Just saw The Thin Red Line for the first time. Slapping myself for not watching it earlier. That's partly due to the fact that when it came out all my friends were like "man, that was way boring." Fools. But such is often the case with youth when a film is on that next level. Great use of narration, focusing on a mind's philosophical meanderings rather than explaining everything to lazy viewers. Need to get my hands on the special edition so I can see the massive amount of footage that got cut from the theatrical release.
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Actually, I have another Malick flick on deck: Days of Heaven. If you don't think wheat fields are pretty to look at, you should after watching this one. And it also allows you the chance to hear me utter a very rare sequence of words: "Richard Gere is in it and it's really good."
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Played softball last week. Mixed feelings. Can still hit the ball - went about 7 for 8. But it's slow pitch so everyone should be stroking it. My problems were in the field. I played second base and lost count of how many errors I made. Apparently, I cannot field ground balls anymore. I mean, the field was a mess and I wasn't wearing a cup and was a little tentative playing the ball. Still...I don't know. I expected more out of myself.
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Fourth of July was eventful. Hiked Mount Si with good friend Chelsea. We did the smaller of the two trails. I honestly found it to be less intense than Tiger Mountain. But that might be because at the time I hiked Tiger Mountain I had yet to start running on a regular basis. Inept cardio may render any comparison erroneous. After hiking, stopped off at Twede's - the infamous North Bend cafe to be featured in Twin Peaks (there known as the Double R Diner). And yes, they had a damn fine cup of coffee. Finished the day off with a PBS documentary on the Jonestown Massacre. Sort of a bumout way to close the holiday.
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Let's fire up that jukebox. Excuse me while I give it a swift kick...
Fell in love with these guys when I first heard Dead Reckoning about nine years ago. Reminded me of a slightly more indie version of Hot Water Music. Has that perfect balance of catchy melodies and raw energy. This one is off their recent comeback record, Fell & Found, which isn't quite as stellar as some of their past work. Though that's probably just my 18-year old self speaking. Either way, it's good to have Small Brown Bike back doing their thing.
Graduated on Saturday. Received Alpha Beta Kappa Honors - not too shabby. Later that evening went to a graduation party at a fellow student's house (more like a mini-mansion). Good food. Legitimate dudes - they will be missed. Decided to get culinary for this celebratory soiree, whipping up a Spinach Artichoke Dip and a batch of some Mexican Hot Chocolate Snickerdoodles (big respect to Isa and the Post Punk Kitchen). Both were pretty popular - especially the snickerdoodles - despite the fact that a few traditional ingredients were MIA. This did, of course, lead to some curious inquiries about my diet. Most were respectful, merely wondering what it is I eat. One individual, however, blurred the line between ignorance and insolence. I can deal with the misinformed. It comes with the territory. But disrespect is not so easily digested. Recalling the exchange I had with this individual in detail is something I don't care to do here; allow me to say that even after politely fending off a barrage of common untruths with the facts, there was still a sense of mockery about the line of questioning. Cool was kept, though. And in what was perhaps my greatest rebuttal, I let the food do the talking, as the sipper of haterade proceeded to walk a subsequent line between irony and hypocrisy amidst mouthfuls of snickerdoodle. Beef squashed.
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Been pretty lazy with reading lately. Before I was busy finishing up school. Now I'm busy looking/applying for jobs. But I'm trying to at least pick up Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates at least once a day. Josh, it needs to get back to you before the Chicago move. I will make it happen.
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I always like to post music on here. But am I being delusional in doing so? Does it ever get listened to? Well, that's not going to stop me from posting it. I'll just make it completely random, shuffling my iTunes library and seeing what happens. Here we go...
What comes up but only one of the classics. Top 5 band from the Pacific Northwest. Greatest (or maybe second greatest) metalcore album of all time. The definition of innovation in heavy music. That definition is Botch. Reunion time, guys. Show the newjacks how to harness the power of the angular riff.
I'm secure enough in my masculinity to post cute cat pictures. I'll even own up to frequenting this great blog about cats (and where they do not belong). Really though, The Murph just needed to be shown some more love on here. Because he is one of the dopest cats of all time.
