Julia Writehome

nba wwf

2012-02-09T12:58:00.001-05:00

The other night I went to see the New Jersey Nets play the Chicago Bulls. Total blow out. The Nets killed it. Obviously, that is a joke. Speaking of joking, I wish Will Ferrell introduced *our* game:

maurizio cattelan at play

2012-02-09T12:54:00.000-05:00

Maurizio Cattelan's retrospective was terrific. A totally playful, refreshing, and invigorating use of the actual museum space, and a welcome visual upset of the idea of a traditional retrospective, as such. I often feel flustered and crowded trying to negotiate other exhibits at the Guggenheim. The grotto-like galleries and hanging space along the walls are dimly lit, too contained, and the ramps too prone to traffic jams. Just the idea of going to a standard fare show there makes me drowsy, unenthusiastic, and mentally immediately heading to the cafe for dessert instead.

The giant mobile as the centerpiece of the building shifted the entire focus of the space to the bright, airy, atrium core of the building—an about-face that energized the space, transforming it into a bright, buzzing hive around a curatorial crescendo of the artist's work, with the pieces and installation as a whole conveying more dark, darkly humored, and weighty messaging steeped in inertia, limbo, death, rebellion, revolution, anarchy, persecution, dystopia, the apocalypse....etc.

The presentation alone looked at once like an actual capturing of imagination, a career hanging from the gallows, a sculptural birdcage (there were fake pigeons roosting on many of the cross beams!), an absurdist play on a Baroque Ceiling fresco, wildest dreams come true, a sculptural symphony with cartoonish Picasso as the commanding conductor...and so on. I really enjoyed winding around, rediscovering each work around every turn of curated chaos. Here are some snapshots:

god jul

2011-12-24T17:18:00.000-05:00

Season's greetings!

just testa

2011-12-06T13:38:00.000-05:00

The verdict is in: I would like an antelope chauffeur.

soothing sounds of the sixties

2011-11-27T22:37:00.000-05:00

This song has been in my head for days. An oldie, but goldie.

gracias

2011-11-27T22:33:00.002-05:00

My whole family is thankful my dad is alive one year after having grueling experimental surgery. Last year's Thanksgiving was a zombie show. This year everyone was cheery and being their funny selves while my dad ran circles around us, building fires, eating like a champ, and watching football—he even went to a Northwestern football game. He also pretty much threw a pick on me and stole my breakfast when he mistook a dish of oatmeal for stuffing.

My mom and I took a long walk and passed by the zoo where some wolves were singing their song.

Later my mom encouraged me to go through some file boxes. I did a half-baked job of refining the metamorphic pile of binders, papers, and programs, and a bang-up job of photographing some greatest archival hits.

A selection of reading material:

A still life:

And a few highlights from my eraser collection:

Tip of the iceberg. My poor parents. Housing all this crap for their adult daughter. I am thankful for their lenient storage policies. And for patiently encouraging me to travel to the beat of a different drum.

the two amigos

2011-11-23T01:37:00.000-05:00

This evening I saw a screening of The Blues Brothers. So great to see it in the company of a totally appreciative and enthusiastic audience. The music is still completely fantastic and the whole film made me mighty homesick for sweet home Chicago. In other news, do I have a crush on the entire horn section and 1980 Dan Akryod, or what?

I also got to meet John Landis.

Nice deer-in-headlights look I have going. I definitely thought I was going to throw up from joy.

Tomorrow night I return to see Trading Places. Hope I can refrain from compulsively reciting every single line aloud like a big jerk.

hot chocolate

2011-10-27T01:09:00.017-04:00

This afternoon I did something so crazy embarrassing at the office that I have been laughing pretty much straight for the last eight hours at my own expense.

Last week was my coworker's birthday. We'll call him "George." The two editors that own the business and manage us invited me to join the three of them for lunch. I had to work at my other place of employment that day, so sent my regrets, but assured George I would bring in some kind of desserty celebratory snack next time I was in. I asked about preferences and he said, "Anything involving chocolate would be great."

Cut to: This morning at the market where I was hastily picking up breakfast. While in line to pay, I remembered, "Oh RIGHT. George's birthday. I should bring chocolate." The check-out aisle at this tiny market is conveniently walled off by two towering shelves of chocolate that one can handily grab while in line. As there were people cued up behind me, I didn't really have time to browse. So I just scanned darkness percentages, quickly plucked one 75% dark chocolate bar, and then saw the word GINGER, in a display like this:

...and thought, "YUM. Fine." Made my purchases. Dashed to the office. Upon arrival, George was not at his desk so I plunked the two bars down in front of his keyboard and got straight to work.

The day was really hectic. George and the two partners were in a meeting for three hours. I was on an image-captioning tear. Mid-afternoon George rolls up, says, "Chocolate break?", and hands me a bar. I thanked him, pried off a chunk, and got back to business. Five minutes later I walked up and half-jokingly said, "Gimme more." He said, "Yeah, it's good, right? I also really look forward to the other bar you purchased."

"Oh me, too! I really like ging..."At which point he held up the other bar to my face, which, like a scene out of a Hitchcock film, suddenly came into all-too-sharp focus. My eyes were like saucers, and I think I went temporarily deaf from panic as I saw that below the word "Ginger" and the image of ginger that initially drew my impulse-buy paws in, was the word "SEXY" in capital letters. Plain. As. Day.

OMFG. I accidentally bought my co-worker sexy chocolate.

O. M. G.

Even worse? He thought it was INTENTIONAL. That it was A JOKE. That I was "being funny." So for the four hours prior, we had been in the same office, me thinking, "I gave George chocolate for his birthday. I'm nice. When is he gonna open it so I can eat some?" While George sat there saying nothing but, "Thanks for the chocolate" while thinking, "That Julia, what a card. Giving me sex chocolate right here in our open-office-plan office. Where all five occupants can see and hear every single thing."

"I thought you were being funny" felt generous. "I thought you were being mentally unwell" would have been the more fitting reaction.

To say I laughed is an understatement. I was doubled over with tears streaming down my face, in a full body sweat, breathless. Pretty much for the remaining three hours of work.

Dear Readers: Not only did the label say "SEXY" on the front, but, as George kindly went on to inform me, on the back there was a seductive paragraph essentially describing how in-the-mood this chocolate will make the consumer. I probably imagined half of what he said in my state of shock. I was beet red, convulsing, and finally made it back to my desk after choking out forty thousand "OMG obviously, I had NO IDEA what I bought" explanations though laugh-sobs. I sat at my computer hyperventilating, trying to talk down the crazy plane. I recovered just long enough to google "s-e-x-y g-i-n-g-e-r c-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e." Research revealed that it also contained the good times ingredient Guarana. A new wave of horror hilarity washed over me. I basically gave George a bar of chocolatey Spanish Fly for his belated birthday gift. NOOOOOoooooooo...

*thunk*
*fainted*
*wake up to laugh again*
*faint again*

"Sorry I missed your birthday lunch, George. (wink wink) Here's something totally slutty for a co-worker with whom I usually discuss sports and music."

(Cue:"Santa Baby")
(The only song I can think of to fit this fake scene.)

Somehow I made it through the rest of the day, accomplishing a little work, doubling over for a moment, then regaining composure once more. It was like my siblings and I trying not to laugh during VERY SERIOUS CHURCH all over again. At one point I actually covered my mouth and dashed to the bathroom to privately laugh-cry.

Here's the thing, while I am obviously still dying of embarrassment, I am also one thousand percent amused. I live for this kind of humiliating hi-jinx / frazzled accident. Once upon a time during a rushed lunch break in the park, my friend dug through her backpack for anything spoon-like so she could eat her container of hummus. She found a coffee scoop and thought, "Perfect." After devouring out every last bit of hummus from the tub, she took a closer look at the fine print on the scoop handle only to realize that it actually said "MIRACLE-GRO." NOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooo.

(Check for pulse)
(Laugh for ten years)

But my gaffe was not: "Oh ha ha, silly me, I was by myself and used a poison plant food scoop instead of a spoon for lunch."

Mine was: "Oh ha ha, today I accidentally sexually harassed my work buddy."

That said, while I am mortified beyond belief, I am also totally delighted with this new nomination for "One of the Dumbest, Most Embarrassing Things I Have Ever Done."

George took it all in stride. I clearly have no game. Or manners. And I need reading glasses. And to relocate.

He sent me a follow up email informing me: "Apparently pink peppercorn is also "SEXY""

I just noticed the caption on the site says: "Dark chocolate to spice up those special moments."

Dying all over again.

thinking outside the box / creature features

2011-10-24T14:20:00.004-04:00

Will this sign ever not make me laugh? It's basically an advertisement saying: "TEENS: In case this dumb idea didn't occur to you already, you can thank us later!" It also seems like a scene someone dreamed up for Michael Jackson's Beat It video: "Here's what the rough-n-tough NYC 1980s subway looks like...to a choreographer! Where every space and surface is a STAGE!"

Speaking of Michael Jackson videos, I just found out that in November BAM is hosting a retrospective for director John Landis, the mastermind behind the Thriller video, as well as Animal House, The Blues Brothers, Trading Places, The Three Amigos, American Werewolf in London...

I will be attending all aforementioned screenings, thank you very much. The first and last time I saw The Blues Brothers in a theater I was six years old (my parents made some notoriously questionable theatrical choices for family fare in my youth, like Animal House two years prior), and the volume of the car chases, the music, and Carrie Fisher's machine gun and dynamite was so loud that my mom and I had to sit on a bench outside the theater and watch through the doorway from the hall. That's dedication. Maybe that outside-the-door subway rider is having a similar experience: The subway car proper is sensory overload. He just needs to keep his distance.

On the topic of movies, it's autumn in New York when the city feels like this:

On my own leafy walk the other day I saw a gathering of two joggers and two cyclists on the park road, with two TINY baby raccoons oinking and bouncing all around them. Their mom was nowhere to be found and these itty-bitty little guys looked like they were worried, asking for help, but also ready to party. Adorable doesn't even begin to describe the scene. The furry little guys were super friendly, boinging all over the place, clambering all over the joggers shoes. Anytime one of joggers tried to walk on, the raccoons got all over-excited and oinked more at them. Someone phoned the park district and a van rolled up, ready to take the babies to be fed and handled. Two burly, tough-looking park employees stepped out of the vehicle and melted, saying in very thick Brooklyn accents, "Oh man these guys are CUTE." They picked them up and (hopefully) drove them to a nice woodsy home.

And, finally, it's almost Halloween. I don't have my Tootsie outfit at all assembled. For a just-in-case costume, I have always wanted to buy a zip-up dog suit. Easy, can wear warm layers underneath, and I like dogs. No lose situation. When searching "dog costume" I came upon this image. Disturbing and hilarious, then disturbing all over again. Then hilarious once again.

The hound looks pretty unready to party. He mostly just looks resigned and humiliated. And injured. And huggableohyoucomehererightnow....

high wire acts

2011-10-04T00:21:00.001-04:00

After reading this article, I am really looking forward to the forthcoming Maurizio Cattelan retrospective at the Guggenheim museum. I have always had great appreciation for Mr. Cattelan's sense of reverent irreverence and the concept for this show is no exception. The notion of his works dangling from great heights, like a giant memorabilia mobile of greatest hits is, if anything, an absurdly terrific idea. Such positioning is a hysterical act of hubris, elevating his work to the highest level imaginable, but also the ultimate insult, suspending them as if prisoners in a rescue-me scene of a film, dangling over a modern abyss. The concept offers nuanced, charged commentary that is at once self-congratulatory and self-mocking, iconic and iconoclastic: This career is hanging by a thread; these works are celestial, God-like; this could all come crashing down at any moment...

Viewing these figures from the ground floor up through the center of the winding building makes me think of at least three images from film history (the last, potentially less identifiable image is from Time Bandits):

It's a dare and daring, arrogant and self-sacrificing, anti-establishment and at-the-mercy of the establishment. The whole envisioned spectacle seems to echo his marble Carrara sculpture of a middle-finger salute. I hope it translates as powerfully in the space itself as I am imagining it, anyway.

Speaking of mischief makers, I have been watching the new BBC program The Hour and was delighted to discover it stars McNulty from The Wire! The show mixes a magnetic mash-up of Mad Men makes-you-wanna-smoke nineteen fiftiesness, case-cracking Wire suspense, Mulder and Scully X Files leading man and lady chemistry, and Twin Peaks paranoia. I am really enjoying the show so far. When I first watched The Wire, I could tell McNulty's American accent was an act. That said, McNulty's actual Irishy-British accent at use in The Hour seemed totally fake and confusing to me at first, as well. I am all settled in now and accepting his new life overseas. Intelligent people with British accents, crimes of passion, spies, romance—what's not to enjoy?

Man, that is a good looking group of people. This show is gripping and, at times, eerie. One of the nefarious characters has the similar pancake make-upped pasty countenance and thousand-yard stare of Robert Blake's chilling Boogeyman in David Lynch's Lost Highway. But, man, this guy is SO GOOD at translating and has excellent penmanship, which admittedly had me overlooking his Madame Tussaud face and stalking, stabby ways, and momentarily bad-boy crushing on this total psychopath. Just for like a second. Ahem. The program is completely engaging, and leaves me with a feeling of "Oh, to be a smart and smartly dressed, smoking, classy British reporter in the fifties" along with an urgent sense of omg-I-need-ten-people-to-sleep-over-and-protect-me-now-please after each episode. I pretty much feel this nervous when it is time to go to bed:

I am heading to London in November and will probably wear a trench coat, nice sweaters and skirts, and chase important leads on scandalous world news. Keep an eye out.

your mood is like a circus wheel

2011-10-02T00:34:00.003-04:00

There's a play list on repeat in my household right now that rolls from comedic (A Tribe Called Quest's "Left My Wallet in El Segundo") to contemplative (Kings of Convenience "Me in You") to atmospheric (I Break Horses "Kill Your Love") to love sick (China Crisis' "Wishful Thinking."). It pretty much unintentionally covers any given daily mood range, so I've been choosing my song starting point depending on how things look when the alarm clock lights up along with the sun.

As we roll into autumn, the weather outside's been like a moody teenager—sunny, cheery, and "summer AND you are the BEST, mom" feeling one day; apocalyptic skies and "i hate you! i hate EVERYbody!!!" sobbing rain the next. And then there was today: Overcast, damp, bust-out-your-wool crisp, Brooklyn-as-Scotland day. Also a "discover the Smiths then take a walk and think about important things and probably journal about them" affair.

The main reason I am thinking about all this change of scenery and different moods business is admittedly just an excuse to talk about an illustration I recently saw:

Look at Frankenstein! What a busy, game-faced guy! He has so much to do for himself and for the community during a single day—and it's not always fun and games. He's a housekeeper, a small business man, a Toreador, a Cassanova...and through it all he applies himself equally to all he does, holding one unchanging, all-business attitude.

