Scarfake

Geek Salad

Wanna see my Greek Salad? It's just a salad, sure, but it was way yummy!

C'mon, you know you want some...


They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but women have hearts, too, and I've yet to know a woman who didn't love a man who could cook. I think love of food is reflective of a love of life, itself -- it's a natural pairing.

Soundtrack

I sometimes craft soundtracks for writing pieces I'm working on. Gets my mind geared up for the piece. Here's the master soundtrack I made for a horror screenplay I'm doing (where I compiled my favorite tunes from two discs I already did for it). Now you can sing along!

1. Sheena is a Parasite | The Horrors
2. Party Time | Legion of Parasites
3. Parasites | The Subhumans (UK)
4. Andy Warhol | Treepeople
5. You Can Have What You Want | Papercuts
6. Love Will Tear Us Apart | Nouvelle Vague
7. Truth Is | The Sky Drops
8. Beyond Yes | Coin Under Tongue
9. Pajama Party in a Haunted Hive | Beat Happening
10. When I'm Small | Phantogram
11. Parasites | The Soft Pack
12. 2000 Light Years From Bolan | Go Home Productions
13. Harmonix | Surfer Blood
14. Mirror's Image | The Horrors
15. No Mongo | Wizzard Sleeve
16. M4 (Part II -- The Paronomasiac Remix) | Faunts

Maybe not your cup of tea (or coffee), or maybe you'd enjoy it. Anything is possible. Well, almost anything, anyway. All I know is that it's fun!

My Clementine

Dicin'

I was doing prepwork for Greek Salad at the kitchen table, with B2 watching -- he's fascinated by me cooking, so I try to include him, let him see how it's done. I peeled and chopped some cucumbers (which he sampled), some red onion, some feta cheese (cubed that), some green peppers. And each time, I'd have him put those in saver containers for later, and put'em in the fridge. I love his interest in that.

He's already a natural actor (hahah, like me!), so it's nice to see him interested in cooking -- maybe it'll give him something to fall back on if/when he became an actor someday. I'll teach him what I know, confident that he'll do even better. He loves to smell absolutely everything with cooking -- he'll ask to smell it, already has a wide range of scent palates that way, just loves it. I'd like to think that it'll prepare his broader palate down the road.

I think I'm going to make spaghetti with turkey meatballs and the Greek Salad. Damn, I need to get some wine. Should've done that earlier. Gotta have the wine, right? Mmm hmm!

Windows into the soulless

I already wrote elsewhere about the political violence of the GOP's attack dogs, the Tea Baggers, but they're really annoying. I saw that in Cincinnati (among other places with a lot of reactionary wing-dings) they smashed a Democratic Party headquarters' windows. I'm sure that got downplayed by the Enquirer, which has a very real agenda in their coverage, but people around the country (and the world) noticed the ugliness there and elsewhere.

It's curious how that gets downplayed when contrasted with, say, the breaking of windows at the WTO protests in Seattle in 1999 -- the handful of windows broken there by rioters was shrilly trotted out by the media as the coming of the apocalypse. But the very tightly targeted political violence against Democrats -- spitting on representatives, ethnic and other slurs, death threats (against at least 20 of them), attacks on their homes and Democratic Party headquarters -- that gets downplayed to the detriment of the rest of us.

You can be sure that if left-wing violence of similar character had been carried out, the trumpets would be sounding and there'd be people trotted off to prisons straightaway (and these days, we actually do have official secret prisons, for fuck's sake, thanks to GW Bush and Dick Cheney). And this is borne out if you actually look at the history of political violence -- some forms of political violence are tolerated (when perpetrated by the Right) when contrasted with others (invariably when carried out by the Left).

So, if you want to get away with, say, terrorism, you're far better off lighting up a cross on somebody's lawn or spraying ethnic slurs on their business (and breaking their windows) than if you lob a brick through a window at an anti-globalization protest or if you spraypaint a radical environmentalist message on an SUV. Just remember that, because that is truly how the law operates in practice around these issues.

Remember the gay guy dragged to death in Wyoming? Contrast the reaction of that with, say, Ashley Todd, the girl who faked the mutilation of herself (claiming falsely that it was done by pro-Obama supporters). One was an actual horrible crime of hate and terrorism done against a gay man, the other was a faked incident that was widely broadcast before it was discovered that she'd made the whole fucking thing up.

Double standard much? It just pisses me off -- if we're not equal before the law, then what are we? We're hosed. It's an issue because the Tea Baggers are going to do a whole helluva lot more in the run-up to the fall elections -- be ready for more ugliness, and watch the media downplay it, watch the authorities wring their hands helplessly as it gets uglier and uglier.

The broken windows in Cincinnati and elsewhere are just the beginning.

Trumped

Here's a shot of the Wrigley Building being
dwarfed by the Trump Tower.

Draconian

I took the boys to see "How To Train Your Dragon" (or whatever it's called). It was cute. The boys seemed to enjoy it. As ever, CGI graphics just get better and better -- rich details like the pebbled hides of the dragons just come to life. It was rated PG, and I think that was, perhaps, justified -- there's nothing scary in it or anything, but there are lots of explosions, fires, the dragons, and what-not. The protagonist ("Hiccup") strikes me as a very Gen X protagonist -- just something in his manner feels that way to me, which is kind of funny to see in a kids movie -- like they know that Gen Xers are parents, now, so they craft a kiddy protagonist that kind of plays to things we can relate to (sort of like how so many of the older kiddy movies had gratuitous Elvis references -- something for the Boomers to wink and nod to) -- but it's funny, because Hiccup is sarcastic and facetious, and so I think any Xer parent taking their kid to it'll be like "Yeah, I'd probably say the same thing."

The aerial scenes are lovely, quite breath-taking on the big screen -- the heavenly clouds, the lovely countrysides, the swooping dragons. All of that. Good stuff. You really felt the propulsive motion of those sequences.

I think the Vikings portrayed in it must be from the Orkney Islands, because they have Scots accents (I know, right? Vikings with Scottish accents? I consoled myself with thinking they were somewhere near the Orkneys). Unless, somehow, Scots accents are seen as inherently barbaric. Not sure, not sure.

But I think the movie had a nice balance of character development and certainly a curiously pacifistic message that jumps out at you in this time of our country fighting two wars abroad (remember them?) -- and one moment that particularly makes you think of today's new reality for survivors of wars.

I won't reveal any plot points or surprises. I'd not say the movie was up there with "Up" or "Wall-E" necessarily, but it was a good effort, and it certainly kept my attention.

Weekend Windup

Let's see, I'm going to take the boys to see that "...Dragons" movie tomorrow, I think. They should enjoy that. I'd also like to research netbooks -- I think that might be just what I need to solve my current tech issues with my writing "in the field." (i.e., no fucking laptop) Not that I haven't enjoyed writing longhand -- I actually do like writing in notebooks, but in terms of output, I type so much faster than I write by hand, it's a matter of efficiency, here. I've been working steadily on the book, although I'm uncertain of the word count because it's handwritten -- I'll transcribe my week's work onto the computer at home, another weekend enterprise.

Sunday, Exene should be taking the boys to a Cub Scouts outing, so I may actually shop for the netbook I was looking for, and catch "The Hurt Locker" (FINALLY).

Of course, my usual routine of exercise, cooking some yummy food, and taking photographs of everything that catches my eye will be in play.

Busin'ess

I was amused on the busride home yesterday. Well, a few things. On the first leg of my ride, I was at a bus stop with a bunch of international students from U of C, including a few Austrians -- it was funny to hear the accents as they were talking about navigating the transit system downtown: "You mekh sure you get zee tranzfer on zee first part of zee ride. Zat iss how vee do it in Austria, anyvay."

That group got on another bus, while I caught mine a moment later. There wasn't anything particularly amusing on the first bus. When I got off, I saw my connecting bus, and I ran to catch it, but the bus took off right before I got there, didn't stop. Love when they do that.

Piqued at being thwarted in classic CTA fashion, I ran two blocks north up the street to get ahead of the bus that had ditched me and caught it at the next stop. I was very satisfied to have done that, rather than waiting X minutes in the blustery cold for the next bus (it was frickin' cold yesterday, I should add, and terribly windy).

On my second bus, I was treated to an amusing exchange by a couple of Lincoln Park Trixies (well, once Trixie and her friend, who lived in the Gold Coast). Both of them had the kind of atonal raspy voice of casual smokers (sounding something like, I dunno, Margot Kidder), and Trixie was seriously bottle-blonded, overtanned, and had incredibly white teeth, while Gold Coast had overplucked eyebrows and a face that reminded me of a female Corey Feldman. Both of them were average-looking, but well-dressed (not particularly stylishly, but they clearly had good jobs, if no real style to them). Their conversation went on and on and on. I'll try to capture what I remembered about it (again, delivered in that seal-like bray)...

