Peanuts, Mr. Bond?????
Now Playing: Chris Bathgate--"I've Been Saving Up"
Now for some poetry.

Give me one good reason why I shouldn't--

Nah, that didn't work.

Saturday night, I had dinner at the Fleetwood, chatted with Kathy, and walked over to my friend Lou's house to watch a couple of movies, stopping at Washtenaw Dairy for a sixpack of Labatt. My way took me through some of the more southerly tracts of the Old West Side--a little less well-heeled, perhaps--up and down hills, skirting Allmendiger Park, all among a crisp, brilliant night ruled by a full and luminous moon. As I put this memory to words, I can see the moon through my own window, solitary and bisected by a tree branch, in the midst of an evening made darker by the harsh light of my room. Sometimes (okay, often) I wish I lived in the middle of nowhere, or at least some place that didn't have such a tyrannical array of streetlights (Geddes Avenue, to be precise). In any event, I haven't enjoyed a walk like that in quite a while.

Lou's cozy house is a testament to the collector's instinct, one I used to have but which has been increasingly slipping away. It's a little awe-inspiring to see all the videos marked with such exact precision--Godard, Cassavetes, von Sternberg--all filed away in neat cardboard boxes and marked with Post-Its. I cast a gimlet eye over my shambolic CDs and books and wish I was able to still do that. We talked a bit and then adjourned with our beers to the basement, where Lou had set up a DVD projector.

Moonfleet (1955): A late Fritz Lang adventure flick, with Stewart Granger as a slick yet tormented swell who returns to 18th-century England having successfully imported a variety of silks and brandies, as well as a hot flamenco dancer. He almost immediately inherits a whey-faced, helium-voiced child with a mysterious connection to his past. This complicates matters, for, this being the southwest coast of England, Granger naturally turns out to be a smuggler (with, believe it or not, Dan Seymour and Jack Elam as two of his henchmen) and runs afoul of the auhorities and the always awesome George Sanders. He barely has time to romance "the Purr" (as I call Joan Greenwood) as he Lorna Doones and Jamaica Inns his way through the clutches of the authorities and in search of buried treasure. It's no masterpiece, but it's all in good fun--even in the most desperate straits, Granger's indomitable smugness is hard not to enjoy.

Tales of Mystery and Imagination and/or Spirits of the Dead (1968): Triple play based on three Poe short stories, directed by Roger Vadim, Louis Malle, and Federico Fellini. "Metzengerstein" (Vadim): Hot, depraved noblewoman (Jane Fonda) farts around her castle in a series of revealingly depraved outfits and pays the price for her... depravity. Great cinematography. "William Wilson" (Malle): Tremendous asshole (Alain Delon) discovers he has an inconvenient doppelganger (and thankfully pays the price for his depravity--guy's a prick). "Toby Dammit" (Fellini): Swinging yet incoherent actor (Terence Stamp) sees a whoooole lot of weird shit (including one of the creepiest apparitions I've ever seen in a horror movie). Everyone's apparently depraved, but only one person actually pays for anything. I wrote my Rome-set, dream-based story "Hotel Naiade" over a year before I saw this, and "Toby"'s atmosphere is exactly what I had in mind--it's magnificent.

The next day in Angell Hall, we saw Afraid To Die (1958), a Yasuzo Masumura yakuza flick with some serious stunt casting: legendary right-wing literary giant Yukio Mishima as a conscience-stricken mobster trying to go straight. It's allegedly Masumura's worst movie, but I enjoyed it--there are some clever twists and one of the most hilariously suggestive songs I've ever heard. Again, if anyone in the Ann Arbor or Ypsi area is interested in Cinema Guild, contact Lou Goldberg at louisg@umich.edu.

Afterwords is closing!!!! One of the coolest bookstores downtown is shutting its doors over the next couple of weeks (and is marking everything 20% off). It had nowhere near the selection or prices of Dawn Treader, but you could often find the coolest stuff there when just popping in on the off-chance. This will unfortunately cut into my determination to get rid of more books, but what the hell.