He just wants to fit in with humans and contribute to society. In a way, he's basically Nerd Bird Senior. Both green, both renaissance fellows, both leading extremely active lifestyles, both truly unflappable in any given context.

In my research I realize calling him Frankenstein is a misnomer. He is actually "Dr. Frankenstien's Monster." Through my reading, I also realize I want to see this movie:

The wikipedia description reads:

"The Chipmunks are performing at a theme park called Majestic Movie Studios. While taking a break from their concert, the Chipmunks get lost, and eventually get locked inside the park. They find their way to the "Frankenstein's Castle" attraction, where a real Dr. Frankenstein is working on his monster. The monster is brought to life, and the doctor sends it in pursuit of the Chipmunks. In their escape, the monster retrieves Theodore's dropped teddy bear. The monster follows the Chipmunks home and returns the bear to Theodore, who quickly befriends him. The Chipmunks learn that the monster (whom Theodore has nicknamed "Frankie") is truly good-hearted."

And that's just the beginning of the movie's emotional roller coaster ride. And the end of this entry. Because I have to go find this flick, immediately.

sucker punch

2011-09-14T15:06:00.000-04:00

I saw this today and it made me knowingly smirk:

I am all about graceful decorum and choosing one's battles. But I know at heart I am also a "nobody puts baby in a corner" bad news bear. Which is likely why this photo of Pippi and company also speaks to me:

calm after the storm

2011-08-28T20:48:00.014-04:00

Well, well, what have we here:

Another "don't let the door hit you on the way out" printer. Looks like someone else was also a girl with a hurricane dream. This printer, however, was truly put out to pasture. Mine is still inside. I felt too guilty to full on ditch it outside in the gale-force winds. It would probably start meowing or be all teary and "Take me back. I promise I will be faster and scan when you ask me. You won't have to reinstall my drivers every single time you need to to do anything. I'll be your forever printer..." or something heart-wrenchingly awful like that and then I would cave and have to rescue it. Because printers, like every other object in my home, have feelings.

Aside from that technological side plot, the main update is that the hurricane came and went. The anticipation was much more horror-movie suspenseful than the storm was awful. I was ok during my dinner outing at a neighborhood restaurant where everyone was celebrating and getting smash-faced like it was Irene's 30th birthday, not the end of the world. The rain en route was umbrella-and-boots manageable and the winds were still demure. On the way home, some lightening showed off and I thought, "Time to go inside, forever."

I'm not gonna lie, after the weather service issued an "AND NOW...A TORNADO" watch late last night, and my landlord went to the basement with his teenage son to reinforce the basement grate barricades but started banging around like they were actually building an ark, I started feeling a little sick with dread. I slept in regular clothes. This included jeans. You heard me. I felt like committing to pajamas pretty much guaranteed I would end up on the street, freezing and running for my life in a goofy nightgown and boots. Not cool. I wanna be Hoth Princess Leia, not Jabba's Concubine Leia. So I slept in jeans. And when I say "slept" I mean "Stayed up watching Aziz Ansari comedy routines on youtube."

This morning things were much more quiet, so I ventured outside. There were a few messes like this one:

But overall, the damage was considerably less substantial in this area than the havoc wreaked by the 2010 tornado. The striking scene this morning was 7th avenue where scores of zombie-faced residents wandered around looking for ANY open coffee place. Honestly, it looked like the storm had surged inside store fronts instead of outside on the streets. Every business along the commercial avenues was closed, boarded up, taped up with Xs like cartoon dead eyes, chairs-on-tables, all ransacked looking, and apology noted.

I found an open bakery, shared the requisite jokey moment with fellow customers in the snake-long line to the tune of, "This sure is a long line for COFFEE in NEW YORK, amirite?!", and headed to the park for a walk. The path was littered with innocuous, small-scale leafy Adam and Eve clothing branch debris, and the scene felt all "Ah. We killed Michael Meyers." sound tracky. But then the wind would blow like crazy, the trees would start bucking like those car wash air dancers...

...and the soundtrack would suddenly get all stabby, with everyone in the park looking totally panicked a la "OMG THE STORM ISN'T DEAD!!!!! IT JUST PRETENDED!!!!!!!!! Back to the snack bunker!!!!!"

But then everything would anchor again.

I am looking forward to a calmer night for all, and actual, jeans-free sleep.

stormy weather

2011-08-27T19:09:00.001-04:00

This morning I woke up and headed to the store for some last minute non-perishable food shopping before this Hulk storm arrives. So hard to know what will really unfold. Nobody here wants to look like a panicked jerk, but no one wants to look like an ignorant jerk, either. So people are splitting the difference and buying giant jugs of beer with every gallon of water. I bought so many delicious snack items, my refrigerator now looks like I am a soccer mom of five children. Even if the storm merely strolls through like a Sunday driver, who would ever regret that kind of lasting snack situation?

This was the scene from a friend's local market:

Girlfriend's not sweatin' it.

On my way home, I passed neighbors wrapping their houses in plastic and dragging carts of provisions. Then I noticed a whole other pre-storm initiative taking place in front of a local school:

I stared at this van in admiration for several minutes. The phone number, the illustrated gum guys, the business plan, "who you gonna call!!!"—what a dream boat. Meanwhile, I imagine the principal pounding his desk saying, "Buy water, seal up the grates to the basement, tape the windows, buy bread—SO much bread— and for the love of safety, remove every last piece of rock hard, smushed in, possibly now gray or black chewing gum from every desk and from any remaining carpeting BEFORE IRENE HITS!"

I tried to get one of the Busters to pose with the van and he dove out of the frame. Fame must take its toll on these guys.

After that photo op I headed to the park for my last taste of freedom before house arrest. Then came home to deal with some last details. Like the garbage. Took that out, then, staring at the cans which are right outside my apartment as I am on the ground floor, I realized I will likely see said garbage hurled at my windows in a few hours. That will be exciting.

I also filled my bathtub with water because people keep telling me to do that. "You will be thankful when there's no running water." Maybe. More likely I will forget I filled it up until I try and take my next shower. I will probably be more thankful that sewage from soon-to-be blocked storm drains will now have a harder time gurgling up into my home. At heart, I am just a Hurricane No-Regrets Robot. If I don't do these things, the storm will be worse. I know this. For now, the tub just sits there looking sad and chilly. The cats are tight-roping along the edge looking like drivers doing the drunk-walk test.

My mom keeps talking about how my apartment will probably flood because it's on the ground floor. "Mom, you seem almost excited for it to flood." She laughed. I told her I was going to put my terrible, ancient, buggy, HP f-you computer printer right next to the window and pray for storm damage so I can get a new one guilt-free. As her daughter I inherited her "But it still works just fine!" spirit/complex. Which really means, "It takes 30 minutes to print out one page, but that just gives me a chance to cook dinner/call my mom/watch an entire television program!" etc.

Okay. Time to batten down the hatches. Or, rather, walk to dinner because this storm sure is taking its sweet time arriving.

lite brite

2011-08-24T21:23:00.009-04:00

Last week I went gallery hopping with a friend on a really nice Thursday evening and saw an installation by Leo Villreal that knocked my socks off. (Yes, I am wearing an ascot and a top hat.) A photo doesn't begin to do this piece justice. The structure itself is a giant scaffolded cylinder containing tons of tiny lights, controlled by some kind of midi computer that orchestrates thousands and thousands of variable patterns. While the column itself apparently weighs a bazillion tons, the lights infuse it with an airy, kinetic quality. It is at once invigorating and pacific, urgent and elusively methodical, hypnotic, unpredictable, a great escape, a giant road block, and, indisputably, the center of attention.

At any given moment the totemic patterns look like watching an interstate from above, Times Square, Blade Runner, a Bob Fosse musical, jumping to light speed in Star Wars, Xanadu, a meteor shower, a twinkling skyline, Atari, a fancy-dancing flapper dress, Tootsie's sequined dress, Studio 54, etc.. It has its own playful tempo, and yet is so much a function of calculated, computer-programmed timing. Ah! I just found an example of the sculpture in action:

It also reminds me of a lamp my parents have from the seventies just like this one (imagined without the digital clock and that Eye of Sauron thing in the top right corner):

I am very anxious to investigate Villreal's other work.

dr. feel good and halo kitty

2011-08-17T19:18:00.000-04:00

Today I walked past an MD license-plated vehicle littered with Grateful Dead dancing bear stickers This just features the one above the license plate. Eight thousand questions and jokes immediately sprang to mind.

Further along on my walk I ran into this poster for a missing kitty. Eight thousand more questions immediately sprang to mind. I think I feel too bad for all parties involved to actually tell any jokes. But man does red-nosed Halo kitty look bummed in this rendering.

the sun always shines on tv

2011-08-03T20:02:00.006-04:00

I recently watched Friday Night Lights in its entirety. The verdict is in: I want to be Tami Taylor.

Admittedly, I was deeply reluctant to watch this show. Frankly, anything that is recommended with gusto (i.e. crammed down my throat on the daily) often ends up in the "Definitely Postpone" file. Not because I fancy myself some kind of counter-culture trend bucker, but because it's TOO MUCH PRESSURE. Suddenly I am not just watching a show or listening to a record, I am having THE BEST EXPERIENCE OF MY LIFE, (OMGITOLDYOURIGHT?!).

Also, who are we kidding? My tempo for these matters is on the slow-mo. I just want to lead a calm life of cool, you feel me? I am also the person who takes five separate trips to a store to court any given purchase (shoes, coat, food, jacket) that I know I already want. I just have to make *sure*. You know?

Hence, I am often five years behind schedule on shows to watch, albums to hear, movies to see, convenient stuff to own. I had my first iphone two months ago. For one day. If I am straight with you, it felt like an all-day anxiety dream. My texts looked like ransom notes, my phone spontaneously dialed a million people which is my worst nightmare, and, because I felt like a t-rex operating the touch screen I had to call everyone I needed to contact, resulting in conversations like, "Hi. How R U? I just called to say U R gr8."

I sound like Andy Rooney.

Where was I? Oh, yes, complainbragging. I worked on the first season of The Sopranos and didn't watch that first season until five years later when the pressure for me to love it died down. (As an aside, one of the California Girl expressions my Swedish pals appreciate and say with Scando-Valley affectation is "Do you love it?")

At any rate, I finally got around to watching The Wire this year and really enjoyed it as everyone demanded I would. This despite wanting to give up immediately, mostly because I cannot bear watching people shoot up. It makes me instantly sick and upset. But I soldiered on and really enjoyed the whole shebang. Saying goodbye to the final episode was actually heartbreaking.

After that I wondered, "What next? Will I ever love-said-with-a-Valley-Girl-accent a television show again?" I decided to test drive one episode of Friday Night Lights and, if I am honest with you, going from the inner-city, deeply diverse, "there is no God" chaos of Wire Baltimore to lily-white Christian small-town Texas felt like a huge snooze. Then I got pneumonia the next day and the appeal greatly improved to this bedroom jailbird. I watched, well, the entire five seasons over the next couple of weeks. (I was really sick and useless.) Oh man, I cried so much. What a moving program. I am actually stamping my face with the word "SUCKER" right now. On purpose. I am not ashamed. All the love, the anguish, the triumph against all odds, the agony of defeat, the ache of true love—it all got me right where it counts. Along with a leading lady who officially stole my heart.

Level with me: Can you get any cooler than her aviator glasses, hoop earrings, and social worker sense of patient compassion? Not in my book. And Coach Taylor? Ahem. He deserves a whole other essay. When I was in seventh grade I went to school in New York and they, unlike my Chicago school, had a football team. I informed my mom that if we stayed for two years, the following fall I would bag soccer and take up football. Her face went blank, likely undelighted that her teeny-tiny, three-foot-tall daughter was considering suiting up. We only stayed for one year. But I just KNOW had we remained, Eric Taylor would have been my coach and changed my life FOREVER. [Roll credits set to Emo outro music]

But, yes, I watched the entire five seasons. And let me tell you, the real pay off came in later seasons when suddenly former cast members of The Wire started showing up! I could, in fact, love again! And win football games, again!

I'm not joining the spiral-eyed masses, my friends. Instead, I humbly submit that if you need something great to do while pajama-ed and bedridden for two weeks, this shoved-in-your-face acclaimed program might also be your jam.

What I will say like a spiral-eyed zombie disciple is Coach Taylor's motto: "Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can't Lose!"

That is indisputably true.

I am ready for some football.

check the film

2011-07-30T23:26:00.001-04:00

I just saw the documentary Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest and enjoyed it on about ten levels. The film thoroughly, humorously, and respectfully traces the history of this seminal Native Tongues group and its remarkable place in NYC hip-hop history. I was enthralled with the band footage, the New York footage, the interviews, Q-Tip (what a charmer!), the guest appearances (Mos Def, De La Soul, DJ Red Alert...), the music, the history of their friendship, and on and on. The rest of the audience which was audibly delighted, nostalgic, and moved throughout as well, applauding with each song and cameo. I was pretty excited out of the gates as the opening credits feature animation by the No Mas group, a team responsible for one of my favorite animated documentary shorts.

I was also thrilled because this theater sold delicious cookies, and was merrily chomping away at one until we reached the achy segment about Phife Dawg's harrowing struggle with Diabetes. I froze mid-chew and the cookie went back into my bag. He subsequently appeared in a Cookie Monster shirt. I took that personally.

After the movie I came straight home and fired up the hi-fi. Here's one:

ladybug at transistor

2011-07-21T21:09:00.003-04:00

We recently played an afternoon set in Chicago at a store called Transistor. This place was my fancy-pants dream scene: Rare and unusual boutique a/v gear and instruments, art and photography books, art works, and a carefully curated vinyl section. It's as if my career paths opened a store. I appreciated it as a gallery space as much as anything, replete with beautiful objects I wasn't going to buy, but it was pretty lovely playing music surrounded by the lot of them. The owner was extremely hospitable and genial and bought us a heap of delicious snacks.

I can spot my sister and mom in the back window.

something old something new

2011-07-21T21:08:00.001-04:00

A new friend just introduced me to this oldie but goldie. I have listened to it a mazillion times, subsequently.

growin' up

2011-07-19T19:29:00.007-04:00

I recently remembered how much I love the song "Growin' Up" by Bruce Springsteen. Here is a quieter live version as the recorded version is nowhere to be found on youtube:

My first concert was Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band on the "Born in the USA" tour in Chicago, 1984. My entire family attended. I was throw-up excited. My brother and dad have always been huge Boss fans and his albums were on heavy rotation in our household since I can remember. When "Born in the USA" came out, I finally really paid attention and sat with my first Walkman in the back of our family car on every family trip determined to memorize each word of that album. (That and Paul Young's "No Parlez"—my sister's influence.)

My bulletin board was plastered with images of the Boss along with my other muse, gymnast Mary Lou Retton.

