Viva Il Papa!!!
The past 2 days or so has seen the nonstop playing of Edgar Meyers’ performances of well known Bach cello pieces on a loooooooow double bass. It is friggin’ awesome.
You’ve been away too long/It’s been way too long
The weather is beautiful, I’m getting shit done and it suddenly got all sophomore year in here. Milllllllldred Pieeeeeeeeerce!!!!
Auto Focus (2002), Paul Schrader, A-
Maybe it’s because my expectations were very low, but I found this film to be fascinating. The real story is the power dynamic between Greg Kinnear (in a stunning performance) and Willem Dafoe. I question whether having lots of promiscuous sex yet not taking drugs will turn you into a babbling junkie, but I am willing to let that slide. I’ve never actually seen an episode of “Hogan’s Heroes,” but now I can’t wait to.
The Great Shark Hunt
After cherry-picking through this massive tome of 60s and 70s articles written by Hunter S. Thompson (the Gonzo Papers Vol. 1, if you will) I have reached the following conclusion: 50% of what the man wrote is breathtaking, insightful, hilarious and painful. The other 50%, as the man says, isn’t writing, it’s typing. On and on with ludicrous political predictions. Can you imagine what his pages looked like before they were edited? Or maybe that’s the point. Maybe no one edited him at all. Maybe they were afraid to. Anyway, don’t focus on the negative. Like I say, lots of gold can be found here. Many of the articles reprinted here are from the era of “Las Vegas” when the man was unstoppable. Also — numerous references to suicide. Kinda eerie.
What Is The Sound Of No One Laughing?
Attended a wedding at the Shambala Center, a buddhist shrine in Chelsea. A lovely event. We’d been told in advance we’d have to take our shoes off. Ann & I began to do so, when a woman told us not to bother, it was okay to leave them on. I had one on and one off when I asked aloud, “What is the sound of one shoe on?” I got no response.
Major Dundee (1965), Sam Peckinpah, B+
Charlton Heston is the defrocked Union officer out to kill damned, dirty Apache. Richard Harris is the imprisoned Confederate officer with an unexplained English accent. James Coburn is the one-armed tracker with the worst spirit gummed mustache and beard this side of the high school talent show. Senta Berger is the European nurse with the enormous bust. The French Saber Brigade in Mexico is the group needlessly slaughtered by our heroes, for reasons I still can’t figure out. All in all: very entertaining.
Romance at the Atlantic Theater Company
Did you hear the one about the chirporactor at the Middle East peace conference? David Mamet’s new play “Romance” is a rare animal: a very smart play presented in the form of idiotic slapstick comedy. Try to imagine a politically angry “Noises Off.” Or one of the sharper episodes of South Park. Zingers blaze by at a mile a minute, most of them put downs to Jews, gays, Arabs and chiropractors. If you like un-PC humor, you won’t be disappointed.
I believe in the future/I may live in my car/My radio tuned to/The voice of a star
Here’s one that bubbled up from the past to take over my iPod of late. In retrospect, this album has much more goin’ on that the celebrated “Graceland.” Despite this album representing the turning point for Simon to be the most arrogant prick in history (ever see him in an interview? He’s worse than Robert Plant) it is damned good stuff. This rediscovery may inspire me to dig out that copy of “You’re The One” that has been laying dormant on the shelf since 10/16/00 when I wrote the following obnoxious, distinctly unprescient, yet entertaining review:
Copied from LeisureSuit.net
I don’t know if it is FDA-approved, but with his latest release “You’re The One,” Paul Simon has discovered the cure for insomnia.
No, no, no, it’s not that bad, but it’s certainly not good enough to merit anyone seriously opposing my claim. Paul Simon, the lesser vocalist of Simon and Garfunkel, the man most responsible for the curiously antiseptic and vaguely negroe rhythms one hears at any given Starbucks in North America, has collected another group of mediocre folk songs and has felt the need to pepper it up with imported liquid-sounding guitars.
Fifteen years ago “Graceland” was unique, and an interesting follow-up to Simon’s excellent “Hearts and Bones” collection. Since then everything he’s been doing (and doing slowly I might add) seems like a failed attempt to recapture “Graceland.” Someone needs to tell him that “Graceland” was his exception, not this new rule.
