cuz that makes perfect sense right, it's our job to clean up after you and you get to act irresponsible and come see some bands, I mean you did pay $4.00, right."

--josh-redd Sanchez, "Happy Endings: A Tribute To Two Years of Shows at Bad Idea." (2005)

Much of the rest of the pamphlet expounds on that idea, and I perfectly understand the irritation faced by somebody trying to provide a cheap, fun place to hear music, only to see it ruined by violent, destructive pricks (the same kind, one would imagine, who slashed the arms on the Madison House's porch couch at the last show). Well, Mr. Sanchez, you have a hearty vote of thanks from this quarter. I had a fantastic time at your house and I apologize for whichever of my fellow party-goers behaved like shitheads. Thanks for the music!!

Dirty Cookie
Now Playing: Fela Anikulapo-Kuti--"Just Like That"
I was once called the above by one of my all-time favorite co-workers, in response to my characterizing the appearance of an autumn spice cookie as "pert." I'll always treasure that moment.

Charles Laughton probably knew the secret shame of a dirty cookie's life, at least on the silver screen. I decided to stay in most of Sunday and watch a few movies, the most memorable being Jamaica Inn (1938). Set amid the sea-girt terrors of early nineteenth century Cornwall, it was apparently Hitchcock's last major flick before coming to America, and features the hot young Maureen O'Hara as a woman trying to unravel the mystery surrounding her sweaty, hirsute uncle (an unusually rough-edged Leslie Banks, so dapper in The Most Dangerous Game, The Man Who Knew Too Much, and Sanders of the River) and a local gang of smugglers. It's unexpectedly gripping and evocative, with a nightmarish beginning that seems rather violent for a movie made in the late thirties, and good performances, especially from O'Hara. It's Laughton's movie, though--as the corpulent squire, he manages to embody unctuous creepiness and possible lunacy with such skill that he actually seemed scary, and he certainly didn't do me that way in an officially "scary" role as Dr. Moreau in Island of Lost Souls (1933). The guy was a genius. Strangely, Jamaica Inn somehow made it into Harry Medved's Fifty Worst Films of All Time (not so shocking in retrospect; so did Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible Part II), which I worshipped in high school. No matter how spurious some of the choices now seem, I'll always remember that one still of Laughton with an unspeakably smug, self-satisfied smirk on his face captioned "Sir Humphrey Pengallon (Charles Laughton) looks on in abject terror."

Dagger Drawn
Now Playing: Alice Coltrane--"Blue Nile"
Saturday evening I had a beer (Sea Dog IPA from Maine--I've decided that I should really use glasses for the stronger stuff as it tastes better), ate dinner, and watched the thrilling finale of the Michigan-Penn State game. I do enjoy watching college football; I've never been able to keep up with all the stats and minutiae that consume the actual sports fan, but the games are generally fun to watch, especially if one lives in a college town, and particularly if the whole thing is decided in the very last second of the last quarter, as it was in the Big House that day. I actually took my head in my hands, so ensnared was I in the collective hysteria beamed through TV sets across the Midwest (and, one would imagine, beyond).

It was all a kind of preparation for the Matt Jones EP release show that evening at the Arbourvitae loft, site of Arbourfest a month and a half ago. The plan was to go afterward to the Electric Six at the Blind Pig, but I had a suspicion that I wouldn't be up for both. The show sounded great--Alex Robins was briefly returning from San Francisco to play, and Chris Bathgate would open as well, along with this guy Jansen Swy who I'd never heard before. I wafted down North University, strangely and unexpectedly at peace--it was a brilliant evening, with a gorgeous twilight and a faint chill in the air. Brandon and Katie turned up in the Diag Party Shoppe as I bought a bottle of water, and I followed them up the stairs to Arbourvitae. The place looked completely different from Arbourfest, considerably smaller, even shrunken, but it was a more intimate crowd in any case--at first, I was put in mind of an Al-Anon meeting (not that I've ever had to go to any of those), as we were all in a semi-circle and a little charming awkwardness hung above. Annie, Misty, Josh, Andrea, and Tim from a couple of the Madison House shows appeared, obviously among others. Itr was great to see Alex again, and weird yet wonderful to hear his music live barely ten hours after I'd heard it on CD. The real discovery here was Jansen, who played a quirky mix of piano tunes, some of them very funny indeed. Chris and Matt were their usual stalwart selves, Chris on piano and Matt complemented by violin, drums, and bass. I'm very, very pleased that they're making music; Matt's "Bearded Faces" is a decided favorite of mine. The whole night stank of a welcoming hominess that I suspect had a lot to do with the loft's physical difference from Arbourfest. Afterwards, I walked home through the growing cold and watched a little TV before turning in. "Independent Lens'" on PBS had a show on Parliament Funkadelic, and I lasted through that for a while before going to bed. All in all, a very fine weekend.