A Prayer Won't Serve You Well
Now Playing: Sade--"Paradise"
I intend the following italicized comments as my contribution to a religious discussion on the British Horror Films forum:

Anyone who knows me will know that I'm not religious, and that I consider myself a thoroughgoing agnostic; both religious and atheistic belief, for me, rest on suppositions that can never be proven or disproven. My present convictions have been pretty much in place since I was twelve or thirteen, and have rarely changed since. My views, of course, don't prevent me from appreciating the good things religion has given the world--an extra buttressing of tradition to human decency (the abolition of slavey might have taken a good deal longer if it hadn't been for the religiously inspired fervor of some of its foremost advocates*) and countless literary and artistic achievements (I've mentioned before that I consider the Beatitudes one of the supreme human moments, and Velasquez and Caravaggio--the latter a pimp and murderer--are two of my favorite painters). I have friends both very religious and very atheistic, and we all get along famously. It's important to remember that most religious people DON'T fly planes into buildings, explode themselves in crowded public places, burn mosques (and the people inside), blow up abortion clinics and day care centers, or target doctors for assassination.**

That said, I can understand why so many people in Britain and secular areas like Western Europe and Canada are so worried about the corruptive powers of religion and how they influence the leaders of countries such as the United States and Iran. Watching the high and mighty in my country prattle on about the great influence of Christ in their lives--while acting like they've never even SEEN the Gospels, let alone read them--is a nauseating experience, and I hate to think that we've all got at least three more years of this crap ahead. It's important to remember, though, that a lot of the religious bullshit--in the United States, certainly--is fairly recent historically, at least on the official level. "In God We Trust" dates from McCarthyism, and even the celebration of Christmas wasn't really widespread until the arrival of the last century. In many cases, the "ancient traditions" allegedly "threatened" by my fellow secular humanists exist in the span of living memory. Religious belief isn't what this country's about--it's the toleration and protection of religious belief AND non-religious belief. So as far as I actually have a religion, it essentially lies in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, inspired by the finest sentiments of religious belief but not dictated by or beholden to them. I have no problems with people who believe otherwise, but let's remember the reason this country came into being in the first place.

*In fairness, of course, much of the pro-slavery side was backed by religious arguments as well.

**Which, despite the literally deadly seriousness of the subject, always makes me think of the Hank Murphy line on "Sealab 2021": "On Mars, doctors and other wizards are FORBIDDEN!!" It's a hilarious line, but I suspect there are people out there who actually think that way.

I spent the first part of Friday evening at Conor O'Neill's using my Christmas bonus gift certificate. Conor's is Ann Arbor's theme-park Irish pub, with pictures of James Joyce and concordant quotations and limericks on the walls. Conor's blows hot and cold for me. It can be pretty pleasant during the daytime--I recall watching the Michigan-Ohio State football game there the year before last, and have rarely spent such an enjoyable Saturday afternoon (at least in this town). On weekend nights it becomes an amalgam of Dante's Inferno and some of the divier frat-oriented bars toward campus; "meat market" doesn't come close to doing it justice. I had a good time last night, though. The fisherman's pie was sinfully delicious, and I had the added treat of watching some of our regular customers disporting themselves barely two tables away like frenzied, hooting chimps. They all work at one of those generic downtown companies that involve computers or investment or something, and they always seem such saddened creatures, pinched by the cold and secretly furious at having to waste their lunch break standing in line for anything (and some awful purty ones, I have to admit). I almost certainly exaggerate, but it was good to see them cut loose. While unable to avoid the young women growing rosier and less inhibited, I managed to complete the meal's thematic unity by reading the chapter on Parnell in James Morris' Heaven's Command: "This maddening new kind of revolutionary accepted the abuse of the House [of Commons] with steely calm, infuriating his enemies by the imperturbable Britishness of his responses. He was every inch a gentleman, which made it all the worse."

Afterwards, I walked up Main Street to Crazy Wisdom for a terrific show, courtesy of Matt Jones, Jim Roll, Colette Alexander, Carol Gray, and Margaret Gray (whose delightfully vocal coterie of friends and fans--"Marry me, Margaret Gray!" was one of the night's unexpected highlights). The Jimmer opened, and was traditionally fab, bearing the welcome news that a new album would soon be in the offing. Margaret Gray gave a short but punchy set, many Ani DiFranco songs made slightly harder, I thought, by her voice. A Matt Jones show is always a pleasure, and Friday night's was enhanced by Colette and Carol's wonderful backup (cello and violin, respectively). One song, as yet untitled, had Colette melding bowing and pizzicato to create something which sounded very like the Philip Glass Koyaanisqatsi soundtrack with soul. And as if that weren't enough, we all watched the rain turn to snow through the colossal second-floor window behind the performers. I behaved like a bit of an ass, quite frankly, at one point gleefully waving my scarf, but we all seemed to have a great time. Getting back to religion for a moment, before the show I went browsing through the religion and spirituality section (did you know Mary Magdalene had her own Idiot's Guide?), and found a book on Sikhism founder Guru Nanak Singh in the Islam section. The relationship between Sikhism and Islam has never been very happy, especially in the first couple of centuries, and I hope some sharp-eyed staff member spots the incongruity. I chatted with a bunch of people, mainly Colette, Sari, Laura and Vince, endured a blueberry smoothie, rehydrated... it was all in good fun.

