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4.28.06 Sometimes I Hate This Business I have a friend who is an absolutely brilliant composer and musician, but to say she's commercially unsuccessful is practically an understatement. The people who love her music really love it, but unfortunately, there aren't very many of them. Still, she continues to write and record music, because it's what she does and who she is. It's one of the lessons we learn as adults—even if you follow your dream and give it everything you've got, that's no guarantee of success. For every person with a lucrative career in music and a big fan base, there are thousands of folks who continue to get out there and play in the face of overwhelming public indifference. I know a lot of those people, and for years, I've been trying to figure out why. The only thing I've been able to come up with is that for some reason, they can't not do it. Sometimes, however, that deep-seated urge must seem more like a curse than a blessing. Last night, Joe and I headed into the heart of the Mission District to see Marti Jones and Amy Rigby, two performers who have been around for a good long while. I was a big fan of Marti in the 1980s, when she was signed to the A&M label and released several well-received albums. She had a large following in the Baltimore/ Washington area and I saw her live numerous times in the '80s and '90s. (In one of those odd twists of fate, my record label wound up signing her husband, Don Dixon, who produced all of her records and performed with her onstage.) Jones was never really a songwriter, preferring to cover other people's songs (Marshall Crenshaw, David Bowie, Elvis Costello and the dB's, to name just a few) in her gorgeous, crystal-pure voice. Jones semi-retired in the '90s to raise her daughter in her home state of Ohio, though she did self-release an album called My Tidy Doily Dream in 2002. I was pretty psyched that she would be playing in San Francisco, along with Rigby, a fabulously talented singer/songwriter in her own right. They were playing at a dive bar in the Mission that I had never been to before. Unfortunately, it turns out this was the worst possible place they could have been booked into. Rigby, who has toured much more extensively than Jones in recent years, seemed to roll with the punches (she even commented on the fact that two years ago, she'd played an even divier bar just two doors down), but the more sensitive Jones seemed taken aback by the whole thing. There was an appreciative group of fans sitting near the stage, but further back, a boisterous bunch of regulars (i.e. people who hadn't paid the $12 cover to get in) sat at the bar, talking loudly. The club's employees obviously didn't care that this was ruining the experience for those of us who had come to see the music. Despite the less than ideal circumstances, Jones and Rigby did a great set, a mix of Rigby's clever, tuneful songs, covers, and a couple of Marti's old favorites. At one point, Marti mentioned that she had turned 50. I couldn't believe it—she must have amazing genes. Slim, blonde and pretty, she easily looks a decade younger. Afterwards, we went upstairs to the dressing room since Dixon (who is on the road himself this weekend, playing in North Carolina) had told his wife I would be there. The dressing room was lit by what seemed to be a 10-watt bulb. It was like a cave. Marti commented that the toilet was completely backed up. I apologized for the noise (I feel bad when a visitor gets a bad impression of my city) and said I could suggest a couple clubs that would be a better fit for their next gig. Marti was resolute, however—this was it, she's going to leave the touring to her husband from now on. Adding insult to injury, the club cleared out the audience the second the show was over, because alt-country superstar Ryan Adams was going to be playing a "secret" gig there at midnight; in other words, there would be no opportunity for the women to sell merchandise or chat with their fans. When we left the club, the street was thronged with people waiting to get into the Adams show. Someone as talented as Marti Jones (and Rigby as well) should be playing some small jewel of a theater in front of a rapt audience that treats her with the respect she deserves. So even though it was great to hear Jones live again after all these years, it was kind of a depressing night. Rigby's boyfriend, Wreckless Eric, opened the show. Eric was active in the same British new-wave music scene as Ian Dury, Elvis Costello and Nick Lowe in the late 1970s. His solo set was enjoyable and compelling, though he scared me a little—he's one intense guy. I suspect that in his younger, more alcohol-fueled years, he would have beat up the club's promoter. Based on his between-song patter, I think Eric could admirably hold his own in a curmudgeon-off with the likes of Harvey Pekar, Fran Lebowitz, John "Johnny Rotten" Lydon and Joe Queenan.
