I'm reading an article by Lewis Lapham in the May Harper's. Lapham used to be the magazine's formidable editor in chief. Under Lapham, Harper's was icily brilliant almost every issue, in my opinion. I miss his voice and I think the mag has slipped rather a lot since his retirement. His article is on the peculiar American trait of historylessness, which provides the basis for our political discourse's constant doomsaying and constant nostalgia. Hep stuff.
I'm also listening, as I have done a lot lately, to Chopin solo piano works. I have come at last to the conclusion that Frederic Chopin is not allowed in the house. I mean: "Funeral March"? Are you kidding me? (Lauren didn't even bother to point out that he's long dead, this morning. She sort of chuckled.)
Today I am going to attempt to read a "work of philosophy" by a French "collective" active in the 1990s. There's a guest lecture on campus on Wednesday about them. I am deeply suspicious.
I am also going to try to read one of the papers I have to comment on in Canada in June. This one is on the McGurk effect. No, I'm not making that up.
But what I really think I ought to do is get back to writing something about porn.
Showing posts with label not allowed in the house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not allowed in the house. Show all posts
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
album of the day: all the songs on my iPod, in alphabetical order
Part 9 of ??
Now, for the letter I!
1. I Am A Rock - Simon and Garfunkel.
2. I Am Also A Walrus - Biff Nerfurpleburger. Written because I realized my character/alter ego Biff believes he was a member of the Beatles, and needed to write a post-Beatles self-referential song (like all of the actual Beatles did). I'm pretty sure Biff is not deranged, though most of his fans may believe otherwise. The whole Beatles thing is because he is badly misinformed.
3. I Am Trying To Break Your Heart - Wilco.
4. I Don't Wanna Grow Up - Tom Waits. If you've never seen the video of the song, directed by Jim Jarmusch, it's revelatory - I'm just not sure of what. Jim Jarmusch is not allowed in the house.
5. (I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea - Elvis Costello. Well, then, don't go, Elvis. Do I have to explain everything to you?
6. I Feel It All - Feist.
7. I Found A Letter - Paper Cats. Not my favorite of ours. I wrote it one evening when I found a letter or something written by my ex. Seeing her handwriting was really weird, and brought back a lot of very bad memories, so I wrote them all in a song. As one might imagine, it's not a very nice song.
8. I Found A Whistle - MGMT. I don't know what was happening when they wrote this. I'm guessing its allegorical. Or apocryphal.
9. I Guess I Planted - Billy Bragg/Woody Guthrie. Union song!
10. I Kicked A Boy - The Sundays. The Harriet Wheeler of the date this song was recorded would probably be welcome to kick me a few times. She's got one o' them voices, I tells ya!
11. I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts - X. Not only does this song express John Doe's bad conscience about being an American, but it also incorrectly foretells the doom of American bands. Hah! Stick that in yer pipe and smoke it, X fans!
12. I Remember California - R.E.M. Yes, California is on the edge of the continent. Very informative, Michael.
13. I See Your Face Before Me - Miles Davis. I only know this Howard Dietz and Arthur Schwartz song from Miles' mid-50s recording, which is painfully desolate. Someone once wrote that no one else has ever been able to express loneliness and forlornness like Miles playing the trumpet. Exhibit A right here.
14. I Started A Joke - the Bee Gees. Wow, has this thing utterly failed to remain current, or even viable, in any way, shape, or form. Play it once, I dare you. Does. Not. Work. Especially not after Miles.
15. I Want You - Elvis Costello. Look, Elvis, she's with that other guy, and she doesn't care what you think of him. And quit being such a creep! This is, in fact, an amazing song. If you're in a committed relationship, and you've got a desperate longing for someone else in a committed relationship, and the two of you are alone together, and that person plays you this song, I for one believe it might mean something.
16. I Want You - the Beatles. In fact, not too very different from the previous song - for the first and only time today.
Friday, September 10, 2010
album of the day: all the songs on my iPod, in alphabetical order
Part 2 of ??
Today on my way to and from campus, I entered the Bs.
"At the Zoo" - Simon and Garfunkel. You knew about the hamsters, didn't you? At least suspected?
"Auctioneer" - R.E.M. From Fables of the Reconstruction, and consequently almost entirely inscrutable. Good riff, though.
"Australia" - The Shins. Time to put ze earphones on!
"Ba-De-Ba" - Fred Neil. Fred Neil is one of 3 or 4 singers I hear in my lumbar vertebrae.
"Back In Your Head" - Tegan and Sara. Another Bridge School Benefit concert performer I've been listening to ever since (2008 edition of the show, I believe), but I still haven't decided whether I like them.
"Back to Ohio" - The Pretenders. I bought Learning to Crawl when I was 16, I think. I had read a story in Time about Chrissy Hynde, about the tumult in the band when she fired Pete Farndon (whom she had a kid with) and James Honeyman-Scott died from a weird reaction to cocaine.
"Balloon Man" - Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians. Robyn Hitchcock is not allowed in the house.
"Bambaleo" - Gipsy Kings.
"Bateau" - Marc Ribot. I decided this afternoon that, since he's from Jersey, I shall assume that he poses as French and affects an accent in conversation, so I will pronounce his last name henceforth like the sound a frog makes.
"Because the Night" - Patti Smith. You may not like Patti Smith. You'd be a fool not to like this song.
"Begin the Begin" - R.E.M. First tune on Life's Rich Pageant. I can't itemize or think clearly either, Michael.