But then, in a perfect world, so would be everything.

I'm The Limit
Now Playing: Galaxie 500--"Isn't It A Pity"
This week's been rather uneventful. Of course, that won't stop me writing about it.

I'm currently working through my unread books in time for the beginning of February, when I intend to start writing again (or hit the big winter book sale at the library; I'm such a whore). Some recent thoughts on books and movies:

Bleak House (Charles Dickens, 1852): Wow! I read all his novels back in college--the Roanoke library had reproductions of the original editions, with the illustrations by George Cruikshank and "Phiz" (whatever his real name was), and I figured I might as well. This is supposed to be his greatest, and it's definitely a masterpiece of character, action, and description. The most nefarious character is probably the long-running lawsuit of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, in whose tentacles most of the characters flail to maintain their human dignity and/or financial stability. The BBC recently did what was supposed to be a terrific version, with Gillian Anderson as Lady Dedlock, but make sure you read it before it hits these shores.

Giants and Toys (Yasuzo Masumura, 1958): Crazy-ass Japanese corporate satire about rival candy companies and the depths to which they'll sink to maximize profits. This was Cinema Guild's first movie since August, and I was thrown for a loop, as I expected it to be funnier, but shame on me, I guess. Lives are wrecked and dignity in general gets tossed in the crapper. There's a great running gag of the main company's sales figures taking this vertical plunge to the bottom every time we see them. You'll never look at caramel the same way again.

The Sundering Flood (William Morris, 1896): Morris' last "medieval romance" (proto-fantasy novel) was finished a short time before he died, and it's a gripping story of two lovers separated by war and revolution (sort of, anyway), if you can make it through all the purposefully archaic prose. There's an interesting bit in there when the citizens of the City of the Sundering Flood rise up against the king and basically establish a republic! Morris was a socialist and his take on the possibilities of fantasy was definitely a little different than those of his successors, J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis (and, many of you will probably infer, much more palatable for this commentator--more people should really be writing this stuff). The Wood Beyond The World and The Well At The World's End are very good, too.

Ali and Nino (Kurban Said, 1937): Mysterious love story set against a backdrop of war and revolution, etc., etc. This one's mainly interesting because of its author, whose story was recently told in Tom Reiss' biography The Orientalist. It's pretty good in its own right, focusing on the title lovebirds (respectively, Azeri and Georgian) in early twentieth-century Azerbaijan and Persia, and turns positively gripping at the end.

I just finished Marguerite Duras' The Sailor From Gibraltar (1952) and am starting A.E. van Vogt's Slan (1953)--reading these in chronological order is an interesting experience.

That's basically all that's happened this week, not that I'm complaining. I could be writing more, but... whatever.

Oats of Terror
Now Playing: Sleater-Kinney--"Entertain"
I've developed a habit over the past few months of not going out on weeknights. This saves money and makes me slightly--slightly--less ornery at work. I miss a few shows, but they're usually bands I'll end up seeing again.

Wednesday night saw a weird convergence of sorts at the Blind Pig, as Descent of the Holy Ghost Church played (with Kelly Jean Caldwell opening) the same night of local promoter/urban planning student/impresario Brandon Zwagerman's birthday. All things considered, it was time for me to poke my head outside the hole. I didn't see too much of the Descent's set itself, as I decided not to tempt fate and wound up back home at 12:30. What I saw was terrific, though--the country-folk most of their members have become known for, compliments of guitar and violin, infused with a funky, jangly sensibility that pleases the quirky faculties--I think this mainly the work of the keyboard. I'd seen them before, at Arbourfest, and they've already grown into something truly wonderful. One terrific surprise was Ross Huff's appearance on trumpet--head of Everyone A Pope, he and his band would have been the highlight of the Alex Robins farewell show if... well, if it hadn't been Alex Robins' farewell show. Interestingly (an adverb you'll doubtless read with an ironic grimace), the other acts didn't rock my world all that much. Kelly Caldwell's always worth seeing, but the music sounded clunky--it may have been the audio (Sara thought the guitar sounded decidedly off) or the weirdness of seeing her with a backup band (I'm going with the first explanation). It was worth it, anyway, to hear "Southern Boys" and especially "Daffodils" again. There was another group of young women anchored by Descent member Jansen Swy on keyboard which started things off and was, frankly, a little offputting. I might not have been in the mood as yet, but they did sing Chris Bathgate's "We Die Most Every Night" (I'm not sure of the actual title, or indeed of the band's name--any information would be appreciated).