Usually around this time of year, I'm filing reports from the San Francisco Film Festival, but due to a busy schedule and a bit of disorganization, I've only managed to make it out to one screening so far: "The Heart of Guy Maddin," a tribute to the experimental Canadian filmmaker who won this year's Golden Gate Persistence of Vision Award. I discovered Maddin in 2004; if you root around in the April and October archives from that year, you can find the old entries. The most "accessible" Maddin short, "The Heart of the World," is online at YouTube.com, along with a handful of others. If you watch them, you might assume that the blurry, often out-of-focus nature of the films has to do with the fact that you're watching them over the internet, but that's actually how they're supposed to look. Maddin's shtick is that his movies look like they were made a century ago, complete with cheesy, fake-looking props, silent-movie titles and overacting. When it works, as in "The Heart of the World" or his music video "It's a Wonderful Life" for the band Sparklehorse, it's mesmerizing and beautiful; when it doesn't, it just seems self-indulgent and dull. The selection of short films shown at the tribute was a bit of a mixed bag. Even Maddin admitted that he isn't particularly fond of "Sombra Dolorosa" and that he made it under duress as a promotional tool for his feature film "The Saddest Music in the World." I'm half-tempted to go to the Kabuki theater (where most of the SFFF films are screened) and camp out all weekend so I can catch up on the festival action.
Last month, I attended an advance screening of "American Dreamz," and I predicted that it would not be a hit. "Is America ready for a light-hearted musical comedy about suicide bombers? I say no." Well, "Dreamz" finally opened on Friday and it landed in eighth place, with a tepid per-screen average of $2,460. Boxofficeguru.com guessed that it would make around $8 million, but it looks like it will come in at around half that. The #1 movie was "Silent Hill," which seems like the nine millionth movie of the decade to be based on a videogame. It got the dreaded "empty chair" in the Chronicle review, but I suspect the target audience doesn't care much about critical opinion.
4.19.06 This Week in Entertainment "Thank You For Smoking": In a bit of serendipity, Joe and I went to see this sharp satire on the very day that co-star Katie Holmes gave (silent) birth to baby Suri. I've never found Holmes to be a particularly compelling actress, but luckily, her role in "Smoking" is small. The lead role of tobacco industry lobbyist Nick Naylor is brilliantly played by Aaron Eckhart; this is a case where casting was absolutely key, and Eckhart is perfect, making Naylor almost—almost!—sympathetic. "Why am I rooting for this guy?" whispered Joe as Naylor went head-to-head against William H. Macy's cigarette-bashing Sen. Finistirre at a hearing. Another savvy choice: setting the film in the mid-1990s, before the '98 tobacco settlement. Even I, a die-hard foe of secondhand smoke, could chuckle at all of Naylor's smooth talk; after all, 1998 also ushered in California's pioneering smoking ban. People here are still smoking (and the film's point of view is more pro-personal freedom than pro-tobacco); that's fine with me as long as I don't need to inhale their stinky fumes. Harvey Pekar: I used to be a big fan of the pioneering alternative comics writer, who is best known for the big-screen adaptation of his work ("American Splendor," starring Paul Giamatti as Pekar). I haven't really kept up with what he's done lately, but I couldn't resist the pairing of Pekar interviewed by Josh Kornbluth at City Arts & Lectures. Pekar has retired from his long-time job as a file clerk, but he hasn't mellowed with age; he's still cranky as all get-out. During the Q&A session, an audience member asked if anything made him happy. Yes, he said, two things: getting good reviews for his work, and getting paid. (I presume City Arts gave him a nice fat check for schlepping all the way from Cleveland to San Francisco.) At the end, Kornbluth joked that City Arts was going to provide free Prozac to patrons on their way out. "The Rivals": ACT seems to enjoy producing these old-time fizzy farces, but Richard Brinsley Sheridan's "The Rivals" (1775) isn't half as delightful as last year's "The Gamester." For one thing, it's a long two and three-quarters hours—the same running time as "Gem of the Ocean" (which was compelling enough to justify the length). But the characters in "The Rivals" are more like caricatures, and it's hard to sustain interest in them for such a long time, despite some fine performances. "The Rivals" is best known for adding the word "malaprop" to the English language, and the character of Mrs. Malaprop provides the play most of its laughs with her language-mangling statements like, "I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece is very small" and "She's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of Nile." I have higher hopes for next month's "A Number," starring former "Sports Night" star and Baltimorean Josh Charles. In NY theater news, yellojkt reports on the highly touted Broadway show "Three Days of Rain," featuring Julia Roberts, over on his blog. James also managed to score tix for "Rain," so perhaps he will share his opinion as well.