"Better than Ice Cream" - Sarah McLachlan. Lovely lovely song, by a lovely lovely chick. Geez, I'd like to bang her.
"Beyond Belief" - Elvis Costello. Well, that certainly ruined that mood. I really like Elvis Costello in his more cynical mood, which is good because he's almost always in it.
"Big Yellow Taxi" - Joni Mitchell. Is it just me, or does the cutesy ending of this song just about wreck it?
"Bike" - Pink Floyd. This came on after "Big Yellow Taxi," and my brain nearly seized. I exclaimed aloud, walking near Donnelly Park, "Fblaugh!" I can't think of a song on my iPod more unlike "Big Yellow Taxi" than Syd Barrett's crazed rumination on whatever the hell was going on in his lunatic head.
"Birds and Ships" - Billy Bragg & Natalie Merchant, written by Woody Guthrie. Then I exclaimed, "Gwuff!" when this came on after "Bike," but I'm not sure anything else would have been much better.
"Black Is The Color Of My True Love's Hair" - Nina Simone. Also not a good fit, but what a thrilling song. This is a live version, first verses with piano accompaniment, then, when Nina switches gender after the bridge, with a sort of blues/flamenco guitar. And she really does switch gender. And she sings bass.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
album of the day: Five Leaves Left
Nick Drake is not my hero, although he was crazy, which a lot of my heroes have been.
Drake died in 1974 of a probably accidental overdose of antidepressants (which were pretty crude in 1974), having released only three albums of his quiet, brooding music to little commercial fanfare. He apparently suffered tremendous social anxiety and had a hell of a time performing in public - to which I can certainly relate - so his studio recordings were sort of orphans left to fend for themselves in the big bad music world. And they're too quiet, too fragile, to live off the streets.
His guitar work is pretty freaking exquisite. His compositions are not terrifically complex, but with his instrument tuned mainly in various non-standard ways, the tunes come across as built funny. In any case, he played with precision and just a terrific touch. If Fahey had a genius for bent melody, Drake had a genius for loveliness.
On Five Leaves Left, his 1969 debut, Island Records gave him Fairport Convention guitarist Richard Thompson and Pentangle bassist Danny Thompson, as well as a string section, for a supporting cast. And although the strings get a little too rich for my blood, I've got no argument against the Non-Brothers Thompson - in particular Danny's work on "Three Hours" really makes the track work. Anyway, that support showed Island's commitment to Drake, in my opinion; but Drake only toured reluctantly, and, I've read, with some petulance.
You definitely get a sense of his general feeling of ill-fitting the world around him from his lyrics. For instance, the opening track, "Time Has Told Me":
Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind
And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday our Ocean
Will find its shore
Then there's the autobiographical "Man In A Shed":
Well there was a man
Lived in a shed
Spent most of his days out of his head
For his shed was rotten let in the rain
Said it was enough to drive any man insane
When it rained
He felt so bad
When it snowed he felt just simply sad
So, yes, I have to confess that Nick Drake is not allowed in the house. I'm not sure how I'd feel about him being here. What do you do with a massively talented songwriter, singer, and above all, guitarist, who doesn't really want to talk to you or play for you?
While I'm at it, I'd like to say that it bugs the shit out of me that Nick Drake songs keep appearing in TV commercials. A couple years ago it was VW using "Pink Moon," which (a) makes no sense whatsoever as a commercial jingle, and (b) seems to be about being followed by a pink moon whose intent is to cause grievous harm. Lately, it's been AT&T using "From The Morning," which at least doesn't seem to be foretelling astronomical doom, but still bothers me. You know what it is? It's that the songs are used because they're pleasant, sweet, lovely melodies played by this sweet, lovely dead guitarist who was a depressed recluse his whole adult life. It's in such incredibly poor taste. It may even bother me more than John Lennon's "Revolution" being used by Nike. Um, nah.
Monday, June 21, 2010
album of the day: The Royal Scam
Steely Dan are bona fide pop music legends, weirdos, and perverts. I mean that in the nicest possible way, as most of my friends would confirm for you without hesitation. Their music draws from whatever they want at the time - blues, jazz, pop standards, anything, even, occasionally, rock. They are allowed in the house under certain conditions.
This may not be their best work. There are three relatively much less interesting songs compared to their usual: "The Caves of Altamira," "Everything You Did" and the title track. But the key phrase there is "compared to their usual." Their usual is better than most.
And the best numbers on here are legit pop-rock classics. Unless you know Steely Dan, you probably don't know "Don't Take Me Alive" or "Sign in Stranger," which is sad, because they're excellent songs about everyday topics like surviving a siege or having surgery to change your appearance and avoid detection. And then there's "Kid Charlemagne," which is a very good song about the fun and frolic of dealing drugs, including ruining people's lives, bugging out when about to be busted, and of course guns, cash, and chemistry. (It's kind of like working for BP.)
I play this frequently, in the main because I have such a soft spot for "The Fez" and for "Haitian Divorce." I'm not sure what "The Fez" is supposed to be about, other than the speaker's quirky insistence on wearing a fez while having sex ("never gonna do it without the fez on..."), and you know, if that's your thing, I can't see anything against it. "Haitian Divorce" is a funk-influenced song that offers listeners tips on how to resolve marital disputes through sanctioned cuckoldry.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
the sick, and more banishments
My loveliest has been battling Teh Sick for a couple weeks now. I've been trying to help out, but frankly, also doing a fair amount of gleefully-not-being-sick. Last night, after a loooong day, I was coughing a bit, and chalked it up to having talked all day. I was fooling myself. I woke up this morning feeling basically crappy.