LP Trixie: So, I tried to get X to take me out again, but he totally didn't.
Gold Coast: No?
LPT: I sent him a note, and he didn't reply.
GC: Maybe he was busy.
LPT: I dunno.
GC: Wait, was this a text?
LPT: E-mail. I tried to get him to take me somewhere, but he totally ignored it.
GC: How long's it been?
LPT: Well, like almost two weeks since we first, you know, got together.
GC: (laughing) And you've gone out how many times?
LPT: Once at [XYZ], once at [ABC], and we hung out at his place. He mentioned [DEF] but I was like "Dude, isn't that a bar?" (scoffs)
GC: I don't know. Depends on the time you go.
LPT: It's totally a bar. I wanted to go someplace sit-down, a nice place. You know, like what normal people do, like boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. And so I jokingly e-mailed him and he didn't reply.
GC: Maybe he doesn't have any money?
LPT: Oh, he does. He threw down $150 at the bar last time.
GC: Hmmm, yeah, you throw that much down, you can definitely afford a dinner.
LPT: I know, right?
GC: Unless he just blew it all at the bar.
LPT: Maybe he just doesn't like to DO stuff; maybe he's just a 'hanging out' kinda guy. Like he called the other day and was like "I'm watching the OSU game with the guys; you wanna come hang out?" and I was like "No, thanks." And now, like nothing.
GC: Maybe you shouldn't have shot down his suggestion you go to [DEF.] (laughs)
LPT: Yeah, maybe. I'm trying not to overthink it. I mean, he really likes me, I can tell, but it's just weird, like why he doesn't, you know, want to do stuff with me. (keeps checking her iPhone during all of this)
GC: Well, we can catch "Crazyheart" Friday, after we go shopping. How about that?
LPT: Alright; I asked him if he wanted to see it, and he's like "Yeah" but then nothing happened. Am I supposed to set everything up or what? I don't know what his deal is.
GC: Maybe he's just quiet.
LPT: Sure, but, you know, he doesn't seem to want to know, like, anything ABOUT me. Like he doesn't ask me about my day, or anything. He likes me, I can tell, but, like, doesn't, like, TALK to me about ME, you know?
GC: My stop's coming up; don't overthink it. I'm sure you guys'll work something out. Like you said, you've known him for, what, almost two weeks? (laughs)
LPT: Yeah (laughs) Seeya later!

And then LPT continued to text on her iPhone obsessively until she got off at her stop (and then kept going, like texting and walking).

Video: Pillar of Salt

I've had this song in my iTunes since August of 2006 (weird that it's been so long), and I always enjoyed the song. I didn't really like the other Thermals tunes, but this one was spot-on. Anyway, I'd never seen the video before, and just ran into it the other day...



Two things jumped out at me: 1) the frontman reminds me a bit of my teenaged self -- just a long-faced, lanky wackball, and 2) the bassist is CUTE. She's a little hottie. I never thought about what the band looked like, which just amuses me a little in retrospect. Now I kinda want to see their other videos, so I can gawk at their bassist some more. Kinda. The problem is that they use almost the exact same chords for a number of their songs, which is distracting and kinda odd.

Stirring the Pot

Okay, so this development calls to mind something I've talked about before (not here), where states' economic crises are going to supersede the "morality vote" (e.g., against drug legalization, gambling, and prostitution) -- and suddenly, the vice crimes are going to be increasingly seen as sources of revenue. The fundamentalists are all about keeping the futile Drug War going (newsflash: Prohibition STILL doesn't work), but states are cash-strapped, and are going to have to find some "magic" way of getting revenue, and that is going to decide the legalization issue -- and I think that's a good thing, to be honest. All that money that gets wasted fighting a losing war on drugs can be allocated elsewhere, and the money that comes from tax revenue on drugs will be usable for all sorts of things.

In 2001 (!), Portugal (I know, right? Source of great proverbs and apparently sane drug legalization policies) went with an across-the-board drug legalization policy and they've found (big fucking shock) clear drops in crime and improvements in public health -- treating drugs as a public health issue and taking it out of the police bailiwick, with incredible results.

I know American politics has a terrible case of the Stupids thanks to the reactionary wailers in our midst, but eventually, there will be a change down the road, if only because economic necessity drives states to be less censorious, and more open-minded.

St. Steve of McQueen

Seems fitting on what would've been his 80th birthday (today) to invoke another of my patron saints: Steve McQueen. In real life, he was a crazy motherfucker, drug-addled and astoundingly insecure, but his iconic cinematic naturalism was unparalleled in his day. Daniel Craig has masterfully mined McQueen for his own shot at superstardom, although he's just a pretender to the throne -- any time I watch Craig acting, I will point out wardrobe choices, looks, walks -- all sorts of things that he's taken from McQueen. Why not? McQueen's long dead, but his shadow hangs over everythign Daniel Craig tries to do.

McQueen's crowning glory in movies was his "reactor" quality -- he was called the King of Cool and really still holds that title; there aren't really any actors out there who match his quiet ability to command a scene. The "reactor" nature he put forth was his responding to the acting of another -- so, Actor X would say something, and McQueen would react to it, very internal, very in himself, versus trying to act and drive a scene. It makes for many compelling performances.

He had the ability to take command of any scene he was a part of (and was terrible about upstaging his fellow actors -- watch him in his early movies, and you'll see him doing things, lots of "business" to draw the audience's eyes on him. "The Magnificent Seven" is full of moments like that, where he took a comparatively small part and made it big by doing that, clearly bugging Yul Brynner). McQueen's movies are very of their time, very 60s (most of them, during his apogee), but his performances endure above and beyond them. His all-American kind of antihero way about him, his straightforward, simple-yet-impeccable style, his feral naturalism, those were things I just took to.

I used to wear Baracuta jackets and Clark's Desert Boots in high school in private homage to McQueen, my own kind of lopsided Mod-Punk style (in my view, spot-welding the Jam to the Sex Pistols by way of McQueen -- trying to stand out by looking sharp in a very Classic Guy kind of way, not that anybody really noticed or appreciated it back then). My rule of thumb was that if it looked good on McQueen, it'd look good on me -- and that's held up over the years.

The White Donkey

Didn't I post a picture of the White Donkey's last day with me? Is that even possible? Here's it getting taken away by Victory Auto Wreckers. El Burro Blanco, on its last trip (this was last month). And, yes, it really was the coolest thing to come from Naperville.

Napervillainous

Rich Horton from Naperville didn't like my story...

And "Aegis," by D.T. Neal, goes on rather too long in telling of a young artist's fascination with a much -- much! -- older sculptor named, significantly, Renee Euryale. It's obvious where this is going from the first, and the young artist -- nor a model he encounters -- just doesn't come to life.

Whatever! Some people really dug it, and others really didn't. I think the ones who didn't like it are more genre-hounds, and miss the nuances of the story, but oh, well. All the more reason to get some more credits, so there's even more stuff of mine out there to offend their delicate sensibilities. I really need to work on that, get people even more peevish.

I remember a coworker of mine (a native of the western suburbs) grousing about Naperville (because of Lysacek in the Vancouver Olympics) and saying how he is perfectly Napervillian (e.g., incredibly lame) and when I told her that I'd bought the White Donkey in Naperville, she said "The Donkey is the coolest thing to have ever come out of Naperville, believe me." Having been there, I can't exactly argue it. There's a whole lot of nothing out there.

Oooh, I'm so vindictive.

*holds hand out for a slap*

Movie: The Thin Red Line (1998)

So, I watched "The Thin Red Line" again, after, what, 10 years? Got it on DVD. And, once again, I'm both struck by and off-put by the movie. It remains a 170-minute war movie-as-art film. It remains distinctive in many ways -- Terence Malick's marvelous use of silence, slow montage, tracking shots, scenery, color -- all of that. Very much in evidence, and very much using film as a storytelling medium in and of itself.

And yet, the battalion of cameos in it, like every goddamned male actor of that era in that movie...