4.17.06 Those Krazy Konservatives My paternal grandmother, who was a woman blessed with a good sense of humor as well as a loyal Republican, always used to send me the most shameless pleas for cash she got in the mail, because she knew I always got a laugh out of them. I'm sure the Democrats' direct mail pieces are equally stupid—just substitute Dick Cheney or Tom DeLay for Ted Kennedy or Hillary Clinton—but since I never donate money to political causes or candidates, I don't receive them. Anyway, a certain person was kind enough to forward me a hilarious piece of GOP-mail. It's a solicitation from John Spencer, who is running against New York Sen. Hillary Clinton. Now, for the record, I would never vote for Hillary if she ran for prez—I don't think she's a particularly sincere person, but even more importantly, I don't think we need to have political dynasties in this country, like our own modern-day versions of the Houses of Lancaster and York. Spencer's plea for cash is accompanied by a flimsy piece of blue cloth, which is dubbed the Campaign Cloth:
Of course, Spencer's marketers are really just using the tried and true trick of providing a participatory element; it's been proven to increase the number of responses, which is why the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes always contained zillions of stickers that had to be placed just so before you could mail in your entry. I kind of hope that the cloths are just being discarded, and that no poor intern is stuck sitting in Spencer's campaign office, sewing all the tiny "campaign cloths" together, like some modern-day Betsy Ross.
4.15.06 Thank You For Not Blogging It all started a few years ago, when a couple of my out-of-town pals—I think Paula and Rog may have been the first—started blogging. What a great way to keep up with my dear friends! I bookmarked their blogs and checked them regularly. Then I found a few special-interest blogs I enjoyed, such as The Comics Curmudgeon and brilliantly witty celeb-gossip site Defamer. I bookmarked them, too. Eventually I started using an RSS aggregator. Now I could see at a glance if any of my favorite blogs had been updated, instead of having to visit all the bookmarked pages. What a time-saver! I discovered more sites. I'm a fan of Dilbert, so of course I had to read Scott Adams' blog. I met author Lee Goldberg and he mentioned his blog, so I added it, too. Then Lee kept mentioning his brother Tod's blog; I read it a few times and loved it (it may, in fact, be my favorite blog—what can I say, Tod is so mean. He never fails to brighten up my day). Defamer linked to Cute Overload, and I had to add that—I mean, cute animal photos! Then I started adding MP3 blogs like jefitoblog. Some of my clients started blogging, so I had to subscribe to their blogs. Just last week, my favorite critic, Tim Goodman of the Chronicle, launched a blog. How could I not add that? I love Tim Goodman's writing, and here's the chance to read more of it—way more! And that, in a nutshell, is how I wound up with 35 blogs in my feed list. Luckily, some of them aren't updated terribly often; the NPR Ombudsman, for instance, only writes once a week. Of course, in his latest column, he mentioned a new NPR blog called Mixed Signals that appears to be updated, like, 35 times a day. It looks fascinating, but I had to resist the urge to subscribe to it. Looking over the past day's entries, I kind of regretted that decision, but I'm trying to stay strong. Then yesterday, the new issue of my favorite magazine, Entertainment Weekly, showed up. A column headlined "What's New at EW" caught my eye. "Our website, EW.com... [has] been refreshed and reenergized, and is now chock-full of Web-only content from your favorite writers." Of course, when you visit the site, you find this come-on: "Have our news and reviews sent automatically to your computer (via RSS feeds). It's easy—and free!" Of course it is. It's easy and free. The writers I enjoy in print, like Dalton Ross, Ken Tucker, Owen Gleiberman and Lisa Schwarzbaum, are now online. Some weeks I don't even have time to finish the entire magazine and now there's even more of it online. It's a wonder I get any work done at all. (Luckily, I am still managing to crank out at least one new web site a month, plus update all the others, and run the record company, too.) But if you are out there reading this, and you don't have a blog yet, I want to thank you for not blogging. Unless I find a way to get by on 4 hours of sleep a night, I think I may finally have reached my limit.
