First of all, I need to offer up a well-earned correction. Happily. Last week, with very little subtlety I tore into Williams-Sonoma for not attending to my initial plea for help in replacing or repairing a big ol' KitchenAid mixer gone kaput. Thankfully somewhere out there in the collective dingy basement of those scouring the internets, my wee little post made its way up the ladder to the PR Director at Williams-Sonoma in San Francisco. Fast forward through a few emails and you now find me dealing directly with the General Manager at our local Williams-Sonoma. I'll keep you posted on the mixer. But, rest assured, Williams-Sonoma has surprised and impressed me immensely.
Which has me thinking - where have I missed out on past complaints that a special someone keeping an eye on little ol' us here @ andthefamilybuick might have been able to do something about? So as I wait for a brake job on our generic family wagon (don't EVEN get me started on the enigmatic duality of Firestone here in Ballard), I think the time has come to pick at a few scabs.
Hey, NPR - remember that car we donated this past summer? Yea, the Volvo with like 180K miles, the busted head gasket that essentially meant we needed a new engine, and the caked-on decade and a half of good memories. Yea, you sold it at auction and gave KUOW here in Seattle 700 bucks. That one. Well, we never even got a travel mug. Or a tote bag. I know you have our address 'cause we get new pleas for pledges every few weeks, it seems.
Hey, Apple - remember me coming in nearly a year ago to see if you could repair my wife's old iPod (screwy internal drive) a few months after I'd replaced my laptop with the shattered screen (my daughter innocently pulled it by the power cord off the breakfast counter)? Yea, the guy you told that you'd give 10% off a new iPod if we donated the old one. I must have misheard you. What did you really say?
Actually, this is pretty fun. So one more.
Hey, President Obama - remember me, the guy who's been defending you even as seemingly every other dolt who could afford a bumpersticker back in '08 has jumped ship in protest of some sort of nonexistent gripe about your job performance? Remember, the dood with the broad historical reading of politics who's nonetheless learned a bit from past forecasting mistakes and the past election cycle called it for both your and McCain's nominations back in November '07? No, I'm not one of those going all "MassHole" on this Scott Brown special election and calling it the end of ObamaCare while wasting time building strawmen and blathering about "revolution". And no, I'm not those guys demanding that the Dems dig in their heels and fight back. I'm that other one, up here in the Northwest wearing the Milwaukee Brewers hat. Yea, the old classic logo one - that's me. The one looking for you to show how well you can play the rope-a-dope routine on health care. Pull the compromise bill. Push through a smaller bill on the obvious stuff. Pivot to the economy. Frame the argument, don't take it spoon fed by the haters. And play more basketball. The country somehow seems to feel better about itself when we see you loose and lithe on the court. Thanks for that. Oh, and if you want, could you erase my NSA file? You should be fine if you go back to about '87 or so.
Hope your own customer service success stories also go all the way to the top today. Rock on.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Maya sports some of the fairy and princess crap she's borrowed from playdates over the last few days.
While Sarah's in Nepal, I've been doing what I can to keep Maya focused on everything but that fact. Which has, actually, been a breeze. For those wondering what she's been up to, a few pics follow. Rock on.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
What's my least favorite Customer Service excuse? All of them
Anyone who knows me well can answer the following question - aside from over-priced hipster cupcakes, what modern convenience do I find most irritating? The answer, of course, is dealing with a"customer service representative". It's an impossibly broad category, if you waste time thinking about it. Any job, really, should be considered a customer service job. But I'm specifically miffed by those generally still human members of society who have the task of answering our questions about, say, a broken Kitchen Aid mixer (Williams-Sonoma, I'm possibly looking in your general direction). Those people are the ones that pee in society's coffeemaker, wrinkle our collective laundry, don't clean up after their dogs who always stop out front of our shared driveway, and/or just plain make certain tasks that, say, 30 years ago were not that big of a deal a whole ton more irritating. Not that I'm talking about anyone in particular. But if you decided to dump a whole bag of really obnoxious garbage in public to stage your own personal tea party protest, you may want to consider the front entrance of a Williams-Sonoma. As an American who's also a big fan of all the Founding Fathers, I wouldn't try to stop you.
To be less opaque if you don't get that last reference - Sarah Palin did it again. She's 500-miles-wide and an inch deep. Which is as new and insightful as saying the ocean is wet.
From the wonderful adventure that is Maya's not-quite-5-year-old life, the new favorite word metaphor around our house is "rollerskates". She just got a pair, after I returned the poorly received Razor scooter that Hanukah Harry left under the ol' Festivus pole. She really only wanted the skates. I was just being a wuss in thinking that she might be a bit young. Hell, in little more than a year she can start kids roller derby here in Seattle. So you can rightly expect that I'm psyched that she is picking it up pretty fast. For a normally cautious kid, it's a treat to see her get a bit ballsy. And it brings back memories of how I lived in rollerskates for a hearty chunk of most weekend days in the Winters of my youth. My cousins who lived nearby and I had skates to run constantly evolving courses we set up in their huge cement floored basement. I'm glad Maya got that gene.
Hope your own lost memories show up in genetic copies today. Rock on.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Yea, but Jay Leno claims he's the Brett Favre of Late Night TV, so that kinda blows my whole point...
Aside from adding my support to Conan O'Brien - especially given the thoughtful wit employed in today's written statement where he lays out why he thinks NBC sucks - the time has come to reflect briefly on the Green Bay Packers. Or, more specifically, on the end of their season in the Wild Card game loss on Sunday to the Arizona Cardinals. If ever there was a game that neither team deserved to win, it was this mess. The Cards pulled out a 51-45 victory in Overtime of the highest scoring game in NFL Playoffs history. To this very day both teams are insisting that they suited up their Defenses. Some people have even gone so far as to complain about the missed incidental face masking which maybe should have been a penalty, even though Aaron Rodgers then trumped that doofus complaint by kicking up the ball like a hacky-sack right to the Cards linebacker Karlos Dansby. No matter what might or did or someone imagined happened in an alternate universe replay of that game, Rodgers kicked this season out the door with the most appropriate metaphor of a play in Packers history. The statistics were all amazing. The heart was all empty. Team executives, coaches and a healthy majority of Packers' fans will say that this is a great young bunch of players. I don't disagree that this team has the ability to enthuse. But cheering for this year's version of the Packers is like getting all pumped up for a "Caddyshack" sequel or a new Kelsey Grammer sitcom or, heaven forbid, a run by the Cowboys at the Super Bowl. No, this Green Bay Packers season is one that will forever remain cemented in place thanks to one unfortunate memory. This was the year that fans at Lambeau Field booed Brett Favre as he played his way to an impressive victory. For the Vikings. I'm still nothing but a Packers fan. It tastes awfully different saying that, though, given that lingering memory.
It is an essentially human thing to cheer for athletic competitors, especially ones that you identify with on a personal level based on proximity, history or just plain adoptive fun. Cheering for the Packers this year took on a new level of identification that I think on some karmic level utterly doomed the experience. We were expected to cheer for the Packers out of a sort of guilty denial. As in "sure we know there's some major league bad juju going on here, but if you don't support them then all those years of cheering for good and bad teams will be cast aside and you'll be a Judas just like that 800-pound purple gorilla no one wants to acknowledge". To that I say "good day, sir." I will not be a party to this madness. Nor will anyone else until next year. Because Mike McArthy is a moron, Ted Thompson tortures puppies and anyone who thinks they had a chance this year almost certainly has at least one Favre jersey still hanging in their closet that they're pissed they won't ever be able to wear again.
Hope you also get something big off your chest today, even if it couldn't be any less important in life's grand scheme. Rock on.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Upping the randomness. You're welcome.
I'm going to go back to an older style of blog randomness this week. A number of things have caught my eye and I'm behind on throwing a few thoughts at the ramparts. Here goes.
Saddest story of the past week was the suicide of a Vermont artist that always made me chuckle. That sounds totally condescending and inappropriate given the gravity of taking one's life. But if you know anything of Stephen Huneck's work, you'll realize that I'm not a total cad. Huneck was known for the folk art he did largely centered around cartoonishly-sweet images of dogs. He spread his success widely - I remember being in Colorado for a wedding back in 2002 and stumbling upon a studio of his work. I think he also opened one in Carmel at some point. According to the story I saw in the Burlington Free Press, he was despondent after laying off his employees last week. The economy hits artists, too. Especially the rare ones that not only have employees, but appear to care very deeply about them. Google Huneck's work - I'll bet you've seen some.
On the other end of the spectrum, the story in yesterday's Style section of the NYTimes was a laugh riot. It dealt with a bunch of anecdotal New Yorkers that are living what was described in many ways, but constitutes a "caveman" diet and lifestyle. Dudes eating loads of meat, exercising by throwing around rocks and the like, fasting for 24+ hours between meals, and generally being hilarious. These "paleo diet" folks are welcome around my campfire anytime.
All of Seattle is as damp as a locker room towel bin after a hard basketball practice. Hope your own fireplace is stoked to also be stoked today. Rock on.
Saddest story of the past week was the suicide of a Vermont artist that always made me chuckle. That sounds totally condescending and inappropriate given the gravity of taking one's life. But if you know anything of Stephen Huneck's work, you'll realize that I'm not a total cad. Huneck was known for the folk art he did largely centered around cartoonishly-sweet images of dogs. He spread his success widely - I remember being in Colorado for a wedding back in 2002 and stumbling upon a studio of his work. I think he also opened one in Carmel at some point. According to the story I saw in the Burlington Free Press, he was despondent after laying off his employees last week. The economy hits artists, too. Especially the rare ones that not only have employees, but appear to care very deeply about them. Google Huneck's work - I'll bet you've seen some.
On the other end of the spectrum, the story in yesterday's Style section of the NYTimes was a laugh riot. It dealt with a bunch of anecdotal New Yorkers that are living what was described in many ways, but constitutes a "caveman" diet and lifestyle. Dudes eating loads of meat, exercising by throwing around rocks and the like, fasting for 24+ hours between meals, and generally being hilarious. These "paleo diet" folks are welcome around my campfire anytime.
All of Seattle is as damp as a locker room towel bin after a hard basketball practice. Hope your own fireplace is stoked to also be stoked today. Rock on.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Seeing more in "Avatar" than just hot, blue supermodels
As we all can see from this perfidious effort, not all avatars are created equal. This is my not so clever way, however, of launching into a review of James Cameron's fantastic movie "Avatar" which I saw a few days ago. I'm later than most that have chosen to praise it. And I may not add all that much to the discussion. Still, my rating is a solid A. And even though I also recently loved "Up in the Air", regular readers of my irregular reviews know that I'm no pushover when it comes to this end of the ratings scale. "Avatar" is just that compelling and worthy of comment.First of all, the definite downside of this phenomenon must be mentioned. When a movie ticket costs over double the current national average ($13.50 for a regular 3D showing, $15.50 for the IMAX version), we're seeing a perverse reverse Robin Hood. Plus at the showing I caught mid-week, there was an obvious prevalence of repeat viewers most obviously evidenced by people leaving with little more than a few minutes left in the story, but after the magnificent climatic scenes had completed. People are going to this in droves for the thrill ride experience. Those people are young. Those same people are anesthesized to just what a crazy price their experience represents. But, as is always the case, this is the economic future we're seeing. And no amount of blogger snark is going to reverse that universal trend.
"Avatar" is the sort of transfixing, transformative art that will change a million college majors. The technical meticulousness is mind-blowing, and there will be ample jobs for the sorts of brainiacs that can drive the machines that head into this new class of film production salt mine. But I think more than enough has been said about that side of "Avatar". What I saw was a movie that dares people to give a damn. Though not really about the story or the technology or something broader than a few hours spent in a large darkened room with a few hundred strangers. No, "Avatar" is all about what all the best movies have at their core. The lazy call it escapism. So, let's call it escapism. Or, if I can be so bold as to take it a step farther, "Avatar" is about thinking outside of yourself for a period of time, no matter how short-lived. Hence the brilliance of the metaphor, I must concede.
Almost no one can or will identify with the characters in "Avatar". Sam Worthington is the sort of preordained oracle that we've seen before, but with an entirely unique physical metaphor that forms the basis for this ordination. I will go so far as to say that "Avatar" should be shown at AA meetings, in juvenile delinquency rehab programs, or to the clinically depressed to say "think big, insanely big...because why the hell not."