1. James Caviezel as Pvt. Witt
2. Sean Penn as 1st Sgt. Welsh
3. Adrien Brody as Cpl. Fife
4. Ben Chaplin as Pvt. Bell
5. George Clooney as Capt. Bosche
6. John Cusack as Capt. Gaff
7. Woody Harrelson as Sgt. Keck
8. Elias Koteas as Capt. Staros
9. Nick Nolte as Lt. Col. Tall
10. John C. Reilly as Sgt. Storm
11. John Travolta as Brig. Gen. Quintard
12. Thomas Jane as Pvt. Ash
13. Jared Leto as 2nd. Lt. Whyte
14. Dash Mihok as Pfc. Doll
15. Tim Blake Nelson as Pvt. Tills
16. John Savage as Sgt. McCron
17. Nick Stahl as Pfc. Beade
18. Miranda Otto as Marty Bell

In addition to the cast seen in the final cut of the film, Billy Bob Thornton, Martin Sheen, Gary Oldman, Bill Pullman, Lukas Haas, Viggo Mortensen and Mickey Rourke also performed, but their scenes were eventually cut.

I mean, WTF? It gets distracting -- Oh! There's John Travolta! Hey, there's John Cusack. Oh, shit, there's George Clooney. WTF, is that Jared Leto? Huh, there's John C. Reilly. On and on and on (and on and on). Way, way too many cameos. And it's likely because of Malick's stature (including as a producer), these actors all wanting a piece of that action. Throw in the ones who didn't make the cut, and it's like every fucking actor of that era onscreen.

So, that distracts me a bit (and Clooney's patriarchal little scene is particularly noisome, above and beyond Clooney even showing up in the movie at all), and I think Sean Penn's vastly overrated acting chops are particularly ill-used in the movie (First Sergeant? Says who? He doesn't look that part at all, just offers Method grimaces and his usual expressions throughout it).

The voiceovers, which comprise nearly all of the dialogue in the movie, are also overused, to the point that you can lampoon it pretty easily...

Show scene of waves washing gently on the shore. A lizard scurries between some rocks. There's a coconut being tumbled by the waves.

Till: What is life?

The waves keep tumbling the coconut.

Witt: Who made this ineffable dream?

CUT TO wind softly blowing through palm tree fronds, a slightly cloudy sky.

You run into it over, and over, and over, and over again, and it begins to call attention to itself, and it begins to irritate me. I remember being irritated by it before, and I find it irritates me again.

So, as ever, I'm of two minds with this movie -- on one hand, it manages a masterful visual style, an expansive kind of ebb and flow between action sequences, the humanity and brutality of war, the nuances of violence and victory -- and yet, it also feels incredibly self-indulgent and too full of itself (originally five hours, it was trimmed to 170 minutes -- and you feel every last fucking minute of it, believe me).

And, in the end, what's the moral lesson? What, that war is a terrible thing? No shit. No fucking shit. That Miranda Otto is hot? I dunno, I dunno. It's like with "Schindler's List" -- before that movie, I didn't realize that the Holocaust was a terrible thing (sarcasm, here).

Whyte: What is true? Who is true? How can we know what is what or who is what or what is when when we're here?

CUT TO a monkey climbing a tree. It pauses while eating a piece of fruit to look at something.
CUT TO a tank, broken, rusting, half-buried in the beach.

Witt: Where are you?

Thumbnails

One game I like to play (particularly on the FB), is to post an article with a willfully wrong thumbnail photo accompanying it. There's something about that which appeals to me -- it kind of takes basic information of the article and adds a little wrinkle to it.

For example, I posted this article, and cycled through the thumbnail options until I saw this picture, and thought "That's funny." Obviously, the art of conversation has fuck-all to do with shirtless Robert Mitchum wielding a Luger, but that's exactly the point of it. The incongruity of it makes me snicker. It's a little game I play -- I'll post and cycle through the thumbnail options until I find something that fits my perverse sense of humor.

Chili Fest?

This article makes me snicker. What can I say? A chili grenade would probably kill me (asthma and all), but I still find weaponized chili peppers funny.

Yeah!

I saw this at the UPS Store the other day and snickered. Forget elves! Goddamned elves!

PPD: Playful

An hour of play discovers more than a year of conversation.

Nom Nom Nom

It's Chicago Chef Week, which is like the second act of Restaurant Week. Nummers!

Today is a good day

I look like a roadie for Interpol today. It just seemed like a day to wear a tie to work, what can I say? I'm in a pretty good mood -- got the taxes done (yesterday), got my writing done, made a kickass lasagna, just enjoyed life in general (or at least being alive). I felt a keen sense of where I was going, what I am doing this year, and it made me feel good, like clouds that have haunted me for time time finally parting, letting warm sunlight in.

I just need to find a good job downtown. That would make everything fucking ducky.

I'm going to work on that. I think I just like having a rough plan in place -- there is satisfaction in being "on purpose" that I sometimes lose sight of, since I am not a strategic thinker, I am the consummate tactician. But every now and then, I will plan things out and will work to make that plan bear fruit for me, and I feel that I have enough of a plan in place (with enough flexibility -- I always need that) that it reassures me. It really is going to be alright.

What a far cry from the dark days of 2005, 2006, 2007, and 2008. Lordy, lordy. But truly, I am happier than I've been in years, and getting happier still. I made the right decision. I was unsure of that in 2008, really did soul-searching back then, but I realized that it was the right thing. Even with the incredible frustrations of the logistics of it (especially in 2009), I was happier than I'd been for years before. It was telling.

2010 is going to be marvelous; 2011, better still. Onward, upward! Woo hoo!

Oooh, yes

Stand and be counted!

I'm partial to Fauxhemians, Ironoclasts, Sigh-Borgs, Try-Hards, Doucheoisie, Trendsluts, and Trendizens, myself.

Sunset

Looking west over the city.

Wow.

I'm pleased that Obama and company got the health care bill passed. Even though it's not nearly strong enough for what our country needs, it is an unqualified reform, and the politics of compassion, hope, and progress beat out the politics of fear, despair, and hate. The Republicans (and their assorted running dogs) have to be eating their hats right now -- they gambled politically on denying the Democrats (and most particularly, Obama) any kind of legislative success, but they lost. Now they're really going to be in a jam. Good. They deserve to be, the douchebags.

2300 words yesterday.

Kirbygate?

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/21/business/21marvel.html?8dpc=&adxnnl=1&adxnnlx=1269198126-DSBnJl866d57GLKIR5aLrA

Daddy Likes

I like this tune by Surfer Blood. Give it a listen...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jh7WN7vrJ8s&feature=related

Banged out 5500 words last night -- longhand! I then transcribed it. First book, well underway. I'm gonna type more this weekend, so the output should be great, before being consigned to longhand via the notebook during the workweek.

Sprung?

Wow, first day of Spring, and it's driving snow and wind today!

Alas, poor Enzo

They broke his heart! Found this on the way to work yesterday. I love the damage to the heart; not sure what happened to it. But it was a good find.

Freitag

Another sunny, mild day. False spring, served up Chicago-style. Yesterday was gorgeous, too. But don't be fooled. I'm certainly not. We're supposedly due for snow over the weekend, which is no surprise. It happens. But the past couple of days were very pleasant.

I calculated that at my standard writing pace (not even pushing it), I can get six novels done this year, so that's my project. I was originally going to bang out a short story a week, but I'm getting frustrated chasing down the ever-elusive markets for my short fiction, which have dried up in a lot of the areas where I write (it really is quite remarkable -- even six years ago, there were so many more speculative fiction outlets -- not sure if people are just increasingly e-publishing or what, but the old hard-copy publications are largely evaporating).

I know the Great Recession has bitchslapped the publishing industry as it has everything else, and the whole industry is taking a beating, but I think there remains a more vibrant market in long fiction relative to the short fiction market -- at least for what I write. So, I'm putting more emphasis on that, figuring that even if I can't find homes for the book drafts I have, I'll at least have them "in the can" and done.

So, I made my list of titles, the ones I'm going to do. Basically, there are two "literary" (i.e. adult contemporary and/or general fiction), one fantasy, two science fiction, and one thriller. That's a lot on my plate, but I can handle it, and without having to entertain Exene (and, indeed, with the Great March Forward [GMF] in progress, even more creative time opening up for me), it'll be actually doable.

I'm also going to work on a horror screenplay -- I was inspired when I stumbled across a link to the Oklahoma Horror Film Festival, and I had a ready-made idea for a horror screenplay that I can enter into that competition. A longshot, but anything that is profile-raising, so much the better.

Gonna be good, get those fucking taxes filed this weekend, and I'm going to look hard for another job -- I'd like to find something in the Loop. That would make so much far easier (including the GMF). I realize that I should have focused on finding that better job last year, to jumpstart the GMF last year -- I had a lot on my plate emotionally last year (both with Exene and beyond), but this year, I have much more clarity, and that heartbreak isn't in my mix -- it's all squarely in my head, what needs to be done. So I'm just getting it done and moving on. I gave Exene way, way more time than she deserved, but she can't fault me for that, can't say I sprung it on her, with 15 fucking months logged from point of outright emotional departure.