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In other uber-masculine endeavors, I've elevated my game to that of 99% vegan warrior. It's been about a week or two - can't remember the exact day. Besides the slice of toast that (for whatever unnecessary reason) contains a minute bit of milk, I'm doing the thing. Maybe it's because I've been on this path for the past nine years, but I'm not finding it to be that hard. My only concern is the whole omega-3 deficiency; LNA (or ALA) not being the problem, but having to rely on inefficient conversion for EPA and DHA. If the algae DHA/EPA pills weren't so expensive, this wouldn't even be an issue. So for the time being I'm relying on the conversion, consuming about 4-6 tablespoons of ground flaxseed daily (it's rich in LNA needed for conversion and is pretty inexpensive if you buy it in bulk, grinding it yourself). After doing some math, I think I've got my omega-3 bases covered. And while flaxseed is high in fat like most nuts in seeds, the rest of my diet is so low in it that I don't have to worry about exceeding recommended intakes. Plus, I exercise often enough to put me well outside the average 2,000 - 2,500 calorie diet plan, allowing me a few extra grams. Long story short, I'm almost there. Babes won't dig it (What do you mean you can't take me to Wendy's?). But that was never the point.
If all that talk about omega-3's made no sense, I'd suggest looking it up. Even if you eat meat, you most likely aren't consuming enough fish to get the recommended levels. Your brain health depends on it.
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Watched Sling Blade for the first time in a number of years. It's an old favorite. Sort of ridiculous. But therein lies the charm. I can imagine Billy Bob Thorton seeing Forest Gump and thinking, "...what if he wasn't a wuss and had a homicidal past?" Thorton is great in the role, too. I almost forget it's him there at times. Total character immersion. No way he was breaking between takes.
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Recently discovered The Replacements. A little after-the-fact on that one. Better late than never, though. Josh, I sent you one of their albums and I haven't heard anything back yet, which means you probably aren't feeling it. You probably think they sound the Goo Goo Dolls. Whatever, dude.
It was time to get a new pair of running shoes. And since normal running shoes that are non-leather don't really exist - unless you are fine with Saucony's (after straining a tendon(s) in my foot that took a month to heal, I am not) - trail runners are the way to go. So this evening at REI, I snagged those beasts above: La Sportiva's Wildcat. Since I'm normally something of minimalist with my Chucks, I'm still getting used to the gaudy appearance; there's a bit of NASCAR typography going on down the side and the tread is so aggro it looks like they scaled Godzilla. But all that is irrelevant. Running is no fashion show. These babies have the best support I've ever experienced in a shoe. Will be trying them out tomorrow for a 5 mile rage.
So when was the last time I talked about Converge on here? A few months ago? Well, that's quite a hiatus. I'll keep it short this time, letting the following Facebook post by the band and accompanying picture tell most of the story.
A cop moshed and a pregnant girl did a backflip!!! CT was straight up animalistic!!! Thank you thank you thank you!!!
Accompanying caption read, "Moshcop buying Converge merchandise after slaying kids in the pit."
The things that don't happen at a Bright Eyes show. Just another example of what makes punk/hardcore so unique. And why it certainly isn't "dead". (Okay. I see Jane Doe on vinyl in the picture and am about to have a coronary. Please stay in print. A record player is coming down the pipe.)
I was the last person on the planet to get a cellphone, a debit card, as well as try sushi (and I'm referring to the vegetable rolls). So it makes sense that I only just now watched Sonicsgate. If there is an individual who lives under larger rock than I do, it's a documentary about how the city of Seattle lost the SuperSonics. Between the years of 2004 and 2008, I did not have cable and lost touch with what was happening with the team. During the latter of those years, I lived with a now ex-girlfriend who harbored a deep-seeded hatred for any sort of athletic competition besides horse racing (if that even qualifies). Combining the factors of estrangement from broadcast media and exposure to a significant other's contagion of negativity, I simply stopped caring about the Sonics. I remember being on campus at WWU, hearing the rumors of the team moving and thinking with indifference, "business is business."
