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Occasionally someone will recommend that I check out their favorite musician or band when they come to town. Most of the time, I wuss out because I'm too busy. But sometimes, I have nothing better to do on a particular evening than catch up on my ironing or watch my TiVo'd backlog of "What Not To Wear" episodes, and going out sounds like a pretty darn good idea. Such was the case last night, when one of my friend Doug's faves, Spottiswoode & His Enemies, were performing at the Make-Out Room in SF, their first show ever in Fog City. With comparisons like "Peter Murphy and Jello Biafra leading the Velvet Underground through a panorama of Franz Kafka's worst nightmares [w]ith the ghost of John Philip Sousa conducting" to be found on the Spottiswoode.com web site, how could I resist? Spottiswoode is a tall, almost scarily charismatic lead singer who sounds a bit like the Psychedelic Furs' Richard Butler or the Bevis Frond's Nick Saloman. His six-piece band includes a saxophonist, trumpeter and even a guy who plays the accordion, adding a bit of an Elephant 6 vibe. Their 55-minute set was compellingly theatrical and highly entertaining, though I longed for the type of audience that would give them the rapt attention they deserved; instead, the usual chatty bar crowd was in the house. As the Enemies were finishing the last song of their set, which featured some crazy/beautiful soloing by lead guitarist Riley McMahon, Spottiswoode walked off the stage with his own guitar, went to the side of the room where the band's instrument cases were piled up, picked up his guitar case, set it down on the pool table to the right of the stage, put his guitar away, and disappeared backstage, while the band was still playing. Oh, the man is cool. In other music news, my new obsession is the Raconteurs' Broken Boy Soldiers. I really hope it's not just a one-off; I like the White Stripes a lot, but Jack White & Brendan Benson make a killer team.
6.29.06 "Empty Gesture," Defined Berkeley will do it every time:
Someone in the Comics Curmudgeon forum came up with the brilliant idea of having a contest to see which CC contributor could have his or her suggestion chosen by the creators of two reader-generated strips, They'll Do It Every Time and Pluggers. I have to say that until Josh started writing about it, I had no idea TDIET still existed. I vaguely remember it running in the Grand Rapids Press when I was a kid, but they dropped it years, perhaps decades, ago. Indeed, TDIET still seems to exist in a kind of time warp (scroll down to see the strip) where office workers do their jobs without benefit of computers or even those newfangled "telephones." Anyway, I was trying to come up with some ideas for the strips. It's difficult for an effete, chardonnay-sipping, blue-stater such as myself to relate to Pluggers, which celebrates the salt-of-the-earth, NASCAR-loving, God-fearing proletariat. But I do have a scrappy mixed-breed dog. So if a sock can be a Plugger mop, I think Hobie qualifies as a Plugger Roomba. As for TDIET, here's my clip-arty version (in real life, my, uh, feet aren't that big), which nobody outside of the coastal Bay Area will be able to relate to. Oh, yeah!!
