What?

During these times of economic, political, social, and environmental instability, I think I've been losing sight of what's truly important. Having recently realized I have the capacity to take notes on my Dingleberry, I've launched an absurd campaign intent on figuring whether I have noteworthy ideas that usually lay dormant until they're forgotten entirely. I don't. But I'm going to share them anyway.

"Customized hooded." I have no idea what that means. Moving on.

"Gang of Four." I'm pretty sure this is a reference to the band and not Chinese Communist Revolution. I think I'm supposed to listen to them. I'm also pretty sure I know who told me to.

"Slim Pickens." Desperate to bestow this moniker upon a close friend, Moose and I decided instead this would make a good name for our future dog. At this juncture our only real options are Michael Jackson and Slim Pickens. According to Wikipedia this was actually been the name of a real person. This disappoints me. Or does it?

"The etymology of 'coming'. 'Cum'. Is it the place to be?" The circumstances under which I had this epiphanic question aren't as incriminating as one would think. Driving home from work, I heard the word as a double entendre in a song I was listening to. It got me wondering, was achieving orgasm dubbed "coming" because actually achieving orgasm was THE place to be? The be all end all of human existence? I'd like to think so.

"What would it feel like to touch one of those glowing blue bug zappers?" Seriously. Are we talking first, second, or third degree burns? Electrocution?

"When animals base needs are met, does evolution accelerate or slow? Are there different rules for humans? If so, are they the fruits of our 'superior intelligence'?" This is the question that came to mind when my car lurched to a stop just feet away from hitting the painfully retarded, giant wild turkey that used to menace the office park in which I spend far too much time.

CKY2K

As the back two fifths of the title indicates, this video came out in 2000. It can be credited or blamed for making fringe stupidity mainstream. It's also pretty funny. Having fallen in with a bunch of surfing, skateboarding burn balls, I easily saw this thing 10 to 20 times my sophomore year in college.  

Cultural Anthropology for Dummies

Having taken stock of the general tone of my music reviews, I've been waiting for the other shoe to fall. After all, it should only be a matter of time before I find myself at a terrible show, or at least one that I find mediocre. Perhaps I don't give myself enough credit. Maybe I consistently attend good shows because I have consistently good taste in music? To my chagrin, I don't get paid to wax poetic (though Google technically owes me $2.30 for the copious advertising revenue I've generated with this blog). As such, I'm pretty discerning. I don't have the money or the desire to go to shows I THINK I might like. Perhaps this best explains the consistently rave reviews.

In 2003 a good friend of mine turned me on to The Office. Not the American version starring Steve Carell, its British predecessor and inspiration starring Ricky Gervais. Having since come to enjoy the American The Office, I think these two pop phenomena likely reinforce some cultural differences between Americans and our across the pond neighbors. For some reason, Americans need happy endings and silver linings. The most obvious example of this is Pam and Jim's burgeoning engagement. The British, by comparison, are realists, content with ongoing irresolution. For a manifestation of this, look no further than Pam and Jim's British character parallels, perpetually star crossed and ill-fated. Further examples abound, I hope I've made my half baked point.

Rock critics like to dub various bands the American Radiohead. My Morning Jacket and Grizzly Bear have each been curiously given the moniker. In both instances, I just don't hear it. I think TV On The Radio is a more apt American Radiohead, and in much the same way the American The Office is the American The Office. Americans like a silver lining. Call it optimism. Call it ignorance. Call it escapism. They all work on some level. There are also musical similarities, like the heavy utilization of atmospherics and walls of sound, and loose experimentation. These similarities make the most compelling comparison their differences in orientation.

I was extremely pleased with myself right off the bat as we settled into our seats 15 minutes before TVOR took to the stage. Seated in the second row of the balcony, I bet David Sitek could actually smell my breath. Poor guy. With a wall of sound often setting the backdrop, dirge and hopefulness loosely interwoven and punctuated by Tunde Adebimpe's left forearm twittering about like a ceiling fan without an axis, they opened up appropriately with "Halfway Home", the first track off their newest album Dear Science, and closed with "Staring at the Sun", my favorite song from Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes.