4.12.06 I Solve Your Stress Problem I have written occasionally in this space about my own battles with stress. My dear husband has described me as being somewhat high strung. Of course, I prefer to think of it as "a constant striving for excellence" or something like that. Anyway, a few months ago, I started noticing that "cures" for stress have started appearing on the covers of women's magazines; they've become as prevalent as diet tips or photos of Kathie Lee Gifford. Is stress the new epidemic facing American women? These blurbs from a random assortment of Ladies' Home Journal covers tell the tale: 3 Simple Steps to Less Stress Wall Street Journal health writer Tara Parker-Pope wrote "7 Steps to Beat Stress (You'll Thank Us!)," not to be confused with "Boost Energy, Stop Stress: 7 Simple Steps" (I'm sure the steps are totally different). For the record, here are Tara's tips: Pay attention to your aches and pains. No one has ever paid me for my personal stress-busting tips, but here you go, absolutely free. Brew a cup of herbal tea (I like Celestial Seasonings' True Blueberry). Sit on a couch or big, comfortable chair. Cover yourself with a blanket if it's chilly. Enjoy a good mystery (I recommend Bill Pronzini, Rhys Bowen or Peter Robinson). Now, this is the important step that you can't skip—there needs to be a dog sleeping on your lap. Scientific studies have shown that it's impossible to be stressed out when a dog is using your lap as a pillow.
I've long since reached the point in life where the people I thought of as elderly when I was a kid are dying off. In fact, Mrs. Olson, a longtime family friend who died a couple days ago at the age of 87, may have been the last one. The Olsons lived in a small house outside the Grand Rapids city limits, and when we went to visit, I loved to explore the woods and stream behind their home (all gone now, sad to say, thanks to development of the area). Mrs. Olson was the sort of old-school person whose home was always neat as a pin and had homemade cookies and buns on offer whenever guests came to visit. Her husband, Karl, was an incredibly gifted woodworker who was employed in the furniture industry back when pieces were handcrafted. He passed away almost two decades ago, which was a huge blow to his wife for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that she had never learned how to drive.
I never visited her in her final residence, because when I was in Grand Rapids last summer, I neglected to stop by for a visit; it had grown so disconcerting to see how diminished she was, as if she'd shrunk several inches over the years. My mother, however, remained an unfailingly steadfast visitor and friend, and even spent time with her just hours before her death. She told me that Mrs. Olson had said she wished she could just go to sleep and never wake up; shortly thereafter, her wish came true. A lot of us are freaked out by aging and death, and prefer to stay away from nursing homes and elderly people. I guess no one likes to get those in-your-face reminders of their own mortality. But there's a lot more honor in my mom's way of standing by your friends, no matter what. You can only hope that when you're old and infirm that someone will be there for you.