Here is something that many out-of-towners don't realize: you don't have to be gay to attend the Pride Parade, any more than you have to be Italian to attend the Columbus Day Parade. I'm not a huge parade fan—I was traumatized by having to view 8,000 different marching bands during Bill Clinton's interminable 1992 inaugural parade—so I hadn't attended the Pride Parade in a few years, but an out-of-town guest and his parents drew me downtown on Sunday morning to one of San Francisco's biggest events (an estimated 1 million spectators). The Pride Parade is really a seemingly endless march of various interest groups. You have your gay veterans, gay cheerleaders, gay Jews, gay senior citizens, gay American Indians, gay parents with kids, gay martial artists, gay police officers, gay Vietnamese people, gay chorus members, gay bike riders and gay journalists (like the slogan says, the San Francisco Chronicle "comes out every day"). There were a few scantily-clad and naked folks, but for the most part, the parade was fairly tame. Maybe a little too tame—I would have liked a few more outrageous floats, like Balloon Magic and its festive dancers. Of course, some people, like America's hunkiest mayor, Gavin Newsom, don't need extra embellishment. Rrrowrr! After two and a half hours of parading, we cut out, despite the fact that it was still going (and going and going). My friend Neal wanted to attend a show at Stern Grove. I had never been there; in fact, I was mostly aware of SG from Chron articles about the ongoing saga of its grassy lawn, which always seems to be irreparably muddied by winter rains and then needs to be resodded at huge expense. Concerts at Stern Grove are free and outdoors, two words that often fill me with dread (I read "free" as "crowded" and "outdoors" as "cold"). Luckily, Neal had utilized a connection and managed to snag reserved VIP seats at a picnic table (apparently those seats can also be obtained by mere mortals who call Rec & Parks on Monday before the show). And it wasn't even that cold in the foggy but sheltered grove. The headliners were a duo from Mali, Amadou & Mariam. They have long been stars in West Africa, and I'm sure they won a lot of new fans (including me) with their amazing polyrhythms & grooves. I was loving the show, but I cut out about 10 minutes before it ended because I feared getting swept into the crowd when everyone started moving towards the exits. All in all, it was a really fun day, even though my crowd-phobic self shared it with hundreds of thousands of others.
I forgot that I bought a genuine full-priced hardcover book back in March, Rhys Bowen's Oh Danny Boy, at Book Passage. Rhys is one of my clients. Now, if I bought all of my clients' books, I would quickly go broke. (Some of them give me books for free, but I usually don't encourage that because I wouldn't get any work done if I tried to read them all.) I don't like to play favorites, but I really love Rhys's Molly Murphy series. If you're looking for some fun summer reading, it is highly recommended. Regular readers know that I am a huge fan of one-man shows. I love lavish productions with full casts too, but there's something about the intimacy of watching one guy up on stage that I find particularly enjoyable. (I realize that there are lots of women, such as Sarah Jones and Margo Gomez, working in this genre as well, so perhaps I should say one-person shows.) One of the most enjoyable one-person shows I've seen in the past few years was Rick Miller's "MacHomer," in which he managed to pull off the miraculous feat of performing an all-"Simpsons" version of "Macbeth." One guy, at least 25 different "Simpsons" voices. Even a Shakespeare-phobe like myself had to love it! Now Miller is back with a new show, "Bigger Than Jesus," at the Zellerbach Playhouse on the UC Berkeley campus. I wasn't quite sure what we'd be getting—some kind of religious satire, I figured—but the fact it starred "the 'MacHomer' guy" was enough to convince me to go. As it turns out, "Bigger Than Jesus" is a fairly gentle, thought-provoking look at Christianity. Miller, a self-described lapsed Catholic, considers issues like the inconsistencies between the four Gospels of the Bible and whether or not Jesus was the Son of God or simply a prophet and preacher. To make his points, Miller uses a variety of props and techniques—he break-dances, restages the Last Supper using toy figures (including a Homer Simpson Pez dispenser in the role of Judas), draws a sketch of the Beatles, sings a song from "Jesus Christ Superstar," transforms a glowing Bible into a laptop, and does some nifty multimedia tricks with a video camera that dangles from the ceiling. If the discrete segments don't necessarily add up to a cohesive whole, it does make for a very enjoyable, fast-paced evening of theater. I wondered if it might not be edgy enough for the secular humanists of Berkeley, but Miller got an incredibly enthusiastic response at the end of the show. Perhaps some of my fellow audience members found themselves quietly reciting the Apostle's Creed along with Miller—we may not have set foot in a church in years, but some things stay in your memory for a lifetime.