I should probably take my own advice and post a more complete, inspiring review. But I'm about to take my wife to the airport for a short-duration but impressively broad trip to Nepal. I'm avoiding my own editing work and a wide range of writing that is starting to get a bit moldy unless I take off the SaranWrap and rotate things a bit. Getting a few thoughts out on "Avatar" seemed important enough at the moment to put those grander, more intensely personal things aside. That's how good this movie is, and I recommend that you see it. Even if you're surrounded by rude frat boys sipping beers and your 3D glasses give you a splitting headache when it's all over, you'll be glad you did. Rock on.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
2009 YearEnder
The New Year is in full swing. Which shouldn't worry me, although events of the last few days have made me waver. This morning, someone clipped the driver's side mirror off our car that was parked out front of the house. This past weekend, I did a faceplant and busted up my ski helmet on only my 3rd day on the slopes this season. So time to shake some dust off the ol' karma. Besides, my helmet is under warranty from my local ski shop (shop evo online, they rock). And a rearview mirror is just a way to keep from looking forward. Speaking of which, some of you have already seen the following - the business end of my annual YearEnder. With this, I begin my 6th Year of this blog and hope y'all keep coming back for more kindly in TwentyTen.
________________________________________
First, a few thoughts in lieu of a DecadeEnder
I don’t do DecadeEnders. Too much to likely leave out. Besides, we can’t even agree on what to call the Decade that we just kicked to the curb. The “Aughts”? An anachronistic, lame retread. And if we go with anything as incomplete as The Zeroes or as bleak as The Bush Decade, I’ll just put away my snark pen and go back to writing dirty limericks. If an adequately clever decamoniker comes up, maybe I’ll get back to you. But for now I will offer up only one pick. The Person of the Decade. Al Gore. Think about it – dude got more votes yet saw the Presidency slip away, then he got all fat and reclusive, eventually he went back to his first love shtick which allowed him to become an Oscar winner, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a wealthy, svelte, smooth operator. He even started a cable network. He’s the white Oprah.
2009 as a Series of Snapshots
Comeback of the Year
Afghanistan – An aimless war that is now over 8-years-old got a renewed jolt of attention this Year. But with twice as many casualties in 2009 as in 2008 and a forecast of increased bleakness, this is a comeback that sapped a nation’s spirit. Kinda like Lindsay Lohan’s.
Lexicon Addition of the Year
“Hiking the Appalachian Trail” – This new euphenism manages to be both dirty and ironically exotic at the same time. Although a part of me wishes that Mark Sanford had instead used the alibi of heading off to “hike the Ice Age Trail” in northern Wisconsin. It’s actually quite sexy there, too.
Trend of the Year
Discombobulated Hopetards – Depending on who you listen to, Barack Obama’s first 11 months as President were either pretty disappointing or an utter disappointment. Even his most fervent supporters spent much of ’09 lamenting something or other about Obama. Please put down the naive indignation, pick back up those pom-pons and get to work. Nobody should’ve believed the Augean Stables would clean themselves.
A Few Picks for the Best of 2009
TwentyTen’s Largely Baseless Predictions
With that said, I’m off to line up for airport security to get my full body cavity search for a flight I’m taking in mid-March. I hope TwentyTen has nothing but the most elegant answers and countless simple pleasures in store for you and your entire brood. Be well.
________________________________________
First, a few thoughts in lieu of a DecadeEnder
I don’t do DecadeEnders. Too much to likely leave out. Besides, we can’t even agree on what to call the Decade that we just kicked to the curb. The “Aughts”? An anachronistic, lame retread. And if we go with anything as incomplete as The Zeroes or as bleak as The Bush Decade, I’ll just put away my snark pen and go back to writing dirty limericks. If an adequately clever decamoniker comes up, maybe I’ll get back to you. But for now I will offer up only one pick. The Person of the Decade. Al Gore. Think about it – dude got more votes yet saw the Presidency slip away, then he got all fat and reclusive, eventually he went back to his first love shtick which allowed him to become an Oscar winner, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, and a wealthy, svelte, smooth operator. He even started a cable network. He’s the white Oprah.
2009 as a Series of Snapshots
- Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger successfully braced 155 passengers for impact. Crash landing an 80-ton glider on the Hudson River was the easy part. But even the fame that came next he handled like a hero.
- George W. Bush and Dick Cheney left office. But not before losing nearly $600 from each of their security deposits.
- Brett Favre was secretly enlisted to launch an undeclared guerrilla war along the borders of Wisconsin, Minnesota, and some of the more confused parts of Iowa.
- Michael Jackson died, at long last proving that general anesthesia administered daily just before bedtime is not good for you.
- Sarah Palin and Carrie Prejean each “wrote” books. And they looked fabulous doing so.
- Obama held a Beer Summit at The White House for no reason whatsoever. The world learned that Joe Biden doesn’t drink. So all that crazy stuff that comes out of his mouth? That’s the pills talking.
- Iran’s ruthless, theocratic regime morphed into a fully-loaded turd cannon aimed at a broadening protest movement. Since June, many thousands have died or simply disappeared into a Kafkaesque nightmare. Kinda makes worrying about whether Jon Gosselin’s apartment was really robbed recently or if Kate Plus 8 will get their reality show back seem a smidge, oh I don’t know…criminal, don’t you think?
- Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich was removed from office for crimes against, um, humanity? If you listened to him, all Blago said was “the fix is in.” I think he was talking about hair products.
- Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. And he didn’t even train for it or warm up beforehand – he just went out and did it.
Comeback of the Year
Afghanistan – An aimless war that is now over 8-years-old got a renewed jolt of attention this Year. But with twice as many casualties in 2009 as in 2008 and a forecast of increased bleakness, this is a comeback that sapped a nation’s spirit. Kinda like Lindsay Lohan’s.
Lexicon Addition of the Year
“Hiking the Appalachian Trail” – This new euphenism manages to be both dirty and ironically exotic at the same time. Although a part of me wishes that Mark Sanford had instead used the alibi of heading off to “hike the Ice Age Trail” in northern Wisconsin. It’s actually quite sexy there, too.
Trend of the Year
Discombobulated Hopetards – Depending on who you listen to, Barack Obama’s first 11 months as President were either pretty disappointing or an utter disappointment. Even his most fervent supporters spent much of ’09 lamenting something or other about Obama. Please put down the naive indignation, pick back up those pom-pons and get to work. Nobody should’ve believed the Augean Stables would clean themselves.
A Few Picks for the Best of 2009
- Movies – Having not yet seen a handful of noteworthy new films, I’m nonetheless confident that “Up in the Air” is the best of the Year. Cunningly smart, genuinely affecting, and willing to ease back the curtain to show a cool-as-Freon George Clooney as a regretful, sad character. Subtly stunning.
- Music – I’ll go with the sharp, crafty, French pop of “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix” by the band Phoenix. It’s the best in a class of winners from all over the map.
- Books – No book made me laugh like “This Is Where I Leave You” by Jonathan Tropper. If that isn’t reason enough, call me shallow.
- TV – “The Rachel Maddow Show” is far and away the best thing on MSNBC. I think that somewhere hidden down inside even the deepest, darkest parts of the Rushs and Becks of the World, there’s a little love flickering for her consistently sharp wit and smack-upside-the-noggin interview style.
- Radio/Podcasts – I now run at an ungodly hour most mornings, always taking with me a least a few podcasts. The one I most despise but absolutely never miss is the “Culture Gabfest” from Slate. Host Stephen Metcalf takes insufferable pretentiousness to an unjustifiably new extreme. I highly recommend it.
- Sports – Elin Woods’s early morning tee off on Tiger reverberated ‘round the world. She managed to overpower his entire career of low scores on the course and redirected everyone’s attention to how he scored just about everywhere else. You can’t call it a victory for her. But what an epic game-changer for Tiger.
- Killer App(lication) – TMZ.com’s ubiquitous clearinghouse for greasy tabloid newsiness. TMZ is now essentially a verb. As in, go TMZ yourself.
TwentyTen’s Largely Baseless Predictions
- The cabal of Birthers and Teabaggers are joined by new, equally-relevant grassroots movements – the NoLeftTesticles and the HotKarls.
- Health Care reform trips across the finish line like an 8-hour-marathon finisher who stopped along the way for a lite lunch, but still demands a medal and who thereafter repeatedly updates his or her Facebook status to bloviate about the life-changing nature of the race. Thanks for showing up, folks. But next time you should strive to actually DO something worth celebrating.
- Joe Lieberman manages to piss off Democrats anew when he introduces a strangely vindictive bill seeking to outlaw the practice of steaming milk (especially soy) for lattes on the Sabbath.
- The improbable success of the Cash for Clunkers program is followed by Obama’s decidedly less catchy home foreclosure program – (De)Clunkers for Defaulters.
- Apple’s new iSlate tablet computer proves to be a bust when trendy, early-adopters realize it is merely a $700 college-lined Mead notepad with a glowstick taped inside the back cover. Only 20 million are sold in the first month.
- The Octomom meets a sweet guy (Paul) who really likes kids. Paul works for the Postal Service, and plays fiddle in a bluegrass trio. They discover a shared love for collecting kitschy ceramic ashtrays. They take some line-dancing classes, but quit after a few weeks when the instructor they really like switches from Tuesdays to Wednesdays.
- Kanye West’s entourage gets stranded in Nashville during a freak snowstorm. Each morning thereafter Kanye wakes up in the same hotel room where only he remembers what happened yesterday, forcing him to relive the same day in different ways to infinity.
- Swine Flu vaccine shot recipients develop a curious side effect – lifelong, uncontrollable flatulence paired with x-ray vision.
- The DC Party Crashers – the Salahis – do whatever they can on repeated occasions to make the TwentyTen YearEnder. Alas, their 15 minutes have long since passed.
With that said, I’m off to line up for airport security to get my full body cavity search for a flight I’m taking in mid-March. I hope TwentyTen has nothing but the most elegant answers and countless simple pleasures in store for you and your entire brood. Be well.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The stratospheric status of "Up in the Air"
This is always a great time of year for movies. And I've now seen what up to this point is the best movie of the year. Up In The Air has stellar buzz and a crystal clear and 'sleek as far as the horizon is wide' style. In this case, however, it is truly worth the accolades.
George Clooney is at his most spot-on approximation of the legendary Cary Grant as he slinks entirely into the role of Ryan Bingham. He's impeccable. Vulnerable. It's almost as if he were dancing throughout the movie. Unlike almost any other actor - male or female - I think the world has a collective crush on Clooney. But all that optical surface quality misses something larger that I think is the real point of this movie. Clooney inhabits a peerless, devastating position in this otherwise sad, sanitized climate of a movie. Plenty of other reviewers have talked about the timely nature of the story, given our current economic malaise. I believe that misses the larger point by about half.
Much is being made of how Clooney's character has the unenviable task of firing people on behalf of heartless corporations — most squeamishly portrayed during a scene that is meant to take place in Detroit. The people being "let go" look almost entirely like the frighteningly real jobless. Well, that's because they largely were. Director Jason Reitman employed many of them in the roles, playing, in effect, themselves, with the obvious exceptions of J.K. Simmons and Zach Galifianakis. Even the end of credits song came from a laid-off worker who wrote about his own soul-numbing experiences. Ballsy.
But aside from all that "it's tough out there" shorthand, this whip smart movie is about survival. It shows how even the stainless, elevated, beautiful people maybe just don't know what's going on out there in the big, wide, oft-traveled world any longer. The point is that we're all nihilists, I might even leap to argue. At the very least we're meant to imagine that we're all vulnerable. And if we take the time to listen to this very smart film, we can all maybe sit in that chair across from Clooney wondering what's next.
My rating - a full A. I believe this movie will be tough to watch for all manner of people. Get comfortable before doing so. Bring a chocolate bar. Take a walk afterward. If you can, hold someone's hand or call a friend beforehand just to say "hey". But see it. If you've got a pick for a better movie this year, I'm glad for you.