The night we spent at Soldier Field watching all four hours of that concert I was never bored, even though Bruce was the size of an ant from where we sat. It was a general admission concert, meaning no assigned seating—controversial given The Who's free seating fiasco years prior. My brother went rogue and hit the floor of the stadium. The rest of us remained in binoculars-required distance.

It all worked out. I still have my program. My brother still has his baseball concert tee.

I was thrilled just to be included. The family affair music outing prior to that was my father, brother, and sister attending the Rolling Stones' "Tattoo You" concert in 1981. Today, I love the B side of that album with a lot of my heart. Back then, I didn't know that. I just knew I was left out of something important and cool that allowed them all to stay up way past bedtime. As a rule growing up, if my brother and sister were involved: I wanted in. No such luck for me that evening. My sister returned with this t-shirt:

...along with a copy of the album featuring the tattooed lady. My mind was blown, struck with the thought, "What on earth happened last night?! There was a DRAGON there?!?!"

poster child

2011-07-19T14:25:00.000-04:00

This poster offers some sensible in-the-kitchen counsel. Kitty's not havin' it. He looks pretty insulted by the entire situation.

billy joel goes crazy

2011-07-19T14:21:00.001-04:00

My band mates recently showed me this clip of Billy Joel losing his cool (read: his marbles) on stage. The soundbyte was put into constant between-song rotation on the ole van hi-fi. Sometimes I worry we have shows that aren't up to standard. Or that we embarrass ourselves. I will always have this video to console me.

in addition

2011-07-04T15:12:00.000-04:00

A soundtrack for today. While I always enjoy a locked-in rhythm section, I also have great appreciation for Naomi's melodic, exploratory, independent bass lines.

enter sandback

2011-07-04T14:56:00.006-04:00

On this day of explosive, flashy celebration of independence, I thought about how, for me, more calm, subtle, careful statements often yield the most monumental sense of significance and impact. This is certainly my feeling about artist Fred Sandback. This installation artist carefully employs gauzy threads of yarn to redefine perceptions of space and boundary to great effect. His specific placement of such modest, discreet, unobtrusive material, create lines that reimagine one's sense of personal and institutional space and boundaries, while firmly underlining the power of suggestion.

Ok. Enough modest, sensitive-artist thinking. Time to dress up like Tootsie and celebrate this holiday in style.

(Will someone please remind me that I also need to dress up in this outfit for Halloween? I mean, I love my reliable standby dog or football player outfits, but this one would really give 'em the ole Razzle Dazzle.)

great unexpectations

2011-06-23T11:06:00.001-04:00

I adore this song. It prominently features an oboe and two striped shirts in the video. What's not to like?

Speaking of unexpected accompanying instruments defining a song, this cover has been in my head for days.

haNdFuL

2010-11-14T16:36:00.001-05:00

Every NFL Sunday I watch Troy Aikman commentating, and think, "Holy NIGHT! Troy Aikman's hand's are HUGE. They look like baseball mitts!" Then every once in a while I see a photo of myself and think, "Holy NIGHT! My hands are HUGE. They look like Troy Aikman's!"

That beer looks like it's in a Dixie cup, for pete's sake!

shore thing

2010-06-22T18:49:00.006-04:00

And on the topic of cycling: This morning I met my bandmate Gary and friend Ana for breakfast and World Cup viewing at Tulcingo Deli in Sunset Park. I ate a completely delicious breakfast which I could handily rhapsodize about here, but as I am no food review hot shot and the kind of lady who favors the "a lot going on" approach to meals (aka a plate full of snacks), I will save my breath. Rest assured, it ruled.

After watching Mexico outplay Uruguay...except in the One Goal Department...we parted ways and I set out on my bicycle toward a long time goal of riding the Shore Road Park path. I always stare longingly at that route from the van when we head out on tours thinking, "Sometime I need to wrangle someone to explore that trail with me." I bet Nerd Bird would have been game. If there was an elevator line directly there.

Anyway.

Yesterday, when the World Cup venue was selected, I had a bright idea to seize the opportunity solo. That was good thinking.

I rode down through Sunset Park, along Owl's Head Park, and onto the path.

It felt like a different coast along the promenade. Sail boats, ocean smell, very few people, tidy park side...

See what I mean? I busted myself smiling along the way. I actually felt like Goldie Hawn in the beginning of the movie Foul Play, steering along the California coast in her lil car on the way home from a party where she blows off Chevy Chase.

Just like Goldie, I was an independent blonde gal, driving along a shore, feelin' free. Except that at the end of her trip, she picks up that drifting hitchiker who's on the run from a bunch of thugs. And I turned around once I approached Coney Island and rode back toward my house. On my way I stopped in Owl's Head Park to fill up my water bottle at the self-same fountain where kids were industriously pumping up water balloons. Serious business. I glanced at the ground and notice a rainbow of water balloon shrapnel confetti-ing the path. Fortunately they were totally uninterested in me as a bull's-eye. I also noticed these guys around the premises:

Aw.

Verdict: The field trip was a hit. Invigorating, even. I will say the to-and-from Sunset Park commute was a bit harrowing as 5th Ave. above 20th St. is very torn up, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Aves are video-game-hell-ride nail-biting thoroughfares, and 6th, 7th, and 8th Aves. cease to exist for a while due to Greenwood Cemetery. If you plan on tackling this outing, I emphatically encourage charting your course prior.

guess who's back. back again.

2010-06-22T16:56:00.004-04:00

Know who I ran into when transferring from the 2 train to the L train the other day? Oh, just Biking Nerd Bird.

(Insert one thousand exclamation points.)

Oh My Word. What a classy dream boat. A helmet AND a tie? Come ON! I am officially standing in a swirling snow globe of cartoon hearts. It's enough to drive me to decant my soul on craigslist missed connections. (Or on my website. Er...) [nervously loosening own tie].

It's a little confusing that he's riding a bike AND an elevator (not very energy saving) when arguably the guy could fly everywhere, but let's not make petty distinctions. This guy has more tricks up his little apple slice wings than I imagined. And it also answers reader Dave's question about what sorts of energy saving tricks the Bird busts out during a night out. He bikes to his to-dos!

If anyone catches him showing off any other talents, please alert me.

In the meantime, on the matter of cartoon hearts, here is one of my favorite Pepe Le Pew cartoons. A disclaimer: Pepe episodes used to make me really uneasy for all the obvious reasons: Total pest relentlessly chasing freaked out kitty cat dipped in paint, and not taking "clawing you to bits means NO" for an answer, for starters. That said, watching this now, I find his indomitable snuggling and smooching spirit pretty charming, in an "I wouldn't want to date him, but how can you hate him? He's just Pepe!" way. His bouncy, singing entrance alone at minute 2:45 redeems any residual "what a scum bag" sentiments I have about the guy. However, let's be clear, Pepe is no Nerd Bird.

U2be

2010-06-10T12:29:00.002-04:00

I accidentally came across this U2 parody video while searching for a totally different U2 parody video. Is it so wrong that I greatly enjoyed this social commentary/send-up?

"Your tweets, make a circle."

This production has a little something for everyone: Heartfelt home recording by a young fella with an acoustic guitar and a sweet unaffected voice, crappily assembled graphics, U2, handsome stills of old haircut Bono, a message on point with the call-to-arms-against-oppression/despotism of classic U2 anthems, and a message on point with my general pump-down-the-volume attitude toward motormouths.

hangin' on the telephone

2010-06-10T12:12:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure how I forgot to write about this moment I bumped into a month ago:

Some wiseguy must have stopped at the market across the street and decided, "You know what? Why prepare these guys or put them in a new home tank because I feel too guilty to prepare them, when I can put them to work manning the switchboard on the corner of Union and 6th Ave?"

When I came face-to-face with this still life I was at once startled, amused, worried, sad, and a photojournalist! I was also a little concerned some prankster had dosed my ginger beer with angel dust.

birdie brain

2010-05-18T23:09:00.007-04:00

You know what makes me happy? Walking the streets of New York and running into posters of the GreeNYC bird, leading his busy, conscientious life.

Sometimes he wears glasses and teaches.

Sometimes he demonstrates how to operate lamps.

Sometimes he grooms by the glow of a sensible light fixture for a night out on the town.

Sometimes he's a model.

Sometimes he's just simply at attention like the Queen's Guard, standing by his message.

His 1970's-style spare collagey body and his succinct directives ensure that he's never too flashy and always on point. Nerd Bird just wants you to give a hoot about energy conservation. Plain and simple.

Hey, if it involves a smart, adorable, green animal with big ideas, I'm listening. His command is my command.

This one's unfortunate, but noble:

NB will take one for the team if it's for the greater good.

I do, however, have a complaint about his initiative's name. While "GreeNYC" is an obvious and convenient mash-up of message and demographic, it's a completely clumsy presentation of upper and lower case letters, and, frankly, unpronounceable (Gree NYC? Green-Y-C?) While Nerd Bird's wearing spectacles and packing chalk, maybe he can shuffle over to that name and organize that mess as well.

This just in: Holy mackerel. I just found the real show-stopper:

THERE IS A NERD BIRD MASCOT?!

If they are hiring, I'm in. I will deliver the bird's good word!

major award

2010-04-27T19:49:00.001-04:00

I can't compete with this. What a ham. AND the guy had braces during age-appropriate seventh grade. Sheesh.

This is only fueling me with bad ideas. Grade school dentist stories I can write about, for one. Also, I think I may need to pose with a bunch of my soccer and tennis trophies at my parents' house and paste those puppies all over this site.

Stay tuned.

silver and gold

2010-04-26T20:44:00.007-04:00

Today my dentist recommended I consider braces or Invisalign, while my brother just won an Emmy for his show Pardon the Interruption.

I ask you, Ladies and Gentleman, who is the REAL winner today?

upright piano/downright impressive

2010-04-18T21:58:00.002-04:00

Last night I went to see the band Ambrosia perform here in Brooklyn. They encored with "Biggest Part of Me" and some off-the-wall keyboard antics and vocal acrobatics:

I have to say, during the set the keyboard player looked like Nick Nolte's mug shot. I think you see what I mean. This is the second instance I have used that comparison in the last few weeks. The other occasion was describing my very nervous cat upon arrival at the vet ER for the second time in twelve hours for a tail injury. He was all jacked up on pain meds, covered in nervous shedding, and walking like a drunk man. He's also cross-eyed so it really enhanced the whole Bonkers Look.

(I saw the keyboard player mingling at the merch stand afterward and it turns out he cleans up nicely. He also seemed very genial.)

On a related music-of-that-ilk note, the other day I looked up Jeff "Skunk" Baxter, guitarist for Steely Dan and The Doobie Brothers, on Wikipedia. Everything read impressively and as expected (played in said legendary outfits, went on to do session work with a barrel full of icons on a pile of seminal records, etc.). This trivia, however, gave me moment's pause and had me chuckling and uttering "wow" aloud:

He also occasionally plays in The Coalition of the Willing, a band comprising Andras Simony, Hungarian Ambassador to the United States; Alexander Vershbow, US Ambassador to South Korea; Daniel B. Poneman, formerly of the United States National Security Council and now of The Scowcroft Group; and Lincoln Bloomfield, former United States Assistant Secretary of State for Political-Military Affairs. On June 19, 2007, Baxter jammed with former White House Press Secretary Tony Snow's band Beats Workin at the Congressional Picnic held on the South Lawn of the White House.

And then I arrived at the "Defense Consulting Career" section.

[Brakes screeching]

Unreal. I mean, maybe it is common knowledge, but I had no idea.

flop of the topps

2010-04-18T20:17:00.003-04:00

When I was in third grade freedom meant going over to my friend Justine's house and walking around the corner, unchaperoned to Woolworth's to purchase Topps Movie Posters. At my home office, the local drug store was one-and-a-half-blocks and two major intersections away. My mom rarely granted that kind of clearance, unless I was in the company of my older, taller siblings.

Justine lived a stone's-throw-and-no-street-crossing-necessary from a virtual retail Elysium and the rules were different in her familial fiefdom. This was never taken for granted. After school or on a weekend we'd stroll over, dollars in hand, and walk straight to the Topp's product shelves. Each time I thought, "This time it will be different. Luck WILL be a lady."

As with their baseball and movie cards, the thrill and anguish with Topps posters was you never knew what you were getting. You paids your money you tooks your chance. That said, if you were Justine, you knew you were getting something awesome. If you were me? You knew no matter how you tried to improve the odds—picked from the bottom or took from the top of the Topps, had Justine choose, etc.—no matter how you sifted and selected you WERE going to tear open the waxy packaging to unveil: THE BLUE LAGOON.

Every. Single. Time.

Justine was blessed with the movie poster Midas touch. She could cull from a box filled to the brim with Blue Lagoons and still end up with a Superman banner in hand.

Each time the moment of bijou truth arrived, she tore the packaging open to reveal Star Wars!, Rocky!, The Pink Panther! And I, ever hopeful that "this time it will be different, this time I will slightly rip the top of the wrapper like Charlie Bucket in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory to reveal the golden ticket in the guise of Animal House!", peeled back the corn yellow ceraceous husk to reveal the never-wavering verdict: Christopher Atkins, Brooke Shields, The Blue Lagoon.

f-ing gonutz

2010-04-06T23:22:00.000-04:00

I'm not going to lie to you, this commercial jingle used to get stuck in my head on the regular until my college years:

This catchy hosanna finally went on furlough in the turntable of my mind until a few days ago when a friend ordered fried gnocchi at a restaurant. It tasted to me like, well, a bowl of donuts.

Let's talk about this commercial. First of all, I love that Coach No Sport gets right behind this product. Second of all, I like the baritone donut that foghorns "dough-licious." Most of all, this verse alone is a total touchdown:

They look like powdered donuts do
Taste like powdered donuts, too
Yeah donuts!

It reminds me of the commercial my father wrote for a product called The Buttoneer.

The problem with buttons is they always come off.
The problem with buttons is they ALWAYS come off.

Overall, I am tempted to tailor the Donutz campaign to fit my new favorite breakfast food: The Kiwi Berry.

My local produce market just started carrying them. They are essentially baby kiwis without the regular kiwi gorilla suit covering. You can jam them whole like, well, donut holes. I feel like pulling the random coach in my life aside and singing a brainwashed dancy ditty about them. But if we are gonna get serious here, my actual attitude toward the kiwi berry discovery is more along the lines of the profanely satisfied customers in the Mr. Show "Ding Dong Burger" commercial. (Warning: This video contains all kinds of filthy language. NSFW.)

overcast days

2010-03-29T16:08:00.003-04:00

Rainy, cold, dreary days like today in Brooklyn feel fairly haunted, especially in empty Prospect Park. Gauzy mist often rolls along the open long meadow making the scene like something out of The Wicker Man. Like you may approach a clearing and face this figure towering overhead:

Speaking of spectral presences towering overhead on overcast days, today it was announced that the Japanese firm SANAA won The Pritzker Architectural Prize. When working at an art book publishing house, I conducted fairly extensive archival research on this firm for books on modern houses, museums, and retail spaces. The entire NPR slide show above reveals the totemic structures are perfect for viewing and photographing on dingier, gray days.