Work's been rather annoying recently, and it was good to have a mid-week valve of sorts. It was a fun night--I only had two beers, read a good deal more of William Morris' The Sundering Flood (more on that later), wished Brandon a happy birthday (wishing I'd known it in Dutch) and hung and schmoozed, mostly with Sara, Colette and Misty. I was privileged to take a couple of rather decent phone camera pictures of the latter two with a pair of friends. Chatting with Colette reminded me, too, that I ought to reread War and Peace one of these days--the only part I remember in any detail is Nikolai Rostov's experiences at Austerlitz. I wafted off around midnight, secure in the knowledge that I'd be able to hear a full Descent set at the Halfass in less than a month.

Cinema Guild's back! After a hiatus of several months, free movies will be shown once more in the cavernous maw of G-160 in Angell Hall every Sunday afternoon at 1. Lou's apparently gotten some new people together and, while the Michael Powell retrospective is on the shelf for now, there should be some great new stuff to see. New old stuff, for the most part, but that's fine by me. There's probably no other way I would have gotten to see Valerie And Her Week of Wonders or Five Dolls For An August Moon. Highly recommended.

I had a nightmare recently that I was at work and had received an order for oatmeal (which we don't serve, by the way). We were missing several ingredients. Apparently this was my fault and I tried to cover up my error by mixing the oatmeal with tomatoes, cucumbers, and possibly human blood (which makes perfect sense, I'm sure you'll agree). When I'm thinking a little more clearly, maybe there can be something to to do along those lines. As I woke up, though, all I could think of was my joy at being awake.

Kiss the Killers and the Kind and the Crude
Now Playing: Bob Dylan--"Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again"
Thursday night, I went out to dinner with Mike and Jen, respectively, my ex-roommate and his wife. We ate at Arbor Brewing and it was great to see them again. I lived with Mike and Sean on Spring Street from 2003-04, and it was a real kick, by and large, even when our next-door neighbor called the cops on one of our parties. Each of us was involved in some sort of artistic pursuit--Sean was an architecture major at U-M and did drafting and models, Mike painted (and was recently accepted to the Savannah College of Art and Design; they're moving in June), and I wrote fiction and drew the occasional cartoon. Jen was over there a lot; I'd hardly known either of them when we first moved there, but we came to be pretty good friends. The collection of festivities surrounding their wedding (a crosstown pub-crawl for the bachelor/ette party and then the reception August before last, for which my brother was actually present and made quite an impression) was probably the most fun I had in 2004 apart from last New Year's Eve. I was afraid I wouldn't have a lot to say at dinner, but everything turned out as cozy as could be, as we swapped stories and drank beer. On my way home in a doomy night, I saw an explosion of crows at the Natural Science Museum, taking off and scattering around me as if I were Tippi Hedren.

Friday was fun but long--I worked for about thirteen hours with a break for dinner as I had to put together cookies for baking. I hate to say it (not really), but it's a lot more fun when la jefa is on vacation. Not once in the three days preceding New Year's was I treated like a toddler. Our lovely new business consultant Amy was filling in, as was a new counterperson, Emily by name, who's turning out rather cool. We've been busy, too--not all that much take-out, but the floor's been consistently packed (maybe not that shocking, as the main "dining room" is maybe a little larger than my bedroom). After it was all over, I was exhausted and repaired to the Old Town for two Dogfish too many (three, in case you wondered). I would have said hi to Misty and Jen, but the bar was full and they looked insanely busy.

Saturday, I finished Bleak House, started Lorna Doone (I'm trying to get through my remaining unread books in chronological order--William Morris' The Sundered Flood is next), and went to the New Year's Eve Bang at the Blind Pig. Most of my way was utterly silent and untenanted, the grand halls of the University of Michigan only failing to echo with silence because of the general dullness--barely a soul from Observatory to Division, under what would have been the most depressing sky ever if I hadn't been in a pretty good mood. Saturday Looks Good To Me and Johnny Headband were playing and I feared a line, so I passed by at 8:30 (an hour early) to already find a tiny throng of diehards outside the door. Feeling I was safe, I took a walk around a few blocks and stopped in to say hi to Phill at the Parthenon, the same person and place with whom I'd spent New Year's before last. On returning to the Pig, the line had multiplied--not too exponentially, but it was good to be there early. The first person I knew was Brandon, doggedly working the line and plugging the upcoming winter season at the Halfass.