George Clooney is at his most spot-on approximation of the legendary Cary Grant as he slinks entirely into the role of Ryan Bingham. He's impeccable. Vulnerable. It's almost as if he were dancing throughout the movie. Unlike almost any other actor - male or female - I think the world has a collective crush on Clooney. But all that optical surface quality misses something larger that I think is the real point of this movie. Clooney inhabits a peerless, devastating position in this otherwise sad, sanitized climate of a movie. Plenty of other reviewers have talked about the timely nature of the story, given our current economic malaise. I believe that misses the larger point by about half.
Much is being made of how Clooney's character has the unenviable task of firing people on behalf of heartless corporations — most squeamishly portrayed during a scene that is meant to take place in Detroit. The people being "let go" look almost entirely like the frighteningly real jobless. Well, that's because they largely were. Director Jason Reitman employed many of them in the roles, playing, in effect, themselves, with the obvious exceptions of J.K. Simmons and Zach Galifianakis. Even the end of credits song came from a laid-off worker who wrote about his own soul-numbing experiences. Ballsy.
But aside from all that "it's tough out there" shorthand, this whip smart movie is about survival. It shows how even the stainless, elevated, beautiful people maybe just don't know what's going on out there in the big, wide, oft-traveled world any longer. The point is that we're all nihilists, I might even leap to argue. At the very least we're meant to imagine that we're all vulnerable. And if we take the time to listen to this very smart film, we can all maybe sit in that chair across from Clooney wondering what's next.
My rating - a full A. I believe this movie will be tough to watch for all manner of people. Get comfortable before doing so. Bring a chocolate bar. Take a walk afterward. If you can, hold someone's hand or call a friend beforehand just to say "hey". But see it. If you've got a pick for a better movie this year, I'm glad for you.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Holidaze Diversity, sponsored by Target
Like many families that I've grown to know, we're chest deep into Hanukah and closing in on Jesusmas. It truly is a stellar time of year. But for the first time, I'm fully aware of the commercial disparity. No earth-shaking news there. Let me explain.
I won't decry those that want to frill it up this time of year. Personally, I love a Jesusmas tree. And ours this year is outstanding. Pun mangled. Picking a tree out with Maya at our neighborhood lot is a new annual ritual, this year bolstered in its hilarity by her spot-on singing of Hanukah carols (who knew?) as we looked around. I even got guilted into keeping up neighborly appearances with regard to outside lights. In short, our place looks frosty festive even as Seattle's weather has turned from clear and cold to damp and gray.
In terms of retail, Target is a controlled riot in December. The sheer number of aisles for wrapping paper and varied poofy accountremants alone outnumber the space set aside for "Health and Beauty" by my unscientific count. Each and every last dollar of which is then destined to be either thrown away (can you recycle mirrored foil?) or put into storage for the next 11 months. Still, go ahead - knock yourself out, America.
After looking around those aisles yesterday, I asked one of the Target minions where to find the Hanukah stuff. In plain terms she said, "downstairs, across from the 'clearance' items". Granted, it was already the 5th of 8 Days into the Festival of Lights. But throw our Jewish friends a bone and at least put it on the same floor, doncha think? Well, it got worse. The Hanukah section was actually just the end of one aisle. The lamps aisle. Rimshot. It featured a few ceramic things (a Star of David cookie jar? Really?). A few plates, most of which were plastic. And, I still can't figure it out, a metal basket. Just to put in a margin notation in the NSA file of my purchases, I bought Maya a plastic dreidel-festooned cup with that fake lining filled with glitter and stars. Made in China and not dishwasher safe. In short, the loneliest little cup in the store.
Luckily, Maya loved it. That combined with her Hanukah gift last night (a fortune cookie), made for a lovely 5th night. Tonight we've got a big celebration planned. A party at her Pre-K, complete with all the standard fare. Including hash browns. Love the hash browns.
Hope your own celebrations today are equally momentous. Rock on.
I won't decry those that want to frill it up this time of year. Personally, I love a Jesusmas tree. And ours this year is outstanding. Pun mangled. Picking a tree out with Maya at our neighborhood lot is a new annual ritual, this year bolstered in its hilarity by her spot-on singing of Hanukah carols (who knew?) as we looked around. I even got guilted into keeping up neighborly appearances with regard to outside lights. In short, our place looks frosty festive even as Seattle's weather has turned from clear and cold to damp and gray.
In terms of retail, Target is a controlled riot in December. The sheer number of aisles for wrapping paper and varied poofy accountremants alone outnumber the space set aside for "Health and Beauty" by my unscientific count. Each and every last dollar of which is then destined to be either thrown away (can you recycle mirrored foil?) or put into storage for the next 11 months. Still, go ahead - knock yourself out, America.
After looking around those aisles yesterday, I asked one of the Target minions where to find the Hanukah stuff. In plain terms she said, "downstairs, across from the 'clearance' items". Granted, it was already the 5th of 8 Days into the Festival of Lights. But throw our Jewish friends a bone and at least put it on the same floor, doncha think? Well, it got worse. The Hanukah section was actually just the end of one aisle. The lamps aisle. Rimshot. It featured a few ceramic things (a Star of David cookie jar? Really?). A few plates, most of which were plastic. And, I still can't figure it out, a metal basket. Just to put in a margin notation in the NSA file of my purchases, I bought Maya a plastic dreidel-festooned cup with that fake lining filled with glitter and stars. Made in China and not dishwasher safe. In short, the loneliest little cup in the store.
Luckily, Maya loved it. That combined with her Hanukah gift last night (a fortune cookie), made for a lovely 5th night. Tonight we've got a big celebration planned. A party at her Pre-K, complete with all the standard fare. Including hash browns. Love the hash browns.
Hope your own celebrations today are equally momentous. Rock on.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Tea Time #1 - Maya looks for verification that she'd properly adjusted her tiara.
Tea Time #1 - Maya looks for verification that she'd properly adjusted her tiara.
Originally uploaded by emaggie
Friday, December 04, 2009
A drive-by mash-up of "Carving Rushmore", Hugo House and "The Nutcracker"
One fascinating story from earlier this week not only caught my eye, it prompted me to start a new blog project. The centerpiece is the auction going on today of Cormac McCarthy's old school manual typewriter, with the proceeds going to benefit the Santa Fe Institute. Aside from the fascinating nature of this old-timey machine having been a writer's primary outlet for his - I'm not afraid to say it - genius, I'm able to tap into an unfocused appreciation of my own. Manual typewriters. Cheaper to buy than to ship via eBay. So if you want to see where this nugget of an idea gets rolling downhill, check out my new project blog - Carving Rushmore.
It's a big weekend on this end. I've got an all-day event at Hugo House tomorrow. Sunday is all about "The Nutcracker" for Maya, Sarah and me. We're even doing a traditional high tea before the ballet, and getting all fancified for all the fun. I'll be sure to pass along pics thereafter. Hope your own calendar also allows ample time to plant bulbs and hang bulbs, of entirely different kinds. Rock on.
It's a big weekend on this end. I've got an all-day event at Hugo House tomorrow. Sunday is all about "The Nutcracker" for Maya, Sarah and me. We're even doing a traditional high tea before the ballet, and getting all fancified for all the fun. I'll be sure to pass along pics thereafter. Hope your own calendar also allows ample time to plant bulbs and hang bulbs, of entirely different kinds. Rock on.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Maya makes her own music.
We spent the TurkeySlaughter holidaze in Santa Barbara. A few choice pics follow from that splendid visit.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
"The Road" takes it sadly all the way to Bleaktastic
Movies that are so dark, so challenging that they make even the most dedicated viewers look at their watch after only a few minutes are an acquired taste. "The Road" is just such a movie. Boy, is it ever. I, for one, wish I'd not pulled this choice from the sampler.
I am one of the many that loved Cormac McCarthy's dark little gem, published in 2006. Since the movie adaptation is obsessively faithful to the spare storyline of the novel, I won't offer up any spoilers. But the primary reaction I had to the book was stunned wonder that McCarthy had managed to make it so hopeful. Bleaktastic, if you will. The problem with the movie is that all the while you're hoping for bleaktastic, you end up with honorably sad. In short, this movie never should have been made.
That's not to say that any of the performances are bad or that anything about the production design feels even a smidge inauthentic. John Hillcoat directed masterfully. Nick Cave (who's worked with Hillcoat often before) did the spare, beautiful music. The Coal Industry or The Coalition of American Fireplace Manufacturers appear to have done the makeup. And, if I were especially dark-humored, I would say that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals did the location catering. Because there's lots of cannibalism on the screen. Rimshot.
So what you've got here is a movie that takes you on a two-hour slow grind through all sorts of dark places, both real and allegorical. Even if you know exactly where it's going because you've read McCarthy's novel, you begin to feel like you don't want to go there. By the showing, the telling becomes so much less powerful.
I'll rate this movie a solid B. Without a recommendation to even the most fervent fans, though. Certainly everyone involved should feel good about what they've done here. And maybe someday I'll watch it again and realize that I've misjudged "The Road" and ended up getting off at the wrong place. For the time being, I'm just glad I could leave the silent theatre after the final scene and step into the sunny afternoon glow of a picaresque Santa Barbara day. This may all be gone someday and covered in post-apocalyptic sadness. All the more reason to head out for a nice Mexican meal with family where I guarantee you I'll be looking at the colors not only on my plate, but in the faces of those all around me.
I am one of the many that loved Cormac McCarthy's dark little gem, published in 2006. Since the movie adaptation is obsessively faithful to the spare storyline of the novel, I won't offer up any spoilers. But the primary reaction I had to the book was stunned wonder that McCarthy had managed to make it so hopeful. Bleaktastic, if you will. The problem with the movie is that all the while you're hoping for bleaktastic, you end up with honorably sad. In short, this movie never should have been made.
That's not to say that any of the performances are bad or that anything about the production design feels even a smidge inauthentic. John Hillcoat directed masterfully. Nick Cave (who's worked with Hillcoat often before) did the spare, beautiful music. The Coal Industry or The Coalition of American Fireplace Manufacturers appear to have done the makeup. And, if I were especially dark-humored, I would say that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals did the location catering. Because there's lots of cannibalism on the screen. Rimshot.
So what you've got here is a movie that takes you on a two-hour slow grind through all sorts of dark places, both real and allegorical. Even if you know exactly where it's going because you've read McCarthy's novel, you begin to feel like you don't want to go there. By the showing, the telling becomes so much less powerful.
I'll rate this movie a solid B. Without a recommendation to even the most fervent fans, though. Certainly everyone involved should feel good about what they've done here. And maybe someday I'll watch it again and realize that I've misjudged "The Road" and ended up getting off at the wrong place. For the time being, I'm just glad I could leave the silent theatre after the final scene and step into the sunny afternoon glow of a picaresque Santa Barbara day. This may all be gone someday and covered in post-apocalyptic sadness. All the more reason to head out for a nice Mexican meal with family where I guarantee you I'll be looking at the colors not only on my plate, but in the faces of those all around me.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Please pledge to the Richard Hugo House in advance of Write-O-Rama on December 5th
Some of you may know about the Richard Hugo House here in Seattle. Some of you may know that I've done some volunteer work with them. And some of you may have already received the following email from me this week. For everyone else, this is an organization I believe in and I encourage you to consider pledging to support the work they do. Regardless, thanks for taking the time to read this. I'll be back to regular posting the week after the Great TurkeySlaughter. Rock on.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey y’all -
A year ago around this time, you might have heard from me regarding a non-profit writer’s center here in Seattle where I’ve done some volunteer work. The Richard Hugo House on Capitol Hill is a mash-up of cool digs, interesting people, and open pathways available to writers of all ages. I’ve worked with Hugo House’s program to mentor promising young writers still in high school. But they also offer a wide gamut of classes and resources for writers of all skill levels. Unfortunately, like so many other deserving arts-themed non-profits, they’re once again hard-pressed by the fundraising realities of the age we live in. I, nonetheless, want to ask you on their behalf to consider a tax-deductible contribution to keep the Hugo House working for and with writers that depend upon the House’s resources to inspire and thrive.