Did you notice that I've had 15 toe stubs since 3/10? (sidebar, below blogroll) I really, really need steel-toe slippers!

Texass

The reactionary gorilla in the room, Texas, thumping its chest. This is problematic -- the politicizing of history for the ideological ends of the Republican Party.

Judging from the updated social studies curriculum, conservatives want students to come away from a Texas education with a favorable impression of: women who adhere to traditional gender roles, the Confederacy, some parts of the Constitution, capitalism, the military and religion. They do not think students should learn about women who demanded greater equality; other parts of the Constitution; slavery, Reconstruction and the unequal treatment of nonwhites generally; environmentalists; labor unions; federal economic regulation; or foreigners.

Thanks to the movement reactionaries, this skewed view of history will be spread into textbooks around the country. Infuriating.

Timely

Alex Chilton.

Alex Chilton died. He was 59. That sucks.

The Thighs Have It

I realize that I'm a thigh man, in addition to other things -- there's something very compelling about a nicely-turned woman's thigh. A smooth line. I find I notice a woman's thighs -- she's got to have'em. I'm no fan of the anorexic matchstick legs you see on fashion models and various eating disordered sorts in the city. If a woman's thighs are skinnier than my upper arms, it just looks sickly to me. I'm sure that's the subconscious mating cue, there, like health vs. sickness. Gimme some thigh! I need something to hold onto!

I'm sure watching ANTM makes me more conscious of that, seeing those half-starved, half-mad models doing their thing on the show -- all of them waifs, even the obligatory "plus size model" (What is she, a size 6? A fashion model zeppelin?) is too skinny. There's fit and attractive, and then there's starvation, and all of the ANTM models are like that -- just way too skinny. And they say the camera adds 10 pounds to you, so it makes me wonder just how much worse they look in real-life.

They did two eliminations last night -- Gabrielle "I Look Like Matt from 'Nip/Tuck'" and Naduah "I have a shaved head and grew up in a cult." Most of the gals this season are particularly crazy -- not all, but most. Amazing to think this show's been on for so many years!

I still don't really have a favorite, yet. The one with the eyebrows did a good job last night, but I don't particularly like her. Jessica, the Arkansas Baby Daddy Girl, did well, too -- she seems nice enough, and is very pretty, but I haven't cottoned to her, yet. Ren, the wild card, was so whiny, she was annoying me a great deal -- and Tyra, to her credit, commented on her whining on the set by pointing out her tattoos, said "You clearly have endured pain and discomfort before...." I loved that.

Here they all are. Stick Chicks on parade. Of course, I'm busy trying to find their astrological signs, to see whether the annoying ones are annoying me especially because they're particular signs that invariably annoy me.

PPD: Figures

A well-formed figure needs no cloak.

Impressions

My commute in so many words...sunshine in my eyes, pretty, not a trace of snow, rows of bikes, coworker's high-pitched, nervous talk, peasant blouse and shiny beads of peacock green, stomach growling, ready for dinner, blank spot on the ride, grimace and a seat by myself in back, Ian Fleming and Russian writers, line across the lake, clouds/smog, razor-thin and at horizon's edge, not much green seen as I'd have liked, mysteries and missteps, crowds milling and I'm looking at absolutely everybody, seeing everything, soaking it up like a sponge, receptive, El train droning roar, up the steps, fumbled feet, pleasant thighs and skinny jeans, on the platform, Chuck Taylors everywhere, train approaching, then on board again, minding the waning sunlight across downtown, the building shine, the mosaic waves on the river, northbound, no delays, not too crowded, tall gal with Jackie O hair and silver buckle shoes with black slacks, piercing blue-eyed gaze calls to mind a soul I know, her man's eyes ceramic blanks, they talk furtively, standing, another passenger ("customers" says the Transit Spokesman) has a serious hair-pouf, a regular brunette wave, another man wears a Tide detergent baseball cap, a seat by himself (drove the woman sitting next to him away), then lost time and space, I get distracted by the asses and then I'm off the train and on my way down and a hipster (looking like a young Shirley MacLaine) gives me a looking over in passing, makes me think my sideburns are probably getting too long, then I'm curbside and there are green beads a-flashing as barhoppers hop the bars and cars scoot by, I beat the light, past derelict saloon ("no time for Jameson, maybe in the morning") and I'm past dirty curb detritus, up brick-lined walk, long shadows, now, green lights strung specially for St. Patrick's Day at witchy home, broken brick walk fixed, girl-jogger thighs here and there in passing, then at another intersection, waiting, seeing "Bauknecht" thinking "Building Knight?" Right? German, "knecht" for "knight" and "Bau" for "Building?" Don't know, then past the smell of spilled beer and fresh leather (new shoes, mine, pewter-hued) and I'm home.

St. Oscar of Wilde

Seems right on St. Patrick's Day to honor another of my patron saints, another early one: Oscar Wilde. With him, it was so many things -- his writing, his wit, his style, his fashion, his aesthetics and profound sense of art (and the artist's role in society) -- I was always highly impressed by and influenced by him. I always felt like Victorian society was challenged by his sybaritic ways, and bit back at him savagely, seeking to destroy the man (and, sadly, largely succeeding, at least in the physical sense of radically shortening his life, although is sparkle continues to outlast his actual life). His understanding of beauty and art's centrality to life made a huge impression on me. "Dorian Gray" always stuck with me (so much that I even named a character that in a short story as a kid, "Dorian's Flowers").

He's a feast of wit, and one of his quotes I ran across in early college...

As long as war is regarded as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.

...has always hung with me. I've pondered the meaning of it a great deal for over 20 years, and have tried to get at the vulgarity of war in a number of stories.

I will always be a Wilde Child. Anybody who knows me knows that my wit and charm are some key qualities I possess (a sharp tongue, yes, but silver, too). And I know that Wilde influenced me early on in that respect.

Different Perspectives

Heading north on Clark Street, I took this shot, because all of the perspective was catching my eye while I was walking -- the buildings in the foreground, the reflected buildings in the windows, and the ones in the background (and the sky overhead). With the afternoon light captivating me, I had to take the shot.

Erin Go Braghless

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I enjoyed having the past couple of days off. Not used to not being at work on a weekday -- even the light seems different. The people, the city, all of it -- different on a weekday. I don't know if it's purely psychological, but it just seems different from a weekend (and it must be qualitatively different -- fewer people in general, more students, old people, bums, and crazies are out). I enjoyed the extra time with the boys. Always, always fun.

Made a kickass Shrimp Creole last night from scratch. Good eatin! Wanna see?

Mmmmmm! It was good! I had all of this great afternoon sunlight streaming into the apartment, so I had to play "food photographer" and snap a shot!

Oscar Mayer Being Wieners?

Hmmm. "Cold cut envy?" Oscar Mayer, oh, you ham! You'll LONG for their deli fresh meats. Mmm hmm. Psychosexual subtext in your advertising, anyone? She looks like she really, really wants to take a mouthful of his...sandwich?

A Tree Grows in Chicago

I couldn't quite get my clementine seedling in proper focus, but here's a peek at it. I'm so pleased. I hope it thrives. I'll take good care of it. If I got to play boy billionaire (or middle-aged millionaire, haha) I'd love to have my own garden. I'd make a Japanese garden. I love those. I really wanted to do that with the property I had in Indiana, but it was almost too much space to even hope to make something like that. But someday, I'll have a nice space and will make a beautiful garden.

I think my endless tinkering in Farmville is reflective of that desire, that urge to create something beautiful out of a natural space (even a virtual space). I think the desire to create something beautiful runs right through the heart of me.

Sleepless in Chicago

B2 woke me up around 2 a.m. with coughing, and I got him his medicine and then couldn't get comfy, couldn't go back to sleep, so I was up until around 5ish, then finally went to sleep, only to have Exene's alarm clock wake me up around 6. Soooo, needless to say, I'm taking another day off from work.

Zzzzzzzz....

A New Hope?

Watching some of "Star Wars" with the boys, I am struck at how rotten the tactics are of the Rebellion. Like in the end, they send 30 small fighters in against the Death Star. Well and good. But they squander their few numbers by bad deployment, ensuring that the fatality rate is terribly high. They basically send a three-man squadron into the trench for a bombing run, without proper cover. Unsurprisingly, Vader and company waste them. What they should've done is much like you'd have in any team sports -- have your forwards taking the offense, and have some guys covering the back, and then maybe some in the middle to lend a hand when needed. So, instead of this...