To say TV On The Radio has their own sound may potentially qualify as the understatement of the year. Equal parts afrobeat ambient noise post-punk free jazz funk, one is only able to extricate one part from the other when overly preoccupied with doing so. And sonically I think this band is meant to be taken as the sum of its parts. To be sure, the sum of its parts sounds is pretty strange.

The epicentre of TVOR's sound is an atmospheric grandeur similar to their Oxford cousins. When Kyp Malone wasn't thrashing about with only a vague regard for the time keeping of Jaleel Bunton, he would twitter about from within the breathe of his bandmates' output, adding at times happy details. Then, a song later, he would take to the center without calling attention to himself or his playing. Equally important, and more conspicuous, Tunde Adebimpe's songwriting and daft stage presence contribute to the live experience.

So, armed with a vague optimism, I suppose I'll look for my other shoe before I go to see Broken Social Scene on Sunday.

Mess With Moose.....Get My Horns

Mrs. Bridezilla,

I won't bore you with the details of any consensus that was reached regarding your display of discretion and class, or lack thereof, the evening of your daughter's wedding. I will speak only for myself. Don't bother writing Moose again. When I picked up the mail yesterday and noticed your return address on an envelope, I intercepted your card. I have not shown it to her, nor will I.  I'd prefer she waste no more time thinking of you and your family, wondering if a benign indiscretion (during which she didn't act alone but for which she apparently does bear the brunt of your blame) could have possibly "ruined" your daughter's wedding. 

I would also like to clarify a point of contention: There was never any drink thrown at anyone. It is curiously even plausible for a person fighting with a bartender over NOT being served a drink to be able to throw one. It would seem the possession of a drink would negate the reason for the argument, no? Mr. Bridezilla's an attorney. Ask him for further explanation if my logic confuses you.

I can assure you Moose does regret arguing with the bartender/innkeeper over a drink . I find it interesting, however, that you are so eager to disregard a friendship which spans back through high school based upon the lies and/or exaggerations of someone you met over the course of planning this wedding, and all without even soliciting a response to these spurious allegations.

They say those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. After your eavesdropping and ranting exploits, unbefitting the parents of any bride, I cannot fathom a reason you would feel compelled or justified in writing a letter to Moose. Again, I won't bore you with the details of your behavior. You were there. It is at least plausible you remember them.

Again, speaking only for myself, I wish your daughter and her new husband nothing but long lasting happiness. I just wish I hadn't gone through the trouble of attending their wedding. It is my feeling that the embarrassment is squarely yours.


Best Wishes,
Seamus 

Thank You Card

I found one in the mail yesterday from the mother of Bridezilla (see "Holy Matrimony" dated 10/7/08). Instead of thanks, however, she bestows her ill-conceived wrath upon Moose. She has unwittingly incurred mine. Stay tuned.  I'll be sure to post my response regardless of whether Moose allows me to mail it.  

The letter from Bridezilla's mother reads as follows:

Dear Moose,

Thank you for attending my daughter's wedding.  I wish for you, your mom & dad that none of your wedding guests are as disrespectful as you were at my daughter's wedding.  I was extremely embarrassed, shocked & mortified when I was told by the innkeeper about your behavior.  I wish you happiness.

Mrs. Bridezilla

Justice

Showtime

Californication is good, not great. If it were a book, it'd be a "page turner". Based upon hearty recommendations from reliable sources, I thought it was going to blow me away. Early indications seemed to reinforce this notion. Really rough around the edges, and chalked full of gratuitous nudity, this show seemed too good to be true.

Well, to be sure, there's plenty of nudity, but Californication is only rough around the edges on the surface. At times, I really like some of the ideas they play with, but all too often I feel like I'm watching Showtime's appropriation of Entrourage, as the heady cynicism that lured me in is showcased less and less as the season wears on. In the process, it becomes more and more apparent the minds behind the show either inadvertantly bestowed such a promising beginning, lost their ambition after writing only a couple episodes, or were successfully pressured into increasing the frequency and decreasing the relevance of lavishly ridiculous plot developments. Or maybe the novelty of the first couple episodes has simply worn off.