On Saturday, December 5th, the Hugo House is having a special one-day fundraising event entitled “Write-O-Rama”. While raising money for the ongoing operation of the House, this event offers a chance to sample classes and connect with other writers. You can check out examples of December’s Write-O-Rama class offerings on Hugo House’s website. I’m again participating in this year’s Write-O-Rama, and collecting pledges in advance for the Hugo House. As these gigs generally go, you pledge what you can and thereafter receive a thank-you letter full of sincere plaudits to file along with 2009 tax documents. As in years past, the Hugo House will also provide you with a small vicarious whiff in summation of what good came from that generosity. I’m going to offer what I hope will be a bit of a sweetener to top that off. If you pledge any amount, I’ll forward you or anyone you benevolently convince to also pledge a full minty-fresh electronic blast of the day’s work. I won’t even edit out all the dirty words.
Since I’m gathering pledges beginning a few weeks in advance of Write-O-Rama, I have assumed the entirely overstated role of a “laureate”. Along with a number of other friends of the Hugo House, my bio is up on the Hugo House website. Most importantly, that link will provide you with a direct link to donate using the “Network For Good” website set up for internet pledges.
If you decide to pledge via the internet (the easiest way to do so), please just be sure to enter “Write-O-Rama” in the “Description” field, and “Magnuson” in the “Dedication” field. If you are uncomfortable donating via the internet, you can just email me in reply and I’ll gather a donation from you at some point in the future. And, of course, please feel free to forward this email to anyone you think would approve of the mission of the Hugo House. I encourage you to check out things on their website or just ask me for more justifications in reply to this humble solicitation. I wouldn’t be doing so if I didn’t stand steadfastly in support of the Richard Hugo House.
Thanks for considering my pitch. And otherwise, I’d like to formally offer my best wishes to Sarah Palin on her book tour. I imagine that packing the tour bus up with enough running clothes, moose jerky and general disdain for those of us not living in “real America” will make having a rush-job book ghost-written for you look like a weekend spent leisurely hunting on Alaska’s lovely frozen lakes by helicopter. Regardless, no pressure on the pledge, I swear. Love and non-creepy hugs to all in advance of a hoped for Happy Thanksgiving.
Ever -
E.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey y’all -
A year ago around this time, you might have heard from me regarding a non-profit writer’s center here in Seattle where I’ve done some volunteer work. The Richard Hugo House on Capitol Hill is a mash-up of cool digs, interesting people, and open pathways available to writers of all ages. I’ve worked with Hugo House’s program to mentor promising young writers still in high school. But they also offer a wide gamut of classes and resources for writers of all skill levels. Unfortunately, like so many other deserving arts-themed non-profits, they’re once again hard-pressed by the fundraising realities of the age we live in. I, nonetheless, want to ask you on their behalf to consider a tax-deductible contribution to keep the Hugo House working for and with writers that depend upon the House’s resources to inspire and thrive.
On Saturday, December 5th, the Hugo House is having a special one-day fundraising event entitled “Write-O-Rama”. While raising money for the ongoing operation of the House, this event offers a chance to sample classes and connect with other writers. You can check out examples of December’s Write-O-Rama class offerings on Hugo House’s website. I’m again participating in this year’s Write-O-Rama, and collecting pledges in advance for the Hugo House. As these gigs generally go, you pledge what you can and thereafter receive a thank-you letter full of sincere plaudits to file along with 2009 tax documents. As in years past, the Hugo House will also provide you with a small vicarious whiff in summation of what good came from that generosity. I’m going to offer what I hope will be a bit of a sweetener to top that off. If you pledge any amount, I’ll forward you or anyone you benevolently convince to also pledge a full minty-fresh electronic blast of the day’s work. I won’t even edit out all the dirty words.
Since I’m gathering pledges beginning a few weeks in advance of Write-O-Rama, I have assumed the entirely overstated role of a “laureate”. Along with a number of other friends of the Hugo House, my bio is up on the Hugo House website. Most importantly, that link will provide you with a direct link to donate using the “Network For Good” website set up for internet pledges.
If you decide to pledge via the internet (the easiest way to do so), please just be sure to enter “Write-O-Rama” in the “Description” field, and “Magnuson” in the “Dedication” field. If you are uncomfortable donating via the internet, you can just email me in reply and I’ll gather a donation from you at some point in the future. And, of course, please feel free to forward this email to anyone you think would approve of the mission of the Hugo House. I encourage you to check out things on their website or just ask me for more justifications in reply to this humble solicitation. I wouldn’t be doing so if I didn’t stand steadfastly in support of the Richard Hugo House.
Thanks for considering my pitch. And otherwise, I’d like to formally offer my best wishes to Sarah Palin on her book tour. I imagine that packing the tour bus up with enough running clothes, moose jerky and general disdain for those of us not living in “real America” will make having a rush-job book ghost-written for you look like a weekend spent leisurely hunting on Alaska’s lovely frozen lakes by helicopter. Regardless, no pressure on the pledge, I swear. Love and non-creepy hugs to all in advance of a hoped for Happy Thanksgiving.
Ever -
E.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Starbucks Borg Evolves
Much of my adult life has been spent in coffeehouses. And given that along the way I've lived for at least two years in each of five states other than the one I was born and raised in, I've logged enough varied cafe time to claim an honorary although worthless PhD on the subject.
My approach to coffeehouses has morphed over time to that of the quietly observant snob. I like to be recognized by the baristas so long as I don't need to chat it up, but I much prefer anonymity. I drink espresso - a "straight shot" is my favorite way to order. If the crema on top is gone when I get it, so am I. I tip well. Excessively, really. I desire a straight shot in this age to be a flat two bucks. A cent north of $2.30 is a rip-off. $2.15 is average. To drink a shot, you should take a quick sip to taste, give yourself a second or two to swallow and gauge, then toss the shot down in one gulp. Give yourself a few minutes, then drink a bunch of water. And after that, sit back, put on the blinders and get something done.
As an adoptive Seattlite, I acknowledge that much of the world thinks Starbucks is our baseline style. In actuality, Starbucks is airport coffee for most of us. Starbucks is coffee you resort to when you're in a strange place and hoping for an oasis of better-than-diner coffee. When I lived in Mexico for a month (Cuernavaca - a mid-sized, nothing-special city of 500K south of Mexico City), the one Starbucks in that city was a welcomed oasis where I shamelessly wore my ex-patriate jersey on a daily basis. But a Starbucks here in Seattle is Touristville. The original one across from the Pike Place Market is a newbie landmark that visitors always get a kick out of seeing. There's one in my neighborhood and every other imaginable neighborhood, they employ a ton of people, they were a killer app long ago over-merchandised that is now largely passe. So what does a massive corporation built on a model of franchises strictly designed and branded obsessively do when they need a mongo makeover? They overspend on furnishings and steal ideas that mashed-up look like a toothless offspring of Pottery Barn and a sexless version of Matthew Barney's "Cremaster" series.
Hence, the Roy Street Coffee & Tea cafe that opened today on Capitol Hill. It joins the nearby four-month-old 15th Ave. Coffee & Tea cafe as the second "Inspired by Starbucks" coffeehouse. Don't let the names fool you. The only thing there that's "inspired by Starbucks" is the soullessness and utter disdain for the surrounding neighborhood. So if you've been waiting for me to really sharpen up the teeth and unleash on a review, here's some sugar. These dumps get an appalled F rating.
The Roy Street space really needs to be seen to fully gauge the overdone horror of it all. It's huge. You could fit three or four decent small cafes into the space they've chosen, basically across the street for a beloved neighborhood cafe (Joe Bar) that's typically filled with a neighborhood melting pot that includes students from the Cornish School for the Arts down the block. Roy Street actually feels like three or four really poorly organized cafes inside. The furnishings of those cafes include a few huger than usable tables that probably cost as much as a new Prius, insane Restoration Hardware-quality overstated doodads everywhere, and scattered orange velvet-covered chairs that look like they're on loan from a Lady Gaga video set. They have four bathrooms (all of which require a keyless code), and an utterly insane bank of sinks outside of the bathrooms. I guess some overpaid designer would prefer to openly verify whether the people that work there wash their hands after taking a dump rather than keeping that detail appropriately private. You can imagine all the rest - dark wood everywhere ready to hide thousands of coffee stains but meant to keep the place from ever getting truly cleaned, micro spot lighting that probably will make it all feel like a gallery when sunlight's not plentiful (as if that's a problem in Seattle), garish murals and an utterly out of place entrance deco wall sculpture and cats and dogs sleeping together and utter Goldman Sachs-like disregard for taste. If Roy Street Coffee & Tea was a rock tour, it would be U2's ZooTV. If it were a drink, it would be a Long Island Iced Tea with Bacardi 151. If it were a porn star, it would be skinny Jenna Jamison. If it were a car, it would be a hybrid Escalade. If it were a chef, it would be Wolfgang Puck. In other words - yucky without even a hint of self-awareness.
Already at 9:30am on the first day, there were a handful of the questionably non-homeless cast throughout the 3,600 square feet of grossly overdone ickiness focused on their laptops. All PCs, by the way. None of whom looked up as I walked around marvelling at the tacky overstatement everywhere. So they were either Starbucks spies or completely uncurious morons. And as I passed by the bathrooms and looked at the handful of purposely positioned flyers stuck up on the community boards (no pushpins, people - only a smattering of magnets...bring massive rolls of duct tape if you're looking to advertise there), I got hit with the corporate boilerplate about "green building" materials or whatever sort of low-quality enviro-vodka they're dumping in the karmic punchbowl meant to get the crowd lubed up. In short, Starbucks' cynicism knows no bounds.
The moral of this review is that places like this always fail, but not until they seduce some of the unaware all the while trying to stick a fork to the independents in every area that remains unassaulted by the prior Starbucks stabs at killing the cool. And the larger point is a warning to America. This is what Starbucks has planned for you. Poorly cloaked corporate greed meant to seduce by duping you into thinking it was created to mirror the neighborhood being taken over. At least the old Starbucks model was clear - put a store on every street corner that could possibly sustain it and openly bleed the community of its inherent personality. The new model is far scarier and stupider. Don't buy it, America. You'll just be encouraging Starbucks to ruin more of the country with this sort of tasteless dreck if you do so.
Oh, I almost forgot. The coffee? It's Starbucks. 'Nuff said.
My approach to coffeehouses has morphed over time to that of the quietly observant snob. I like to be recognized by the baristas so long as I don't need to chat it up, but I much prefer anonymity. I drink espresso - a "straight shot" is my favorite way to order. If the crema on top is gone when I get it, so am I. I tip well. Excessively, really. I desire a straight shot in this age to be a flat two bucks. A cent north of $2.30 is a rip-off. $2.15 is average. To drink a shot, you should take a quick sip to taste, give yourself a second or two to swallow and gauge, then toss the shot down in one gulp. Give yourself a few minutes, then drink a bunch of water. And after that, sit back, put on the blinders and get something done.
As an adoptive Seattlite, I acknowledge that much of the world thinks Starbucks is our baseline style. In actuality, Starbucks is airport coffee for most of us. Starbucks is coffee you resort to when you're in a strange place and hoping for an oasis of better-than-diner coffee. When I lived in Mexico for a month (Cuernavaca - a mid-sized, nothing-special city of 500K south of Mexico City), the one Starbucks in that city was a welcomed oasis where I shamelessly wore my ex-patriate jersey on a daily basis. But a Starbucks here in Seattle is Touristville. The original one across from the Pike Place Market is a newbie landmark that visitors always get a kick out of seeing. There's one in my neighborhood and every other imaginable neighborhood, they employ a ton of people, they were a killer app long ago over-merchandised that is now largely passe. So what does a massive corporation built on a model of franchises strictly designed and branded obsessively do when they need a mongo makeover? They overspend on furnishings and steal ideas that mashed-up look like a toothless offspring of Pottery Barn and a sexless version of Matthew Barney's "Cremaster" series.
Hence, the Roy Street Coffee & Tea cafe that opened today on Capitol Hill. It joins the nearby four-month-old 15th Ave. Coffee & Tea cafe as the second "Inspired by Starbucks" coffeehouse. Don't let the names fool you. The only thing there that's "inspired by Starbucks" is the soullessness and utter disdain for the surrounding neighborhood. So if you've been waiting for me to really sharpen up the teeth and unleash on a review, here's some sugar. These dumps get an appalled F rating.