I read a lot. I've completed 24 books so far this year (most recent: David Skibbins's High Priestess). However, I only purchased one of those books, Lee Goldberg's Mr. Monk Goes to the Fire House (a $6.99 paperback original). The rest of them were either checked out from the library, borrowed from my mom, or gifts from clients. I volunteer at and donate money to my local library because I think libraries are the most awesome things ever. As something of a cheapskate, the fact that I can check out and enjoy a $25 book absolutely free is one of my favorite things ever. But lately, I've been feeling guilty about this habit of mine. Is it wrong of me not to buy more of the books I read? After all, perfectly wonderful bookstores are closing left and right. First it was Cody's on Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley; now it's A Clean Well Lighted Place For Books in San Francisco. I've spent hours and hours in both stores, but alas, when it comes to bookstores, unless I'm gift-shopping, I'm usually just a browser. Sometimes, I even make mental notes of titles I want to look for at the library. Independent bookstores promote diversity and new voices better than the chains, reliant on the computer back at headquarters, can ever hope to. When I do buy books, I tend to shun the Barnes & Noble conveniently located so close to my home and shop at Black Oak, Cody's or Stacey's. Should I budget $50 or so a month to buy books instead of automatically putting my name on the library's reserve list when a favorite author's new title shows up online? I don't have the shelf space to keep the books, another reason I favor libraries, but I could always give them away after reading them, or donate them to the Friends of the Library book sale. It's a conundrum. I love the convenience and the freeness of my local libraries, but I also think it'll be a very sad day for the Bay Area if we lose Stacey's, the two remaining Cody's stores, Book Passage, Booksmith, Black Oak, or any of our other independents, large and small.
Something about assembling and mailing out 200 packages in a 5-day timespan leaves one with not very much time to blog. But I would be remiss if I didn't mention the wonderful production of "The Glass Menagerie" now playing at the Berkeley Rep. Even though she's only been living here for a few years, Berkeley has embraced Rita Moreno as one of our own. Her portrayal of Maria Callas in "Master Class" was a huge hit here in 2004, and now "Menagerie" has been held over for several weeks. At this point, I suspect that if Rita decided she wanted to play the title character in "Othello," the Rep would seriously consider it, since she obviously packs in the crowds. Her portrayal of Amanda, the long-faded Southern belle mother of two severely dysfunctional adult children, is mesmerizing. She is well-matched with her co-stars: Erik Lochtefeld, who plays up son Tom's closeted homosexuality, down to his fey giggle; and Emily Donahoe, as the painfully shy Laura. Terrence Riordan is hale and hearty, and just a bit buffoonish, as the second act's Gentleman Caller. (You can find a good summary of the play here, in case you're curious.) I realize it's a tragic play in a lot of ways, especially since it's autobiographical—Tennessee Williams's sister really was Laura, apparently. But there's a lot of humor in it. When Moreno comes out in her debutante ball gown, the audience exploded with laughter. And Lochtefeld's delivery is dryly humorous, like when he's finally telling off his mom: "I run a stream of cat houses in the valley, they call me Killer, Killer Wingfield, see I'm leading a double life, really, a simple honest warehouse worker by day, but by night a dynamic czar of the underworld, mother, I just go to gambling casinos, spin away fortune on the roulette tables, mother, I wear a patch over one eye, and a false moustache and sometimes I put on green whiskers, on, on those occasions, they call me 'El Diablo...'" The play runs through July 2, and is in the more intimate of the Rep's two theaters, the 400-seat Thrust Stage.
I'm an experienced theatergoer. I should not be afraid of the Bard. And yet, something about the prospect of going to see a Shakespeare play always scares me. There'll be wordplay, puns and historical references that will go over my head! Soliloquies! Words like "moiety" and "engraffed"! It had been a while since my last brush with the Bard, despite the fact that the Bay Area sees approximately 1,583 different productions of a Shakespeare play every year. Last night, I finally cracked and went to see the Shotgun Players' "King Lear." Can I just admit that I was incredibly grateful to Shotgun for putting a two-page synopsis of the play and a listing of who all the characters are in with the program? It made it so much easier to follow for those of us who are intimidated by Shakespearean language. If I ever felt lost, I could just consult the notes. As a result, I knew what was going on at least 95% of the time. Thanks, Shotgun! I was thrilled to bits that my current favorite local actor, John Mercer, was in the play (in the juicy role of the Duke of Gloucester). I don't know anything about Mercer except that I think he's British, since he always seems to play Brits. Then again, he might just be a wizard at accents. In any case, I'd go see Mercer in absolutely anything. "King Lear" isn't what I'd call a fun theatrical experience, but I did feel like I'd been entertained and enlightened after I'd seen it, especially the day after sitting through "The Da Vinci Code"—which was only 15 minutes shorter than "Lear," by the way. To other Shakespeare-phobes, just remember that it's OK if you have to read the Cliffs Notes to know everything that's going on.