The show? Johnny Headband, again, gets points for their name alone, but I'm aware there are people who like them a whole lot better than I do. The redoubtable Greg McIntosh joined them that evening, and they rocked pretty hard, I have to admit (frequent excursions to the Eight Ball meant that I apparently missed a killer cover of one of my favorite songs, Roxy Music's "Love Is The Drug"). SLGTM surprised by playing almost all covers--the Velvet Underground, Modern Lovers, and something Sara told me was Neutral Milk Hotel. I had resolved not to dance (can't remember why) but all that went out the window once they covered "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap." I spent a great deal of time downstairs at the Eight Ball: nursing a variety of Killians'; talking to a bunch of people I'll probably never see again; hanging with Becca (and the stunning Becca of Village Corner as well); meeting and chatting with Colleen, the cellist from Annie's set of two weeks previous (ETA--her name is, in fact, COLETTE--that's the second time I've gotten it wrong); getting into some sort of argument with local musician Mark Muzinga (I wish I could remember what kind; it was pretty lively--I'm still awfully sure he doesn't know who I am); running into Kathy from the Fleetwood; meeting and chatting with Dustin's friend Marcie; going back upstairs, listening to music, dancing my ass off (on stage towards the end), exchanging Flash Gordon dialogue with Bang honcho Jason Gibner, farting around with Sara's feather boa, losing my tie, and just generally having a fantastic New Year's Eve.

2006 debuted to pretty dismal weather, a stark change from last New Year's Day, when it was absolutely stunning. I had brunch at the Fleetwood (like I did last New Year's Day), chatted with Maggie and Elvis and wished them a Happy New Year, and went home to do absolutely nothing. Except watch Flash Gordon.

I may have mentioned my love for this 1980 classic before. One of my ten favorite movies, it's just absolutely berserk in a way that few movies have the courage to be, certainly not these days. Sexual innuendo, barbaric religious rites, clouds and breathable atmosphere in space, the Hawkmen, pillow-based catfights, one of the greatest soundtracks in film history, courtesy of Freddy Mercury and Queen, inimitable dialogue*, supporting actors trying harder than in any movie I know to steal scenes from each other... I watched it throughout with a smile on my face that I wasn't able to wipe away.

Resolutions? Maybe later.

ETA: This is my hundredth post, interestingly enough.

*This will do as a sample: Princess Aura (Ornella Muti) and Emperor Ming the Merciless (Max von Sydow, who must have fought hard to contain himself for the fun he had to have had) watching Dale cry at Flash's execution:

AURA: Father, look! Water is coming from her eyes!

MING: It's what they call "tears." It's a sign of their... weakness.

Weirdsmobility
Now Playing: Marvin Gaye--"Flyin' High (in the Friendly Sky)"
This will very likely be the last post I make this year. It's been a strange year, too, probably the best I've spent in Ann Arbor.

1. I feel a sense of confidence about my work and am better paid than I have been at any time since grad school (and possibly before, not that it's saying much). The job can be breathtakingly annoying, but I could certainly be doing something worse.

2. I got out, saw some terrific shows, met an assload of terrific people, and realized again that it's fun to dance.

3. I'm starting to gain control of my financial situation (student loans, etc.) and have become much better at budgeting myself.

4. Writing-wise, it's actually been a much less impressive year than 2004 (for which I suspect blogging is much to blame), but one can't have everything.

5. I've become semi-involved in my community, handling the establishment of the WRAP library (albeit, due to work and weekly exhaustion, at what might be considered a snail's pace), continuing to attend Planned Parenthood volunteer nights (even if I missed the last two, once due to illness and once to being preoccupied with Katrina), and following state and local policy on important bread-and-butter issues (even if I get lost, knowing jackshit as I do about urban planning).

5. I've gotten a start on changing my living situation, finally taking the GRE and going to information sessions at U-M (and getting stuff from other schools as well).

So, certainly compared to the two before it, 2005 can definitely be considered a good year. I started it out coming off post-election depression at a killer New Year's Eve party (thanks, Gardiners and Jessica), went through more depression, and then got better. I just hope next year tops it.