And that's about it for now: basically crappy. That is my typical mode of illness going back many a year. I get all the annoying pain, exhaustion, and muddle-headedness of being properly sick, without any of the diverting sneezing, hacking, wheezing and drippiness. Few things are more frustrating to me than being useless, but there it is: basically crappy.
On another subject altogether, Pieter Bruegel, Hieronymous Bosch, and James Ensor (not to say especially James Ensor) are not allowed in the house.
And that's about it for now: basically crappy. That is my typical mode of illness going back many a year. I get all the annoying pain, exhaustion, and muddle-headedness of being properly sick, without any of the diverting sneezing, hacking, wheezing and drippiness. Few things are more frustrating to me than being useless, but there it is: basically crappy.
On another subject altogether, Pieter Bruegel, Hieronymous Bosch, and James Ensor (not to say especially James Ensor) are not allowed in the house.
Monday, January 19, 2009
educational fascism,
and what Stanley Fish is gonna do about it
When I first contemplated grad school, one of my undergrad profs advised me about what to expect. Among the things he told me (almost all of which turned out to be true) was that my chances of getting a tenure-track job teaching philosophy at the other end of grad school were remote - not because of some failing of mine, but because, in his view, there simply weren't going to be very many tenure-track jobs out there. When I first came to California to teach, it was as a one-year full-time "lecturer." I've retained this position, through hard work, a bit of luck, and some struggle. Now I'm an activist in the union and an advocate for the rights of faculty, like me, in "temporary" positions - the majority of the faculty.
Over the years, I've gone through some important changes of mind. Regarding "temporary" employment in academia, I've come to the conclusion that tenure is disappearing completely. This is the last generation to see tenure. (It may be the last generation among affluent nations to see electricity, central heat, mass-scale economies, and abundant food, but that's a tale for another day.) Already, the vast majority of college faculty in the US work with little or no job security, and little or no hope of attaining it. The trend is also increasing its pace.
Some observers believe there is an open question of why this is happening. Some assert that no one is causing this trend - that "market forces" or an irrevocable cultural shift are to blame. To me, this is patent hogwash. Tenure is going away because powerful people want it to go away. They want it to go away because tenured faculty cost more, have more authority, cannot be told what to do - in theory, at least (many tenured faculty I know are astonishingly timorous and quiescent, especially in contrast to the unprotected contingent faculty activists I know, and admittedly vastly prefer). The casualization of faculty labor is especially acute in humanities, where tenure is becoming the badge of elite status and where the bulk of teaching is done by tenuous-track faculty. Why in the humanities? I think the answers are obvious: What else can an MA or PhD in humanities do for a living? Where else can cost savings be so easily achieved by universities? And the big one: what other disciplines deliberately focus on developing critical reasoning abilities that may lead students to wonder about their educations, careers, and roles in society?
Recently, someone clued Stanley Fish in on this, and he even read a book about it, by a former student named Frank Donoghue. Fish seems to endorse Donoghue's conclusion, which is that humanities departments will soon be peopled entirely with education's equivalent of migrant workers. This, Fish explains, is because of social changes that have ruled out education being for any non-instrumental purpose - that is, education is understood as only for the sake of developing job skills. Fish contrasts this with education in humanities being for no purpose - just for the sake of explaining and understanding, which issues in no change in the world at all.
Fish doesn't say much about the implicit fascism of the "instrumental" model of education, but instead considers the end of tenure in the humanities. In concluding, he seems to express a vague air of wistfulness about it:
Goody for you, Stan.
The article pisses me off, not, as one might imagine, because of Fish's blasé attitude toward the fairly lousy working lives of the majority faculty on whose labor Fish's own elite status utterly depends - though indeed that pisses me off. What really irked me was the ignorance of his argument. He poses a clearly false dichotomy: humanities education must be either for the sake of saleable skills, or for purposeless understanding. That he can make this argument, with an apparently straight face, what? 70? years after The Dialectic of Enlightenment is impossible for me to grasp. Hello? Stanley? Remember the debates with Habermas?
Asshole.
Anyway, humanities education can be, often is, fascistic. But it needn't be "instrumental" in that sense alone. There is a critical use of reason, as well - one that, contrary to Fish's elitism, does issue in social change. At least, we're trying...
So, think I'll add Stanley Fish to the list: not allowed in the house. You blew it, Stan.
Over the years, I've gone through some important changes of mind. Regarding "temporary" employment in academia, I've come to the conclusion that tenure is disappearing completely. This is the last generation to see tenure. (It may be the last generation among affluent nations to see electricity, central heat, mass-scale economies, and abundant food, but that's a tale for another day.) Already, the vast majority of college faculty in the US work with little or no job security, and little or no hope of attaining it. The trend is also increasing its pace.
Some observers believe there is an open question of why this is happening. Some assert that no one is causing this trend - that "market forces" or an irrevocable cultural shift are to blame. To me, this is patent hogwash. Tenure is going away because powerful people want it to go away. They want it to go away because tenured faculty cost more, have more authority, cannot be told what to do - in theory, at least (many tenured faculty I know are astonishingly timorous and quiescent, especially in contrast to the unprotected contingent faculty activists I know, and admittedly vastly prefer). The casualization of faculty labor is especially acute in humanities, where tenure is becoming the badge of elite status and where the bulk of teaching is done by tenuous-track faculty. Why in the humanities? I think the answers are obvious: What else can an MA or PhD in humanities do for a living? Where else can cost savings be so easily achieved by universities? And the big one: what other disciplines deliberately focus on developing critical reasoning abilities that may lead students to wonder about their educations, careers, and roles in society?