The Roy Street space really needs to be seen to fully gauge the overdone horror of it all. It's huge. You could fit three or four decent small cafes into the space they've chosen, basically across the street for a beloved neighborhood cafe (Joe Bar) that's typically filled with a neighborhood melting pot that includes students from the Cornish School for the Arts down the block. Roy Street actually feels like three or four really poorly organized cafes inside. The furnishings of those cafes include a few huger than usable tables that probably cost as much as a new Prius, insane Restoration Hardware-quality overstated doodads everywhere, and scattered orange velvet-covered chairs that look like they're on loan from a Lady Gaga video set. They have four bathrooms (all of which require a keyless code), and an utterly insane bank of sinks outside of the bathrooms. I guess some overpaid designer would prefer to openly verify whether the people that work there wash their hands after taking a dump rather than keeping that detail appropriately private. You can imagine all the rest - dark wood everywhere ready to hide thousands of coffee stains but meant to keep the place from ever getting truly cleaned, micro spot lighting that probably will make it all feel like a gallery when sunlight's not plentiful (as if that's a problem in Seattle), garish murals and an utterly out of place entrance deco wall sculpture and cats and dogs sleeping together and utter Goldman Sachs-like disregard for taste. If Roy Street Coffee & Tea was a rock tour, it would be U2's ZooTV. If it were a drink, it would be a Long Island Iced Tea with Bacardi 151. If it were a porn star, it would be skinny Jenna Jamison. If it were a car, it would be a hybrid Escalade. If it were a chef, it would be Wolfgang Puck. In other words - yucky without even a hint of self-awareness.
Already at 9:30am on the first day, there were a handful of the questionably non-homeless cast throughout the 3,600 square feet of grossly overdone ickiness focused on their laptops. All PCs, by the way. None of whom looked up as I walked around marvelling at the tacky overstatement everywhere. So they were either Starbucks spies or completely uncurious morons. And as I passed by the bathrooms and looked at the handful of purposely positioned flyers stuck up on the community boards (no pushpins, people - only a smattering of magnets...bring massive rolls of duct tape if you're looking to advertise there), I got hit with the corporate boilerplate about "green building" materials or whatever sort of low-quality enviro-vodka they're dumping in the karmic punchbowl meant to get the crowd lubed up. In short, Starbucks' cynicism knows no bounds.
The moral of this review is that places like this always fail, but not until they seduce some of the unaware all the while trying to stick a fork to the independents in every area that remains unassaulted by the prior Starbucks stabs at killing the cool. And the larger point is a warning to America. This is what Starbucks has planned for you. Poorly cloaked corporate greed meant to seduce by duping you into thinking it was created to mirror the neighborhood being taken over. At least the old Starbucks model was clear - put a store on every street corner that could possibly sustain it and openly bleed the community of its inherent personality. The new model is far scarier and stupider. Don't buy it, America. You'll just be encouraging Starbucks to ruin more of the country with this sort of tasteless dreck if you do so.
Oh, I almost forgot. The coffee? It's Starbucks. 'Nuff said.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Weekend Food Group #2 - The Cookies. In this case, decorated shapes. Including free form mustaches and one goatee (visible in the lower left hand corner). Seriously.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
The Man Who No Longer Stares At His Own Goatee
If you've viewed my profile picture or any other picture taken of me since 1991, you've seen a goatee. Sometimes long like a biker, sometimes trimmed to within a shadow of existence. But a goatee nonetheless. Sure, for a few rare periods it had been surrounded by a full beard. The goatee, however, has been a constant companion for close to two decades. Or had been. I shaved that goat this past Halloween.
I don't expect many of you actually care about my facial hair configuration. Yet I'm inspired on this weekend - the very day that "The Men Who Stare At Goats" opens - to reflect for a bit on just what the goatee has come to signify in American male culture. And why I encourage each and everyone one of you to lose yours before it's too late.
There was a time about 20 years ago that a goatee had come back into vogue as "edgy". Dare I say, "grungy". Possibly, for a few years there, it was sexy. Can some of us still rock the goat? Most assuredly. But it had become a crutch for me and so many other men like me. That's why the clean look is the new edgy, in my own personal style universe. I realize many of you have come to rely upon my style recommendations over the years. I mean, remember Zubaz? You're welcome.
You're probably asking, what's next? Doing away with the ironic t-shirt? Or losing the baseball cap? No, no let's not throw the baby out with the proverbial bong water here.
Ponder for a moment the momentous monstrosity that is The GoateeSaver. Here you have a product marketed to seduce the goatee wearer with the false claims that "(Your goatee) reflects your personality. It declares your individuality. Your goatee is much more than just facial hair, your goatee style helps fashion your identity." So true. So ironically, dispassionately true.
Next, consider some of the more famous of those examples of men rockin' the goat. In no particular order, I select:
1. the current Brad Pitt. Crazy, grey goat.
2. the old Spock. Lush, galatic goat.
3. the Chuck Todd. Wonky, sexless goat.
4. the Da Ali G. Fastidious, bedonka-donk loving goat.
5. the Kevin Youkilis. Should guest-star on "Sons of Anarchy" biker goat. The single best name/goat pairing in modern history.
6. the Sheldon from "The Big Bang Theory" on the Season Premiere episode. Dork goat (proving anyone can grow one).
7. the Todd Palin. Purposeless goat (especially ironic if worn on a snowmobile in Alaska).
8. the Dave Navarro. Dooshy goat, always in transition.
9. the Billy Bob Thornton. The afraid to act his real age goat.
10. the Frank Zappa. The technically-not-a-goat goat that everyone lets slide because, well, it's Zappa.
Aside from Zappa, I gotta say I'm happy to be out of that particular club. So, please, gentlemen. I implore you. Take a look at your chin. Or what's hidden there where your chin used to be. Maybe you're like me and your face is rounder than you'd like to remember it being. Maybe your chin is as weak as a George W. Bush motivational speech. Or maybe you just like to think you still look good and Pearl Jam's new album shows no sign of going out of style. Whatever the excuse, look around and consider your goat peers. Then take a look at yourself. Not a deep introspective look. Just a shallow, superficial look. You'll be glad you did.
And, once again, you're welcome.
I don't expect many of you actually care about my facial hair configuration. Yet I'm inspired on this weekend - the very day that "The Men Who Stare At Goats" opens - to reflect for a bit on just what the goatee has come to signify in American male culture. And why I encourage each and everyone one of you to lose yours before it's too late.
There was a time about 20 years ago that a goatee had come back into vogue as "edgy". Dare I say, "grungy". Possibly, for a few years there, it was sexy. Can some of us still rock the goat? Most assuredly. But it had become a crutch for me and so many other men like me. That's why the clean look is the new edgy, in my own personal style universe. I realize many of you have come to rely upon my style recommendations over the years. I mean, remember Zubaz? You're welcome.
You're probably asking, what's next? Doing away with the ironic t-shirt? Or losing the baseball cap? No, no let's not throw the baby out with the proverbial bong water here.
Ponder for a moment the momentous monstrosity that is The GoateeSaver. Here you have a product marketed to seduce the goatee wearer with the false claims that "(Your goatee) reflects your personality. It declares your individuality. Your goatee is much more than just facial hair, your goatee style helps fashion your identity." So true. So ironically, dispassionately true.
Next, consider some of the more famous of those examples of men rockin' the goat. In no particular order, I select:
1. the current Brad Pitt. Crazy, grey goat.
2. the old Spock. Lush, galatic goat.
3. the Chuck Todd. Wonky, sexless goat.
4. the Da Ali G. Fastidious, bedonka-donk loving goat.
5. the Kevin Youkilis. Should guest-star on "Sons of Anarchy" biker goat. The single best name/goat pairing in modern history.
6. the Sheldon from "The Big Bang Theory" on the Season Premiere episode. Dork goat (proving anyone can grow one).
7. the Todd Palin. Purposeless goat (especially ironic if worn on a snowmobile in Alaska).
8. the Dave Navarro. Dooshy goat, always in transition.
9. the Billy Bob Thornton. The afraid to act his real age goat.
10. the Frank Zappa. The technically-not-a-goat goat that everyone lets slide because, well, it's Zappa.
Aside from Zappa, I gotta say I'm happy to be out of that particular club. So, please, gentlemen. I implore you. Take a look at your chin. Or what's hidden there where your chin used to be. Maybe you're like me and your face is rounder than you'd like to remember it being. Maybe your chin is as weak as a George W. Bush motivational speech. Or maybe you just like to think you still look good and Pearl Jam's new album shows no sign of going out of style. Whatever the excuse, look around and consider your goat peers. Then take a look at yourself. Not a deep introspective look. Just a shallow, superficial look. You'll be glad you did.
And, once again, you're welcome.
Friday, November 06, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Next time, get through the "boos!" on Halloween
I grew up in Wisconsin, cheering for the Green Bay Packers. I did so before I even knew why, like most kids from that part of the world. To this day I have a hilarious picture of a favorite childhood Packer on my fridge. Below average but lovable running back Eric Torkelson did an afternoon autograph session at a True Value Hardware store in Medford, the "big town" in the county. My dad drove me the 30 miles there and snapped a crappy 110-film shot of Torkelson with his arm around my shoulder. I'm wearing a delightful Shopko-quality Milwaukee Brewers jacket while I'm holding my 9-year-old boy-sized football that Torkelson signed. I continued to play with that ball until his autograph eventually wore off. Which in the late fall months of northern Wisconsin meant about a week worth of games at recess. My younger brother and his family currently live in Green Bay and last year got both Torkelson and Lynn Dickey to sign a postcard for me at Packer Day during the pre-season. In short, I go all the way back. But this past weekend, I rooted for the Vikings.
The rift caused by Brett Favre going to the Vikings is unlike any icon's departure in the history of professional sports. There are deeply entrenched opinions on both sides. Depending on where you stand, Favre is either a traitor or the Packers screwed the pooch by not finding a way to keep him. Regardless of where you stand, though, all Packers fans are by their very nature meant to despise the Vikings. That animosity developed in full during the 70s, when the Packers were running on the fading vapors left from the iconic Lombardi era and the Vikings were making it to and then losing four Super Bowls in the decade. Fran Tarkenton was the devil in my childhood home. One of my earliest lingering memories of the NFL in the 70s was feeling great about the Vikings getting the lutefisk kicked out of them by John Madden's Raiders after the '76 Season. I was in second grade. Yada yada yada.
As an undergraduate I went to the University of Minnesota, like my dad and older brother before me. The rest of the family went to college in Wisconsin. While in the Twin Cities, I met and befriended countless Vikings fans. I came to see their point of view as possibly valid. They, too, had hopes and dreams of a Super Bowl victory in their lifetimes. They too hated. They too loved. And even though their stadium situation has been a major drawback for decades, I saw them as real NFL fans of the highest order. I still hated the Vikings. But I'd come to know them, while still rooting against them to my very core.
Until this year. Favre and I are the same age, and I've identified with him during his career like no other professional athlete. That is why, on some level, when he had trouble finding satisfaction in Green Bay because of a boss that was being a complete prick, I started rooting for him to make it in another uniform. I knew he wanted to be in the NFC North, most obviously in the system he knew best like what they run in Minnesota. Last year's sojourn with the Jets was like a wealthy hayseed dating a brainless supermodel - it sounded like fun as a concept, but it basically never worked for either side of the equation. Even when the Jets were winning and Favre wasn't injured. But then when the chance came for a move to Minnesota, I saw it as a surprisingly obvious chance for Favre to get back to the Super Bowl. Many others have a very different view of Favre's choice to move to the Vikes, usually predicated by some nonsensical claim of his self-centered nature. To those I have one thing to say - Brett Favre is an NFL quarterback. Aside from ballerinas or dictators, I can't think of another line of work more tailor made for people with such a prima donna complex.
So at long last Sunday in Green Bay playing for another team, NFL fans the whole world wide saw just what Favre had left in the tank. The Packers are a team that currently constitute a Wild Card level of competitiveness. The Vikings are a complete team that could compete for the Super Bowl. In a year when there are a hearty handful of darn good teams and an equal portion of just plain awful teams, the Packers are in the upper middle. Favre puts the Vikes up near the very top.