T.I.E. Fighters === Rebel Squadron A (RS A)

...they could have had this...

RS D === RS C === RS B === T.I.E. Fighters === RS A

Do it like a conveyor belt, and whoever survives A's bombing run loops back to the back of the line, with a reserve squadron running interference to cover them. The above configuration (counting the reserve) would allow for 12 fighters allocated, which would leave 18 fighters to otherwise divert the attention of the Imperials. Just keep it up until somebody manages to fire their proton torpedoes into the exhaust duct and voila!

The point is that instead of the incredible man-wasting tactics of the Rebels and the guaranteed high casualty rates, they have better tactics and better survivability in the squadrons. Vader and his crew couldn't have picked off the squadrons if backups were right on their tails.

Instead, they send them down one squadron at a time, with the other Rebel fliers just apparently holding their dicks while their buds are getting wasted.

Of course, this lets Luke get to play the hero, but it's impossible to believe the Rebels could even have survived as long as they had in the face of such rotten battle tactics.

I mean, in "Empire Strikes Back," they use trench warfare against the superior armor of the AT-ATs on Hoth. WTF is that all about? Oh, I know -- high casualty rates again. The poor bastards in the trenches get absolutely slaughtered. Now, you could speciously argue that they are doing a delaying tactic to buy time (with their lives) for the transports. But the infantry's presence on the battlefield doesn't so much as slow the AT-ATs down. What's more, it's demonstrated by Luke (both in a speeder and on foot) that grapple guns and grenades apparently work marvelously to dispatch AT-ATs, so the Rebels were likely better off charging the AT-ATs on foot with grapple guns rather than futilely blasting them with weapons that are immediately shown not to work (which calls to mind whether the Rebels have faced AT-ATs before, which, in all likelihood, they have). Again, bad, bad tactics yielding extraordinarily high battlefield losses.

*shaking head*

I don't mind a role being established for the heroes of the story, but not at the expense of tactics with the groups in question. At least make the tactics good.

Don't even get me going about "Lord of the Rings," how the Uruks (an army built expressly to deal with cavalry, hence the pikes they carry) get wasted in battle.

Piece of Cake

Oh, I made an apple cake last night that came out tasty. I used apples on hand, so it was a mix of Braeburn, Gala, and Golden Delicious in it. The boys enjoyed it. It's the kind of cake that would be delicious with ginger or cinnamon ice cream, although it was fine by itself, too. Although the recipe didn't call for it, I put Calvados in it, too, just to tweak out the apple flavors a little more. A good cake for the fall, I think.

*KOFF*

B2 is fighting a chest cold, as I'd said earlier. I decided to take a sick day from work (since I have that cold, too), and watch the boys. I took B1 to school -- it amused me -- one of the 2d grade girls saw B2 in his shades (he's been wanting to wear his shades, "Just like Daddy.") and she asked B1 "WHY is your little brother wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day?" and B1 just shrugged. One of the other girls (a more fashionable one) said "Oh, EVERYBODY is doing it THESE days." Made me chuckle. I put the boys in their IRISH kelly green stocking caps, too. One of B1's less astute classmates asked "Why are you wearing that IRISH cap?"

*shaking head*

B1's too nice, but the proper "Irish" response to that kind of question is a headbutt.

Anyway, it's just B2 and me home today, me giving him TLC. His little voice is all hoarse from the coughing.

Today I'm going to do my laundry, half the boys' laundry, and will pay bills and do the taxes (finally). I'll vacuum, too, as the rugs need it. Tres domestique!

St. Ernest of Hemingway

Hemingway first reached me in high school, although I don't think I appreciated his writing properly until I was older, and really got past the larger-than-life image he presented to the world. While his style has been aped, parodied, and avoided over the years, he was, for all of the cult of machismo that arose around him both in his life and after his death, a writer of amazing sensitivity. So much so that I often wonder if the whole Papa mythos, his alcoholism, and his big-game hunting and fishing was a reaction to that same writerly sensitivity all writers of merit must possess to get at the heart of their craft. I always felt that, interpersonally, Hemingway was a bit of a charlatan -- like insecurity drove him to act like he was the biggest badass in the room, almost as if he had to apologize for being a writer of such great talent and artistic sensitivity. The persona he cultivated was, in my opinion, camouflage for the artist that he was -- his veneration of, say, bullfighters, was really him projecting on the self he wanted to be, but never could be -- he wanted to be the participant, but, as a writer, could only truly be the spectator. I think people who aren't writers see that persona as the man, whereas reading his work, his amazing writing, I came to the conclusion above. It's a good thing he did get as much written as he did, as it left a huge imprint on the last century, and certainly influenced me as a writer. His quote when he won the Nobel Prize is illustrative...

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day."

PPD: Goose, Woman, Goat

A goose, a woman, and a goat, are bad things lean.

Up

B2's got a lingering cough from that cold. I just gave him some kiddie Mucinex, and am staying up a bit to keep an eye on him, until the medicine kicks in.

Sun-Day

I just liked the quality of the light this morning. This is facing east, over the lake.

Morning Glory

I went out to snag some groceries, into the blustery, beautiful morning. Although clouds are holding sway to the west, to the east, the sun was coming up and lighting up the sky majestically. I snapped some pix (naturally), will post them later. I was amused to see a hardcore biker also snapping shots of downtown. It lent itself to it -- with all the wind, the air was very crisp and clear.

I snapped a bunch of shots on the way to and from the grocery store -- a mini photo safari. Here and there, detritus from the St. Patrick's Day parade (yesterday) -- kelly green flotsam and jetsam, although not too much, thankfully.

I snagged a trio of 12o-page notebooks. I'm still frustrated by my lack of a laptop, and am, at least in the short run, going to write longhand on first drafts. The pain in the butt of longhand will be offset by the ability to write whenever and wherever I like.

B2 has that chest cold that's been going around (hell, I've still got it, too).

More than a Feeling

B2 loves Boston's "More Than a Feeling." It's so cute to hear him singing it (not really getting the words, but nailing the melody).

Chilly and blustery today -- rain and heavy winds. Good night to stay in and stay warm. Soup weather!

Watched "The Right Stuff" with B1 -- he loves anything with astronauts and space.

St. Johnny of Rotten

John Lydon (aka, Johnny Rotten) completely rocked my teen world. I loved his snarky persona, his killer gaze, his Dickensian anarchic ragamuffin sense of style, his ability to almost effortlessly take the piss at any given moment. Fabulous. I remember first hearing his name when Sid Vicious died, and I can remember reading their names in the newspaper, and feeling this sense of terror -- who would have names like that? "Johnny Rotten?" "Sid Vicious?" "Sex Pistols?" I was 9 when I first encountered those names, and it was years later until I actually listened to the Sex Pistols -- bought them on cassette. For me, it was a revelation. I can vividly remember driving along Route 224, popping the cassette into my car's player, listening to "Never Mind the Bollocks" for the first time and thinking "Wow. This is awesome stuff." I had avoided them before then, because of the whole killer reputation of the band, their infamy. I just assumed it would be noise, not worth my time. But it was sooooo good. It was precisely the itch that I needed to be scratched at that time, when I was just stalking around town by myself. I became a Punk in that transformative moment, devoured the music, now referred to as "old-school" -- but to me, simply Punk. I loved that he had his own unique look, something quintessentially him, a kind of anti-fashion fashion that was quickly overshadowed by people trying to "look Punk" when the truth was that there WAS no look to Punk -- or the point was not having a look, but simply looking unique. And he managed that masterfully. Rotten taught me that so many people are easily outraged and frightened, and their judgments of the merit or lack of merit of something were meaningless, and that the only way to really suss something out was to do it yourself, and to think for yourself. That so often the fearful were afraid to try anything new and odd and different, and locked themselves into tiny cages.

Sure, Lydon lapsed into self-parody later, but his original incarnation was just magnificent. He's one of the few pop culture figures I'll honestly mourn when he finally dies, just because he's so damned fun. I read his biography years ago, found him curious and thoughtful behind his snarly exterior.

My Darling Clementine

I planted a seed from a clementine a few months ago, put it in a cup. Had a bunch of clementines, ate'em, enjoyed'em. One of them had a seed, and I kept it. A little project for B1 and me. I put some marbles in the bottom, for drainage, then put soil atop, and then planted the seed. Wasn't sure what would happen, if anything, but I would periodically water the soil, had the little cup on the windowsill. A hope, a promise, new life, new love. That kind of thing.

I was pleased to see that yesterday, a seedling has sprouted -- a slender finger of green. I'm very, very pleased.