Christmas weekend, I watched a few holiday flicks (although this is the first year in memory that I wasn't able to see A Christmas Story as the free showing at the Michigan was sold out)--It's a Wonderful Life (I finally saw it all the way through a few years ago and was pleasantly surprised at how dark it got at times) and White Christmas, to which my pal Elaina introduced me back in Akron. The latter is terrific--you can marvel at Rosemary Clooney's hotness, enjoy Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen's well-meant nosiness (although Mary Wickes does them several better), and best of all, just wonder what the hell goes on in "Der Bingle's" head. He has this kind of perverse, twisted anti-cool that yet manages to be hipper than hip. This means he can do all sorts of things and never have to explain them. "All sorts of things" include: calling Danny Kaye a "weirdsmobile," breaking into song on a whim, and employing German words and a Swedish accent for no apparent reason. He probably could have killed someone and nobody would have done anything about it. God, it's awesome. The song's pretty good, too.

Christmas Day, I called the family and sort of vegged, I guess. I then saw the Richard Loncraine/Ian McKellen Richard III (1995), which takes place in a weird parallel fascist Britain of the 1930s or 1940s. I thought it was fun. There was no real reason to cast Robert Downey, Jr. in the movie, but it's hard to argue with a Shakespeare adaptation that stars a tank.

One good thing about the season nearing its end (several more days left, don't forget, both for Christmas and Chanukah) is that we don't have to hear any more of this "War on Christmas" bullshit. It's a relief for me, anyway.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Happy Holidays
Now Playing: Lori Carson--"Snow Come Down"
Yeah, that's right, I said it. Go fuck yourself, O'Reilly.

To all merry Christmases, happy Chanukahs, and (insert adjective) Kwanzaas! I didn't know the accepted form for the last one.

Not all that much happening recently. My friend Jennifer (my ex-roommate's wife) came by the restaurant and it was good to see her. I also discovered (okay, was given), the solution to a nagging workplace mystery. Finally, there ain't nothing like Rankin and Bass--I caught this classic on CBC last night. I'd seen it as a little kid, but like most children's fare released in the 60s and 70s, it was hard to grasp the surrealism at that age. There's this weird psychedelic sequence in the middle when the future Mrs. Claus realizes how much she loves Santa. Like I said, ain't nothing like it. That also makes two Keenan Wynn movies I've seen this month.

It looks like I'm going to be sick as a dog for Christmas, which isn't very fun. I'd planned on walling myself in my house anyway, but I'd also planned on drinking quite a bit of alcohol. Oh, well. This way I save, and hopefully everything will be right in time for New Year's (if it isn't, I'll be pissed).

I'm not sure if Eric Alterman wrote this or not, but it's a pretty clear description of how things presently stand.

Last but not least, this is a scream (thanks, Brandon and Peter).

Orphanrage
Now Playing: Wilco--"I'm Always In Love"
It's snowing again. Big surprise. The moon looks like it was painted. Moving my head, I watch it in and out of the branches. I wrote this at home.

I watched several movies. I do that sometimes.

Alexander's Ragtime Band (1938): The first Tyrone Power movie I've seen in which I haven't wanted to see him messily killed. As band leader "Alexander," he essentially invents ragtime (my ass) with the help of singer Alice Faye and pianist Don Ameche (and it's just eerie to see him as a relative young'un and then think of him and Ralph Bellamy playing the nefarious Duke brothers forty-five years later in Trading Places). Jack Haley pops up as their dweeby sidekick, whose main function seems to be introducing Ethel "Lt. Hurwitz" Merman as a thorn in the relationship between Power and Faye. Instant fan of that girl right here. Let me tell you, that Ethel can totally rock a top and tails.