Recently, someone clued Stanley Fish in on this, and he even read a book about it, by a former student named Frank Donoghue. Fish seems to endorse Donoghue's conclusion, which is that humanities departments will soon be peopled entirely with education's equivalent of migrant workers. This, Fish explains, is because of social changes that have ruled out education being for any non-instrumental purpose - that is, education is understood as only for the sake of developing job skills. Fish contrasts this with education in humanities being for no purpose - just for the sake of explaining and understanding, which issues in no change in the world at all.
Fish doesn't say much about the implicit fascism of the "instrumental" model of education, but instead considers the end of tenure in the humanities. In concluding, he seems to express a vague air of wistfulness about it:
People sometimes believe that they were born too late or too early. After reading Donoghue’s book, I feel that I have timed it just right, for it seems that I have had a career that would not have been available to me had I entered the world 50 years later. Just lucky, I guess.
Goody for you, Stan.
The article pisses me off, not, as one might imagine, because of Fish's blasé attitude toward the fairly lousy working lives of the majority faculty on whose labor Fish's own elite status utterly depends - though indeed that pisses me off. What really irked me was the ignorance of his argument. He poses a clearly false dichotomy: humanities education must be either for the sake of saleable skills, or for purposeless understanding. That he can make this argument, with an apparently straight face, what? 70? years after The Dialectic of Enlightenment is impossible for me to grasp. Hello? Stanley? Remember the debates with Habermas?
Asshole.
Anyway, humanities education can be, often is, fascistic. But it needn't be "instrumental" in that sense alone. There is a critical use of reason, as well - one that, contrary to Fish's elitism, does issue in social change. At least, we're trying...
So, think I'll add Stanley Fish to the list: not allowed in the house. You blew it, Stan.
Friday, August 15, 2008
happy birthday...
... to Napoleon Bonaparte, 239 years old today!
, and to Julia Child, who woulda been 94
, and to India, independent in 1947
, and to the Congo, independent in 1960
, and many many more! Turns out it's also Oscar Peterson's, Sir Walter Scott's and Thomas de Quincey's birthday (I didn't know that until this morning), Rose Marie's as well, and also the anniversary of the opening of the Panama Canal. Also: Debra Messing (who was also born in 1968, but I don't think she's 26 like I am), Ben Affleck (meh), Flyers goalie Marty Biron. It's also the day Catholics observe the Assumption of Mary.
Us, we're going to Modesto. Ah, Modesto. Nothing more to be said, really.
Except this: Among these people whose birthday I share, Napoleon and Ben Affleck are not allowed in the house. Neither, also, are India or the Congo, or the Panama Canal. It's not that big an apartment. The Assumption takes up far more room than you'd probably expect.
, and to Julia Child, who woulda been 94
, and to India, independent in 1947
, and to the Congo, independent in 1960
, and many many more! Turns out it's also Oscar Peterson's, Sir Walter Scott's and Thomas de Quincey's birthday (I didn't know that until this morning), Rose Marie's as well, and also the anniversary of the opening of the Panama Canal. Also: Debra Messing (who was also born in 1968, but I don't think she's 26 like I am), Ben Affleck (meh), Flyers goalie Marty Biron. It's also the day Catholics observe the Assumption of Mary.
Us, we're going to Modesto. Ah, Modesto. Nothing more to be said, really.
Except this: Among these people whose birthday I share, Napoleon and Ben Affleck are not allowed in the house. Neither, also, are India or the Congo, or the Panama Canal. It's not that big an apartment. The Assumption takes up far more room than you'd probably expect.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
it's 10:04 - do you know where your things are?
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
36. High-tech toys. I just love 'em.
One of my great moral failings is my unseemly delight in electronic gadgets. We bought a Kodak digital camera today to replace the stupid old PukePix Shootslikecrap that we bought at Target several years ago. The Kodak is a mighty machine, and we armed it with a 4-gig memory card, which holds nearly 1600 images (at 8 megapixels per), or a ridiculous amount of video with audio (yep, does that). It has 6 different image capture modes. Gonna be a lot of fun.
While at the toy store, we saw the new Mac laptop that's 10 mils thick, the Air MacJordan or whatever the heck it's called. The Apple people, if I hadn't mentioned, are not allowed in the house. Evil, evil people. Of course we want one!
37. Block-buster NHL trade deadline deals. I just love 'em.
Our beloved Pittsburgh Penguins made a good trade for 6'7" defenseman Hal Gill, whose job description includes "beatdowns," as well as "getting all them buggers out of the front of the net." They need that.
But they also made the biggest trade of the season, with minutes to spare, for big-time goal-scorer Marian Hossa. Nobody expected this. In fact, their general manager, Ray Shero, swore up and down that he wasn't going to make a big deal.
They also got a useful player, Pascal Dupuis, who in addition to being French-Canadian, is also a decent checker. They had to trade away a promising winger, Erik Christensen, a potentially dynamite prospect, Angelo Esposito, and a huge fan favorite and teammate favorite, Colby Armstrong. Apparently, the Fox Sports Pittsburgh broadcast of tonight's Penguins-Islanders game included fan reaction: weeping over Colby leaving. Lauren is also very upset, because Colby and Crusher (Erik's nickname: everybody who plays hockey goes by a nickname, by international law) were two of her favorite Penguins.