Seeing and hearing the Packers fans boo Favre mercilessly was so abhorrent, so beyond classless that you can't even joke your way to a justification. Even back in Sconnie, a hearty majority of people grew uneasy with events such as the "Funeral 4 Favre" event some moronic radio station staged Friday at a bar in Appleton. On the Coast where I live or just about everywhere else, it looks like sour grapes of the lowest order. You know what, funeral goers? Favre buried you. In his two games against the Vikes this year, he threw seven touchdowns and no interceptions. His field awareness is unparalleled and he still throws the ball hard enough to break fingers from 20 yards away. When the camera was on him, he smiled or winked or just plain ol' got fired up like a player half his age. More intangibly, no one's got his star power. By the end of the game, I was outright rooting against the Packers. Not the team, mind you. The people that for decades I sat next to at Lambeau and in countless bars that are so damn well-versed in terms of football, but so damn mindless in their embrace of the Packers brand. Did Favre handle his retirement gesticulating well? Absolutely not. But to call the guy a traitor, burn his jerseys and boo his return? Face it, Packer fans. The rest of the country is laughing at us right now. Favre has more fans than ever before. And the Vikings are a brand on the rise. For way too long, NFL fans all across the country have tired of the expected genuflecting for the history and tradition of the Packers. In some ways, they are the NFL's Yankees, or the Celtics, or the old Canadiens. People wanted to root against Favre and the Packers when he was still there because they were so ceaselessly told to do so, usually by John Madden or comedians making fun of the man-love directed at Favre in the Green and Gold. But now that equation has been flipped. People want to root against the Packers for what they've done to Favre.
I fear that even if Aaron Rodgers is a very good quarterback the effects of booing Favre's return will damage the Packers brand for years to come. No other franchise could have generated such a big, over-hyped event like yesterday's game because it was the gawddamn Green Bay Packers at frickin' Lambeau Field. Bud Lea for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel is the dean of Wisconsin sports writers and he says he's never seen anything like the hype that went into the build-up to yesterday. But here's where it hurts - no other franchise could have so horribly fumbled the snap. Booing Favre may have felt like the rush you could get from throwing a asphalt block through the bay window of your ex-girlfriend's sorority house. But when you sober up and realize what you've done, everyone involved in the prank ends up feeling like a criminal. I hope we can recover. But as any football fan knows, unforced turnovers just kill a team's spirit. Maybe that of its fans, too.
The rift caused by Brett Favre going to the Vikings is unlike any icon's departure in the history of professional sports. There are deeply entrenched opinions on both sides. Depending on where you stand, Favre is either a traitor or the Packers screwed the pooch by not finding a way to keep him. Regardless of where you stand, though, all Packers fans are by their very nature meant to despise the Vikings. That animosity developed in full during the 70s, when the Packers were running on the fading vapors left from the iconic Lombardi era and the Vikings were making it to and then losing four Super Bowls in the decade. Fran Tarkenton was the devil in my childhood home. One of my earliest lingering memories of the NFL in the 70s was feeling great about the Vikings getting the lutefisk kicked out of them by John Madden's Raiders after the '76 Season. I was in second grade. Yada yada yada.
As an undergraduate I went to the University of Minnesota, like my dad and older brother before me. The rest of the family went to college in Wisconsin. While in the Twin Cities, I met and befriended countless Vikings fans. I came to see their point of view as possibly valid. They, too, had hopes and dreams of a Super Bowl victory in their lifetimes. They too hated. They too loved. And even though their stadium situation has been a major drawback for decades, I saw them as real NFL fans of the highest order. I still hated the Vikings. But I'd come to know them, while still rooting against them to my very core.
Until this year. Favre and I are the same age, and I've identified with him during his career like no other professional athlete. That is why, on some level, when he had trouble finding satisfaction in Green Bay because of a boss that was being a complete prick, I started rooting for him to make it in another uniform. I knew he wanted to be in the NFC North, most obviously in the system he knew best like what they run in Minnesota. Last year's sojourn with the Jets was like a wealthy hayseed dating a brainless supermodel - it sounded like fun as a concept, but it basically never worked for either side of the equation. Even when the Jets were winning and Favre wasn't injured. But then when the chance came for a move to Minnesota, I saw it as a surprisingly obvious chance for Favre to get back to the Super Bowl. Many others have a very different view of Favre's choice to move to the Vikes, usually predicated by some nonsensical claim of his self-centered nature. To those I have one thing to say - Brett Favre is an NFL quarterback. Aside from ballerinas or dictators, I can't think of another line of work more tailor made for people with such a prima donna complex.
So at long last Sunday in Green Bay playing for another team, NFL fans the whole world wide saw just what Favre had left in the tank. The Packers are a team that currently constitute a Wild Card level of competitiveness. The Vikings are a complete team that could compete for the Super Bowl. In a year when there are a hearty handful of darn good teams and an equal portion of just plain awful teams, the Packers are in the upper middle. Favre puts the Vikes up near the very top.
Seeing and hearing the Packers fans boo Favre mercilessly was so abhorrent, so beyond classless that you can't even joke your way to a justification. Even back in Sconnie, a hearty majority of people grew uneasy with events such as the "Funeral 4 Favre" event some moronic radio station staged Friday at a bar in Appleton. On the Coast where I live or just about everywhere else, it looks like sour grapes of the lowest order. You know what, funeral goers? Favre buried you. In his two games against the Vikes this year, he threw seven touchdowns and no interceptions. His field awareness is unparalleled and he still throws the ball hard enough to break fingers from 20 yards away. When the camera was on him, he smiled or winked or just plain ol' got fired up like a player half his age. More intangibly, no one's got his star power. By the end of the game, I was outright rooting against the Packers. Not the team, mind you. The people that for decades I sat next to at Lambeau and in countless bars that are so damn well-versed in terms of football, but so damn mindless in their embrace of the Packers brand. Did Favre handle his retirement gesticulating well? Absolutely not. But to call the guy a traitor, burn his jerseys and boo his return? Face it, Packer fans. The rest of the country is laughing at us right now. Favre has more fans than ever before. And the Vikings are a brand on the rise. For way too long, NFL fans all across the country have tired of the expected genuflecting for the history and tradition of the Packers. In some ways, they are the NFL's Yankees, or the Celtics, or the old Canadiens. People wanted to root against Favre and the Packers when he was still there because they were so ceaselessly told to do so, usually by John Madden or comedians making fun of the man-love directed at Favre in the Green and Gold. But now that equation has been flipped. People want to root against the Packers for what they've done to Favre.
I fear that even if Aaron Rodgers is a very good quarterback the effects of booing Favre's return will damage the Packers brand for years to come. No other franchise could have generated such a big, over-hyped event like yesterday's game because it was the gawddamn Green Bay Packers at frickin' Lambeau Field. Bud Lea for the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel is the dean of Wisconsin sports writers and he says he's never seen anything like the hype that went into the build-up to yesterday. But here's where it hurts - no other franchise could have so horribly fumbled the snap. Booing Favre may have felt like the rush you could get from throwing a asphalt block through the bay window of your ex-girlfriend's sorority house. But when you sober up and realize what you've done, everyone involved in the prank ends up feeling like a criminal. I hope we can recover. But as any football fan knows, unforced turnovers just kill a team's spirit. Maybe that of its fans, too.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Looking to see what's under there after all these years...
If you have kids, you're probably already sick to death of Halloween. I don't know precisely when it happened, but it has morphed from one day of silliness to an entire Mardi Gras of events. And with this year's All Hallow's Eve on a Saturday night, we're all screwed. So in the spirit of somewhat saying screw this holiday's conventional expansion, I've decided to add something of my own to this year's festivities. I will not dress up. I will dress down. In so doing, I'm going to shave off my goatee.
Some of you are probably saying, what's the big deal - it's not like you're Chuck Todd and your entire personality now seems rooted in that annoying little patch of hair on your chin. Well, in some ways you're right. But I'm also of that category of American adult white males for which the goatee is the last, sad remaining vestige of grunge in our collective wardrobe. The time has come to lose it and discontinue partying like it's 1999. Or, more accurately in my case, 1992. Back then I shifted to the goat from the full beard. Since then, I've let it go from biker gang long to trimmed within a shadow of its life. But tomorrow, before I let my 4-year-old hit the ground running wild in the neighborhood, I'm shaving. With that, I hope to renew my embrace of all things Halloweenie-ish. Expect some pics.
Hope your own facial hair configuration scares the crap out of the neighborhood kids tomorrow. Rock on.
Some of you are probably saying, what's the big deal - it's not like you're Chuck Todd and your entire personality now seems rooted in that annoying little patch of hair on your chin. Well, in some ways you're right. But I'm also of that category of American adult white males for which the goatee is the last, sad remaining vestige of grunge in our collective wardrobe. The time has come to lose it and discontinue partying like it's 1999. Or, more accurately in my case, 1992. Back then I shifted to the goat from the full beard. Since then, I've let it go from biker gang long to trimmed within a shadow of its life. But tomorrow, before I let my 4-year-old hit the ground running wild in the neighborhood, I'm shaving. With that, I hope to renew my embrace of all things Halloweenie-ish. Expect some pics.
Hope your own facial hair configuration scares the crap out of the neighborhood kids tomorrow. Rock on.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Yo La Tengo can still safely say "I've got it!"
Yo La Tengo is that rare band that's still touring today with 25 years of shared inventiveness under their belts. Music geeks love them inordinately, even if they tend to parse every little thing Yo La Tengo does down to the sub-atomic level. I'm not going play that game by trying to put on a dork clinic about the history of Yo La Tengo (fun fact - the band's name is a Spanish colloquialism for "I've got it!"). They're just plain ol' one of my faves. The sort of band that I will always see. And even when the evening contains a bundle of less than stellar elements, I'm always glad that I did so.
My wife and I saw Yo La Tengo perform last Thursday night at one of Seattle's least likable venues - the Showbox SODO. This newer Showbox is a warehouse space with a concrete floor, horrible acoustics and an otherwise likable staff that seems equally amazed that anyone comes there for shows. With the lights up, it looks like the a cleaned-up, empty tire dealership. Seeing small groupings of hipsters standing around drinking PBR tallboys in this space is so dull, so repetitious, so un-buzz-worthy. Before the opener broke the static, it looked like a photocopied venue teleported from a very long, rather uninteresting list of mid-sized Midwestern towns - let's say Eau Claire or Kalamazoo or Topeka - where everyone affects a pose like they'd prefer to be somewhere else. Maybe that sounds judgmental and pretentious. Sue me. But I'm just saying that it didn't feel like the epicenter of articulate, classic cred. Yet amidst the sea of earth-toned hoodies and ironic t-shirts was Ira Kaplan (lead guitar and vocals, one of the two original members with his wife, Georgia Hubley). Sitting behind a tour merch table - signing CDs and taking pics with fans. When Ira, Georgia and James McNew eventually took the stage, they were filled with good-humor. If they are filled with cynicism or angst about still doing what they do so well, you won't see it in the club. Or at least not on this particular night.
Their opener was Jackie-O Motherfucker, an absurd, freeform psychedelic, post-rock quartet of meat from Portland that jammed like the revolving door, acid-dropping band of goofballs they've been for years and years. We tolerated them the way older music geeks do when they're just happy to be out, without wanting to fully attribute it to having a trustworthy babysitter home with your kid so that you can act nearly half your age.
As the music got ready to roll, a trio of insanely drunk misfits forced their way into our space. By the time Yo La Tengo started playing, the sole dude - a fat little drunk choad in one of those ugly, ubiquitous army green British Invasion caps - passed out cold on the floor. His female "friends" took pictures of him and texted with their cell phones until some of us stepped in to make sure that he was OK. He wasn't - security had to carry him out. Then his friends were extra drunk and annoying for another hour before the surrounding group disdain eventually got them to leave. Even Georgia rolled her eyes at how they were carrying on and interrupting the quieter songs. It just solidified my one and only rule of seeing live music - don't be annoying. Of course that rule has 127 subsets of definitions, but we all know what I'm saying.