This weekend I leapt-frog (leapfrogged? whatever) about to catch a few shows, but it was worth it. Barely a block apart, much of the best that the Washtenaw County folkish scene has to offer performed Saturday night--one group at Crazy Wisdom and another at Espresso Royale, both of then on Main Street. Misty Lyn and Jim Roll, respectively, were headlining the two shows, and that would have been awesome enough. What had me especially chuffed was that (a) Annie would be opening for Misty, and (b) Sari Brown would return to the "stage"*. After a bottle of Dogfish IPA at the Old Town, some pleasant chitchat with Jen (who I now realize has been my favorite bartender for some time), and some clam chowder**, I headed on over. Many familiar faces--just about all of Dabenport, including the illustrious Matt Jones. The lovely Becca has apparently returned from Cincinnati, and it was good to see her again. Annie has played before at the Madison, and very well, but there was a definite nervousness at the earlier shows that now conceals itself or has simply vanished (out of nervousness? deep). Confidence definitely made the songs flow more smoothly, although I thought the nervous edge from, say, New West Fest had its own charm when infusing the lyrics. Her voice was much stronger this time, which was just as well for me, since I sat in the back and there were many more people than at the Madison House. She played the only guitar, too--I don't think I'd seen that before (Matt and Mr. Josh backed her up earlier)--and I was impressed by the intricacy of some of the chords (I don't play guitar, so I'm admittedly a poor judge; the distinction between "chords," "riffs," and "cuttlefish" tends to confuse me). Accompanying her on cello for the last song was Colleen Alexander, who I don't think I've heard before and who gave sterling and quirky support with a mix of bowing and pizzicato. It was a wonderful show, and Misty didn't seem too pissed when I had to ditch for Espresso Royale. I got to hear them anyway when they ran a killer sound check before Annie's set. "Minneapolis" was awesome--she'd played the same song with Matt and Chris Bathgate on Dustin's WCBN show Wednesday night.

On our way to Espresso Royale, another movie...

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004): Surprisingly good. When everyone likes a movie, I tend to get suspicious, and this was one of those that was marketed with "precious overkill" like Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, and I Heart Huckabees (I still haven't seen the latter). Jim Carrey is behaviorally unrecognizable as the sadsack whose moping around at a beach party immediately attracts the devastatingly attractive (and devastating) Clementine (Kate Winslet). Already having better luck at moping than I, he unexpectedly fails to draw my hate as he and Clementine get sick of each other, leading to Clementine deciding to have her brain wiped of his memory. I don't want to explain further. Everyone does a great job, especially the medical staffers in charge of the operation. And I should probably recuse myself from "judging" Ms. Winslet's performance--her beauty reached such terrifying and dizzying heights when clad (don't ask) in an old outfit of "Mrs. Hillman's" that lust, for a few brief seconds, became obsolete.

On arriving at Espresso Royale, I found that Sari would not be playing--she'd had orthodontic surgery done earlier in the year and had been unable to sing. There were still problems Saturday, and she won't be able to sing for a while longer. She had, however, lined up a killer show. The "Jimmer" himself--there's not really a whole lot to say. He's great--alternately rollicking and introspective folk/country/rock/whatever that never disappoints. Breathe Owl Breathe are just so damn adorable that it almost seems irrelevant to describe them (although I sort of did here). I like bands that get creative with the instruments--a primitive wooden xylophone and snoring went rather well with the whimsical feel generated by Micah and Andrea, on god-knew-what and cello, respectively. Andrea even favored us all with Catch A Wave-like percussionistic body slaps. Then there was Andrew. I'd actually run into him earlier in the day while scarf-shopping at Primitive Vintage (not much on offer, either; certainly nothing to even try and withstand a Michigan winter, although if I do ever decide to dress up as Charles Nelson Reilly--which I thought of doing last Halloween--I know where to go). We had a pleasant conversation in which I revealed that I'd tried out Will Oldham and he just didn't take (the country chamber-gloom wasn't doing it for me). Andrew had played with Sari (his sister, if I haven't mentioned it) as "I. Brown" at the Madison, and it was great to hear him that night, in his first solo performance in public. There were times when his voice was almost drowned out by the guitar, but that may have been the audio. He did a great job on the guitar, but the lyrics were what got to me. I can hardly remember any of them, and I'm not sure I could even hear them sung, but they stayed with me in this sort of indistinct being that is, I suppose, as good a definition of "musically haunting" as any other I've heard.

Some time travel, but first...

Shack Out On 101 (1955): If you move in any circles where someone might casually mention that Lee Marvin couldn't act, smack them immediately and make them watch this movie. A rundown diner lying off (I'll use my own preposition, thanks) US 101 on the California coast suddenly finds itself in the grip of spies and dirty Commies. Don't ask, just watch. Owner Keenan Wynn supervises a saucy pair of menials: waitress Kotty (Terry Moore), almost constantly referred to by the less savory characters as "the tomato"; and Leo (aka "Slob"), the short-order cook with delusions of grandeur, is magnificently brought to life by Marvin, who, even in his superb career, has never been better than in this piece of divine dreck. As Leonard Maltin put it over fifteen years ago, "Lee Marvin IS Slob." For local residents, it's in the cult section at Liberty Street Video. Do yourselves a favor.