St. Stanley of Kubrick

I'll proceed chronologically with my patron saints, like ones who inspired me earliest. One of the earliest was Stanley Kubrick. I was genuinely sad when Kubrick died -- all day, just forlorn.

I loved his meticulous approach to movie-making, which I know drove actors bananas, had him branded an eccentric, and limited his output to, what, 13 movies? And people may have qualms about his work, his very dark view of human nature, but the quality of his vision is so pronounced, so striking. His background as a photographer shows up so clearly in his cinematic work -- attention to lighting, angle, framing -- everything. I always say to people that you can do a still frame of almost any shot in a Kubrick movie and it will look good. Because he just paid such attention to that. His use of music and point of view, just amazing.

As a teen, I would foist Kubrick movies on my hapless chums, telling them "Oh, you gotta see this." They'd politely watch the movies, but I could tell I was the only one really grooving on his work. They were watching the movies-as-movies, and I think I was watching them as works of (visual) art.

While my major was in audio-visual production (surely inspired by Kubrick), and I'm a fair hand with a camera (including a video camera), I never had any pretensions of following Kubrick's footsteps. But his way of shooting movies absolutely informed my aesthetic of how I watched movies -- he put so much attention to filmcraft that I soaked that up, and applied it to movie-watching, and he made me pay attention to film directors, ones I liked, ones I didn't, and why. That aesthetic has stayed with me, will always be with me. I appreciate a well-shot movie, above and beyond the contents of the story itself. I like movies that look good, and will take note of directors who have that cinematic eye. I think his cinematic eye influenced my fiction-writing, how I construct scenes. I pay incredible attention to that, even though it's all in my head, and down on the page. People who read my stuff comment on how visual it is, and I am sure it's owing to my love of Kubrick's moviemaking, and that sense that everything in the scene is there for a reason.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I saw this when walking home, paused, had to catch it. Intersection of North and Sedgwick.

Patron Saints

I have a number of masculine "patron saints." Various guys who have inspired me over the years. I won't say "heroes" or even "idols," because I don't really have proper heroes or idols (just not my style), but there are a number of guys who do (and have, and continue to) inform my aesthetic, who I admire for a variety of reasons which I'll try to articulate as I think about them in turn.

Hipster Love(tm)

Hipster couple kissing. They didn't really have a fraction of that kind of passion in their kissery, mind you. It was like an ironically-detached equivalent PDA, however.

In retrospect (heh, in retrosexualspect), the above is more like how I kiss. When I kiss you, you know you've been fucking kissed.

Thoughts

Rainy morning. We're due for thunder showers today. The only exciting thing about it was the frontal boundary came through so clearly, this line in the clouds, like a tsunami in the sky, bringing the rain. Kinda cool. But not cool enough to photograph, although I thought about it a moment or two.

There was some Hipster Love(tm) at the corner of Clark and Dickens -- this skinny, bearded fellow and his diminutive babe, both in their Chuckies and assorted regalia, naturally, snogging at the corner bus stop like it was VE Day all over again, instead of just the morning commute. Now, I'm all for romantic love, mind you (and believe me, I most definitely am), but PDAs in the morning commute, I dunno. Too much and too little at the same time.

I had some good ideas of stuff I need to work on, writing-wise. Impious ideas. I'm going to play with them a bit. I have been avoiding writing about writing on here because I hate writers writing about writing (much like actors acting in a movie about acting, or dancers dancing about dancing, or musicians in a musical about musicals -- that kind of self-referential stuff makes me gag). But I've got something that is enticing me at the moment, and going to play with it a bit.

Oh, the City is trying to fuck me at the moment. Some kind of disconnect between the online traffic ticket-paying option and the actual office. I paid my ticket many weeks ago, and got ANOTHER notice in the mail, with an additional $50 tacked on because I hadn't paid. But I'd already paid online, and when the first notice went out, I included a copy of the receipt from that fucking payment. The bureaucrats apparently decided that wasn't enough, and are shaking me down again. Pissing. Me. Off. The Donkey's ghost, haunting me from beyond the grave. I may pay AGAIN with a notice saying I have already paid, include yet another copy of it, and complain about it to the Department of Revenue and the Mayor's Office.

Gonna listen to Alice Cooper today, I think -- their first several albums. I started with "Billion Dollar Babies," one of their best...

Best Foot Forward

Facing nasty weather wearing weatherproofed suede.
60th Street and Blackstone.

ANTM 15

The 15th season (oh, sorry, CYCLE) of ANTM began last night! Yay! Crazed models, clawing at each others' egos! I don't have any favorites, yet, and don't even remember the gals' names so much at this point. I don't think there's a theme this year, except that they brought in a 13th "wildcard" model, named Renn -- this blown-away acid casualty sinister-looking model gal. Not sure the logic of bringing her into it, what the selection process was and why she was added outside of the usual process. No idea.

There were the usual pot-stirrers -- the "bad guy" models in there, making everybody's lives hell. I was pleased that one of the semifinalists, Hallie, a self-confessed trust fund brat from Tennessee (who's like Cybill Shepherd's niece or something) -- I was pleased that she didn't make it. The look of disbelief and hate on her face when she realized she wasn't going to be on the show was classic. Like "OMG! This can't happen to ME! I get everything I want!"

Similarly, the long-faced gal with the nose ring (pierced through the center of her nose, like a bull) and twin lip rings didn't make it, either (she had a pretty enough face, in an unremarkable kind of way, if you took the metal out of her mug) -- but she had this look of hurt and bewilderment at not getting picked. And managed the first blur-cam shot of the season as she curled up coochtastically in a corner and cried at her misfortune.

The makeovers were pretty standard -- requisite amounts of tears, shock, and over-the-top elation. Surprisingly, the rivalries and hatreds have started right out of the box -- either some of the gals are serious psychos, or they pumped in angry gas in there or something (sleep deprivation, maybe?) because some of them were already totally feeling the hate for one another almost immediately. No stew-n-brew, but just in-your-face loathing.

There's a pretty gal from Arkansas whose back story was cringe-inducing. Yes, down with Jesus. Yes, met a 22-year-old man in her church (when she was 16, I think is what I heard). Yes, they had sex (her first time -- abstinence teaching, right?) Yes, she got pregnant, and is now a mother of a one-year-old (I think she's 18, now). I missed whether she and El Creepo got married or are just shacking up, but she complained at how their church hasn't accepted them in the wake of that (naturally, following in the forgiving steps of Christ, as we all know all those evangelicals are). So, she's leaving behind her 1-year-old to try for this modeling gig -- WWJD? He'd try to become ANTM! It's an Arkansas Fairy Tale, right there.

One of the contestants, Gabrielle (remembered her name), seemed like a tough-but-smart little snarkling, who bizarrely resembles the character Matt from "Nip/Tuck." I mean, she really, really does, and it kind of freaks me out (of course, Matt's character always freaked me out, anyway -- he looked bizarre, and acted more bizarre than he looked). But they blonded her up at the makeover and it looks better on her. She seems pretty smart, but has that tough-as-nails look to her that is kinda spooky. She's from St. Louis. I can't find pix of the contestants, yet, so I'll post them when I can, and you can see how she looks like Matt.

The next episode has them nude modeling as their first challenge, so it'll be a blurfest, obviously. That always makes me chuckle -- Oh! They're NUDE! But you can't see it, because it's network television, and they're BLURRY! Really, the nudity is beside the point, anyway -- it's more fun to watch them agonize over each others' performances.

Blame Canada

B1's school has the kids dressing up as a nationality tomorrow. Any nationality, but they're supposed to come sportin' a look. We didn't really have anything quite right -- Exene was trying to pimp lederhosen on B1, but I said "What, and end up with a lifetime of swirlies for his troubles?" Then I came up with the great idea of having B1 dress like he's Canadian. Voila! Problem solved! A sweater and some slacks and some boots, and presto! Instant Canadian!

*cackle*

The runner-up was putting him in a sweater vest with a tie and having him be British!

PPD: Wolfen

A hungry wolf is not at rest.

Video: High Numbers

I like this archival footage of the Who when they were the High Numbers. This from 1964, doing their hard R&B stuff, the Mod kids all dancing. In Mod, a "high number" was a player, basically, in the slang -- you could be a "high number," a "big ticket," and a "face" (or best of all, an "ace face"). Love archival footage of Mod kiddies, doing their thing. Fun!



That's what all the "face" and "ticket" talk is about in "I'm the Face." I'm the Face is basically saying "I'm tops!" in Mod parlance.