“Darling Lorraine,” opens with that Afro-pop guitar driven beat so well mimicked on John Lurie’s Marvin Pontiac album. The song spins a yarn about a married couple waking to realize the love has faded. What wants to be dark and true a la Randy Newman sounds corny and forced, like Billy Joel. “Hey, you don’t like the way I chew?” the husband asks. It’s clever, yeah, but in the hyper-serious setting Simon constructs with his hybrid music, it just sounds retarded.
There are some pleasant romance-y songs. “Love” has a dark melody and sweet harmonies. What kinda annoys me is that I know just how many mixed tapes this only mostly-good song will find its way on. I think it is unfair just how much cultural real estate this album will gobble up.
It’s conceivable that I’ll be in an apartment with a young devotchka whose lit some candles and wants to hear some good music. Heavens, it’s not so out of the question that I will have to make love to songs from “You’re The One.”
And it’s okay for the better songs, like the title track and “Love,” but what about the truly sickening songs like “Pigs Sheep and Wolves” and “Old.” The former makes Bob Dylan’s “God Gave Names To All The Animals” sound like “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” It and “Old” are gratingly talky-sung (when did Simon really just give up on singing?) “Old” has whimsical reeds and ha-ha lyrics about being an old fart, and how it’s just okay.
Paul Simon has created the musical equivalent of a Richard Gere romantic comedy.
The Cat Came Back
The state of seige is over. Goober is being returned to his rightful home today at (roughly) 2 pm. More info as it happens. GOOBER returns!!!!!!!!!!!!
The Charge of the Light Brigade (1968), Tony Richardson, A-
The most British movie I’ve ever seen. I had to watch this with the captions on — not because of thick British accents, but because of all the odd British expressions. Oddly, I wanted to watch the 30s Errol Flynn version, but Netflix sent me this (my fault for not paying attention.) More fool me. Trevor Howard, David Hemmings, John Geilgud, Vanessa Redgrave and lots of fumphering aristocratic huzzahs. Really, a riot. I think it is meant to be a comedy, as this was 1968 after all. Plus, the wildly out-of-place psychedelic cartoons. Really quite a gas. There’s no violence or shooting at all until about 90 minutes in — just extremely British behavior. Or behaviour. See? I’m getting the hang of it. Ruddy fine.
Zorro, The Gay Blade (1981), Peter Medak, B
There’s a phrase people sometimes use — I rarely do — but it seems very appropriate here: What the hell were they on? One of the strangest high concept movies I’ve ever seen, two spoofs in one, really. The first half is very funny. . .it gets kinda tiresome after a while, but high marks for, um, being original.
Mahler’s 9th Symphony
I don’t claim to know much about the intricacies of Gustav Mahler, but I know I’ve been playing this CD quite a bit lately and digging it.
Silent Scream
The whole reason I didn’t go nuts taping all the great Buster Keaton films off of TCM the other night was because I thought I already had them all. I still have “The General” but I can’t for the life of me find “Our Hospitality” or “Sherlock Jr.” I bought them from Blockbuster (on VHS) for like $4 each when Blockbuster was selling all their tapes to make way for DVDs. I really wanted to show Ann these films (she got a kick out of some of the shorts TCM showed) but now I can’t. Did I throw them away? Could I have been that stupid? I know for a fact that I threw/gave away a shitload of VHS tapes and books when we moved in October. I stood out on the street on Ditmars and yelled “Free!” and 20 minutes later everything was gone. But would I have tossed 2 Buster Keaton tapes??!? I must have. God! What a fool! I have more than enough room for 2 additional VHS tapes here. I can put them on my Netflix queue. . .down at number 327!!! Maybe I should up my rental allowance from 3 to 4 per month. But that’s, like, 7 dollars. Hmmmmn. Decisions. . . .
Timmy’s First Gay Bar
This and dozens of other Choose Your Own Adventure Books that never got published can be found at Something Awful.
More On Chicken Hearts
I’ve received some off-line questions about my recent meal of Chicken Hearts. So: Yes, it was part of a Rodizio meat orgy. No, I did not go to Newark’s Iron Bound. I stayed in Astoria, as there are many Churrascarias here. We went to the one that claims to be the oldest, Girassol, which is just a few short blocks from our house. Service was great, despite a language barrier (”Would you like some ting to drink?” somehow brought us hot tea) and the decor is comfy. The art on the wall is uncommonly subtle and good for Astoria. Plus there was some killer fucking hot sauce on the table — an iron cup with scotch bonnets and al arbols stewing in olive oil. Hats off!