Thursday I retook the GRE, after nine years and a strangely arduous trek through a snowy, mushy series of parking lots. I ended up with a 740 verbal, 590 math (and the latter, though pretty good, was a little disappointing--I'd longed to crack 600). To my glee, the analytical section was no more, even though I still had to do the stupid fucking essays, and I'm a little worried about that. I won't go into the racist origins (and continued emphasis) of standardized testing because nobody wants to hear about that. I'm just glad it's over.

*More of a raised dais in the corner, actually.

**As fascinating as many of you may find this, I've become used to clam chowder being a little spicier, with more of a kick. The Old Town's was thicker than I usually find in clam chowder, though; I liked that.

Further Up And Further In
Now Playing: The Cocteau Twins--"Persephone"
I've been to see two wide-release movies in the past year (both, curiously enough, with my brother): March of the Penguins, which was great, and Alien vs. Predator, which... wasn't. This cinematic monasticism (which only really applies to the googolplex--I still rent plenty of movies and see several small-scale indies at the Michigan and State) may see a number of exceptions in the coming month: probably King Kong (even my fervent hatred for remakes can relent sometimes, particularly when Peter Jackson's involved), definitely Syriana, and perhaps The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

Even in the throes of Tolkien-worship, which, for me, peaked when I was around twelve, I always preferred C.S. Lewis' Narnia to Middle-Earth. I put this down to Lewis' superiority as a stylist and the inclusion of talking animals, and I loved the chapter illustrations by Pauline Baynes (in my late elementary and middle-school days, I always found Jill Pole of The Silver Chair disturbingly hot). The Christian allegory stuff, if I recognized it at all, went in one ear and out the other, and had very little to do with my feelings toward the books. Even as a cardcarrying agnostic, I think obsessing over the Christian symbolism's ominous import is a mistake, as seen here. Does this mean we should ban references to Michelangelo in high school art classes because he painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling? Besides, how Christian is Narnia, really? Adam Gopnik has a terrific New Yorker article on both Narnia and Lewis in general in which he makes the critically important observation that Lewis' Aslan myth isn't Christian but Mithraic. After all, the New Testament doesn't portray Jesus returning to Earth and immediately wiping the floor with his former persecutors like Clint in High Plains Drifter (1973--another possible religious allegory). I think Philip Pullman went a little overboard in some of his criticisms of Lewis (and suffered from the same didactic overreach on behalf of atheism in His Dark Materials, much of which I liked anyway), but the whole Aslan thing is definitely bizarre (and a little creepy). That said, I'll probably go see the movie anyway. Here's some more.

January 2006 is National Oatmeal Month. People, get ready.

My Inner Hoser
Now Playing: The New Pornographers--"My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism"
December is here. Whee.

"Bush apparently believes he was sent by God, but I got a feeling his origins, if they be supernatural, lie elsewhere." --Eric Alterman, 28 November 2005. I'd never thought of that, being an agnostic and all, but it's definitely something on which to gnash.

Speaking of politics, Monday night I was reminded once more of how little I really know about our eminently pleasant and well-behaved neighbor to the north. I know a little of the history, some of the literature, and some television. As for the last, how is it that Canadian comedy seems to be in such a sorry state? "The Rick Mercer Report" is moderately amusing, and "The Royal Canadian Air Farce" has a chuckle once in a blue moon (I usually catch these on the fly, so it's probably my fault), but "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" is just appalling, an unbelievable descent for the nation that gave us "Kids in the Hall."

Anyway, one of the two or three shows I watch regularly on TV is "Coronation Street," which comes on at 7:30 p.m. on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Imagine my dismay and then fascination when I tuned in Monday night and found charismatically stodgy anchorman Peter Mansbridge commenting on live coverage of the Canadian Parliament, where Liberal Prime Minister Paul Martin was about to go down on a vote of no confidence (apparently the first time this has ever happened in Canadian history), organized by Conservative leader Steven Harper and abetted by New Democratic leader Jack Layton and Bloc Quebecois leader Gilles Duceppe. Fun stuff, surprisingly enough. I found myself unable to take my eyes away from what was going on, and if nothing else, it's all made me determined to find out more about Canada. There's more here if anyone's interested. Apparently there'll be another election in January 2006, so I'll be actually watching for that one.

I apologize if all that was too exciting.