Ray Shero isn't allowed in the house, either.
36. High-tech toys. I just love 'em.
One of my great moral failings is my unseemly delight in electronic gadgets. We bought a Kodak digital camera today to replace the stupid old PukePix Shootslikecrap that we bought at Target several years ago. The Kodak is a mighty machine, and we armed it with a 4-gig memory card, which holds nearly 1600 images (at 8 megapixels per), or a ridiculous amount of video with audio (yep, does that). It has 6 different image capture modes. Gonna be a lot of fun.
While at the toy store, we saw the new Mac laptop that's 10 mils thick, the Air MacJordan or whatever the heck it's called. The Apple people, if I hadn't mentioned, are not allowed in the house. Evil, evil people. Of course we want one!
37. Block-buster NHL trade deadline deals. I just love 'em.
Our beloved Pittsburgh Penguins made a good trade for 6'7" defenseman Hal Gill, whose job description includes "beatdowns," as well as "getting all them buggers out of the front of the net." They need that.
But they also made the biggest trade of the season, with minutes to spare, for big-time goal-scorer Marian Hossa. Nobody expected this. In fact, their general manager, Ray Shero, swore up and down that he wasn't going to make a big deal.
They also got a useful player, Pascal Dupuis, who in addition to being French-Canadian, is also a decent checker. They had to trade away a promising winger, Erik Christensen, a potentially dynamite prospect, Angelo Esposito, and a huge fan favorite and teammate favorite, Colby Armstrong. Apparently, the Fox Sports Pittsburgh broadcast of tonight's Penguins-Islanders game included fan reaction: weeping over Colby leaving. Lauren is also very upset, because Colby and Crusher (Erik's nickname: everybody who plays hockey goes by a nickname, by international law) were two of her favorite Penguins.
Ray Shero isn't allowed in the house, either.
Friday, February 08, 2008
in questionable taste
First off:
Of course, I was thinking: FEMA.
I'm modifying the list of people not allowed in the house. I'm prepared at this point to remove Regina Spektor from the list, inasmuch as we'd love to have her for dinner.
It may be helpful to clarify that being included on the official Not Allowed In The House list is not, in almost all cases, meant as a sign of disrespect, nor a criticism of the work of the people on the list. We love Bjørk, for instance, we just think it's prudent not to allow her in the house. That said:
In a controversial decision, Steely Dan is allowed in the house, as long as they don't bring their cousins.
In other news, imagine you're the Republican Party. You're holding a presidential nominating election across numerous states. John McCain keeps winning delegates, and suddenly you're down to McCain and Mike Huckabee. Wow.
Are we ever ripe for a third candidate election. Yeesh to follow.
In the aftermath of stunningly deadly and destructive tornadoes, this hard-hit community now has other worries — looters, power shortages and a large number of residents still unaccounted for.
Of course, I was thinking: FEMA.
I'm modifying the list of people not allowed in the house. I'm prepared at this point to remove Regina Spektor from the list, inasmuch as we'd love to have her for dinner.
It may be helpful to clarify that being included on the official Not Allowed In The House list is not, in almost all cases, meant as a sign of disrespect, nor a criticism of the work of the people on the list. We love Bjørk, for instance, we just think it's prudent not to allow her in the house. That said:
In a controversial decision, Steely Dan is allowed in the house, as long as they don't bring their cousins.
In other news, imagine you're the Republican Party. You're holding a presidential nominating election across numerous states. John McCain keeps winning delegates, and suddenly you're down to McCain and Mike Huckabee. Wow.
Are we ever ripe for a third candidate election. Yeesh to follow.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
yet more? yet more
Another of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
39. Old episodes of The Larry Sanders Show. I just love 'em.
Before The Office, there was the Larry Sanders show (and before that, there was It's Garry Shandling's Show), a show-within-a-show sitcom about an absurdly egomaniacal, vaguely depraved, slightly perverted, utterly unself-aware yet tremendously narcissistic and self-doubting late-night talk show host. I've just given myself the present of the DVD box-set Not Just The Best Of The Larry Sanders Show, reminded as I was of the program by an errant copy of Entertainment Weekly, of all things.
It's delicious. The show's narrative perspective isn't all that inventive: we look behind-the-scenes at the internal comedy of errors that leads to the program's production, with special emphasis on the fatally flawed star. But they got fantastic performances from guest stars playing themselves, and the core group - Garry Shandling, Rip Torn, Jeffrey Tambor, Penny Johnson, and Janeane Garofalo - play their parts to the absolute frigging hilt. You could make this comedy broadly, play it like a Sid Caesar sketch or a Mel Brooks movie, but you'd never crack open the heads of the characters, never get the deep, revolting, hilarious revelation of their psychologies and motivations. What makes the thing tick is the contradiction between the arch-realism of the show's narrative perspective, and the absurd degree to which each character is firmly committed to his or her own particular pursuit, foible, or transgression.
I confess that the reason I first got into the show was a youthful and misguided obsession with Janeane Garofalo (though I'm not the only one), which has so far made no embarrassing reprise. I was a fan of It's Garry Shandling's Show (yeah, I was the one), which was decidedly more radical in approach, but the performances and writing in Larry Sanders were far, far better. Rip Torn is a god.
He's also, incidentally, not allowed in the house. I have my reasons.
Janeane is. Dammit!