Roger Daltrey's conception of the band was much narrower than it came to be with the Who. He held them squarely in that R&B mode, covering Motown tunes, etc., until the band rebelled against his leadership and the band ultimately became leaderless (and better). Daltrey's iron fist early on kept them together as a unit during the vital formative years, when the rampant drug use of the other three members (esp. speed and booze) threatened to derail them. But the rebellion of the other three allowed the band to break free of its Mod roots and truly hit the upper stratosphere, where they needed to be.

Saucy

I made BBQ chicken last night, using my homemade recipe for sauce. Exene was lurking about in the kitchen while I was making it, and I could see her eyes scanning the ingredients (I didn't have them all out, since she was there). I said "Get out of here! You're not going to divine my recipe!" and she said "Your secret sauce. What's the secret?" and I said "I am. I make it great. I'm taking that with me." and she said "It's the cider-to-ketchup ratio. Has to be." [Note: It's NOT that, although she said that twice at different times.] and I said "I'm not telling." and got her out of the kitchen, so I could make the stuff in peace, free from prying eyes. It drives her bananas that I won't tell her the recipe for my sauce. She commented on it several times, trying to suss it out, but I refuse to tell. It really is a superlative sauce, although it's my culinary instincts that really anchor it -- not like I'm superchef, mind you, but I can definitely cook, and I enjoy it, frankly. Cooking's fun for me. I'd never do it professionally -- that would suck the fun right out of it! But in the home, I love it.

I did call B2 in to watch, as he LOVES to watch me cook, wants to join in, and I had him as my little helper. He loves anything with cooking, and I like for him to see his Daddy cooking, so he'll pick up on that. He makes a point to smell every ingredient (he's always been a sniffer like that -- it's very cute, that little freckled nose of his, sniffing foods and flowers). He even likes to make his own stuff -- I'll give him some pretend ingredients, like sugar cubes and flour and water so he can "cook," as well. It makes me smile. My little Epicurean-in-training!

I made B1 a nice grilled cheese sandwich, which he wolfed down. I always use some extra-virgin olive oil for my grilled cheese sandwiches, not butter, when I'm frying them. Makes'em extra-yummy.

I've got another cold -- chest cold. That's what was screwing with me the other night, sleepwise. Stupid cold season. Blech. Disease is like the Internet before the Internet -- we're all networked through the air we breathe. Thanks, whoever gave me that cold. Message received! "You've got Mail!" *koff koff koff*

Bloglist

I went through some of my old, dormant blogs, and snagged the links to blogs that I liked that are still going. Yay! I really, really wish I hadn't fragged my first two proper blogs (covering 2005-07 pretty extensively). I got fed up with blogging and trashed them. I should've saved'em, as they were pretty great. Oh, well.

Movie: Ils (aka, Them)

I finally got the French horror movie, "Ils," on DVD, watched it last night. While people have praised it as exceedingly scary, I found it to not be so -- which was a disappointment, as "The Strangers," (an American version of "Ils" that has not been as well-received as "Ils" was), actually frightened me a great deal. Without wanting to throw spoilers in the mix, I thought that "The Strangers" was far scarier, was shot more evocatively, and absolutely terrified me like few films ever have (although I'll also say that "The Strangers" works ONCE as a terror film -- once you've encountered its terrors, there is a sense of diminishing returns with it on repeated viewings, although the terror gives way to dread, which is still a strong emotion).

What is my problem with "Ils?" Well, it does maintain tension throughout it -- that is without dispute, but the kinetic nature of it, some of the protagonists' choices, this "scared rabbit" mentality they had, it spoke to a kind of political slant in the view of the writers, I think. A kind of moral message carved into the story with a butcher knife, which isn't particularly what one needs in a slasher movie.

So, why did "The Strangers" hit me harder than "Ils?" I think the sense of home invasion was stronger in the former than the latter, and the dilapidation of the simply massive dwelling in "Ils" made it, paradoxically enough, less threatening than the nice cottage of "The Strangers." You already expect horrors in the "Ils" dwelling -- the place looks like the playground of an undead Bond villain, whereas the dwelling in "The Strangers" is a nice, cozy little home -- so, when the descent into nightmare is undertaken, the fall is further in the American version, most definitely.

The protagonists in the American version are somewhat more savvy (and combative) than the chickenshits in the French one. I think any American watching it would be like "C'mon! Deck'em!" when confronted by something like that.

Similarly, the villains in the American version are both more visible and less human than the villains in the French version. There's something terribly chilling about the Mansonian wackos with the masks (see below), when contrasted with the hoodie-wearing villains in "Ils." There are only three killers in "The Strangers" and there are many more in "Ils" and yet the three baddies in the former are far more terrifying.

The use of silence, music, and noise in the American version cannot be overstated -- it plays a key role in it in a way that the French version lacks. The French have you careening through the cavernous dwelling when the American version has you sitting there, in darkness and silence, waiting -- much more powerful stuff. Even simple things like hard knocking on a door at odd hours is absolutely terrifying in "The Strangers."

Perhaps the civilization of the French accounts for the horror they perceive in the "big reveal" of the story, whereas, in the States, where all sorts of outrages are apparently more common (or we hear about them more), the reveal is kind of not so revealing. Oh! Good heavens! Versus in the American version, the baddies are big and bad and scary (and two of them are girls) and we ultimately don't know their identities, and something about that makes it scarier -- we don't know who they are, and their motive for doing it is simply because the characters happened to be home. The arbitrary and absolute nature of that violence seems more terrifying to me than the moral outrage we're supposed to feel in "Ils." Maybe I'm jaded.

I'm at a loss for why "The Strangers" is less-favorably reviewed than "Ils," because I'm a fan of French filmmaking, and I really wanted "Ils" to deliver for me, but it just didn't. Tense, yes, but not terrifying. I think people feel like maybe they're supposed to like the original better, but in this case, I think the American remake was superior. Maybe it was in the hands of a better director and writer, I'm not entirely sure, but one terrified me, and the other didn't.

I'm forever grateful that "The Strangers" came out a few years after I'd sold my home in the quiet woods! Even then, I found myself being sure the door was locked in the apartment while watching it. "Ils" didn't spark nearly that same reaction.

Suede

Trotted out the suede shoes (weatherproofed, mind you), as it's springtime, and it just seems right. Fuck the rain. Viva la Suede!

Started working on a writing project again (one from late last year), finding my feet on it, while the new "real-world" story germinates. Good stuff, should be. Gonna make it so, anyway.



Slept uneasily last night. I think my asthma and reflux are worse in Spring and Fall -- I think all the mold gets to me. I know I'm strongly allergic to mold, and I know those times of year are tough for me. I feel that more than a bit.

B1 was sweet -- I was getting the boys ready for their day, and he sighed contentedly and said "You're so NICE, Daddy. You're a nice guy." That made me smile, warmed my heart. I asked "What'd I do?" and he said "Nothing, you just ARE." I loved hearing that. One of the rewards of parenting. I'm good at being a dad, and I enjoy it so much. My guys'll learn how to be good dads from me, and that makes me happy.

PPD: Sprung

A good year is determined by its spring.

PPD: Cocky

A good cock was never fat.

Oscar Grouching, cont'd...

What else stood out at me at the Oscars? As ever, George Clooney's self-consciousness bothers me. I mean, he's GEORGE CLOONEY, right? What's he got to worry about? And yet, he's acutely aware of himself, is staggeringly self-conscious, and it bothers me. He's a pretender to the Cary Grant throne (yeah, there's a Cary Grant throne, and only Cary Grant got to sit on it), and he knows it, but he's like the guy at the party who talks too loud, swaggers when he's sitting still, and tries to get everybody to listen to this "really funny story" that's actually not funny, but that won't stop him from cornering you and telling you it, anyway. It bothered me every time the camera would go to Clooney and he's mug for the camera, or otherwise react to it. Chill out, Clooney. You're a movie star, not an actor, and there really is a difference, and your movie star is setting. I know it bothers you (it's come up in interviews, although he guffaws about it like it doesn't really bother him, but I know it does; I can just tell). That acute self-awareness is off-putting; he's not natural, he's contrived.

And speaking of that, I'm bothered by Stanley Tucci's eyes -- he has these dead eyes that call to mind Michael Caine. And I think it's part of the problem. I see it every time he performs -- he embodies that East Coast style of acting, where American actors focus on theater work in hopes of being as good at it as English actors. The English have a remarkable ability to create Great Actors(tm) -- those workmanlike actors who can basically be inserted into any role and they will excel in it. They bring a very cerebral approach to acting that focuses on craftsmanship instead of the from-the-heart style of Method. And with the English, it works.