In the end, Yo La Tengo played a great show. Jackie-O Motherfucker and Yo La Tengo made a big deal out of a "special guest" on the way. I'm sure everyone else had the same degree of nerdy fun debating who that might be. Then Howard Kaylan from "The Turtles" showed up. I know - who? He was totally adorable, not entirely wasted, and about as much fun as having a beer with your uncle after church. Then Yo La Tengo came back out for two encores. By the time they left, everyone felt great about it all. Real pros played a really decent show. And it wasn't until a few days later that I could take a few minutes to reflect upon just how rare that is. As it always was, and surely will be.
My wife and I saw Yo La Tengo perform last Thursday night at one of Seattle's least likable venues - the Showbox SODO. This newer Showbox is a warehouse space with a concrete floor, horrible acoustics and an otherwise likable staff that seems equally amazed that anyone comes there for shows. With the lights up, it looks like the a cleaned-up, empty tire dealership. Seeing small groupings of hipsters standing around drinking PBR tallboys in this space is so dull, so repetitious, so un-buzz-worthy. Before the opener broke the static, it looked like a photocopied venue teleported from a very long, rather uninteresting list of mid-sized Midwestern towns - let's say Eau Claire or Kalamazoo or Topeka - where everyone affects a pose like they'd prefer to be somewhere else. Maybe that sounds judgmental and pretentious. Sue me. But I'm just saying that it didn't feel like the epicenter of articulate, classic cred. Yet amidst the sea of earth-toned hoodies and ironic t-shirts was Ira Kaplan (lead guitar and vocals, one of the two original members with his wife, Georgia Hubley). Sitting behind a tour merch table - signing CDs and taking pics with fans. When Ira, Georgia and James McNew eventually took the stage, they were filled with good-humor. If they are filled with cynicism or angst about still doing what they do so well, you won't see it in the club. Or at least not on this particular night.
Their opener was Jackie-O Motherfucker, an absurd, freeform psychedelic, post-rock quartet of meat from Portland that jammed like the revolving door, acid-dropping band of goofballs they've been for years and years. We tolerated them the way older music geeks do when they're just happy to be out, without wanting to fully attribute it to having a trustworthy babysitter home with your kid so that you can act nearly half your age.
As the music got ready to roll, a trio of insanely drunk misfits forced their way into our space. By the time Yo La Tengo started playing, the sole dude - a fat little drunk choad in one of those ugly, ubiquitous army green British Invasion caps - passed out cold on the floor. His female "friends" took pictures of him and texted with their cell phones until some of us stepped in to make sure that he was OK. He wasn't - security had to carry him out. Then his friends were extra drunk and annoying for another hour before the surrounding group disdain eventually got them to leave. Even Georgia rolled her eyes at how they were carrying on and interrupting the quieter songs. It just solidified my one and only rule of seeing live music - don't be annoying. Of course that rule has 127 subsets of definitions, but we all know what I'm saying.
In the end, Yo La Tengo played a great show. Jackie-O Motherfucker and Yo La Tengo made a big deal out of a "special guest" on the way. I'm sure everyone else had the same degree of nerdy fun debating who that might be. Then Howard Kaylan from "The Turtles" showed up. I know - who? He was totally adorable, not entirely wasted, and about as much fun as having a beer with your uncle after church. Then Yo La Tengo came back out for two encores. By the time they left, everyone felt great about it all. Real pros played a really decent show. And it wasn't until a few days later that I could take a few minutes to reflect upon just how rare that is. As it always was, and surely will be.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Looking for meanings, missing by miles...
I couldn't resist the temptation any longer - I caught "Where the Wild Things Are" a few nights ago. As has been somewhat overstated, this movie is the embodiment of "love it or hate it" reviewing. And I'll admit that I'm as guilty of the crime of movie reviewing as the next meta-critic. That, however, is what I took from this movie first and foremost. It is meta, to the max. Only because everyone seems to project onto what happens on the screen their own silly or, quite certainly, not-so-silly lists of issues that they had only partly buried going in. My rating of the actual movie? A flat B. Max Records is great as Max - his hair alone is the best screen debut in years. Catherine Keener is stunning in the teeny role she has - the sun, moon and stars revolve around her indie cred which is only bolstered herein. And the Jim Henson Company's Creature Shop-created Wild Things are worth the price of admission alone. Unless you make the stupid mistake that I did by catching it on an IMAX screen. Fifteen bucks is a crime that we all should be marching in the streets against. But that's a different matter entirely. Beyond the actual movie, most people seem bent out of shape regarding the weirdly childish issues that result between Max and the Wild Things after he arrives on their far away island home. When someone starts pulling out the pop psychology and offers up explanations of what the REAL story is in this extended body connecting the lean, smart head and feet of the movie...tune that crap out. The conceit is that all the problems come from the imagination of a child. One that we are allowed to see has overblown the issues in his home life. Like a totally normal child does every day everywhere in every way. In the end, this is just a movie. One that is clever, inventive, infuriating and still just a nice, solid B-rating. In my opinion.
Hope your own childhood allows you to enjoy a movie this weekend for what it is, not what you wish it could have been had you gotten that hug from your father or something. Rock on.
Hope your own childhood allows you to enjoy a movie this weekend for what it is, not what you wish it could have been had you gotten that hug from your father or something. Rock on.
Monday, October 19, 2009
One More Monster Takes a Swipe at the Rest of Us
A good friend of mine owns a small green-business in Vermont. Born and raised there, he's as much a true blue-State American dude as they come. He passed along a story about another Vermont business being unduly attacked by a big bad West Coast energy drink corporation. The story just reeks, no matter your political orientation or general choice of beverage.
Energy drinks occupy a market that didn’t really exist even just a decade ago. The visionaries who now profit off those over-caffeinated high-fructose-corn-syrup elixirs probably would have sold Doc Martens-themed cologne or Donna Karan-designed flannel shirts if you flipped them back a generation in a time machine. Or to use an older cliché, energy drinks are the pet rocks of this decade. All style, zero substance.
Admittedly I’ve fallen prey to the advertised advantages of these products, drinking a few Red Bulls for a long drive for example. But in the past, I’ve shown about as much interest in energy drinks as I have in the upcoming "Twilight" movie and soundtrack, or in debating whether Arena Football is poised to have its breakthrough season anytime within the next decade.
Until now, that is. Now energy drinks – or rather one particular energy drink company – have me ready to go to the ramparts.
Monster Energy Drinks describes itself as “A Lifestyle in a Can.” Yeah, well, the same can be said of SPAM or Sterno or Fancy Feast cat food. Who gives a rip, right? That is, until Monster went after a tiny, utterly delicious micro-brewery in Vermont named Rock Art Brewery. When I lived in Vermont a handful of years back, growlers (those adorable jug-band-ready half-gallon containers) of Rock Art’s Ridge Runner were my favorite beer. Rock Art exemplifies my idea of a cool American small business – people who live what they love and work damn hard at making it the best they can.
After ten years in the business, the founder of Rock Art made a celebratory beer – the Vermonster Ale. Then, somehow, California-based Monster Energy Drinks caught wind of it. Last week they had their lawyers threaten to bleed Rock Art dry if they don’t cease and desist making their beer because of a trademark infringement allegation. When Rock Art is bottling, their brewery has the capacity to fill 80 bottles per minute. Last year, Monster Energy Drinks had over a billion dollars in revenue. My research team has shown that exactly ZERO people have ever confused the two companies.
I understand the value of trademark protection. After all, Paris Hilton tried to trademark her catchphrase “that’s hot” a few years back, and we all know how valuable that turned out to be. Typically, I’m not a libertarian crusader. I accept that we live in a litigious country with all sorts of competing agendas, the majority of which I couldn’t care less about. But when I saw the YouTube clip of the Rock Art founder (Matt Nadeau) laying out his situation, I went out to the shed looking for a pitchfork.
In reality, I’m fearful this story will end as most of these stories tend to, with the big bad cheeseball corporation squeezing the hearty little feller off his small, hard-earned platform. But in the world that I want to live in, Monster Cable would catch wind of this and sue the snot out of Monster Energy Drinks. After which, they’d both go out to sea and fight a Godzilla versus Gamera trademark battle that the rest of us can incredulously watch from a distance – hopefully nursing a cold Vermonster after a hard day’s work saving a little piece of the world from itself.
Energy drinks occupy a market that didn’t really exist even just a decade ago. The visionaries who now profit off those over-caffeinated high-fructose-corn-syrup elixirs probably would have sold Doc Martens-themed cologne or Donna Karan-designed flannel shirts if you flipped them back a generation in a time machine. Or to use an older cliché, energy drinks are the pet rocks of this decade. All style, zero substance.
Admittedly I’ve fallen prey to the advertised advantages of these products, drinking a few Red Bulls for a long drive for example. But in the past, I’ve shown about as much interest in energy drinks as I have in the upcoming "Twilight" movie and soundtrack, or in debating whether Arena Football is poised to have its breakthrough season anytime within the next decade.
Until now, that is. Now energy drinks – or rather one particular energy drink company – have me ready to go to the ramparts.
Monster Energy Drinks describes itself as “A Lifestyle in a Can.” Yeah, well, the same can be said of SPAM or Sterno or Fancy Feast cat food. Who gives a rip, right? That is, until Monster went after a tiny, utterly delicious micro-brewery in Vermont named Rock Art Brewery. When I lived in Vermont a handful of years back, growlers (those adorable jug-band-ready half-gallon containers) of Rock Art’s Ridge Runner were my favorite beer. Rock Art exemplifies my idea of a cool American small business – people who live what they love and work damn hard at making it the best they can.
After ten years in the business, the founder of Rock Art made a celebratory beer – the Vermonster Ale. Then, somehow, California-based Monster Energy Drinks caught wind of it. Last week they had their lawyers threaten to bleed Rock Art dry if they don’t cease and desist making their beer because of a trademark infringement allegation. When Rock Art is bottling, their brewery has the capacity to fill 80 bottles per minute. Last year, Monster Energy Drinks had over a billion dollars in revenue. My research team has shown that exactly ZERO people have ever confused the two companies.
I understand the value of trademark protection. After all, Paris Hilton tried to trademark her catchphrase “that’s hot” a few years back, and we all know how valuable that turned out to be. Typically, I’m not a libertarian crusader. I accept that we live in a litigious country with all sorts of competing agendas, the majority of which I couldn’t care less about. But when I saw the YouTube clip of the Rock Art founder (Matt Nadeau) laying out his situation, I went out to the shed looking for a pitchfork.
In reality, I’m fearful this story will end as most of these stories tend to, with the big bad cheeseball corporation squeezing the hearty little feller off his small, hard-earned platform. But in the world that I want to live in, Monster Cable would catch wind of this and sue the snot out of Monster Energy Drinks. After which, they’d both go out to sea and fight a Godzilla versus Gamera trademark battle that the rest of us can incredulously watch from a distance – hopefully nursing a cold Vermonster after a hard day’s work saving a little piece of the world from itself.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Rush Gets Smeared, NFL-style
The standard shtick for quite some time has been that no one will ever be able to stop Rush Limbaugh from being Rush Limbaugh. Every time Keith Olbermann or his compatriots at MSNBC rants about what Rush's recently dumped onto the airwaves, I imagine that somewhere a very fat man's laugh is echoing off the dimly lit black velvet paintings in a dungeon-like Florida neuvo-castle surrounded by the ill-gotten gains of illegal, clandestine hunting trips across the globe. The popular myth was that even MSNBC can't slow Rush's mouth down. So it is quite surprising that Wednesday one organization that's not exactly known for its progressive political agenda managed to do so utterly and completely.
Rush got run over by the NFL, Joe-Theismann-snapped-like-a-twig-by-LT style. And in so doing, the rest of us should take away the knowledge that Rush has strayed even farther out onto the fringe that he'd always been teetering on.
Few people recognize just how extensively Rush has been connected with the business of professional sports, and especially the NFL, for years. Rush started his career working a low-level promotions gig for the Kansas City Royals. And I'd bet a full bottle of Oxycontin that I got off a new prescription for my housekeeper that Rush keeps a well-hidden hard-on for the Chiefs on the down low. The most spectacular flame-out in Rush's NFL flirtation was his failed time as a commentator for Sunday NFL Countdown, where he uttered his famously ignorant Donovan McNabb riff. The fact that he got the chance to hoist himself on that quasi-elite patard to begin with was surprising. But Rush certainly recognized from his earliest days that if you could have a hand in the call of the game, it was the next best thing to owning a part of the action. Bringing Rush's personality on board was a big risk that the NFL of earlier this decade was willing to take. But ABC then and ESPN now have taken plenty of stupid risks on announcers that have left a collective bad taste in the mouths of most fans. I'm mean c'mon — Dennis Miller AND Fred "The Hammer" Williamson, just to name two of MNF's esteemed graduates? 'Nuff said.