But after watching the documentary, I've realized how deep the roots run. Seeing vintage footage of Payton, Kemp and Schrempf, along with some of the other more historically underappreciated players like Sam Perkins and Hersey Hawkins, it's pure nostalgia. It made me realize how big a Sonics fan I was when I was young. The Seahawks were annual disasters and the Mariners only had a few memorable years (which both the organization and city still try to unsuccessfully cling to). The Sonics were the real deal and regularly contended in the playoffs. So they were easy for a kid to get into. And those games in May and June were intense; I'd be cursing Karl Malone and the rest of the Utah Jazz in my mind for all four quarters.
Now that I've seen how everything went down, it depresses me. Mismanagement of players, poor draft picks, bumbling local ownership and politicking, deceitful buyers...and a plethora of other things the film does a good job of outlining/explaining. I don't know man, it bums a dude out. (And you know who else got bummed out? Ex-season ticked holder, Sherman Alexie. That's who.) The worst part has to be that the Oklahoma City Thunder, the team that the Sonics became, is right now playing in the Western Conference finals. Good game.
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Think I screwed up my elbow. Too much working out. Took the week off. No lifting. Don't want tendinitis. But I think I'm going to lose my mind if I don't engage with some iron soon.
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To capture the essence of this post, I give you Harvey Milk. The album the song below is off of is A Small Turn of Human Kindness. (It came out last year and really should have made my "best of" list.) Most artists just front with the "you guys, I am really sad and I need to sing these songs" and end up sounding too catchy to actually be sad about anything. Harvey Milk, on the other hand, don't sugarcoat despair. While on past releases they've definitely played around with some blues rock and have been known to cover an entire R.E.M. album live, nothing of the sort exists here. Crushing sludge and doom. Exclusively. I don't think I've ever heard anything that so poignantly characterizes the sense of completely bottoming out. Makes Elliott Smith sound like he just needed a Xanax.
Spending my Saturday evening watching Kickboxer and getting stoked. It reminds me of how when my brother and I were kids we used to put on snow gloves, go out to the backyard and box. And I do mean box. Full contact. Just no face hits. Kicks may or may not have been thrown. I believe a few other dudes from the neighborhood got in on the action too. How my parents allowed this to go on, in their own backyard of all places, I cannot explain. It's not like we were inconspicuous about it. We were out there yelling and screaming and beating the shit out of each other. Granted, we were between the ages of 7 and 11; the worst damage we could do was knocking the wind out of the other guy. Still, we had a sort of "fight club" a good three years before that Palahniuk guy had anything to say about it. A curious memory, for sure. One I haven't recalled in years and which is at odds with much of my childhood. Thanks be to Jean-Claude Van Damme for the memento.
My mom gave me quite a surprise this week when she walked past me carrying my copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in her hand. I didn't really know how to react. I said something like, "Are you sure? He's pretty weird." Better that than Breakfast of Champions,though; she wouldn't have gotten past Vonnegut's illustrations. Well, I hope she sticks with it.
Been jamming a lot of Zombi lately. For those not in the know, they are an instrumental two-piece consisting solely of drums and synths. They play in the progressive vein a la Rush and Yes, but are clearly influenced by the scores of classic 70's/80's B-horror films of the Italian persuasion. Their new album, Escape Velocity, is way rad. Now if you listen to the track below and think, "this one's for the nerds," you would be correct. I am a nerd. And I see/hear no shame in it.
Indie singer-songwriters. What's really all that "independent" about most of them? Acoustic guitar, hooky folk songs, Beatles melodies thrown in to feign diversity. These are the necessary elements for the cardigan crew to get bout it, bout it. I'm not trying to be overly cynical here; I've just described a handful of artists that I enjoy listening to. I won't go so far as to claim that every songwriter has to sound completely different from one another to attain originality or merit. But there is definite irony in the generally formulaic nature of this music, causing me to roll my eyes and shake my head at the "independent" minstrel show of songwriting.
Then I hear The Grime and The Glow by Chelsea Wolfe. It has little to nothing to do with what I described in the paragraph. So I'm rightfully captivated by what I hear. That is not to say she isn't without comparison; PJ Harvey comes to mind. But it feels fresh. There's incredible variance in the material: subdued poppy post-punk, end-time folk, discordant funeral blues, something that sounds like a whale song filtered through a guitar, etc. And it'd probably be a lo-fi mess of an album if it weren't tied together by Wolfe's hauntingly beautiful vocals, which - with somber bewitchment - create harmony amongst the discordant. 2011 may not be half over yet, but this is my current AOTY.