I know I shouldn't pick on "The Da Vinci Code"; it's gotten so many awful reviews that at this point, it just feels like piling on. Joe, who never read the book, wanted to find out what all the "Da Vinci" hype was about. I agreed to go, mainly because I figured at the very least it was filmed on location in Europe and there would be some great scenes set in Paris and the French countryside. Of course, I had forgotten that most of the story takes place at night. (I read the book about two years ago.) If you want to see what a gallery in the Louvre looks like by flashlight, this is the movie for you. The film seems interminably long. On Saturday morning, I watched an entire World Cup soccer match that ended in a nil-nil score, and it was still more exciting than "Da Vinci." At the very least it could have been a campy, fun bad movie, but director Ron Howard and stars Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou take everything so seriously, it's just a drag. Ian McKellen has some fun as a Holy Grail scholar, but as one reviewer noted, the role forces McKellen to give an extended PowerPoint presentation on the Grail's history. I had gotten a good night's sleep beforehand, so unlike some people, I was awake for every single moment. At around the ninety-minute mark, I looked at my watch and despaired of the fact that there was still an hour left in the running time. Approximately 36 false endings later, it was finally over. I kind of enjoyed the book as a fun but preposterous page-turner—you have to admire the way Dan Brown manages to end practically every chapter with a cliffhanger—but the film is way too ponderous and talky. Hanks's hair-don't is the least of this religious non-thriller's sins.
Granite Kitchen Countertops. (Oops, I was supposed to drop theose words "inconspicuously into [my] blog"—sorry, yellojkt!) No matter how bad life gets, remember, it could be worse; you could have committed yourself to eating nothing but monkey food for a week.
For those of you who don't follow my other blog, I thought I'd mention that after countless trials and tribulations, the Loud Family CD is finally ready. Hoo-rah! I should have copies in-house in about a week. Joe pointed out that it was obviously cursed because it bears catalog number 125-013. If only we could have released it on 6/6/06! I've been living the life of a single gal for the past several days as Joe has been attending a conference in Florida. Ah, the carefree fun of being able to work until 2 in the morning! The conference is being held at the Walt Disney World Swan & Dolphin Hotel. Occasionally I go along on his business trips and get in a cheap mini-vacation, but since I'd just been out of town for nine days, I passed this time. If the meeting had been held at the Contemporary Resort, maybe I'd have gone, since I have fond memories of staying there as a kid. (I suspect it probably seems more retro than truly "contemporary" 30 years on.) The best thing about the Contemporary Resort is that the monorail runs right through the lobby! I couldn't get over how cool that was. Actually, my two trips to Disney World might just be the happiest memories of my childhood. I loved Disney World. I spent hours and hours studying the brochures and souvenirs of my trip. If the child me knew that the adult me has had about a zillion opportunities to visit Disney World and never bothered going, she wouldn't have been able to wrap her mind around that concept. But I kind of want to preserve it in my memory as a childhood idyll. The adult me would spend the whole time carping about the long lines, the high prices and the hordes of screaming kids. Maybe someday I'll take my adorable honorary niece & nephew and be able to experience DW anew through the eyes of a child.