The fact is that Rush wants in, and the NFL just said flatly that, in effect, his kind is not welcome. Rush is no longer a risk the League is willing to take. Roger Goddell is now the sheriff in town and, well, Rush not only would need to leave his gun belt outside of Goddell's jurisdiction. He would need to give them up altogether to keep the peace. That's why it was surprising that as late in the pre-negotiations as Wednesday morning, Rush was sticking to those guns by saying that no one was going to force him out of the deal. Until, of course, someone forced him out of the deal.
The NFL is full of clowns in the owners' suites. Al Davis is assuredly insane and decades past his prime, Jerry Jones did so much cocaine off of nameless, tasteless hookers back in the 90s that he's a walking vegetable, and (my personal favorite) former Rams owner Georgia Frontiere was a stripper that got the team willed to her for what we all must assume was more than a lap dance. I'm just saying. But they all were Esteemed Past Presidents of the PTA compared to ol' Rush.
For that reason alone we should all take heed that Rush's comments in the past have weakened his brand in the present. Once that reality sets in for more people, I predict that he'll be much more vulnerable. Take away something he wants and you've got a way to get at how he thinks.
Now, are you ACTUALLY ready for some football this weekend, America? You bet your ass we are. Hope your own bids are all honored this weekend. Rock on.
Rush got run over by the NFL, Joe-Theismann-snapped-like-a-twig-by-LT style. And in so doing, the rest of us should take away the knowledge that Rush has strayed even farther out onto the fringe that he'd always been teetering on.
Few people recognize just how extensively Rush has been connected with the business of professional sports, and especially the NFL, for years. Rush started his career working a low-level promotions gig for the Kansas City Royals. And I'd bet a full bottle of Oxycontin that I got off a new prescription for my housekeeper that Rush keeps a well-hidden hard-on for the Chiefs on the down low. The most spectacular flame-out in Rush's NFL flirtation was his failed time as a commentator for Sunday NFL Countdown, where he uttered his famously ignorant Donovan McNabb riff. The fact that he got the chance to hoist himself on that quasi-elite patard to begin with was surprising. But Rush certainly recognized from his earliest days that if you could have a hand in the call of the game, it was the next best thing to owning a part of the action. Bringing Rush's personality on board was a big risk that the NFL of earlier this decade was willing to take. But ABC then and ESPN now have taken plenty of stupid risks on announcers that have left a collective bad taste in the mouths of most fans. I'm mean c'mon — Dennis Miller AND Fred "The Hammer" Williamson, just to name two of MNF's esteemed graduates? 'Nuff said.
The fact is that Rush wants in, and the NFL just said flatly that, in effect, his kind is not welcome. Rush is no longer a risk the League is willing to take. Roger Goddell is now the sheriff in town and, well, Rush not only would need to leave his gun belt outside of Goddell's jurisdiction. He would need to give them up altogether to keep the peace. That's why it was surprising that as late in the pre-negotiations as Wednesday morning, Rush was sticking to those guns by saying that no one was going to force him out of the deal. Until, of course, someone forced him out of the deal.
The NFL is full of clowns in the owners' suites. Al Davis is assuredly insane and decades past his prime, Jerry Jones did so much cocaine off of nameless, tasteless hookers back in the 90s that he's a walking vegetable, and (my personal favorite) former Rams owner Georgia Frontiere was a stripper that got the team willed to her for what we all must assume was more than a lap dance. I'm just saying. But they all were Esteemed Past Presidents of the PTA compared to ol' Rush.
For that reason alone we should all take heed that Rush's comments in the past have weakened his brand in the present. Once that reality sets in for more people, I predict that he'll be much more vulnerable. Take away something he wants and you've got a way to get at how he thinks.
Now, are you ACTUALLY ready for some football this weekend, America? You bet your ass we are. Hope your own bids are all honored this weekend. Rock on.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Getting inspired by the Rat City Roller Girls
Maya and I had yesterday to ourselves. Sarah was on call at the hospital and the Green Bay Packers had their bye Week for the Season. With Fall in full swing - the weather in Seattle has been straight off a dorky postcard for the last month or so - we hit some of the normalish highlights for a lazy Sunday. Hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream at the Herk in the U-District. Plenty of time in the park - Ravenna Park, for the first time on my part, which is a great park if you ignore the homeless campers stopping in to bathe in the public restroom's sink just off the playground. But the real highlight of the day was a first for both of us. Roller Derby. Not amateurish, hipster silliness. No, I'm talking professionalish, hipster seriousness. Namely, Seattle's own Rat City Rollergirls had an all-star bout since their 5th Season ended recently with a loss at Regionals. There endeth all I knew about the Rollergirls before we went to the bout. But given how much Maya loved it, I expect that we'll be back more than once in Season 6.
For those that think they might have misread the above paragraph, yes, I am talking about old school roller derby where tough chicks skate on 4-wheeled skates around in a circle. Drew Barrymore's movie "Whip It" (which I've not yet seen) features the sort of league that the Rat City Rollergirls compete in. I won't even try to sum up the rules and the importance of the scoring. That would be like me trying to call a soccer match with no goals scored. I appreciate what they do, but I ain't no expert. For me, seeing Maya get all amped up cheering for these empowered grrrls was the draw. We even got to know one of the stars (Sarah who skates as Wile E. Peyote). We met her at her insanely hip skate shop in Wallingford earlier in the day. We had to go there to get tix. And, boy, is Maya glad we did. Wile E. was dominant in the bout, and Maya insisted we go talk to her in between periods. I told her that Maya was cheering specifically for her and Wile E. responded that "you gave me courage." Now THAT's how you get a girl fired up about sports. Maya wanted to go get skates as soon as the match was done last night at 7pm. They're expensive, but we'll figure something out because I don't want her to forget the excitement of seeing grown up grrrls playing hard and having fun. We should all be so lucky as the Rollergirls.
One quickie review - the new album on constant repeat for me this past week is the eponymous album from a British band named "The xx". Or the XX. Their music is as stripped down as their name. Their sound has a taste of P.J. Harvey mixed with a ton of other indie references that might not apply all covered with a drum kit and echo effects. Sound silly? Not at all. They're unique. And sexy. My rating - a solid B. Well worth a looksie.
Hope your own jammer is getting by those blockers with ease today. Rock on.
For those that think they might have misread the above paragraph, yes, I am talking about old school roller derby where tough chicks skate on 4-wheeled skates around in a circle. Drew Barrymore's movie "Whip It" (which I've not yet seen) features the sort of league that the Rat City Rollergirls compete in. I won't even try to sum up the rules and the importance of the scoring. That would be like me trying to call a soccer match with no goals scored. I appreciate what they do, but I ain't no expert. For me, seeing Maya get all amped up cheering for these empowered grrrls was the draw. We even got to know one of the stars (Sarah who skates as Wile E. Peyote). We met her at her insanely hip skate shop in Wallingford earlier in the day. We had to go there to get tix. And, boy, is Maya glad we did. Wile E. was dominant in the bout, and Maya insisted we go talk to her in between periods. I told her that Maya was cheering specifically for her and Wile E. responded that "you gave me courage." Now THAT's how you get a girl fired up about sports. Maya wanted to go get skates as soon as the match was done last night at 7pm. They're expensive, but we'll figure something out because I don't want her to forget the excitement of seeing grown up grrrls playing hard and having fun. We should all be so lucky as the Rollergirls.
One quickie review - the new album on constant repeat for me this past week is the eponymous album from a British band named "The xx". Or the XX. Their music is as stripped down as their name. Their sound has a taste of P.J. Harvey mixed with a ton of other indie references that might not apply all covered with a drum kit and echo effects. Sound silly? Not at all. They're unique. And sexy. My rating - a solid B. Well worth a looksie.
Hope your own jammer is getting by those blockers with ease today. Rock on.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
When you go to a nursery that has a special for all the pumpkins you can stack in a red wagon, you only cheat yourself if you don't try to push the limits.
Friday, October 09, 2009
Juxtaposing the Nobel Peace Prize and amateur porn? Piece of cake...
Everyone's shocked that Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize. I'm still digesting, but here's what I find interesting. This is all about aspirational voting. Rather like how some people vote for Republicans because they want lower taxes on the wealthy, in case they someday join their ranks. Or moreso that the Nobel voters want to believe that Obama will someday achieve the things that he's being criticized by the haters for not yet doing even though the disagree with his approach to their very core. My feeling is that this is exactly what Obama needs right about now, even if his advisers privately feel like it's a distraction. Keep Barack looking out at the much broader horizon, which is what he does so well. Have the world focus on what a break from the recent past of U.S. policy he represents. All the while slogging through the nuts and bolts of governing. Aside from all that, I was struck by the passing reference to how he's the "third sitting U.S. President" to win a Peace Prize. The other two? Woodrow Wilson in 1919 for founding the League of Nations, and Teddy Roosevelt in 1906 for negotiating a peace treaty between Russia and Japan. In my mind those Prizes were for very different criteria. But this is a very different world, so I say debate amongst yourselves.
To shift gears mightily, I'm going to see some porn at noon today. In a theatre. Hump! is the 5th annual amateur porn contest sponsored by The Stranger (Seattle's only real newspaper) that inspired the storyline for the movie "Humpday". Speaking of which, I saw "Humpday" in Milwaukee recently as a part of the Milwaukee Film Festival because, well...I was in Milwaukee and I'd missed it on its art house release schedule this summer (it's out on DVD in November). "Humpday" was a sweet, perfect little movie. Well, almost perfect. My rating - B-plus. But Hump! is the real deal. Amateur porn shorts, shot by real local people and screened only today and tomorrow before the entries are burned or sent to Tony Perkins at the Family Research Council in a brown paper wrapper or sent to NASA to be included in the next Moon bombing. Am I a fan of porn? Um, define fan. But then again, who isn't? And I'd rather see a hilarious compilation of local perversion surrounded by hipsters than Marlon Brando getting his butthole buttered up in "Last Tango in Paris" with a bunch of film snobs that might endeavor to call that humorless crap art. Check back for a rating. Sometime after I pick up Maya from daycare, one should expect.
Hope your own definition of modern parenting adds a slightly revised definition today. Rock on.
To shift gears mightily, I'm going to see some porn at noon today. In a theatre. Hump! is the 5th annual amateur porn contest sponsored by The Stranger (Seattle's only real newspaper) that inspired the storyline for the movie "Humpday". Speaking of which, I saw "Humpday" in Milwaukee recently as a part of the Milwaukee Film Festival because, well...I was in Milwaukee and I'd missed it on its art house release schedule this summer (it's out on DVD in November). "Humpday" was a sweet, perfect little movie. Well, almost perfect. My rating - B-plus. But Hump! is the real deal. Amateur porn shorts, shot by real local people and screened only today and tomorrow before the entries are burned or sent to Tony Perkins at the Family Research Council in a brown paper wrapper or sent to NASA to be included in the next Moon bombing. Am I a fan of porn? Um, define fan. But then again, who isn't? And I'd rather see a hilarious compilation of local perversion surrounded by hipsters than Marlon Brando getting his butthole buttered up in "Last Tango in Paris" with a bunch of film snobs that might endeavor to call that humorless crap art. Check back for a rating. Sometime after I pick up Maya from daycare, one should expect.
Hope your own definition of modern parenting adds a slightly revised definition today. Rock on.
Monday, October 05, 2009
The strangely legendary Brat Stop off the interstate outside Kenosha.
The strangely legendary Brat Stop off the interstate outside Kenosha.
Originally uploaded by emaggie
Inside Miller Park, the Wisconsin Natives list of those who've played in MLB includes one Magnuson. Lifetime MLB record - 2-7 over 3 seasons with the White Sox and Yanks.
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