But when American actors try it, they come off as cold and actorly -- and Tucci is of that school. He's a successful actor, gets a ton of work, and he's very much that kind of actor who you say "Can you play this?" and he'll gaze at you coldly and say "No problem." and he'll give you a credible performance of whatever the fuck it is that he was called upon to play.

And, to me, that's exactly the problem. There is a clinical detachment to his craftsmanship, an inherent coldness to his work that, regardless of the role he plays, remains there. It's why I bring up Michael Caine -- Caine has a huge, huge career that spans endless decades. And he's played countless roles -- but that clinical coldness is always in his roles, like the smile that fails to reach the eyes. The coldest thing onscreen is Michael Caine smiling -- just look at his eyes, and you'll see the smile doesn't get up there. Tucci has that same thing going on -- the smile doesn't reach the eyes, the life doesn't get in there.

I pay so much attention to actors' eyes -- and Tucci's got scary-cold eyes. And you know where I went after thinking about his performance style, right? Yes. He's a Scorpio. I knew it. The eyes always, always reveal the Scorpio. Cold fucking eyes.

I didn't know that until I just looked a second ago -- what bothered me is those shark's eyes of his and his cold, clinical performing style, and then I thought "Oh, wait, I bet I know what he is." Sure enough.

I'm not saying Tucci's a bad actor, because he's not -- he's a highly competent craftsman with his acting. He'll give you any performance you require of him. He's what George Clooney could, perhaps, aspire to, if Clooney were actually a good actor, and not George Clooney(tm), the fading movie star. But Tucci won't ever be an incendiary talent -- he's acting far too up in his head to ever take that kind of risk. For him, I'll wager it's an exercise in calculated performance -- his guiding star would be Olivier, not Brando.

Costume Designed

I actually watched the Oscars last night. That was something I rarely ever do, but I was curious to see what and who would win this year, and it was fun ogling the fashions and the stars and what-not. I got a kick out of Sandy Powell's outfit -- she won her third Oscar for Costume Design, and I liked the moxie she had in her own choices. Spunky, offbeat. Loved the peacock-hued fingernails, and how the bangles played to the colors of the dress (which itself had an almost Art Deco vibe to it -- like Art Deco on a bender, with a touch of 80s flair). Loved the exuberant eccentricity of it, and how she carried herself! (and she was gracious in her thank-you speech, as well). It fits that someone who has excelled in Costume Design over the years would, in turn, craft a memorable costume for herself at the Oscars. I could totally see Corvina playing this way...

Oscar Grouching

Aw, c'mon -- they did their horror movie montage in the Academy Awards show and included: "Jaws," "Marathon Man," "Beetlejuice," "The Sixth Sense," and "Edward Scissorhands" in the montage??

No, no, no, no, and no! Not. Horror.

PPD: Ass

A contented ass enjoys a long life.

Sun-Day

Yesterday was very sunny. Nice day, weatherwise. I took the bus to Target, kind of a test run in my post-car-owning days. No problems -- took maybe 1.5 hours, all told (e.g., getting out there, shopping, returning). And going that way kept me from buying TOO much there (although I still topped out at $114 -- I maintain that I can't go to Target without exceeding $100 in purchases, no matter my original intent).

The bus ride was fun; it's so good for people-watching, I can't help but be amused. This father and his little daughter, the latter who kept playing with her sunglasses and dropping them, and he kept picking them up. It was cute, just the exchanged glances, the private smiles. A little game.

Saw a platinum blonde Trixie in shades with a black wool overcoat, black and white striped miniskirt, black hose, black open-toe high heels that looked like they were part felt (?), light gray scarf, burgundy fingernails (and toenails). She was absently chewing some very bright blue gum and reading Ayn Rand's "Three Plays." Ayn Rand? I always hate seeing people read Ayn Rand. Bogus intellectual. Rotten writer. Trixie actually rode on both of my buses -- I got off the first bus and waited at another stop, and then got on my connecting bus, and there was Trixie again, cracking her gum and reading her Rand (moving her lips now and again while reading).

Preppy gay guy sat nearby and gave me a couple of searching glances, seeing if I was game. His look was so retro-preppy I wanted to snicker -- I remember kids in high school prepped out like that. He reminded me of a former classmate (J. P.), who always worked that preppy look to the max. Sort of an amusing image.

My hair is pretty shaggy -- I haven't gotten it cut over the winter; just thick-haired to keep warm! My sideburns are lupine at the moment! I'm sure I'll bite the bullet and get a cut soon, but not yet. Maybe later this month.

I did some spring cleaning around the apartment, cleaned the inside and outside of the windows, which needed it badly. Satisfying to get them all cleaned up. Watched "Apollo 13" with my boys -- B1 loved it (as I knew he would). He wanted to watch it again, so I put it on later in the evening, and ordered "The Right Stuff" for him to watch, too. Anything with rockets and space, I tellya.

The whole Apollo 13 incident happened right before (and when) I was born. Like they splashed down the day after I was born.

I think I'm finally over my cold of the last couple of weeks -- just a tiny bit of it left.

Oh, I refined my White Spaghetti recipe last night -- used rotini with it, instead! I did so because I didn't have any spaghetti in stock, but I did have some rotini (I always have a strategic reserve of pasta in-house -- I told B1 "I never say 'basta!' to pasta!" and he asked what 'basta' meant, and I told him, included the accompanying hand gesture, which is almost instinctive). I'm happy to report that the rotini worked perfectly, actually better than the spaghetti I typically use. I could see Exene trying to process it and I said "What, you're going to try to assimilate that recipe, claim it for your own?" and she said "I'll give proper credit for it." and I said "Yeah, right." She'll never be able to properly replicate it, because she doesn't know all the ingredients that go into it. It takes a certain culinary nuance to get it just right. B1 actually tried some of it, which was nice, although he was skittish about the fresh diced flat-leaf parsley that was in it.

I'm going to get some writing done today.

Bebelicious.

Bus kiosk, State Street and Van Buren.

Whoopsie.

My Rules

It occurred to me that, over the years, I have a small set of working rules that govern my friendship, or at least who I consider friend-worthy:

• Don't be crazy/psycho
• Don't be an asshole
• Don't be pretentious
• Don't be phony/affected
  
• Don't be chickenshit
• Don't be lame

Seemingly not very hard, and yet, it is, I suppose. One might argue that all of those things are subjective, subject to interpretation, and that I should be more tolerant of the craziness, assholery, pretensions, affectations, chickenshittery, and lameness of others, or that I'm too harsh a judge of human character. That we're all human, nobody's perfect, blah blah blah. True, nobody's perfect.

But it doesn't give people a license to slack off, to be assholes, and it doesn't obviate the need for standards in one's associations, and doesn't obligate me to tolerate shitbaggery when I face it. My friendship is a gift and a treasure, and should not be thrown aside lightly.

I'm forgiving to a point (and loving to a fault, unfortunately), but I pursue an inductive, empirical approach to friendship where I just pay attention to what people say and do: I look, I listen. If somebody has a redeeming quality, I will cut them some slack, but if they force me to pay attention to my aforementioned "rules," I will distance myself from them. I can sometimes forgive one or two of the above (and even then, only if it's not too strong), but more than that, and they're out, or at least consigned to the distant reaches of my psyche -- curbside, on the wrong side of the velvet ropes of the Studio 54 of my mind, heart, and soul.

You know the line about you being judged by the company you keep? Well, I think of that now and again. People strive for excellence in so many things -- why not excellence in friendships, too? I don't believe in "settling" for love, and I don't believe in "settling" in friendships, either. So, taking the opposite of my "rules" above, one can at least hypothetically divine what I value in a friend:

• Be sane
• Be kind and compassionate
  
• Be honest and modest
• Be natural, unselfconscious, and authentic
  
• Be bold and spunky
  
• Be fun

I don't think that's asking too much. It's not the Ten Commandments, but being those things can't hurt. Looking at the above, it's also possible for someone to be exceptionally strong in one area (or, ideally, many of these) and that balances out some of the negatives. Like if someone were exceptionally kind, I'd forgive them for being exceptionally lame -- I wouldn't judge them for that, because their kindness would offset the lameness. Exceptional virtues can (up to a point) forgive faults, so long as the virtues outmatch the vices.

I think it's natural to have an aesthetic -- it just makes sense to me on a deep and intuitive level. To know beauty, you have to understand it intuitively. And I think it applies to friendships, as well. Friendship is a beautiful thing, and I treasure it -- why cheapen it by lowering my standards? Mediocrity in friendship is as damning as mediocrity in anything else.