EDIT: This album actually came out at the end of last year. Whoops. She does have a new one, Ἀποκάλυψις ("Apokalypsis"). Will be checking it out shortly.
The new David Bazan album rules hard. It was to be expected.
John Vanderslice has still got it. Though it would have been nice to see him with a full band (not complaining, Chelsea), I can only imagine how expensive it is to tour with gas prices being what they are right now.
Twin Peaks has taken over my life for almost a week. Lynch must have had one amazing pitch to even get this thing on the air in the first place. Also, Sherilyn Fenn is a fox. And what I wouldn't give to have coffee and donuts with Agent Cooper.
There is no need for Kellogg's Frosted Mini-Wheats to contain gelatin. This would be a liferuiner, if not for the fact that I've already begun to eat like an old man. Oatmeal, toast, banana. Everyday. Oh, and coffee - black as some kvlt as hell Norwegian metal.
Punk rock and hardcore is still great music. Those who say otherwise should just go ahead and apply for their AARP membership.
Recently a friend of mine interviewed The Get Up Kids. You probably know by now that I think their new album, There Are Rules, sips large quantities of wack juice. That being said, the interview was good and can be found in its entirety here. But when reading it I was struck by a certain response from the band.
Jim Suptic: To us, every album we have ever made sounds different. When people say our “signature” sound, they are usually talking about “Something To Write Home About”. Probably because it was our most successful album. We wrote some of those songs when we were teenagers. I’m 33 now. I love that record but seriously, it was over a decade ago. We wouldn’t even know how to write an album like that again. Especially not lyrically. Things that were important to me then seem quite trivial now.
My immediate reaction was to shake my head and recall the classic jam below.
If you're scratching your head, thinking that there couldn't be two more unrelated entities than that of The Get Up Kids and Gang Starr, hold tight. Take a gander at Guru's hook on the above track.
It's mostly tha voice, that gets you up It's mostly tha voice, that makes you buck A lot of rappers got flavor, and some got skills But if your voice ain't dope then you need to [chill...chill...]
In reply to Suptic's comments about the lyrical immaturity of Something to Write Home About, I say "irrelevant". Allow me to invoke Guru's concept of "tha voice", but furthering its scope to encompass all "sound" (or narrow it a bit to specify "instrumentation"). The Get Up Kids could write a song about Yogi Bear taking a rocket ship on an interstellar voyage for picnic baskets and I would listen to it...if it had "tha voice". I don't hear "tha voice" on There Are Rules. I hear some guys who really like New Order and Joy Division but lack the sense needed to incorporate synths and electronics into songs without a shoehorned awkwardness (oddly enough, Reggie and the Full Effect did a better job of this). So basically all that's left are some supposedly more-sophisticated lyrics that no one read in the first place. So basically it should have been a book of poetry that no one read in the first place. What's that saying about whether or not a tree makes a sound when it falls without anyone around? Well, it doesn't - not without "tha voice". Guess they should have chilled.
This one goes to The Murph. Because he is unapologetically loquacious and loud as hell. But we wouldn't have him any other way. Just tonight my mom caught me calling him "sweetums". She couldn't understand that it was a misplaced reference to Parks and Recreation. So I then tried to cover up by referring to him as a "hairy turd". He is, after all, both. Such is the feline quandary known as The Murph.
Read John Barth's Lost in the Funhouse. Or read all but the last two stories, getting burnt out on his abstract exercises in form. There are definitely some good ones here; "Night Sea Journey", "Petition", and "Lost in the Funhouse" are equal parts golf clap and hearty laughter. Things bog down when the stories are based off classic Greek epics. While I probably should be more familiar with the Illiad and the Odyssey, the fact is that I've only read one of them (I cannot recall which) and that was about eight years ago. So when dude starts name dropping "Telemachus" and "Pesistratus" like we're already BFFs, I just want to crack an MGD and tell him to eat a fat one. Nevertheless, I'd recommend this to anyone looking for something beyond the standard fare narrative. It's a good chance to mix it up and act smarter than you actually are.