After a book of his is picked up and adapted for the big screen, David Duchovny's character uproots from New York to LA LA Land to assist with the film's production. Walking, talking wish-fulfillment with a good heart and a poet's soul, he lacks any hint of self-restraint. This often makes for some viscerally pleasing exchanges: He casually and unflinchingly punches a man at a charity event after having been told the man referred to his ex-girlfriend as a 'cunt', he sleeps with anything that moves (apparently, in LA, everything that moves is 6 ft tall and 120 lbs. with C cups), and he can't he resist the wiles of his ex-girlfriend and mother of his precocious daughter, the transparently still smitten though engaged to be married to another man, Natascha McElhone.

That said, I will likely Netflix season 2 once it becomes available.

On The Fence About How to Vote In November?

Get A Grip!

From Poop to Fuck Buttons..... All Very Sophisticated

At what point must we come to the aid of a work acquaintance who apparently shits himself each and every morning and remains completely oblivious to the funk?  How long must we continue the charade - eyes at times watering uncontrollably as I impatiently and uncomfortably breath through the mouth every time he comes near my desk or we happen to cross paths - before confronting the potentially face melting awkwardness?  Is there a way to tell a grown man you only know in a professional setting under the guise of business casual that he smells like poo poo?  I may just have to sit this one out after all.  It wasn't always like this. Maybe this too shall pass.  Maybe he just keeps forgetting to buy toilet paper.      

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"Ryan" (unfortunately I know 46 Ryans) astutely pointed out all of my NFL picks were wrong last week.  As I've been consistently off base with my office pool picks, and also as I remain winless in fantasy football, perhaps before you lay down your bets this weekend, you should consult my blog and bet the farm in the opposite direction.  Think about it.  You could actually benefit from what I don't know.  That's rare.      

Speaking of football, I've decided to stop and smell the roses, having learned the Giants sit atop ESPN's first power rankings of this young season and subsequently basking in the afterglow, acknowledging the here and now as a time worthy of appreciation.  My favorite team in all of sports won an inconceivable Super Bowl last year and has followed it up with a 4 and 0 start.    As with many things, we often become fixated on results and in so doing fail to appreciate the journey.   

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I've rediscovered Simple.  Though I can't say I've ever had a pair before, I think this will soon change in the near future.  Not necessarily the handsomest shoes I've ever seen, their eco-friendly product lines more than make up for it.  Simple has broken the mold, making a new one out of recycled tires and organic cotton.  I'll rationalize paying a premium for these shoes in the same manner I rationalize shopping at Whole Paycheck: taking business away from environmentally ambivalent companies and giving it to [more expensive] green ones, in the long run will help (in its little way) to expand the market for green products and pratices, or to at least drive down Whole Foods' prices. (I actually have no idea if this is an actual economic phenomenon.)

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Going to see TV on The Radio on MLK Day.  Speaking of which, I need to wrap my ears around their latest, Dear Science, ASAP.

Some other stuff I've sampled that I need to make a meal out of:  

Grizzly Bear

Fleet Foxes

Beirut

Hawk and a Handsaw

Fuck Buttons

Holy Matrimony

A day unlike any other; where the celebration of family, friends, and of enduring love revolves around the infinite beauty of the bride and her commitment to the groom, the intrinsic beauty of their relationship with each other, and their respective relationships with friends and family. Maybe a wedding doesn't write an enduring lifetime of happiness in stone, but at least the singularity of that day's happiness is. Surely, never has it been the day that lurking psychoses and curious resentments manifest themselves in the form of a sudden, inexplicable, drunken, unilateral family tirade that is thrust upon the childhood friends of the bride... Or maybe I haven't been to enough weddings.

Never noted for my ability to edit my own behavior, especially under the spell of an open bar, I can at least be thankful for my sanity (as far as the reluctant owner of an inexplicable black eye won at a different wedding a few weeks ago can be). Regardless, I do fancy myself an astute critic of others. As such, conveniently, my glass house is made of cardboard.