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
39. Old episodes of The Larry Sanders Show. I just love 'em.
Before The Office, there was the Larry Sanders show (and before that, there was It's Garry Shandling's Show), a show-within-a-show sitcom about an absurdly egomaniacal, vaguely depraved, slightly perverted, utterly unself-aware yet tremendously narcissistic and self-doubting late-night talk show host. I've just given myself the present of the DVD box-set Not Just The Best Of The Larry Sanders Show, reminded as I was of the program by an errant copy of Entertainment Weekly, of all things.
It's delicious. The show's narrative perspective isn't all that inventive: we look behind-the-scenes at the internal comedy of errors that leads to the program's production, with special emphasis on the fatally flawed star. But they got fantastic performances from guest stars playing themselves, and the core group - Garry Shandling, Rip Torn, Jeffrey Tambor, Penny Johnson, and Janeane Garofalo - play their parts to the absolute frigging hilt. You could make this comedy broadly, play it like a Sid Caesar sketch or a Mel Brooks movie, but you'd never crack open the heads of the characters, never get the deep, revolting, hilarious revelation of their psychologies and motivations. What makes the thing tick is the contradiction between the arch-realism of the show's narrative perspective, and the absurd degree to which each character is firmly committed to his or her own particular pursuit, foible, or transgression.
I confess that the reason I first got into the show was a youthful and misguided obsession with Janeane Garofalo (though I'm not the only one), which has so far made no embarrassing reprise. I was a fan of It's Garry Shandling's Show (yeah, I was the one), which was decidedly more radical in approach, but the performances and writing in Larry Sanders were far, far better. Rip Torn is a god.
He's also, incidentally, not allowed in the house. I have my reasons.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
nothing to do with the New Hampshire primary
I'll preface this by reporting briefly that I'd rather be playing my guitars right now, but I'm not, because I'm missing my right thumbnail and ring fingernail, both to accidents involving metal things. My thumbnail was gouged when I foolishly tried to open a door on campus with my right hand (I can only reliably open doors left-handed) and my thumbnail struck the metal plate around the door handle. I didn't trim it, and the tear weakened the nail's structural integrity enough that handling the Christmas turkey gravy preparation did it in. [No fingernail fragments were consumed during the dinner, I swear.] I forget what took my fingernail, but in any case, I'm left with long index, second, and pinky nails, and I can't functionally fingerpick my guitars this way.
This is especially distressing because of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
42. D'Addario 12-string silk and steel guitar strings. I just love 'em.
For a year I've been experimenting with guitar strings. I was gaga for John Pearse phosphor bronze strings, but after putting D'Addario EXPs on my Takamine jumbo 12, and absolutely loving the sound, I decided more experimentation was in order.
I've always been tempted by silk/silver wound so-called "folk/fingerpicking" strings, and I have fallen head over heels and ass over teakettle in love with the sound of these things on my Breedlove. Songs I had tired of, or never felt happy with the sound of, now sound perfect to me. We've been working on a couple covers that I was constantly disappointed with, and now they're spot on, exactly the sound I wanted.
It makes sense. I had a Takamine classical forever, and the silk strings produce a sound somewhere between the classicals (especially the bases) and phosphor bronze. The stuff we do, and especially the stuff I write, is built for that kind of warm tone. The fingerpicked 12-string numbers sound incredible.
I'm gushing. I know. I gush.
Oh, yeah, and John Fahey is not allowed in the house. Lauren asked, as she has to on these occasions, whether he's not dead, and indeed he is, rest his twisted, tortured soul, but that's no reason to let him in. Sorry John. I adore your music, but you'll have to play outside.
This is especially distressing because of
Doc Nagel's Top 100 Things
42. D'Addario 12-string silk and steel guitar strings. I just love 'em.
For a year I've been experimenting with guitar strings. I was gaga for John Pearse phosphor bronze strings, but after putting D'Addario EXPs on my Takamine jumbo 12, and absolutely loving the sound, I decided more experimentation was in order.
I've always been tempted by silk/silver wound so-called "folk/fingerpicking" strings, and I have fallen head over heels and ass over teakettle in love with the sound of these things on my Breedlove. Songs I had tired of, or never felt happy with the sound of, now sound perfect to me. We've been working on a couple covers that I was constantly disappointed with, and now they're spot on, exactly the sound I wanted.
It makes sense. I had a Takamine classical forever, and the silk strings produce a sound somewhere between the classicals (especially the bases) and phosphor bronze. The stuff we do, and especially the stuff I write, is built for that kind of warm tone. The fingerpicked 12-string numbers sound incredible.
I'm gushing. I know. I gush.
Oh, yeah, and John Fahey is not allowed in the house. Lauren asked, as she has to on these occasions, whether he's not dead, and indeed he is, rest his twisted, tortured soul, but that's no reason to let him in. Sorry John. I adore your music, but you'll have to play outside.
Friday, January 04, 2008
bad weather, bad health, and badness
California makes a person soft. The weather is, for here, terrible: it's been raining all day, with gusty winds up to 40+ miles an hour. Accidents are piling up on the freeway; streets are flooding; chaos and lawlessness are descending upon us. (It's true! We've had to defend ourselves from three bands of roving, devolved troglodytes just this afternoon!) And there's more rain on the way.
In Pittsburgh, you'd call this kind of weather "Wednesday," and it wouldn't strike you as abnormal, except in January or February, when you'd say it was unseasonably warm. And in Fairbanks today the high temperature is -9.
I feel cold and wet. I've lived here almost 9½ years.