After talking to Josh (one of my supposed three loyal readers), I've been giving some thought as to what I want to do with this blog. I am considering copying him and making the transition to Tumblr. I think its format is much better suited for shorter posts - a form I'd much rather deal in at this point. These wide margins are so daunting sometimes. I'd still keep this blog for the occasional longer rant. But we shall see. I'm pretty lazy with what I've got going here. I might be too lazy to start an entirely new enterprise.
School has been pretty gnarly as of late. A few large projects to finish up (one which I miscalculated the due date of by a week). A couple of tests. One inept instructor. I've been putting in work. So a class cancellation because of snow offers a nice reprieve, even if it cuts into break.
While I was working on one of the aforementioned projects, I happened to be jamming The Smith's Meat Is Murder via iTunes (Morrissey - the unassuming badass - helps me plow through the tedium of documentation). I step away from the computer for a lunch break and let my mom check her email. From the kitchen, I hear the volume of "Barbarism Begins at Home" gradually increase. Christ, is she vibing to this shit? I then flashback about five years to a scenario involving Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills" and my mom galloping to the tune of "this has a great beat!" I should be mature enough to deal with this overlap in taste. Maybe even pleased that there has been a bridging of the gap. But since this is a woman whose musical sensibilities include Fine Young Cannibals and the Flashdance soundtrack, my insecurities over defining "awesome" are stirred. Mom, I love you. But I can't be guilty by association.
Allow me to hand out a little self-love. Within the period of one night, I dropped knowledge on Facebook concerning the classic nature of both French cinema and Ice Cube. I'll be the first to admit that I'm much better suited to teach a course on the latter. But taken together...who does that? Who else can wax on entities from realms so disparate? Besides Spike Lee, nobody. I'm just too next level. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Been on something of a Converge binge lately. No big surprise (you may recall my gushing proclamation that Jane Doe was the best album of the last decade). I don't know what else to say about them or if I really need to say anything about them, but whenever I hear a C0nverge track I feel the impulse to tap you on the shoulder say, "Do you hear that? That is the sound of annihilation. Beautiful, isn't it?" I had that reaction ten years ago when I first got into them and I still get it today. No less intense. That is timeless power. The closest thing to a spiritual experience I have. It sounds silly, but it's true. "Annihilation" is extinction. And here it's the extinction of my senses. Senses that are prone to registering desire and suffering. "Annihilation" leading to the transcendence of economic materialism that is this modern life. Dudes, I'm talking about a basic Buddhist principle here: nirvana. No, I didn't just lose my mind. It was all just a ploy to post another Converge song.
A live-action Akira? I'll avoid the unnecessary "why's?" and just shake my head in disdain. Even if James Franco is on board, it seems pointless. What could the adaptation do that the anime already didn't? Precisely what made the anime so compelling was that it was a "cartoon" doing things that cartoons don't do. Shoot, things that most movies don't do. I should probably contextualize those last two statements by clarifying that I first saw Akira at about 13 years of age. Around that time, I was watching the likes of The Nutty Professor and Space Jam. So then I see this animated Japanese movie that's completely alien in every way possible: it's subtitled, the story is difficult to follow and...christ, was that a cartoon boob? Basically, it was some next-level sci-fi shit and completely blew my mind as a kid because it was so different. But now that anime is all the rage in America (for the last decade or so), undiscerning nerds will gobble up anything big eyes and dumb hair, regardless of how banal or ludicrous the story and/or art is. Akira was, and still is, great because you can see the meticulous care that went into every detail of each frame. No way that same level of care will go into the adaptation.
I finally watched Inception, making me the last person on the planet to do so. Totally got it. Don't even need to ask me about it. (He's still in his dream, right?)
Some words on The Human Stain. Protagonist, Colman Silk, is a light-skinned black man. A professor of classics. Light enough complexion to pass for white in most cases. During youth, decides to disown his black family to create white identity; wife and children never know. Later in his 70's, has an affair with an apparently illiterate white janitor in her 30's from the university he had previously been employed at (got fired for inadvertent racism in using the word "spooks" to refer to habitually absent students he didn't know were black). Desire in the opposite. Power in secrecy. Binaries broken internally and externally. Oh the tragedy of human contradiction.