Despite empirical evidence to the contrary -like the acquisition of his own black eye by my second in command, Mortimer- we did manage to escape this wedding of horrors with our dignity intact, though under the shroud of early morning darkness, in order to avoid a mob of bloodthirsty yocels that would congregate, pitchforks and torches in hand, at our hotel room doors if we'd have stayed until sunrise.

It all started in the early evening of the night before, after a beautiful ceremony and a serene cocktail hour. Apparently, people began having a little too much fun. One of our compatriots had mysteriously come into posession of a tamborine. After banging the thing up over his head, and dancing around to the delight of the crowd, he began passing it off to others. The chosen would dance in the middle of a circle of clapping people, encorporating the tamborine as he or she saw fit. Amongst the chosen was an assortment of smiling geriatrics, the bride's family, the bride, the groom, and the two of them together. I vividly remember taking a step back to reflect upon the beauty consistently on display at this point during weddings. Time slowed down as I wheeled my head around the room, helplessly smiling in the glowing light of friends and relative strangers alike.

At some point the cup of formerly repressed resentment runneth over. Whether it was the brief but benign altercation between Moose and the bartender who had refused to serve her a beer at 10:01, or the ongoing revelry taking place on the dance floor, a convoluted and contrived line had been crossed. Though we didn't realize it at the time, there would be no turning back.

The sister of the bride pushed a fellow bridesmaid to the floor in her quest to make sure the dancing became less... dancy (?). As she curiously put it, "This isn't your wedding!" This bridesmaid on bridesmaid violence would be a precursor to a sequence of unprecedented behavior that saw the high school friends of the bride become the subjects of derision for what was officially declared to be willful attempts to overshadow the bride. This is more commonly known as dancing, smiling, and laughing.

After growing weary of the hostile stares flying around the room at the after-reception party, perhaps 12 to 15 of us ended up walking back to the hotel on the other side of the property. Little did we know, we had been followed by the bride and her mother. Our numbers briefly cut in half, I soon ordered my second in command back to our room to round up the balance of the exiled. To his surprise, the bride's mother was in the otherwise empty hallway with her ear pressed up against our hotel room door. He'd arrived just in time for the fireworks. Bride and mother burst into the room, slurs lobbed and fingers wagging, "Fake friends! Fake Friends! Why don't you all get the hell out of here! We don't want you here! Fake friends! You're all fake! We can't believe you! You've ruined this wedding!! You've ruined this wedding!!" Jaws fell to the floor. Tears were shed. No one was given the chance to respond. Nor could they have. The spectacle later culminated in the bride's father, from his room next door, punching our shared wall, screaming, "Fuck you! Fuck you all!" intermittently turning to his wife and daughter and adding, "I'm going over there! I'm going over there!"

Eventually, I assume, they went back to their after-party to salvage what remained of their daughter's special night. Conversely, we set our alarms for a 6:30 a.m. escape. I'll tell yah, the last time I was that quiet on a set of stairs, I was afraid of scaring Santa Claus away before he delivered our presents under the tree. This past Sunday morning, however, I feared being stabbed to death.

Check Out This Stick (Clip Courtesy of Munch)

Since this embed isn't working, click below, on "Kylar". That will take you where you need to be.

Kylar - Hosted by Putfile.com

If You Saw The Debate

I implore you to read this.

Basements

They're in.  Radiohead did it in Nigel Godrich's.  Broken Social Scene apparently did too; in support of Kevin Drew's release of Spirit If about a year ago.   Though I suppose their technical proficiency could be questioned (however unnecessary), their honesty and sonic breadth cannot: from the baroque post-rock of Feel Good Lost, the relative accessibility of You Forgot it In People, to Broken Social Scene, the collective's most recent album, which adorns a sound that my brother describes as ten bands playing at the same time.    I'm seeing these guys at the Wilbur Theater later this month.  Here's the band playing in a basement (Kevin Drew playing drums):

Basement Part II:

Mr. Drew all by his lonesome (music video):

And, although I just heard it for the first time, Brendan Canning's "Hit the Wall":