We had to risk drowning to take the cat to the vet today, because his GI tract is once again three miles of bad road. Poor old thing. They're running blood tests and have us feeding him antibiotics (which helped the last time), so we'll see. Of course, I'm worried sick, so I didn't sleep last night, which helps tremendously.
By the way, I wasn't kidding about risking drowning. The onramp to get onto the Crankster Freeway was almost unnavigable. The driveway through the complex soon will be. We were planning to go out to a hobby shop in search of model train gear tomorrow, but I've called that off.
In other news, it sure warmed the cockles of my heart to read of Hillary Clinton's response to her coming in third to Barack Obama in yesterday's Iowa Caucus. "Don't have false hopes, don't get your hopes up too high" is such optimistic, forward-thinking speech. It really shows what she stands for.
We also saw Sweeney Todd yesterday, as ruined utterly by Tim Burton. It's a terrible story, of course, but it's a musical, you know, with music, and it's supposed to be entertaining, you know, like entertainment. Burton drained it of almost all humor, made the entire production as grim as possible (with the exception of Helena Bonham Carter's cleavage), and soaked it in blood. Could someone please explain to Tim Burton the difference between a movie musical and a snuff film? Please? Thank you.
Tim Burton is now not allowed in the house.
I don't think Alan Rickman should be, either, but that's still in negotiation.
In Pittsburgh, you'd call this kind of weather "Wednesday," and it wouldn't strike you as abnormal, except in January or February, when you'd say it was unseasonably warm. And in Fairbanks today the high temperature is -9.
I feel cold and wet. I've lived here almost 9½ years.
We had to risk drowning to take the cat to the vet today, because his GI tract is once again three miles of bad road. Poor old thing. They're running blood tests and have us feeding him antibiotics (which helped the last time), so we'll see. Of course, I'm worried sick, so I didn't sleep last night, which helps tremendously.
By the way, I wasn't kidding about risking drowning. The onramp to get onto the Crankster Freeway was almost unnavigable. The driveway through the complex soon will be. We were planning to go out to a hobby shop in search of model train gear tomorrow, but I've called that off.
In other news, it sure warmed the cockles of my heart to read of Hillary Clinton's response to her coming in third to Barack Obama in yesterday's Iowa Caucus. "Don't have false hopes, don't get your hopes up too high" is such optimistic, forward-thinking speech. It really shows what she stands for.
We also saw Sweeney Todd yesterday, as ruined utterly by Tim Burton. It's a terrible story, of course, but it's a musical, you know, with music, and it's supposed to be entertaining, you know, like entertainment. Burton drained it of almost all humor, made the entire production as grim as possible (with the exception of Helena Bonham Carter's cleavage), and soaked it in blood. Could someone please explain to Tim Burton the difference between a movie musical and a snuff film? Please? Thank you.
Tim Burton is now not allowed in the house.
I don't think Alan Rickman should be, either, but that's still in negotiation.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
two new entries in the list of non-entries
It's been quite a while since I added to the list of people not allowed in the house.
Regina Spektor could be really sweet, I suppose. I dunno. Her performance at the Bridge School concert was cute and friendly, but her lyrics suggest something deep inside that works in a strange and terrible way. Not exactly deranged, but decidedly, um, unkempt.
Bill Hicks. It's never a good idea to judge a stand-up comic on his stage persona, and I think in Hicks' case that's especially so, because there's no way any human being could truly be that rude. However, there's no way any sane human being could have written his stuff about "goat boy." It has been pointed out to me that Bill Hicks is dead, and that therefore his banishment, like Jeff Buckley's, may not be necessary. Again I reply that their being dead is no reason to allow them into the house.
Regina Spektor could be really sweet, I suppose. I dunno. Her performance at the Bridge School concert was cute and friendly, but her lyrics suggest something deep inside that works in a strange and terrible way. Not exactly deranged, but decidedly, um, unkempt.
Bill Hicks. It's never a good idea to judge a stand-up comic on his stage persona, and I think in Hicks' case that's especially so, because there's no way any human being could truly be that rude. However, there's no way any sane human being could have written his stuff about "goat boy." It has been pointed out to me that Bill Hicks is dead, and that therefore his banishment, like Jeff Buckley's, may not be necessary. Again I reply that their being dead is no reason to allow them into the house.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house
It's official.
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house. On the way home from our local Borders this evening, Mr. Jones came on the oldies station, singing his hit "Delilah." That did it.
This may have gone without saying for the rest of time, but while I'm at it I may as well announce that Alan Greenspan is not allowed in the house, unless gagged and locked in an iron cage while being beaten continuously with an invisible hand. And let that be a lesson to the rest of you: I'm prepared, in defense of home and hearth, to pun mercilessly, and at times in extremely questionable taste.
Carry on.
Tom Jones is not allowed in the house. On the way home from our local Borders this evening, Mr. Jones came on the oldies station, singing his hit "Delilah." That did it.
This may have gone without saying for the rest of time, but while I'm at it I may as well announce that Alan Greenspan is not allowed in the house, unless gagged and locked in an iron cage while being beaten continuously with an invisible hand. And let that be a lesson to the rest of you: I'm prepared, in defense of home and hearth, to pun mercilessly, and at times in extremely questionable taste.
Carry on.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
brief update to the "no entry" list
As of last night, the list of people not allowed in the house has expanded by three:
* Kurt Russell
* Melanie Griffith
Both of them are very nearly terminally noxious to my loveliest. I confess to a higher threshold of tolerance for the Griffith, by which I mean I could probably permit her to use the bathroom on an emergency basis, if the only alternative was to have her avail herself of the mock orange bush in front of our place. Also, possibly, if lives were at stake, but I'm not entirely sure I want to be held to that.