Just finished The Hunger Games. Not bad. It's clear that the author, Suzanne Collins (who used to work on that old Nickelodeon show, Clarissa Explains It All), is familiar with the likes of The Running Man and Battle Royal. There were even a couple of scenes in the book that reminded me of parts from both Predator and Rambo: First Blood Part II, with the violence toned down a bit. After reading so many novels steeped in textual ambiguity, it's nice to pick up a story that essentially tells itself. That being said, it's no Feed.
I really want to go to Rain Fest. Not only is it in Seattle this year (Neumo's), but the lineup is insane: Black Breath, Owen Hart, Shook Ones, Most Precious Blood, 7 Seconds, Madball, and Trial...to name a few. Oh wait, it's already sold out. Fantastic.
Please excuse the hiatus I took from blogging last month. I needed to recharge my batteries. Actually, I was just lazy as hell and felt no obligation to entertain you.
Scratch the lazy part. Though a sedentary activity, I've read a lot lately. In fact, I've been following along with with an online lecture series for a Yale course on the American novel since 1945. It's given me the chance to get around to some classics I'd previously overlooked, as well as dust off a number of texts for much deserved rereads. The reading list is as follows (in order): Black Boy, Wise Blood, Lolita, On the Road, Franny and Zooey, Lost in the Funhouse, The Crying of Lot 49, The Bluest Eye, The Woman Warrior, Housekeeping, Blood Meridian, The Human Stain, The Known World, and Everything is Illuminated.
Props to Sno-Isle Libraries for supplying the needed books - with the exception of Lost in the Funhouse , which I've been trying to get by request/interlibrary loan for the past few months (Josh, hook it up if you've got it). I'm currently reading The Human Stain, which means that I only have two more novels to finish before I can officially say that I've completed a course at Yale (sans attending "section" classes or writing any of the papers). Yeah, I've read at my own leisure, starting back in the fall. So although those Yale kids are a bunch of snooty aristocrats, their academic rigor is impressive; reading two novels week in the midst of a full credit load would have broke this camel's back early in the term.
Of the books I reread, it's Housekeeping that I'm most glad I came back to a second time. I first came across it five years ago while at college in a post-modern literature course. My thoughts at the time were something like, "Women. Nature. Hold on while I get the soy milk and Luna Bars" *escapes out back window*. Now I have a much greater appreciation Marilynne Robinson's ability as a writer. I'm not claiming to completely understand what she was doing in Housekeeping (something along the lines of Emerson or Walden). But I know originality when I see it. Did I mention she was a hardcore Christian? All the more amazing that I was feeling it. What can I say? I've got two aces up my sleeve when it comes to theologians in fiction: Robinson, the Protestant transcendentalist and O'Connor, the Catholic absurdist. (C.S. Lewis, you get no love here.)
I can't ignore the Super Bowl. Some key points.
1) I'm sure everyone's favorite commercial was the VW/Darth Vader/force-using one. It was aight. But personally I liked the Doritos one with the the crumb-stain fiend who sucks a dude's thumb and rips off another's pants; that's homoeroticism appreciated. I also enjoyed the British game show-themed Mini Cooper commercial centered around the catch phrase "cram it in the boot", as the contestant proceeded to shove a 12-foot subway sandwich into the trunk of an extremely small car. No sexual innuendos here.
2) That preview for Cowboys & Aliens? I think I'll just watch Tremors again.
3) Black Eyed Peas halftime show. Didn't watch it. Okay, I watched it on mute to know when it was over. Saw that Slash made a cameo for an abominable rendition of "Sweet Child O' Mine" (the GnR royalties must be drying up). I guess it wasn't completely muted. Would have much rather watched the Springsteen performance from two years ago. And lady Ferguson, youse a butterface ho.
The game? It was good. Rather surprised that the Steelers weren't able to pull off the comeback, despite the large deficit at halftime, since the Packers suffered some big injuries in the secondary. To Pittsburgh, I have this to say: I love Troy Palamalu's hair and Brett Keisel's beard, but rapists can't be Super Bowl champions. Ben Roethlisberger, I'm looking at you. "Alleged sexual assault", my ass. I understand that you're one ugly bastard and therefore it's hard to get piece. Doesn't mean you get to strong-arm women. You know who's even uglier than you and still gets laid on the reg without resorting to dirtbag tactics? This guy.