To be fair, there are stunning images of the structures on clear blue days when the buildings look like structural clouds on the ground:

But I prefer them set against hum-drum, drizzly backgrounds.

Whether set against bruised or blue skies, or in urban or provincial settings, their constructs stand as luminescent, pristine, and at times, spooky contrasts to their environs. Everything, even nature, looks like it needs a trip to the laundry mat in comparison.

To me they kind of look like calm, translucent space stations that gently landed in their designated locales overnight where they quietly, harmoniously proceed with their order of the day.

Still deciding whether I am a fan.

I *do* like this quote from a 2005 interview I read with SANAA's two founding architects, Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizama:

When you were a child, did you want to become an architect?

N: I would never have imaged myself being architect.

S: Me too.

N: She wanted to be a grandmother! Kind of funny! Grandmothers always look like...

S: They are relaxed.
N: Happy and relaxed.
S: Yes, when I was a child I really wanted to be a grandmother.
N: To sit on the terrace and enjoy the sunlight.

In a way, SANAA's structures reflect this regal grandmotherly, white-haired, beatific, sitting in a flat-backed white wicker terrace chair sensibility: Their constructs sit pacifically situated in outside spots, sagely taking in and reflecting on their surroundings.

In all, I think Prince's Raspberry Beret sums up this scene better than I can: Now overcast days never turned me on, but something about the clouds and her mixed.

everything's gone green

2010-03-26T15:47:00.012-04:00

This was a conversation between two AARP ladies at the salad bar the other day at my office cafeteria.

lady 1: [pointing at guacamole] What is that? Is that green hummus?
lady 2: No, it's guacamole.
lady 1: What is that?
lady 2: You know, avocado and garlic.
lady 1: Huh.
lady 2: It's kind of smoky. [pause, pause, pause] Kind of bacony, really.
lady 1: Hmm. [Looks] Hmmph. [Walks away]

Needless to say, lots of things about that conversation gave me pause. No matter. Onto some scatter shot research and storytelling!

Apparently, the US celebrates "National Guacamole Day" on both Sept. 16 and Nov. 14. This took place in March so there was no official celebration afoot. I was pretty happy it appeared in the work salad bar mix, however. That said, two National Guacamole days? Within two month's time? What gives?

Growing up it always spooked me when a friend's family attempted to grow an avocado plant. The initial germination process looks pretty barbaric. A pit with four tooth picks jammed into it bracing it over a glass of water makes it look like a "hero is about to be mince-meat" scene of an action movie. When the sprouts spring it looks really questionable. The whole set up just looked messy and unnatural to my grade school eyes--like the giant avocado seed was captured, held prisoner, and forced to breed for its hippy jail keepers.

Still looks so brutal to me. It reminds me of The Muppet Movie when Doc Hopper catches Kermit and hands him over to Mel Brooks for a lobotomy.

Aaaaaah! Kermit looks so helpless! Cover your face and eyes, Froggy!

set of covers

2010-03-22T11:24:00.000-04:00

In my recent research laps I discovered a wonderful Latvian literary publication called Jaunās Gaitas. The publication launched in the 1950s in an attempt to centralize the voices of many Latvian writers who were relocated all over the world after the Second World War.

(Yes, I am wearing my "I'm getting serious here, people" glasses.)

The website has English synopses of each journal's content but not, it appears, translations of the articles themselves.

The cover designs alone—a great many drafted by designer Ilmars Rumpeters—are aces.

I want a giant flag of the cover with the apple.

baked

2010-03-21T22:03:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago I arrived at my office kitchenette to find a container of amiable, spearheaded snacks and a note of explanation (see above). In case you can't decipher the blurry script, the epistle explains:

Last night's experiment: Candy coated, happy face, cake balls.
Yellow cake crumbled up with chocolate frosting, rolled into balls, dipped into yellow colored white chocolate, and drawn on with food color markers.They turned out...okay.

My co-worker and I quietly stood over this still life for several seconds and ultimately agreed the note should have simply read:

Last night I got stoned and made these. Enjoy!

p.s. I ate one, and, apropos of my previous post, I can honestly say I enjoyed eating the face off.

it's not easy being green

2010-03-17T14:50:00.001-04:00

The other day while looking up dessert recipes online I came across the following review for "Frog Cupcakes":

The Frog Cupcakes were a huge hit at my 2 year old son's birthday...the kids loved eating the face off & really enjoyed the eyes!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaahhhhh... NOOOOooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!

school of shamrock

2010-03-16T22:27:00.000-04:00

When I was in first grade my 15-year-old sister clued me into the whole "wearing green on St. Patrick's day" tip. On March 17, 1981 she donned a green top and a Kermit the Frog button that said "Green is Keen."

For my own get up, I rifled through the pile of trinkets on the top of my dad's dresser and found the button to the left. He used to write commercials for Schlitz beer. I saw a Shamrock and the name of the beer company my dad worked for, and thought, "Well, okay then."

So I pulled on one of my sister's too-big Izod green shirts, fastened on that Schlitz button, and marched on my merry way to school. As this was 1981, no one flinched. Mrs. Bailey, my blue-haired Texan teacher seemed amused, even. I just remember feeling festive and proud that I was in on the "wear green" secret.

My sister sent me that button to me in the mail last year. Pretty certain I do not have the dash of 6-year-old me to wear it into my 2010 office tomorrow.

day dream believer

2010-03-15T12:44:00.004-04:00

Recently, I left work and ran directly into someone dressed in a Clifford the Dog outfit promoting the Scholastic store. I was star struck. Here's something you should know: My dream is to work once, just once, as a mascot of some sort. I just wanna dress in a giant, ridiculous animal costume, and shake hands, dance, wave, pose for photos, pat people on the head.... I know the costume will smell, be hot, be unwieldy on my teeny frame, but it's my dream and I am standing by it.

One of my friends worked as Cookie Monster for a trade show and got to hug the president of Del Monte foods. Another punched the clock as the skating Polar Bear for our college ice hockey team (and he would often drink *generously* before showtime so skating was very, very wobbley). Another moonlighted as the Fighting Cardinal (?!) for her college basketball team.

Recently, I researched the German designer Otl Aicher and found out he was responsible for creating the very first Olympic mascot. Meet Waldi:

Waldi is adorable. But look at that fella! He is puny! Can you imagine that lil' guy bobsledding? Or speed skating? I bet he was very helpful, but not very sporty.

Can you imagine someone trying to dress up and walk around like that?

I can.

enjulia

2010-03-15T12:27:00.001-04:00

When I was six years old I thought this commercial was hilarious. I memorized it and sang it over and over again, cracking myself up (and likely *only* myself) in our family kitchen. Can you blame me?

giving good face

2010-02-27T22:20:00.002-05:00

The other day my pal Whitney sent me this photograph of her son:

It's perfect.

Over the phone, we also shared a hearty laugh about the scene in Mrs. Doubtfire when busted Mrs. Doubtfire utters "Helloooooo" in a mud mask.

This morning my friend Katie gave me a jingle on Gmail video chat. I was quite frankly a little apprehensive about picking up because I was fresh out of bed and didn't have my face on yet.

It got me to thinking....

From now on, any time I log onto chat, I think I shall apply a cakey mud mask, don a matronly curly white wig, and answer all calls like Busted Mrs. Doubtfire. Even better: Maybe I will just go on Chat Roulette and skip from chat to chat doing just that.

jr on jj

2010-02-25T00:47:00.027-05:00

I have listened to jj's album "jj n° 2" a bunch recently and this particular song about 200 times:

For starters, research proves it's very difficult to find out the singer's name.

Her voice reminds me of the husky ache of Yaz's Alison Moyet. While Moyet can mourn with the best of them, sitting in a dark room staring at the rain frustrated, choked with grief, dying of broken heart, pleading with her loved one "don't go", she can also put up a fight, tell off the operator, and tell her lover "I ain't never gonna let you go!"

jj similarly offers an album that strikes a moody balance between the quiet, bruised search through biting nostalgia and the bark of rebound and recovery where tough love pulls no punches and master plans to be feared are laid.

"From Africa to Malaga" opens with Blondie "Heart of Glass" style percussive palpitations and kicks in with the keen-edged opening statement:

It's too easy to cry
when everything eventually dies.
If not today then maybe tomorrow.
Don't let that thought slip away,
let it come out and play.

Out of the gates, jj rules out the best excuse in the book for throwing in the towel. The song begins with The End and looks for the "and then...."

Throughout the song jj argues that dead ends are, in fact, new beginnings:

A thought that you found,
takes you to town,
smashes your face,
burns out your heart,
then you go home and turn it into art....
Don't cry for the time you lost in your life.

Ok, so the "turn it into art" part may be pushing it, but I buy it, and take all it to mean: "It's brutal out there. You are gonna get yourself into scrapes again and again. You gotta keep getting back up again round after round and make something vital out of it."

And I keep spinning this song round and round

Yaz, and tomboy tough attitudes aside, I think I'm also hooked because the anthem immediately conjured images of the movie "My Bodyguard" in my mind.

Particularly the vision of tiny Chris Makepeace finally facing his bully nemesis Matt Dillion, while Makepeace's bodyguard Adam Baldwin coaches from the sidelines. If you haven't seen it, I recommend it. Even though the trailer voice-over is ridiculous.

The message of both the song and the film bear repeating: We are born losing, but don't let that stop you. As jj says, "No matter how down you are you'll eventually rise."

(Which I originally misheard as "no matter how dumb you are...." Which raised an eyebrow and some questions.)

And, yes, the album art is a bloodied mary-jew-ahna leaf.

parts recall

2010-02-20T17:17:00.010-05:00

Toyota's recent troubles had me thinking a heap about the history of the automotive industry and of the automobile proper. I started thinking about the recall of parts and auto parts generally, and how they've evolved. Thoughts turned to one of my favorite Chicago sculptors John Kearney. Kearney makes hearty animal sculptures out of welded steel car bumpers—a fixture that became pretty much a thing of the past once the industry started universally using Thermoplastic Olefins (TPOs), instead. I never knew that's what they called plastic bumpers until I looked it up. Now we will all throw around "TPOs" like it's going out of style. Here are a couple of Kearney creatures:

Incidentally, I also recently learned that you can tell what side of the car the gas tank is on from the driver's seat by looking at the gas gauge on the dashboard and looking for the arrow indicator.

No more gas station arrival panics/cranking the rear view mirror/leaning half way out the car/actually getting out of the car to answer this riddle. Then forgetting the moment you fill up. You may now coast into Flying J in the PT Cruiser the rental car company stuck you with (that makes you look like you are driving around in a big goofy John Fleuvog shoe), with all kinds of "I got this one" confidence. Now we are smarter.

My grandfather Jack was an engineer and, in fact, a Manufacturer's Representative for auto part companies. He was the guy responsible for selling individual fixtures to car companies. One fixture he knew inside and out was the air conditioner. My mom told me a story about my grandfather visiting his Aunt Gert in Sarasota, Florida who lived next door to the Ringling Brothers property. One day during his stay the air conditioning unit used in the Ringling animal stables broke down and my grandpa went over and repaired it. That is a true story. Lucky animals.

During my lifetime my father, a creative director in advertising, wrote commercials for Ford dealers while working for J. Walter Thompson, Chicago. My dad's big break for Ford national advertising came while visiting another client: King's Island amusement park, in Dayton, Ohio. While on a (presumably important) roller coaster (meeting), an announcer came on over the park PA saying that my father had a phone call. My father disembarked the ride, got on the horn, and on the other end of the line was the head of J. Walter Thompson New York. "Ralph," he said, "We're working on some Ford national spots here. We have some darn fine middles, but no beginnings and ends. We need your help." So my dad flew to New York to help create and install new parts for automotive ads.

Maybe I should fly him out to New York to help me write the end of this post.

ice ice baby

2010-02-18T23:15:00.004-05:00

Tonight while watching the Winter Olympics, I told a friend that if I were a men's figure skater I would dress up like a member of the Na'vi tribe from Avatar and dance to a Celine/Enya/Enigma medley. I really would.

Alternatively, if I needed a back up plan, I would also consider dressing up like the Kool Aid man. And balletically, emotionally skate to a weepy classical piece. Or bounce around to a 1920's Charleston number? I'm torn. Please advise.

birds on film

2010-02-08T12:39:00.019-05:00

Last night the Saints won the Superbowl. Could there even have been an alternate ending?

Last night everybody won the Puppybowl. Could there even have been an alternate ending?

If you missed that masterpiece, please, at the very least, check out this year's starting line up, with descriptions such as "Bandit, Husky Mix: Women love him, men want to BE him."

Here is my favorite commercial of the evening:

Important Chicken slowly marching into the Oval office is the real show stealer.

In other birds-in-the-world news, French artist Céleste Boursier-Mougenothas has a new installation at the Barbican, London. He created an indoor aviary using musical instruments for perches. The result is, well, wild. I may just have to go and see it for myself.

My favorite review of the Superbowl half-time show came from deadspin.com founder, Will Leitch: "At the end of their set, The Who are going to smash their hips."

The evening drew to a close last night with a car ride home discussion of scary movies. I have thin skin for spooky. I explained to my four friends that even "Picnic at Hanging Rock" did a number on me, and nothing too clearly horrifying really ever happens. [Cue: Foreigner's "Head Games"] But to me, even the girls' eerie procession to the picnic is nerve-wracking. Not unlike the Important Chicken marching into the Oval Office.

But there is no real reveal and screaming chicken payoff. The main reveal is that I am a total chicken.

My friend Amy has never seen the film. Her husband and my pal Kevin astutely offered, ""Picnic at Hanging Rock" is basically about a group of school girls who go into the wilderness... and get attacked by synthesizers."

[Holding arms above my head signaling touchdown.]

a dark horse

2010-02-01T18:37:00.002-05:00

I just watched most of Seabiscuit for the first time the other night. It was on cable and the end time was 4:40am. I made it to 3:45am and through all kinds of obstreperous ten-minute commercial breaks then conked out. Watching movies on cable is a bumpy ride. You get into a quiet, focused groove, then suddenly you are hit with the smarting switch of noisy, endless, commericials, man-handling announcers, and discernibly on-the-juice television volume.

Even so, I still got into the movie. And I still fell asleep.

Mostly, it made me want to revisit another horse drawn coming-of-age film, 1979's The Black Stallion. As I remember it, it is a touching, visually striking feature with a gripping performance by young actor Kelly Reno as Alec Ramsey. Save for a few opening scenes, the first half of the film is nearly wordless—just a boy trying to survive on a deserted island and befriending his cast away companion: a black stallion. The score is elegant—carefully, quietly navigating with Alec around this totally unfamiliar environment. I am glad it is never on cable because interrupting that mood would be criminal.