* Quentin Tarrentino
Like some others on the list, I think this just makes good sense. I don't think he's necessarily a violent person, but that's not really the point. I believe he has an unhealthy fixation on - well, on lots of things it's unhealthy to be fixated on.
* Kurt Russell
* Melanie Griffith
Both of them are very nearly terminally noxious to my loveliest. I confess to a higher threshold of tolerance for the Griffith, by which I mean I could probably permit her to use the bathroom on an emergency basis, if the only alternative was to have her avail herself of the mock orange bush in front of our place. Also, possibly, if lives were at stake, but I'm not entirely sure I want to be held to that.
* Quentin Tarrentino
Like some others on the list, I think this just makes good sense. I don't think he's necessarily a violent person, but that's not really the point. I believe he has an unhealthy fixation on - well, on lots of things it's unhealthy to be fixated on.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Forest Whittaker is not allowed in the house
Based entirely (not to say unfairly) on their performances, I have over the years decided that numerous musical and theatrical stars are not allowed in the house. I'm adding Forest Whittaker to the list after having watched The Last King of Scotland this weekend.
Obviously, I don't know Mr. Whittaker. He's clearly an intelligent and gifted actor, and I presume that he's not entirely miserable to work with (he's not famous enough to behave that badly). I also wasn't so entirely taken with his performance as Idi Amin that I gave in completely to the suspension of disbelief and was actually afraid. It's more a matter of the kinds of role Mr. Whittaker seems to choose, and in which he seems to excel. They bespeak, to me, a deep inner wellspring of violent emotion.
Forest Whittaker is under the total ban, along with many others. There is also a short list of famous people who are only allowed in subject to certain conditions, usually for our own protection. With that, let's revisit the list, accrued over time.
* Bjørk. Would she sit demuring in the corner, or dive for the liquor cabinet? Would she spend hours reading the titles of all the books in the place? Or break all the furniture just for the percussion? Would she steal the cat? Too unpredictable.
* Fred Willard. Actually, Fred is allowed in, but only in leg irons.
* Jeff Buckley. On a recent walk home, "So Real" came on my iPod, and as I entered I announced, "Jeff Buckley is not allowed in the house." Lauren's quick reply was to point out that, "Jeff Buckley is dead." "All the more reason," I said. He was weird enough alive.
* Robert Downey, Jr. This just makes good sense.
* Amy Sedaris. This was a controversial decision, because Lauren thinks Amy Sedaris is just about the cutest thing ever. But I know that's just another way she's incredibly dangerous.
* Alan Cumming. Actually, Alan Cumming is allowed in the house, but only on a short leash. Yes, I do mean that literally.
* Bruce McCulloch. This is probably an over-reaction, but especially in drag, Bruce was always the creepiest of the Kids in the Hall, and I've never fully recovered.
* Tim Curry. Clue almost restored his visa. Almost.
There are of course a number of other people not allowed in the house, and not all of them were born in either 1961 or 1965 (recurring dates in the list for some reason). Most of the others are less famous, with some exceptions. And then there are other people not officially on the list whom I would never consider letting in, some living, some dead (Augusto Pinochet springs to mind). I think it's good to maintain a list of this sort just in case.
Obviously, I don't know Mr. Whittaker. He's clearly an intelligent and gifted actor, and I presume that he's not entirely miserable to work with (he's not famous enough to behave that badly). I also wasn't so entirely taken with his performance as Idi Amin that I gave in completely to the suspension of disbelief and was actually afraid. It's more a matter of the kinds of role Mr. Whittaker seems to choose, and in which he seems to excel. They bespeak, to me, a deep inner wellspring of violent emotion.
Forest Whittaker is under the total ban, along with many others. There is also a short list of famous people who are only allowed in subject to certain conditions, usually for our own protection. With that, let's revisit the list, accrued over time.
* Bjørk. Would she sit demuring in the corner, or dive for the liquor cabinet? Would she spend hours reading the titles of all the books in the place? Or break all the furniture just for the percussion? Would she steal the cat? Too unpredictable.
* Fred Willard. Actually, Fred is allowed in, but only in leg irons.
* Jeff Buckley. On a recent walk home, "So Real" came on my iPod, and as I entered I announced, "Jeff Buckley is not allowed in the house." Lauren's quick reply was to point out that, "Jeff Buckley is dead." "All the more reason," I said. He was weird enough alive.
* Robert Downey, Jr. This just makes good sense.
* Amy Sedaris. This was a controversial decision, because Lauren thinks Amy Sedaris is just about the cutest thing ever. But I know that's just another way she's incredibly dangerous.
* Alan Cumming. Actually, Alan Cumming is allowed in the house, but only on a short leash. Yes, I do mean that literally.
* Bruce McCulloch. This is probably an over-reaction, but especially in drag, Bruce was always the creepiest of the Kids in the Hall, and I've never fully recovered.
* Tim Curry. Clue almost restored his visa. Almost.
There are of course a number of other people not allowed in the house, and not all of them were born in either 1961 or 1965 (recurring dates in the list for some reason). Most of the others are less famous, with some exceptions. And then there are other people not officially on the list whom I would never consider letting in, some living, some dead (Augusto Pinochet springs to mind). I think it's good to maintain a list of this sort just in case.
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