It's a funny coincidence that I just received an e-mail newsletter from the very talented author Dylan Schaffer about his attempt to become an A's fan, after a lifetime spent ignoring sports. I was just thinking last night about how I don't believe that you can be a true fan of a team unless you grew up loving them. The rest of us are just dilettantes. I was watching the A's game last night—they walloped the Yankees 9-4; too bad Dylan didn't attend that game instead of the opener. When I was a kid, any sort of sports activity reminded me of gym class, which was the bane of my existence, from kindergarten (I had problems learning to skip) through ninth grade (when I flunked the basketball unit because I was unable to sink any free throws). Finally, in tenth grade, I was free of the dreaded phys ed. Watching sports just reminded me how much I envied the people who were actually good at athletics, and I wanted no part of it. Anyway, a few years ago, I started following baseball a little bit. It's a pleasant game, not violent like football. You can have it on in the background while you cook dinner or do a crossword puzzle. The rules are easy to understand. The whole steroids thing is kind of unfortunate, but nothing in life is perfect. Maybe it's Barry Bonds, maybe it's the high ticket prices, but after a half-dozen years of identifying myself as a Giants fan, I have casually switched my allegiance to the A's this year. The fact that I would even consider doing such a thing proves what a lousy fan I am, but since I grew up thousands of miles away, it's not like I was born and bred to revere the orange and black. I'm keeping my subscription to Giants Jottings, but I've also added A's Fastball. (Of course, I will also keep watching Giants games on TV, because let's face it, no one beats Kruk and Kuip.) I will note here that there is very little animosity between Giants and A's fans. At every interleague game, you see at least a few people wearing caps which feature both team logos. My favorite A is infielder Marco Scutaro, because it is a requirement that all of my favorite players must have cool names and come from Venezuela.
I tend to be a really busy person, and somewhat Type A. I have an unfortunate tendency to sweat the small stuff and turn everything in my life into an item to be checked off a list. Too often I feel like this:
A couple of days ago, however, my body said stop! and I came down with a horrible cold. I had to postpone an appointment and write to clients, telling them I would be taking a few days off. Luckily, I felt well enough to lie in bed and read, and because I'm always so freaking busy, I had some really, really good books in my to-be-read pile: Rhys Bowen's Oh Danny Boy and Alexander McCall Smith's Blue Shoes and Happiness. Today I received a package of mystery novels from one of my new clients, Jeffrey Cohen, so I can delve into those next. I started feeling the first inklings of a sore throat on Saturday, which was ultra-busy: first, Joe and I went to a preseason game at the Whatever Coliseum, where the A's beat the Giants 14-3. Things looked pretty good for the A's for a couple days there—at least until they were hammered 15-2 by the Yankees in yesterday's season opener. Then we took BART to the city and attended a comedy benefit show for 826 Valencia, a tutoring program for kids that seems to host more benefits than any other cause in the city. Not that I'm complaining; we've been to lots of them, and they're always fantastic. The Chronicle ran an excellent recap of the show yesterday, so I don't need to say much else about it except the fact that Patton Oswalt once again proved that he is the funniest man alive. He did a new bit about a 70s horror film called "Death Bed: The Bed that Eats" that literally had people crying with laughter. Since then I've just been sleeping and reading, and now blogging. Somewhere is the elusive balance that will prevent burnout; I hope I find it.
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The especially stupid part about this? The cloth is dark blue. Unless Spencer's supporters all have teenage daughters from whom they can borrow silver glitter pens, the signatures will barely be visible. Wouldn't it have made more sense to use a red cloth, since Republicans = red states? (Of course, as someone who well remembers the Commie scare, I find the idea of Republican blogs with names like ![[photo]](images/fruolson.jpg)
Since her husband's death, Mrs. Olson moved from one assisted living center to another, shifting from complexes offering a high degree of independence to ones which provided a much higher level of care as she grew increasingly frail and sickly. When I visited Grand Rapids, my mom and I would always pay a call on her. Her living quarters grew smaller and smaller, but she always managed to retain several pieces of her old cherished furniture, and there were always postcards and mementos from Sweden, the country of her birth, on display. She eventually became too ill to pursue her old hobbies of baking and needlepoint, but there was always an intensity in her gaze when she greeted me.