There are some beautiful horse riding scenes in the first half and competitive horse racing in the second half. And, oh yes, Mickey Rooney shows up half way through, delivering a really solid performance—and not as a horribly offensive caricature of an Asian landlord (see: Breakfast at Tiffany's).

I just watched some footage of The Black Stallion on youtube and was instantly swallowing tears. Kelly Reno is amazing. Like, Justin Henry in Kramer Vs. Kramer forgot-the-plot-is-not-actually-happening-to-this-child amazing. Mr. Mom's Terri Garr as Kelly Reno's worried mom does a pretty admirable job, as well.

Why am I writing home about this film? Well, last post I covered what I appreciate in a short film. Today I offer that this feature length film has everything my blog could ask for: A coming-of-age tale featuring an animal, a desert island, music as dialogue, a sporting event, and an actress who was in Mr. Mom.

In related news I just found a website featuring a list of animal idioms. Am I in heaven?

barn nun

2010-01-29T00:20:00.000-05:00

The Verlaines video for "Bird Dog" has everything I could hope for in a short film: dogs, barnyard animals, animation, claymation (of poison throwing up, no less!), a cat, The Verlaines briefly playing "Red Light Green Light" in a pasture, music from a Flying Nun band...the works.

brake for foxes

2010-01-27T13:14:00.006-05:00

Why does the hound look so worried in this film still? Maybe because he just read this article on mentalfloss.com:

Frisky Foxes Sabotaging Drivers

Over the course of eight months, nine cars in Kent, England, had their brake lines cut. A special police team got together to investigate the crimes, thinking the group of vandals responsible was going to cause someone serious harm if the trend continued.

The team started out watching CCTV footage of the community, investigating the cut brake lines and reading reports of the incidents. When the officers visited an expert in biological sciences at Bristol University, though, they were quite surprised by his analysis — the vandals were actually foxes who had developed a taste for brake fluid.

“This series of incidents was quite understandably causing anxiety to people living in the area and we are pleased to be able to find an innocent explanation for the cause of the damage,” said Sergeant George Blair, the head of the investigation unit.

I love fairy tale endings.

Rest easy, motor car drivers and deerstalker-hat-wearing detectives of Kent, England! No hooligans, vandals, or meddling marauders to be found in your county. Simply a case of hop garden variety foxes who developed a taste for glycol-ether based hydraulic fluids. *Phew*. (Crossing wellington-booted legs and putting feet on coffee table.)

Wait, WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!??!

when the saints go marching to the superbowl

2010-01-24T22:32:00.001-05:00

As a fan of Buddy Ryan and his pro football progeny, I was so sad to see the Jets lose today.

The Saints sealing a trip to their first Superbowl with a masterful overtime field goal, however? I'm totally smiling and all choked up.

I especially loved the sight of the football soaring through the uprights with Saints' mascot Gumbo the Dog jumping up and down behind the end zone.

name game

2010-01-24T22:30:00.008-05:00

The New Jersey Nets have been on my mind. If they ever do actually relocate to Brooklyn, will they forgo their ABA appellation and opt for something with more attack? A recent Bill Simmons podcast posits it's not often you run across a sports team named after a piece of sports equipment. This comment spurred me on to the ABA Wikipedia page and subsequent scrutiny of originally ABA team names.

Let's be honest people, a lot of the names on that roster are totally phoned in. The Oakland Americans who became the Oakland Oaks? The Memphis Pros? The Floridians? The San Diego Sails? I have a hunch the Christening of these teams resembled the episode of the Brady Bunch when Cindy Brady fibs to her family, claiming she has a steady boyfriend. When pressed for his name she searchingly answers, "Um.... George...." [Frantically scans the room. Locks eyes on the water glass in front of her.] GLASS. George Glass." Which makes me think of the equally absurd Hail Mary name moment in A Fish Called Wanda when Otto (Kevin Kline) introduces himself to Archie Leach (John Cleese) as a CIA agent "Harvey Manfren... jen...sen."

It's essentially like me walking into a 1967 ABA meeting and saying, "Gentlemen. The next addition to our growing league will be in Idaho. They will be called, um, The Boise.....Boys.....um...Basketball...Players. Yes, The Boise Boys Basketball Players."

I think a lot about team names. I think my formative team sport experience mandates it.

In second grade I joined AYSO's "co-ed" (read: one girl per team) soccer league. Most of my classmates joined the season prior and returned from their first team meetings all a flutter about their flinty titles and splashy team colors.

Classmate one: We're the Golden Eagles! We're bright yellow and white!
Classmate two: Well we're the Blue Devils! We're royal blue and black!

I looked completely forward to my own bragging session. When I attended my initial meeting, however, our coach—the gentle, amiable South African father of one of my schoolmates—slide tackled us with the following opening statement: "Welcome to the 1982 fall season of AYSO soccer. I am Coach Eric. You, boys and girl, will be known as: THE ZULU WARRIORS, named after a very important South African people. Your colors are grey and black."

The room of seven year olds fell cricket-chirping silent.

What?

The next day at school I didn't even know HOW to talk about what happened because I felt completely confused. I couldn't even ask questions about it because I didn't know any of the questions to ask. I knew I had my hopes pinned on being called The Red Arrows. That's where the ball stopped rolling.

Our first practice we felt further befuddled when informed we would sing the following team chant before and after every scrimmage and game:

Hold 'em dooooown, ya Zulu Warriors!
Hold 'em dooooown , ya Zulu Chief-Chief-Chief Chief
Hoi da zumba zumba, hoi da zumba zumba zee
Hoi da zumba zumba, hoi da zumba zumba ZEE!

Recounting this memory, I completely grasp it was a totally exceptional experience and relish every dimension of it. As a tiny second grade girl dressed like a newspaper I wasn't so optimistic.

We definitely caused a stir the moment we set foot on Chicago Park District's Margate Park Field and kicked off with our pregame cheer. The parents proudly smiled. The opposing team stared at our singing huddle, totally perplexed. After we were summarily demolished—most likely by double digit goals—and gathered round for the encore performance of our team anthem, our adversaries were full-on giggling like crazy at us. That set the tone for the season: Lose once, chant twice, always be laughed at by all other second graders every Saturday.

Coach Eric was ever patient, always enthusiastic, never fazed by looks askance, never doubting we were champions, and always so proud of each one of us as we completely sucked throughout the season. I like to think of him as the Rex Ryan of 1982. Except we never won games, and never advanced to a championship. He was just happy we were there. And honestly, his enthusiasm was totally contagious. The more we lost and the more we were misunderstood, the more our own team pride anchored. I still have my end-of-the-season award: A giant button stating "MOST ENTHUSIASTIC PLAYER: JULIA RYDHOLM, ZULU WARRIOR."

If the Nets do make it to Brooklyn, they could use some sure-footed counsel from Coach Eric. One thing's completely certain: His selection for the new team sobriquet would assuredly be a slam dunk.

snack attack

2010-01-22T11:21:00.007-05:00

This article on underage noshing was pretty milk and water. However, amidst the angst of neurotic parents over-catering to the moody palates and temperaments of ticking time-bomb moppets, Chicago dad Sean O'Neill busts out and makes it worth the read with his grittier, curveball view of overfeeding:

“It has all just gotten out of hand,” said Sean O’Neill, an illustrator and father of two in Chicago. Mr. O’Neill wonders why snacks must be served at every sporting event, even those taking place at 10 a.m. or an hour before lunch.

“The kids are playing baseball, they are covered in Chicago Park District dirt and then they eat a handful of fruit bites,” he said. “It’s pretty disgusting.”

That really cracked me up.

power play

2010-01-21T10:25:00.015-05:00

The most recent attempt to add a little more show biz razzle-dazzle to Alaska-Fairbanks' hockey team entrance is...remarkable:

http://withleather.uproxx.com/2010/01/holy-crap-even-more-win

I'm so confused. Probably because my mind just melted. Or rather, was severed in half with a glowing hockey stick Excalibur sword, shot at with missiles, and then TOTALLY BLOWN UP with awesome flames and "KKKRRRRPSHHHHHHHHHHHH*&%$!!!!!!!!" (My attempt at typing third grade explosion noises.)

Welcome to the video that officially completes my "Overstimulation Hell Ride Visual Experience That Threatens to Land Me in a Hospital Due to a Category 5 Panic Attack" Troika.

"2012" and "Avatar": You are in good company.

I thought mascots where supposed to shadow box and dance. You know, "Root for the home team! Yay!!" [jump-jump-shadow box-shadow-box-shadow box] [Air conducting "LET'S. GO. BEARS."]

The Nanooks bear is a complete criminal. And a full blown arsonist. And, frankly, doesn't totally seem to understand the rules of hockey. First he uses a hockey stick to sever a gigantic barge in half, not to shoot at a goal. Then he jettisons the stick, because what he really loves to do is FLY. So he gets in a fighter jet and heads directly to Miami University and Michigan State to obliterate their campuses, and only THEN is it time to drop a bomb in a volcano. Which is the key to detonating three volcanoes. Which apparently is the secret to completely exploding planet earth.

Why does the Alaska-Fairbanks hockey program want their mascot to destroy earth? Isn't he just supposed to encourage them to win hockey games? Well, apparently he can do that too, because as it happens, though earth is now a faint memory, the Carlson Center (the Nanooks' arena) REMAINS INTACT on a meteorite in space!!

To be honest, the Polar Bear's journey to the Carlson Center, and the feeling of traveling to a game in deep space with twinkling lights dotting the scenery reminds me of the drive to see the NJ Nets play at Izod Stadium. That commute feels like taking an international flight. Or, you know, like driving from Manhattan to outer space.

desert island election

2010-01-19T20:19:00.058-05:00

On the not-as-infrequent-as-I'd-imagine occasions that someone inquires, "You play music? Ooh, what is your Desert Island Music?!" my reaction is as predictable as the tides: My eyes glaze over and my face slackens into screen-saver mode. For me, that question triggers the same response as listening to someone recite their dream from last night, or trying to shop for groceries without a list: My mind draws a complete blank. I lose the plot. I can hear the ocean in my head. Also, I suddenly don't care about anything. I just feel a wave of "get me out of here"—out of the island, the other person's subconscious, the grocery store, and my own anxiety dream where I am center stage, in a spotlight, and where a voice from the sea of empty seats in a blacked-out auditorium bellows, "WHAT IS YOUR DESERT ISLAND MUSIC?"

That's my patent, unreasonable reaction to that get-to-know-you question. I feel challenged committing to a plan five minutes from now, let alone a list of music I am gonna have to listen to forever by myself—or perhaps with an island mate straight out of the Far Side, and Lord knows what THAT man brought. Then there's the concern that if I manage to cough up a list, will my selection accurately reflect my actual taste? Or am I just nervously sounding off music that I manage to recall in that moment—like Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" when he finally gets to speak with Department Store Santa and wants so badly to beg for a Red Ryder BB Gun, but loses his cool and in his own state of shock, chokes and asks for, "A football. A football? What's a football?!" Except in my stage frightened moment I stammer, "Uuuuummmm, I'd prrrobably bring aaaa, um, yeah, "A Very Special Christmas"....the, uh, yeah, the first one?" because that is suddenly the only album on planet earth that I can remember. At all.

What's more, "trapped on a desert island" as a concept further unsettles me. I don't know why. Maybe it's the dread of being stranded with a straggly cartoon weirdo on a tiny island with one palm tree. That idea doesn't make me wanna curate a compilation of kickin' jams in advance, it makes me wanna figure out in advance how not to get stuck there. Why can't the question be, "If you had to give away all your music TO a guy trapped on a desert island, which essential albums/songs would you keep for yourself [on your ipod pequeño]?"

But still, the question and no satisfactory answer remains....

Or *remained*. Until this morning, that is, when a foolproof rejoinder revealed itself on my computer monitor. I had just woken up and half-heartedly scrolled through my music library by song title, looking for a solid "shower and get dressed" soundtrack. Brian Eno's "Here Come the Warm Jets" felt right. When I arrived at that song and its neighbors, my riposte was as crystal clear as the cobalt Caribbean. The scales fell from my eyes: The solution to this Gordian knot was so obvious. I suddenly felt as exhilarated as irrationally overcome Michael Caine in "Hannah and Her Sisters" when he giddily declares, "I have my answer! I'm walking on air!"

I may have even said that out loud.

It turns out any song with the title "Here come" or "Here comes" covers all bases. Ok, let's be honest, the song selection knocks it right out of the park. I wanna listen to them all, all the time:

"Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles
Features one of my favorite bass lines, ever.

"Here Comes the Night" covered by Them.
Van. The. Man.

"Here Comes the Phantom" by the Clientele.
Ethereal, lilting, lovely.

"Here Comes My Girl" by Tom Petty.
A classic. I also decided it's the soundtrack for this little vignette, as it's a song all about wandering around wondering, feeling listless and "just so...hopeless," that is until the answer suddenly walks right up and knocks you cathartically between the eyes. I also just realized that I have the exact same haircut as Tom Petty.

"Here Comes Your Man" by the Pixies.
A nice companion to the Petty ditty.

"Here Comes My Baby" by Cat Stevens
Winning instrumentation and a good one for harmonizing.

"Here Comes the Judge" by Shorty Long
Amazing slide show featuring archival Motown album art for that song, here.

"Here Comes a Regular" by the Replacements
Aching.

"Here Comes a Headache" by Hypnolovewheel
Fuzzy, driving, relentless.

"Here Comes the Summer" by the Fiery Furnaces
RE-MEM-BER....

And I will. All of them. And I will also stop myself here. I have my unforgettable solution in pocket.

Also, I need to go download "Here Comes the Boom" by Nelly.

But before I sign off, I have to wonder, what is it about those words that makes any song introduction rock solid? For starters, that all-purpose presentation handily conveys a whole range of moods—anticipation, hope, dread, excitement, love, relief—with a good measure of melodrama. Someone or something is about to happen. Even if it's "Here comes trouble" there's something really thrilling and "this is gonna be good" in the message. That particular preamble confidently sets the stage for a good yarn.

Regardless of the why that formula is such a success story, the wait is over: I can check "Decide on Desert Island Music" off my to-do list. To repeat: I have my answer. I'm walking on air.

Tom Petty sums up this post (and this blog, for that matter) better than I ever could:

"Yeah, I just catch myself waiting, worrying, wondering
about some silly little things that don't add up to nothin'.
But then [the list] looks me in the eye and says, "we're gonna last forever darling"
And man, you know I can't begin to doubt it.
No, because this feels so good, and so free, and so right.
I know we ain't never gonna change our minds about it—hey!...."

spider stuntman

2009-07-07T15:05:00.006-04:00

Did anyone else happen to read article titled "Spider builds life-sized decoys" on BBC Earth news yesterday?