Josh Kornbluth has a fascinating piece up on his blog about his attempts to get MySpace to remove a phony profile someone had posted. The fake Josh's MySpace page featured "disgusting, pornographic materials." Even so, you won't believe what Josh had to go through to even find someone at MySpace willing to listen to his concerns. I'm thrilled that election day is here at last because finally, celebrities will stop robocalling me. If you've never experienced this phenomenon (lucky you), it happens every time we have a contested election here in California. You answer the telephone, and on the other end of the line is the recorded voice of a notable person such as Ed Begley Jr., Al Gore, Billy Crystal, Sally Field, Barbara Boxer or Jerry Brown, urging you to vote for a particular candidate or proposition. (Every one of those names I listed is someone who's robocalled me in the past three days.) Since it's a recording, you can't ask them to put you on your do-not-call list, and if you just ignore the ringing phone, their message winds up on your answering machine. Especially annoying: I voted absentee several days ago, so the calls were completely superfluous. Maybe I should try to drum up support for a ballot initiative outlawing robocalls. The by-no-means-unanimous consensus about the Zippo billboard seems to be that lighting up a plain ol' tobacco cigarette is the "dimmer switch for the 70-hour work week." That hadn't even occurred to me, probably because I've never smoked. I guess smoking does give you a break from work, since no one can smoke in their offices anymore, although I would be too worried about the health effects of inhaling toxic clouds of smoke into my lungs to enjoy my five-minute getaway.
6.3.06 Billboards I Don't Understand I am completely befuddled by this billboard:
It's an advertisement for a Zippo lighter. At first I thought maybe it was the type of lighter you use to start a fire, and that it would be cozy to relax in front of your fireplace after a long work week. But then it occurred to me that maybe you're supposed to use the lighter to start your "special" cigarette a-burnin' and that the antidote to those 14-hour workdays is getting high. Or maybe you should bring it to a Journey concert and flick it on during "Open Arms"? Help!! Approximately four people who read this blog will be extremely interested in the following snap:
Yep, it's finally up—the painting I inherited from my grandmother, Solitude by Leonard C. Lane. I don't think it's a particularly valuable painting (it might be worth a couple grand), but it was a favorite of my grandmother and hung in her formal living room for many years. I always thought it was especially pretty and when she asked me a long time ago if there was anything I wanted from her home, I requested it. To the left of the painting is our large front window, and when you look out, you can see the real water of the San Francisco Bay. What can I say—in real life as well as in art, I love to look at views of water.
6.2.06 Stupid Songs You Can't Get Out Of Your Head You heard it here first: "Promiscuous" by Nelly Furtado is totally the "My Humps" of Summer 2006.
I know what the calendar says, but to me, June 1 is the first day of summer. Summer is my favorite time of the year. Despite the fact that I've been out of school for lots and lots of years now, I think my brain is still hard-wired to celebrate the glorious sense of freedom that I felt when the final school bell rang. I came of age in the days before kids were supposed to fill their months off with all sorts of structured activities. I spent my summers doing things like riding my bike to the 7-Eleven to buy "Star Wars" bubblegum trading cards, watching TV game shows, and playing with the Lite-Brite down in the cool basement on hot days. The only formal activity was attending Vacation Bible School, which I sometimes did at both my own church and another one in the neighborhood. I loved the craft projects we got to do at Vacation Bible School, like cutting out pictures in old magazines in order to make a poster-board collage depicting "America, The Beautiful." The only true educational component was that we had to memorize a different Bible verse every day, which meant that the smart alecks in the group inevitably competed for "Jesus wept." Even after living here for nine years, I still expect every summer day to dawn bright and beautiful, despite the fact that it's far more likely to be foggy and windy. I'm always positive that some fluky 80-degree day is right around the corner. Labor Day weekend is always a sad time for me, because it means that summer is over, although of course it's actually far more likely that we'll enjoy good weather here in the Bay Area during September and October. I'm sitting at my computer with an intimidating amount of post-vacation work that I still need to catch up on, but in my mind, I'm perched on a branch of the long-gone crabapple tree outside my parents' bedroom window, reading a library book.
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Summer 