Well I did. Guess what? As BBC succinctly explains, "There is a species of spider that builds models of itself, which it uses as decoys to distract predators." Do you see that photo I posted? Does anyone else find this MIND BLOWING?

I mean, I tried doing something along these lines at sleep away camp when we were all "going raiding", but let's be clear, I just jammed some clothes and my stuffed animal cow Moolia under the covers and called it a night. These spiders are tiny little perfectionist artists.

All that said, let's talk. That guy and his mimeo don't look a lot like spiders. They kind of look like teeny spooky headdresses. But who am I to judge? Apparently everything looks kosher enough to throw off nature and any of its spider preying nosy parkers and ne'er-do-wells.

do they know it's christmas?

2008-12-27T17:39:00.011-05:00

Last night I watched a one hour version of Live Aid on VH1 Classics. Let me go ahead and say, VH1 curated quite a collection of bizarre moments. Let's begin with Mick Jagger and Tina Turner performing "State of Shock" into "It's Only Rock and Roll":

My Live 8 thoughts on the matter:

1. Hello, Daryl Hall on the keyboard!
2. Mick and Tina's choreographed "sexual chemistry"= State of Yuck. It just makes me want to watch "You're the One That I Want" with foxy biker Sandra Dee and Danny Zuko, instead.
3. Why is Mick Jagger mouthing all of Tina's lyrics?
4. Mick Jagger with his shirt off= not a turn on. Granted his ill-fitting pocket tee shirt is totally upstaged and outsexed by Tina's leather, fishnets, and pumps.
5. I DO like when Mick pulls up his giant belted chinos as if to say, "Grinding with dominatrix-dressed Tina Turner and taking my shirt off is where I draw the line. I'm a family man from the waist down."
6. At one point Tina inexplicably dances off stage. At first, it actually seems like Tina just bails on the whole performance. But WAIT. You can still hear her kind of singing. At last, it is clear they are BOTH back stage changing outfits.
7. I really like watching Mick struggling into his banana yellow blazer while also trying to sing "I like it."
8. Why do they change? They return for about 30 more seconds of performing, only to then vanish again completely, leaving the band to somehow resolve the insanity.

Let us now turn to David Bowie's performance of "Heroes." Specifically, Bowie's percussionist.

I don't have any commentary other than that was an interesting choice for everyone involved.

Pretty much every performance in the program is noteworthy. I won't link them all here, but will offer a brief guide to the greater moments. Elton John's eyes look completely terrifying in "Benny and the Jets"—pretty much all pupil. Bob Geldof wears a lot of different kinds of denim in "I Don't Like Mondays." Seeing The Who made me miss Keith Moon, but made me love Pete Townshend for tearing power chords like a pro all over "Won't Get Fooled Again." Freddie Mercury is just awesome and commanding in "Radio Ga Ga." Even his shoes are awesome. Eric Capton has two drummers on "Layla" including one Phil Collins. Why? The outro for Layla= guitar solo mania. Totally ridiculous. And only made me love Pete Townshend again.

But perhaps the pièce de résistance of this entire viewing experience was the commercial I saw for the computer software "Finally Fast." I had never seen this before. Last night I saw it three times between midnight and 1am. Lucky me. I definitely nominate Video Gamer Boy for the performance of that television hour. My WORD.

I definitely recommend you do NOT order this software.

b.a. baroctopus vs. the think tank

2008-11-15T01:00:00.016-05:00

Two days ago, my friend Drue drew this article to my attention: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/howaboutthat/3328480/Otto-the-octopus-wrecks-havoc.html

It's well worth reading. If you are too lazy to click that link, it's about an octopus who is totally burning down the house at a German aquarium. He is one fussy camper and decidedly unpsyched about captivity. Who can blame the guy? The Telegraph explains:

Staff believe that the octopus called Otto had been annoyed by the bright light shining into his aquarium and had discovered he could extinguish it by climbing onto the rim of his tank and squirting a jet of water in its direction.

Well played, Otto. Not everyone wants to see the bright lights tonight. And every day. And every night. It's not like those guys hang out near light in the ocean as it is. Don't they live in coral reefs?

We knew that he was bored as the aquarium is closed for winter, and at two feet, seven inches Otto had discovered he was big enough to swing onto the edge of his tank and shoot out the 2000 Watt spot light above him with a carefully directed jet of water. Once we saw him juggling the hermit crabs in his tank, another time he threw stones against the glass damaging it. And from time to time he completely re-arranges his tank to make it suit his own taste better - much to the distress of his fellow tank inhabitants.

Man! It sounds like the OK Corral over there! Or like they should send Otto to military school. Or, say, maybe let him live under the sea again?

I just learned that Octopuses have three hearts. And they are really smart. And that they are good at throwing AND catching! Maybe the New England Patriots should consider Otto during next year's draft. According to Peggy Noonan in her article about Obama in today's Wall Street Journal, a football player like Otto would make a very good President:

America threw long, and America is praying for a dazzling reception. People want him to catch the ball....Actually, how it felt this week was that there is a sense of suspension (the ball is in the air, it's arcing over the field) accompanied by a sense of urgency (if he fumbles at this high-stakes time, more than a game is lost).

Judging from the 3 November date of the Telegraph article, maybe Otto was just plain on edge about the US election.

Whatever the case, I hope the Coburg Aquarium designs a tank more hospitable to the Octopus condition. Or that Otto comes up with more funny tricks, and enjoys the good fight. Perhaps Peggy Noonan's consolation to Young Republicans will also offer comfort to our decidedly Yes-I-Can Octopus:

There is joy to be had in being out of power. You don't have to defend stupid decisions anymore. You get to criticize with complete abandon.

tricks of the tale

2008-11-14T21:30:00.022-05:00

Tonight I was thinking about my average weekend night as a single digit gal growing up. Most often it meant my mom and dad went out to dinner and either my brother or sister home babysitting. If Erik was in charge, Stouffer's French Bread Pizzas, ice cream sandwiches and, say, an Ohio State Buckeye's football game were the order of the evening. If my sister Kristin was at the helm? Chef Boy-R-Dee Beef-a-roni, Push-up pops, and Remington Steele.

I got to thinking about home alone hi-jinx and how, actually, we were pretty well behaved all things considered. I know certain households where all Cain broke loose once parents were off the premises. Generally, when we were home without a parent, drama stayed at a bare minimum. We had unmonitored television to watch. Get while the getting was good. This was also a time way before cellphones, when parents would leave the number "where we'll be." That degree of separation alone imposed an implicit "this had better be an emergency" proviso to any placed call. Thus, the question "Do we want to have to call mom and dad's restaurant/dinner party/movie theater/event space and explain?" kept us in fairly consistent check.

I once made the mistake of secretly calling a Chicago restaurant to ask my mom through tears if I really had to finish my dinner. My mom was *not amused*.

Most of our sibling mischief making was behind the scenes and very under the radar. As the youngest of three, it was also generally at my expense. And more often than not, that fact was under MY radar—days/weeks/months later. My brother and sister are seven and nine years older than I am, respectively. Smarter, bigger, more worldly, and my idols— I would fairly consistently do absolutely anything they told me to do. I was just happy to be included.

A log of some quotidian monkey business:

****
(Kristin: 16; Me: 7)

[Kristin walks into our room holding mom's well worn, cloth bound, dictionary]

Kristin: Jules, do me a favor, can you tell me how to pronounce this word?
[points to "marijuana"]

Me: [sounding out the word just like I was taught to do]: Mary....jew....ahna. Mary-jew-ahna.

Kristin: [choking on laughter] Thank you. Thank you very much.

[Kristin takes the dictionary and walks out of the room]

****
(Kristin: Age 15; Me: Age 6)

Kristin: Julia, I really like your new unicorn. [looking at the stuffed unicorn I received from my godmother for Christmas]

Me: Thank you!

Kristin: Have you thought of a name for it, yet?

Me: Mmm. No.

Kristin: Well, I think I picked out the perfect name. You should name him Charlie Tiverton. [ed. note: charlie tiverton= a random guy from our school I didn't know.]

Me: Do you think so?

Kristin: Yes. Definitely.

[cut to: a week later. Kristin's friend Tammy is over hanging out]

Kristin: Julia, you should introduce Tammy to your new unicorn.

Julia: [eager to please] Ok! Tammy, meet Charlie Tiverton.

[Tammy and Kristin burst out laughing]

****
(Erik: age 13; Me: 6)

[in the middle of a pillow fight]

Erik: Hey wait, Julia, I have an idea for a game BETTER than Pillow Fight. It's called Mr. Smiley.

Julia: Ok. [listening intently]

Erik: You stand against the wall, and I'm going to hit you in the face with a pillow. Now in order to win you have to KEEP SMILING no matter what.

****
During a three week summer trip, Erik and Kristin collaborated on a rainy day initiative called "Make Julia Look Like Kristy McNichol." This involved wetting a comb, styling my hair, and trying to blow dry it so it "feathered more." I was four.

They were really un-ironically serious about this project. I don't think I have ever seen them put forth such a team effort in all our years following.

****
(Erik: 18; me: 11)

Our favorite drive-each-other-crazy trick of that time was called "Keyboard Player." This game was actually my own invention and surprisingly effective: the hunter had become the hunted.
One day we were watching tv, I got up to get a snack, walked in front of the tv, stopped, and suddenly and very seriously, started pantomiming rhythmic keyboard playing in the style of Paul Schaffer. This frustrated Erik to NO end.

I thought every aspect of the situation was hilarious.

Then he did it back to me while watching a show I chose. Foiled again.

****
There are certainly many more examples of sibling gags and roguery, well deserving of air time.

For now, it's Friday night and I have a French Bread Pizza to eat, fine programming to watch, and this Friday night song to play air keyboards to during a commercial break:

[ed. note: The only way I could manage to embed an audio file was to make it into a movie. Maybe there's another way but I am technologically inept. I attached an image in the file to make it a "movie"—an image of a British Shorthair cat that was on my desk top from an email sent earlier today. I just threw it in the file as the footage thinking only audio would appear if I followed the instructions I googled. Not so. Now I can't stop laughing.]

retton: A

2008-11-12T22:51:00.024-05:00

I went to dinner with my friend KK the other night and by chance we ended up sitting next to her friend who is currently enrolled in tumbling classes a stone's throw from my house. She completely loves it. She had no prior experience. It's a sign.

This brings us to part two of Gymnastics Tales.

1984. George Orwell's Julia was carrying on an illicit affair with Winston Smith under the totalitarian regime of Big Brother. This Julia was carrying on an illicit affair with gymnastics under the watchful eye of My Mother.

That year Mary Lou Retton struck gold in the Olympic All Around event and pretty much sealed the deal in my mind that gymnastics was the most awesome sport ever. I asked my mom about taking classes. A lot. No go. So instead I cobbled together my own at-home DIY gymnastics clinic. I subscribed to USA Gymnastics Magazine, cut out every photo of Mary Lou Retton and the 1984 women's and men's Olympic gymnastics teams from Newsweek, Time, People, Sports Illustrated etc. and tacked them to my wall and door. I practiced headstands daily. I stood with my back to my parents bed, jumped backward, bounced from a sitting position back into the air, onto the floor, and tried to stick the landing.

My friend Justine (see: "the tell tale twin") was similarly smitten. She even had the Mary Lou Retton Wheaties Box with Wheaties sealed, uneaten inside. I'm pretty sure she had that box, intact until Senior Year of high school

Justine was responsible for actually getting us as close to Mt. Olympus as I could possibly imagine: Her family purchased tickets for the Post Olympics Gymnastics Tour Chicago show at Rosemont Horizon.... And. Invited. Me. (Insert one thousand exclamation points.) There were no words.

No Mary Lou on the tour, but no matter, Julianne McNamara would be there. Julianne McNamara was basically the silver medal of Gymnastic celebrities. She won the first gold EVER in an individual women's event (uneven bars). And Justine and I agreed she was really pretty.

We went to the show, on a school night no less, and were appropriately star struck. We clutched our special edition programs (which I still have!) and stared at the team leaping and flipping around in a non-competitive environment. Just basically hanging out, doing flip-flops. No big deal. JUST MY DREAM.

All I wanted to do was hang out at school recess, hear the words, "Julia, do a flip flop!", smile, very shyly explain, "It's actually called a back handspring," waver, sigh, seem demure, and then bust out a back flip to the delight of my ten-year-old colleagues.

Instead, I jumped off swings in motion and practiced sticking my landings.

To tell you the truth, my memory of the actual individual performances at Rosemont Horizon is hazy at best. I was awestruck and overwhelmed. Humbled, even. The portion of the program I recall in completely lucid detail, however? Interludes with Paul Hunt: Gymnastics Comedian.

Paul Hunt was a competitive college gymnast in the 70s and to this day works as a gymnastics coach. In the 80s he also dressed up in tutus, bows, and barrettes, called himself "Paulette Huntsinova," and performed fake gymnastics routines with heavy-handed servings of horrible falls and twisted limbs. Most often he performed complicated tumbling sequences and landed directly on his face. All to the uproarious laughter of stadium crowds nationwide:

The crowd at Rosemont Horizon ate it up. Everytime he walked out for another solo segment, Justine and I were completely annoyed. We took gymnastics seriously. We soberly stared straight ahead at his wacky in-drag accidents muttering, "This sucks." We wanted all serious, medal winning, professional gymnastics, all night.

Watching the Paul Hunt footage many years later, I am totally guilty of laughing. 1984 Julia would have zero tolerance for this behavior.

I think 2009 is the year I'm gonna make my dream come true and take a tumbling course. At this point, if I can learn how to do a handstand for more than two seconds and not unintentionally fall directly on my face I will feel like a star.

For now, I just enjoy watching the perfect 10 floor routine I yearned to perform as a ten-year-old gal on the playground:

obama

2008-11-05T14:00:00.018-05:00

Last night after the acceptance speech heard round the world, Brooklyn erupted with shouting and cheering from open windows, drivers cruising and honking, and people literally jumping for joy and dancing in the streets. I am so glad I am not exaggerating.

The song "Donna" from the musical Hair has been in my head since the big moment—but with the lyrics "Oh bama, oh-oh bama, oh-oh-oh Pre-si-dent O-ba-ma." The scene from the movie pretty looks like what I saw on the streets of the Slope at 1am. The dance moves look like my own, at any rate. Watch for yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LEm2EUKMKVY&feature=related

[Please note: The "psychedelic urchin" and "sixteen-year-old virgin" lyrics are NOT part of my adapted celebration song.]

decision 2008

2008-11-04T11:53:00.002-05:00

Bull the Costner. Hands down.

david era julia

2008-11-03T11:26:00.002-05:00

the tell-tale twin

2008-10-26T19:02:00.037-04:00

Riding my bike to work up 6th Ave. the other day, I noticed the local gymnastics studio was feeling the Halloween spirit. Each of the space's four windows featured a smiling, tumbling skeleton.

Creeeee-peeeee. And so loaded where do I even start?

To me, this spooky festooning bellows, in the rigid, outlandish directives of the infamous olympic gymnastics coach Bela Karolyi,"Happy Halloween! NEVER EAT CANDY OR YOU'LL BE FAT AND BAD AT GYMNASTICS!"

On decidedly less eerie occasions, I pass by that studio thinking to myself, "One of these days I'm gonna sign up for a beginning tumbling class."

From the moment I watched Mary Lou Retton nail two perfect 10 vaults and clinch the gold in the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, all I wanted was to enroll in a gymnastics program. I, too, wanted to be really strong, adorable, and airborne.

"So I can learn how to do a flip flop," was the solid reasoning I offered my skeptical mom.

She didn't bite. Ever. To my chagrin, my mom quickly and summarily relegated gymnastics to the Fat Chance Pile, stacked on top of playing ice hockey, taking drum lessons, and getting a dog. "You play soccer and violin and we have four gerbils. That's enough as far as I'm concerned."

This edict ensured an always-a-bridesmaid-never-a-bride relationship with a few of my favorite things. It also ensured that I would continue to be vaguely haunted by my memory of the one gymnastics class I attended two years earlier with my friend Justine, when I barely cared a whit about the sport.

The Memory. Justine was actually enrolled in the class. I was just along for the ride, because we just got out of school and had a play date immediately following. Justine's mom dropped us off saying, "I'll be outside in an hour." I walked in and roosted in the bleachers with a couple of moms, watching and waiting while Justine stretched and did handstands.

At the age of eight, I was a tried and true tomboy, acting and pretty much looking like a little dude with longer hair. At that moment in time, gymnastics fell under the same "Kind of Girly" genome alongside ballet and Brownies. It didn't repulse me, per se. Just didn't interest me at all. In my spare time I enjoyed riding dirt bikes, all things Star Wars, and, notably, episodically experimenting with telling gigantic lies.

So while Justine balance beamed and cartwheeled, I found an opportunity to strengthen one of my skill sets with a mother in the stands.

"So what brings you here today?" inquired a woman patiently watching, waiting for her daughter. I vividly remember thinking, "This lady is a hippie." This according to my very, very narrow understanding of the word "Hippie." She had long, straight brown hair, round wire rimmed spectacles, no make up, and invariably wore some version of a turtleneck, quilted vest, pants and sandals.

I looked straight at her and replied, "My twin sister Justine is in this class. I'm just waiting for her."

Right out of the gates.

Justine, my dear friend to this day, is *actually* a twin. She has a fraternal twin brother named Derek. As a second grader I found this riveting. My siblings were considerably older and having another someone closer to my age felt "lucky" to me. I thought I'd be king for a day.

"That's her over there [pointing to Justine]. We're fraternal twins, that's why we don't look alike."

She smiled and nodded, "Oh, well that must be fun to have a twin! What is your name?"

"David," I rejoined without skipping a beat and with a good measure of "yeah, i guess it's fun, but I'm so used to it I don't even think about it" nonchalance.

No biggie. It's just who I am.

She nodded, unfazed. "David, David, David.... That's a very important name. Do you happen to know the tale of David and Goliath?"

I stared at her blankly, wondering where on earth was this going. I had no fear of being found out. I felt positively fearless, in fact. She seemed to be sitting well with my stats. Mostly I worried she was gonna tell me a boring story. After all, I had a lot more fabulous tall tales to tell her before the hour was up.

"Well, David, it's a tale from the Bible of a fearless young man who fought a Giant and won."

I nodded my head hoping we could leave it at that and get on with the show.

"There's a song about this brave battle... and it goes like this, [pause, pause, pause] 'David and Goliath, David and Goliath...'"

And off she went, quietly, endlessly singing a Sandy Denny era Fairport Convention-style song, epic both in proportion and dirge-like melody. Just for Fake Me. I immediately felt bored and antsy. Didn't she want to hear more about *my* David life? Like the fact that I didn't do gymnastics because I played ice hockey instead? And that I was a really good drummer? And what about all of our adorable dogs?

Though distracted, I felt satisfied she had bought my story hook, line, and sinker. My remaining goal was to get out of there without her actually meeting Justine or Justine's mom.

I sat there for what felt like an eternity. Listening to the singing story, then the spoken story. Class ended. My exit was seamless. We got in Justine's parents' passenger van and headed off for our play date. To Hippie Mom I remained David, fraternal twin sister of Justine. All was well in the world....

Until the next week when, during the frantic, grab-and-go routine of lower school dismissal I spotted Hippie Mom picking up her daughter from the fourth grade class room. SHE WAS A MOM AT OUR TEENY TINY SCHOOL. How could this be?! I was supposed to never see her again!

From that day forward, I saw her absolutely all the time. For years. Literally, years.

Hippie Mom never ever said a word to me. Never called me David. Just very occasionally gave me a polite nod or a middle distance smile that left me sort of relieved and sort of tortured with the wonder, "Did she fact check? Is my secret safe? Or am I still David? Does she actually even remember me or is she just acknowledging me because I am often frozen in my tracks staring at her?"

Until August, 1984 that episode categorically defined my opinion of gymnastics as: A Topic to be Summarily Avoided. "I shall take this to the grave" was my mantra.

Spotting the Skeleton-dancing-in-a-graveyard decorations in the 6th Ave. gymastics studio windows gives me appropriate pause.

The second installment of Gymnastics Memory Lane to follow....

pig iron

2008-10-16T09:44:00.014-04:00

Two weeks ago I went to see Pig Iron Theatre Company's production Chekov Lizardbrain. It was terrific. There are a couple of shows left. Here is a link to a rave review in the Old Gray Lady.

Here is the latest information from Pig Iron Theatre:

Pig Iron Theatre and Soho Think Tank have added an additional show at 3 PM on Saturday, October 18 - tickets are on sale and going fast already, so please book your seats for this performance. Advance tickets are also still available for the performance on Friday, October 17 at 10 PM.

If advance tickets are sold out, there are often a small number of tickets are available at the door. (There have been empty seats due to no-shows the past two nights! So come and take a chance!)

We must close on October 19.
All shows are at the Ohio Theatre, 66 Wooster Street, NY, NY.
http://www.pigiron.org/

dennis the premise

2008-10-12T02:32:00.029-04:00

I knew this would happen. On Saturday I drafted a post about Dennis the manatee, a wayward sea cow who wandered from warm southern waters way too far north to a chilly New England cove. Last Saturday he was rescued in Sesuit Harbor, East Dennis, MA, and rushed via van to Florida's SeaWorld.

As it turns out: He didn't make it. Now I feel so sad AND like a big jerk.

Instead of totally scrapping that post, let us turn-turn-turn it into a celebration of Dennis! Arguably, the more jocular moments feel like they may land me in hell. Particularly the greatbigstuff.com gags. I'm sorry. Just bear in mind, this post stands as tribute to the gigantic trooper and his lovable kind!

My post:

Last week one particularly adventuresome, and arguably totally lost manatee wound up roaming his way into the headlines. "Dennis," as named by the press, appears to have wandered North from warmer southern coastal waters—mostly likely somewhere close to South Florida— all the way up to to East Dennis, MA where he dropped proverbial anchor in Sesuit Bay.

Say WHAT? Cape Cod?!! To my mind that seems impossible. When not hovering in the shallow warm waters of Southern Florida, the Caribbean, or the Gulf of Mexico, snacking like crazy on seaweed and algae, these guys move around at an average speed of 3–5 miles an hour. Aka: They mosey. So though it seems Dennis got himself into quite a pickle last week, he's probably been going up the country for many, many months. I like that kind of moxie. That said, the poor guy must be so tired now and too cold for comfort.

Another fact: Dennis weighs 1,000 pounds. One. Thousand. Pounds. That is completely enormous. How on earth do manatees maintain that kind of voluptuous physique on a steady diet of plants?! Answer: Dedication.

The Cape Cod Times describes the scene at the Harbor where Dennis was found and subsequently rescued:

Hundreds of people watched the drama unfold yesterday. "I was crying when I first saw the fish," said Kara Burke, referring to the manatee. "It's just an amazing feeling to be here in Dennis with Dennis."

Kara's sentiments are touching, yet also confusing, not to mention inadvertently obscene.

The description of the rest of the operation sounds straight from an eight year old's imagination:

And so set in motion the plan to drive Dennis back in an 18-foot moving van. A four-person team from SeaWorld will make the trip with Dennis, using large squirt bottles to keep him wet.

This conjures images of cartoonishly large squirt bottles from the store greatbigstuff.com . Maybe they can also get an enormous name tag for Dennis. And hit the courts once they are back in Florida.

SeaWorld is also the star of one of my recent favorite Onion articles.

This is another Onion grand slam recommended to me by Kyle.

Obviously, I'm completely rooting for Dennis to pull through.

And in the meantime, my friends Drue and Mark M. would most certainly offer this clip from Dr. Katz as required viewing while cheering from the sidelines:

upstairs at erik's

2008-10-10T15:22:00.050-04:00

Three weeks ago, the song "Only You" by British band Yazoo ended up on my ipod shuffle. Suddenly, "Only You" was the only song I wanted to hear for the first time in a long-long time. I'm in a teenager-in-love-style play and repeat phase. The last time I got stuck on this song was in tenth grade. I had a lot of pining to do for my big time high school crush. A lot of slow dances to imagine. A lot of interactions to over-analyze and ponder. And a lot of hoping to do. This song was made for those moments. "[Sigh.] No one understands how I feel. Except for Yazoo." Only Yazoo.

"Only You" and the album "Upstairs At Eric's" are to my mind, in and of themselves, infatuation-worthy. Especially to young, coming-of-age ears. It certainly stands as a soundtrack of my formative years. It is the sound of sharing a room with my very patient older sister Kristin when I was seven and she was sixteen. At that time "Bad Connection" was my jam. It replaced The Police's "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" as my peppy, feel good anthem to demand. I had no idea it was actually a song about Alison Moyet feeling frustrated she can't get through to her Baby on the phone. I also had no idea a woman sang the song. I thought someone named "Yaz" (as we know them here in the US) sang the song. And in my mind, Yaz was a genderless, numinous being. I mean, look at the album cover. It's confusing who's behind the music. To me it looked like *no one* was upstairs at Eric's. Just some scary mannequins in a post-apocalyptic apartment.

All I knew was I just wanted to hear "Bad Connection" so many times—which was potentially annoying to my teenage sister who was mostly interested in solitary activities. I'm pretty sure she just wanted to draw or scrapbook and listen to "Only You" seventeen hundred times. But she is a terrific sport, and a doting sister, and so she patiently honored all my requests.

It was also the soundtrack of impatiently loitering outside my fourteen-year-old brother Erik's room, hoping he'd unhitch the velvet rope and "please lemme in.....I mean, can I?"

These are the things I understood about Upstairs at Eric's in 1982: "Only You" was pretty but boring. "I Before E Except After C" was terrifying and the sound of insanity. "Bad Connection" was the greatest song of all time.

"In My Room" was a league of its own. "In My Room" was the song Erik used to terrorize me on our walks to school. Our ten minute walk would proceed as follows:

[Half a block walked in silence]

And then:

Erik: [In a deliberately affected, forced singing voice] "The WALLS are WHITE and IN the NIGHT the room is lit by ELECTRIC LIGHT"
Me: What is that? Stop.
Erik: "The WALLS are WHITE and IN the NIGHT the room is lit by ELECTRIC LIGHT"
Me: [already losing it] Erik stop. I mean it.
Erik: I'll think about it. "The WALLS are WHITE and IN the NIGHT the room is lit by ELECTRIC LIGHT"
Me: [Desperate] Shut UP! Why aren't you listening to me?!
Erik: Shut up? That's a badwordthe..WALLS are WHITE and IN....
Julia: SHUT UP.
Erik: [Stops and turns to look at me] Maybe if you asked me to stop NICELY, I would consider stopping.

[we keep walking]

Erik: [humming quietly] "do DO do DO..."
Me: [muttering politely] Please don't sing.
Erik: la-LA la-LA...
Me: Please don't sing
Erik: ...la la la la la-la la la LA!

It was a particularly effective torture tactic because the lyrics made no sense to me. They were confusing and unsettling. And he was persistent. And so good at mind games.

[Note: A few weeks later the chorus to "Loverboy" by Billy Ocean replaced "the walls are white..." as the Verse to Curse:

Erik: "Wannabeyo LU-vah, LUvah, LUvahbooyyy..."
Me: ERIK.]

I finally got my revenge the summer before going to college. Erik was well out of college and I had all-access access to his room. While freely trolling around for new music for a new mix, and a tape I could tape over I found an unlabeled BASF cassette. I put it in my boom box for review. Initially there was nothing but the sound of muffled shuffling around. Maybe one of his fake radio programs recorded with best friend Chris? Suddenly I hear Erik clearing his throat. And then: A miracle. Fourteen-year-old Erik Rydholm begins to sing, very, very earnestly, very, very, very, awkwardly, a capella, and pretty loudly:

Lookin' from a window above
it's like a story of love
can you he-ear me?
Came back only yesterday but moving farther away
wantcha nee-her me..

[pause]
[starting over, many, many many octaves higher, and REALLY loudly]

LOOKIN' FROM A WINDOW ABOVE...

It really was a Christmas miracle. It was glorious. I stared at the middle distance, glowing, drunk with power, just imagining the possibilities and, suddenly, knew what I had to do. I had to put it on a "Flashback!" mix for my friend Fatima. As the opening to Side B. Followed by "Automatic" by the Pointer Sisters.

And it was done. A masterpiece.

Fatima and I listened to it in her Renault jalopy all summer long and *wept* with laughter. She made copies for her sister Bibi and our friend Nicole. I made one for my friend Leigh. We always played it in the car. And each time it came on: Laughter. Eventually we just started singing along, perfecting each perfect part.

Today Erik recalled the moment the turntables finally turned and I played the recording back to him. It sounds not unlike the horrible realization that "the call is coming from inside the house." But more like the horrible realization that the song is coming from your private teenage home studio:

"It wasn't just that you found it. It's how you decided to reveal that you found it: on a mix tape being played inside the car during a family visit to Bowdoin [College]. As I remember, I was in the backseat. I don't think we were a second into the song when I realized what was going on. Something lurched in my stomach and I lunged over the front seat for the eject button. While you cackled."

He explained he was probably singing out his feelings for his teenage crush Marcy.

If I were a real wise guy I would make an mp3 out of the recording. I'm not that mean. Unless Erik says I have permission to be that mean.

In college, "Bad Connection" was nearly summarily ruined for me by seeing a college women's a capella group doing a completely overblown rendition of the song. 8000 harmonies. Pantomimed hanging-on-the-telephone choreography. Huge, crazy smiles. You get the idea.

For years I couldn't listen to "Only You" because I only heard it in Erik's voice. It was confusing. And made me feel a little guilty. Recovering from that, I shelved the song as "cheesy." Several years ago, however, the BBC program "The Office" made brilliant use of it in their Christmas special during a seminal slow dance between star-crossed lovers. I wept. A song was reborn.

And reborn again three weeks ago when it sneaked into rotation on my ipod shuffle and I couldn't stop listening to it. It's pretty heartbreaking, and yes, pretty cheesy. At the beginning of this week I decided to fill my ipod with my Yaz favorites and listen to them ad nauseam. My interests this week? Goats and Yaz.

The playlist:

Too Pieces
Midnight
Mr. Blue (from the album "You and Me Both")
Only You
Bad Connection

The selection does not disappoint.

While riding my bike home over the Brooklyn Bridge Wednesday night at midnight, the song "Midnight" came on just as it started to drizzle.

And now it’s midnight it’s raining outside
And I’m soaking wet,
still looking for that man of mine
And I ain’t found him yet
Well all of this rain can wash away my tears
But nothing can replace all of those wasted years
In all of this I tell you I have learnt
Playing with fire gets you burnt
And I’m still burning

You and me both, Yaz! It *was* midnight! And I was *also* starting to get drenched! Alison Moyet no longer sounds paranormal to me, she sounds like a woman experiencing some serious feelings. I can relate to that, too. Just like Erik, upstairs at my parents' house singing for Marcy and meaning it.

I'm sorry I made fun of your serious feelings, Erik.
But I'm glad Yazoo understood you. Only Yazoo.

goddess dressing / legal not eagle

2008-10-09T00:51:00.032-04:00

I actually have no intention of holding forth about politics on this site. I am deeply unqualified. Maybe some day soon I'll ask my friend Alexa to guest blog and then you will really learn a thing or two. For now I will mention the one thing I took away from last night's debate: "That one." I thought about that phrase most of the day. The first half of the day I pondered it in an analytical, critical, worldly way; the second half of the day I considered it in a decidedly otherworldly way—specifically, I literally only heard it said by Luke Skywalker in this scene from Star Wars. Over and over again.

In other news, I picked up a copy of the NY Metro today to occupy myself on a short subway ride. Two highlights:

Headline: New Living Goddess Chosen. The AP explains:

Hindu and Buddhist priests chanted sacred hymns and cascaded flowers and grains of rice over a 3-year-old girl who was appointed a living goddess in Nepal yesterday....Wrapped in red silk and adorned with red flowers in her hair, Matani Shakya received approval from the priests and President Ram Baran Yadav...

This blows my mind. Mostly because all I can think about is myself as a three year old (see photo above). I dressed like a crazy person (yes, that is a fraction of a great white shark face on that t-shirt) and was nowhere near equipped to commune with high priests and politicians.
I probably could have told you a lot about animal crackers, though. I still can.

The other notable moment in today's paper was a letter to the editor from perturbed reader Sasha Clements. (The letter appears to be unavailable on their website so I will really have to take this blog seriously and SCAN it.) The title of Ms. Clements' platform:

WTF is wrong with Obama-thusiasm?

WTF, is right. Dear, dear Editor of "the world's largest global newspaper." My rejoinder to the Editor and Ms. Clements is as follows:

WTF? Is "WTF" fit to print?

Or rather:

WTF is WTF FTP? TTYL. -JR

Just as I finished the Metro, three well-heeled, thirty-something professionals walked onto the train gabbing away. There were two business casual men, and one woman who sort of looked like a tall Cheri Oteri dressed head-to-toe in beige—beige high heels to boot. As they boarded one of the men said, "Oh he's a real legal eagle." Cheri paused, then countered, "More like a legal NOT eagle!!" And at that, the three of them burst into raucous, uncontrollable, hee-haw laughter. One of the men was literally slapping his knee. I am pretty sure they had been drinking. Especially because next thing I knew, Cheri plopped down onto the seat next to me, stretched her leg out and put her foot up on the subway car pole. Ah yes, all in a day's work.

lil goat view

2008-10-07T15:14:00.017-04:00

This guy is one of the gems I found during my goat research day. Such a happy goat.

Also so happy? Lil Wayne. In his newish, completely amazing ESPN forum, Lil Wayne pretty much describes EXACTLY how I feel about blogging:

First of all, wow. I am overwhelmed by the response to my first blog entry. I think I read the first 402 comments. A lot of them were crazy. A thousand comments in the first day? That makes me happy. I've been telling people, "Man I got a blog on ESPN," and they go, "Yeah, boy, but you're latest song is crazy!" and I'm like, "I know, but did you see my blog?" I am so excited to have this opportunity. You don't understand.

I know how he feels. I felt that good on my first day back-in-blog, when I got one comment. And it was from Gary! To repeat, just like Lil Wayne: I am so excited to have this opportunity, you don't understand.

In other news, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Google Street View is the best thing to ever happen to world news. Since 2007, the gift that keeps on giving. Australia, especially, does not disappoint. Seriously, what's going on over there?

There are a lot of sites tracking this phenomenon. This one is equal parts points-of-interest/tabloid Hollywood tour/bloopers reel.

My overall impression of this initiative? Basically, I imagine the Google Street View van slowly rolling down every street followed by a wake of women in hair rollers, face masks, and robes shrieking and throwing the curtains closed, cats covering their faces with their paws, robbers mid-robbery dropping their satchels marked "$", men dropping the afternoon beer they are sneaking in the garage, teenagers freaking out trying to extinguish and jettison forbidden cigarettes...etc.

Meanwhile, the goats keep grazing atop Al Johnsons Restaurant.

And at that, I actually just tried to Google Street View Al Johnsons Restaurant. The van has not made it that far North. If that grassy roof top and grazing friends showed up on Street View it would have been all over for me.

this is our youtube

2008-10-06T21:34:00.001-04:00

My brother Erik and I live to make each other laugh. He has the gift of finding that special something that will send me careening around the corner to full on laugh-crying. Growing up, Erik's favorite venue for that move was church (where else?). To this day, my mom sits between us at any deadpan family event because she knows, even as adults, we cannot be trusted. All he needs to do in a serious setting is move his hand or clear his throat or breathe and I am in my own private emergency: head down, shaking, tearing up inconsolable laughter/desperately chewing on my cheeks or pinching my leg in order to slam on the behavior brakes—never to any avail.

The past couple of days, Erik and I have been sending each other youtube links at work with the implicit hope of driving the other person to leave their desk and call from some remote hallway, laughing. The odds are against me. I work for an office that is often as quiet as a morgue and distraction is never a course of action. I try to behave. Erik is a Mucky-muck at a television production company where he and his staff send absurd links to each other and consider that a job well done.

Last Friday, a complicated backstory led me to research video footage of highschool productions of Guys and Dolls. My brother was actually in Guys and Dolls during highschool so I passed a few of the doozies along. He was mildly amused and responded with links of his own. Not to be outdone, I quickly spiraled into searching terms like "awful Guys and Dolls" and "Guys and Dolls accident" in hopes of finding a complete catastrophe. No such luck. In the meantime, Erik sent the following email:

"Sky Masterson as played by 1963 Ralph Rydholm?"

I got through a total of five seconds before throwing my headphones down and running away from my desk choking. The resemblance is truly uncanny. I attached the only vintage Ralph photo I have scanned at the moment (as seen with my mom c.1976), but trust us on this one. Erik called because he made himself laugh so hard.

Today I struggled to unearth the most random, possibly youtube-able, shared childhood memory I could muster and the restaurant Al Johnsons came to mind. Growing up, our family occasionally drove up to Door County, Wisconsin during summer vacation. As a special treat we would have pancakes at Al Johnsons Swedish Restaurant. For a kid, this place is a veritable shangri-la both because nearly every dish is festooned with a Christmas tree of canned whipped cream AND because the restaurant boasts a grass roof with live GOATS grazing around on it like it's an actual, normal pasture.

And thus, this morning, completely without preamble, I sent Erik the following footage:

I'm not sure he even laughed. He wrote back an unadorned one-liner to the tune of: "Your memory is frightening."

I, however, ended up getting caught up in all kinds of random goat video and photography for the duration of the day.

Weekend Roundup

2008-10-05T21:04:00.000-04:00

No dice for Ralph Rydholm's Chicago Cubs. We talked today and he was down, but not out...because the Bears were lookin' good! Also looking good, according to my dad AND mom? The Killers on last night's Saturday Night Live. Both of them in their individual phone times mentioned how much they enjoyed The Killer's performance, and proceeded to discuss their "stage energy" and "fun lyrics."

I am nervous to see what the lyrics actually say.

Particularly as: Years ago my mom called me to tell me how much she enjoyed Shaggy's performance of "It Wasn't Me" on Saturday Night Live. Slightly panicked and more than amused, I said, "Mom, do you know what that song is about?!" And proceeded to recite the verse about the bathroom floor. She replied, "Oh, well, I didn't know about that, but I really liked his energy. And the beats."

My mom finished her review of The Killers saying she was confused about the lead singer's feathers. I have no idea what that means. But apparently, "He didn't really need them."

Today my friend Justine told me the following At the Movies vignette: On Friday, she and my friend Karen went to see an early show at the Union Square Theater. Upon arrival, she headed off to find the bathroom. Across from the concessions stand she spotted an LED display reading "WOMEN". She aimed straight for the door and nearly blasted through like the Kool Aid Man...until she realized it was actually the theater showing THE WOMEN starring Meg Ryan, Bette Midler, and Annette Benning.

Later, she and Karen watched several other people make the self-same mistake.

On the topic of gaffes: This evening I went to buy a slice of pizza on the way home from the park. Counter Man wrapped up the slice, looked directly at me and said,"$14, please." At first I thought he was trying to be funny, but suddenly it was clear he was actually just very distracted. I looked at him. He looked back, not flinching. Then quickly came-to, shook his head and said, "Oh man. Ha. Phew. What am I saying? $2.50, please." The entire staff was literally doubled over in hysterics.

bad news cubs

2008-10-02T22:44:00.000-04:00

So usually I just pester a friend with my quotidian "know what just happened?" moments, but tonight I decided to spare my undoubtedly weary audience and put my blog to better use. (Er, any use. I think I've signed in to this thing three times. And in order to actually log in I had to find an email Gary sent me a year and a half ago detailing my user id and password information.)

At any rate...

This evening, while I was glasses-on-sitting-up-straight glued to the VP debate, my dad sent me a text message. You must understand, my dad only ever texts me when we are on tour overseas with the primary purpose of confirming our arrival at every scheduled destination. And, let's face it, most likely at my mother's urging.

In person and with an audience, however, my dad is rarely at a loss for words. He was a creative director in advertising for 30 + years. He's whip smart, has nearly total recall, quick with a pun and long with lore about most any given subject. I'm convinced he secretly wanted to be in pictures. When he is quiet, his brow furrows, his eyes search the middle distance. He walks around like a detective struggling to put the pieces together.

To the average bystander, the contrast can be mysterious. During one such moment recently Kyle asked, "What do you think your dad thinks about all day?"

To the family, it is no riddle. "The Cubs, the Bears, Must See TV, reading the paper, Gino's Pizza, Pixar films. I bet if you ask him right now, he'll say he is wondering where Wall-E is playing."

"Huh. Really?"
*Really*.

To this point, tonight, as I stared intently at Must See VP, brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the middle distance, trying to put the pieces together, out of nowhere, my phone chimed, announcing the following missive:

DAD: "I don't know if you're watching but I've been at Wrigley [Field] for two nights now and it's like watching reruns...for over 60 years."

I can't stop laughing. It sort of felt like someone suddenly talking out loud and loudly in the middle of a movie. Like maybe in the middle of the first 40 wordless minutes of Wall-E.

Back in the blog life again...

2007-07-07T04:44:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Moscow.
Initial thoughts upon arrival:

1. "There are a lot more trees here than in St. Petersburg."
2. "Oh yeah, remember that film 'Moscow on the Hudson'?"
3. "I think 'The Russia House' was also filmed here." My friend Ellen was actually in that film, playing the daughter of Sean Connery and Michelle Pfeiffer. In her present day apartment she still has a souvenir from the experience: Russian nesting dolls of her film family. Sean is the largest doll. She's the smallest doll.

We only caught a glimpse of the city en route to the festival grounds, but I await our day off tomorrow like Christmas in July.

For now I will offer up an abridged list of personal highlights from the past two weeks:

1. Encore in Hamburg, Germany. Woodshedding our way through 'Oceans in the Hall' with new drummer Louis Schefano (who had never heard/played 'Oceans in the Hall') while the crowd patiently cheered/ pantomimed musical directions.
2. Rowdy-rowdy fans in Copenhagen, Denmark. One overheard shouting "Gary Olson! Gary Olson! I LOVE."
3. Mad foosball action in Denmark.
4. Playing football on the beach in Varberg, Sweden.
5. Frida Eklund travelling and performing with us from Gothenburg to Oslo.
6. Any opportunity to swim.
7. Ice cream in Vilanova, Spain.
8. More ice cream in Vilanova, Spain.
9. The cast and crew of the Faraday festival.
10. Catching up with dear friends whom we don't see often enough.
11. The ship from Stockholm to Estonia featuring a live cover band (see Ben's blog), a live dance troupe, and air hockey.
12. Seeing Russia.

There are myriad more good memories, but precious few minutes to spare before soundchecking here in Moscow.

So in closing...a very special shout-out to the Swedish yogurt brand Yoggi. A tour staple for me---and this go 'round, a lifesaver straight from a Swedish hospital vending machine. As you may have read in my bandmates' blogs, Keyboard Kyle paid a visit to the Gothenburg Hospital due to a wretched stomach infection. I ate four yogurts while waiting through Kyle's five (!) IVs. Photos from that episode to follow.

Feels like the first time

2007-06-05T11:48:00.000-04:00

This is a day of firsts.

My first blog post.

The first day our new record is available in stores.

The first time I've consumed appreciably more than a single cup of coffee at breakfast—rendering my eyes pinwheeling and my words spilling out like confetti.

And...

This evening will mark the first time Gary Olson, Jeff Baron, Sasha Bell, Kyle Forester, Mike Fadem, and I will perform together as a group in celebration of our beloved friend San Fadyl.

One European tour, San brought a 'Best of Foreigner' album in his Santa-sized satchel of cassettes. Feels like I ought to bookend this post with more Foreigner. Ergo, here are some closing thoughts in honor of my better rhythm section half:

I would climb any mountain
Sail across a stormy sea
If that's what it takes me baby
To show you how much you mean to me
And I guess it's just the woman in you
[Ed. note: San was often mistaken, to his delight, for a beautiful woman]
That brings out the man in me
I know I can't help myself
You're all in the world to me