Disco Kitchen

Oh, beauteous creature! I lust after this kitchen. I want to make this kitchen happen in my life. (Except maybe without that island in the front. I'm not actually all that big on the wall tiling either. & I'd probably want handles on the cabinets.) Unfortunately, c'est impossible for so, so many reasons with my current kitchen (let's ignore the fact that I literally JUST finished painting walls'n'trim). No...this is a post for...THE FUTURE. Right about two years from now, I should be buying a house. That is when I will make these kitchen dreams a reality. Picture stolen borrowed from here.

Sigh. I love it. Can you imagine how much fun it would be to cook in this thing?

A Difficult Decision, Suddenly Simplified

LCD Soundsystem are touring. The nearest they are coming to my fair city is Seattle (jerkfaces). Even worse, they are playing at the Suckbox; a place I've only been to once, but frankly once was enough. Too many stupid Seattle hipsters who are too cool to dance. They are playing on Wednesday 2 May 2007.

Which gave rise to several problems. 1) Seattle is three hours away. 2) I'd have to take time off work & I'm already taking three days off in mid-April. 3) I hate the Showbox. 4) I've already seen them live, so was it really necessary to go to all this trouble? At this point I'd pretty much reached the conclusion that no, James Murphy et al could just play without my presence. Then I discovered something wonderful that let me know beyond a doubt that my decision was entirely correct:


Which comes straight from here. This solves every problem. 1) The Someday Lounge is 10 minutes away. 2) Starts at 7 p.m., which sadly becomes more enticing the older I get. 3) Never been there, but "experimental performance art club" sounds equal parts promising & frightening. Plus, as oft noted here, Portland audiences are super-fun & super-excited at shows. 4) Never seen 'em live.

The winner by a knockout: !!!. This is much less heart-rending than November 2006 when Hot Chip & the Rapture both played in PDX on the same night at different venues (I chose Hot Chip. I'd previously seen the Rapture in Baltimore).

Forest Park

Due to limitations of footwear (not MINE, of course, I wore mah hikin bouts) in tandem with typical OR spring ground (meaning muddy), we spent about five minutes on Wildwood Trail at Germantown Road in Forest Park. Its 5,100 acres make Forest Park the largest natural urban forest reserve in the U.S. And apparently its size made it possible for a man & his daughter to live within its boundaries undectected for four years (it's a pretty neat story, with an actual Happy End).

Five minutes proved to be ample time for me to fall in LOVE with the place. It's fucking gorgeous. Quintessential Oregon. Old growth & second growth trees, ferns, trilliums...& just flat-out beautiful. Naturally I'd forgotten both my digital & super-8 cameras. However, I've plans to return this week sometime, at which point I will correct that grievous error. With 70 miles of trails, there's a lot of exploring to be done.

Also, apparently the Wildwood Trail will lead you straight to the Hoyt Arboretum, a 185-acre piece of land, with 12 miles of trails, which has been planted with over 1,000 species of trees, perhaps most notably the Dawn Redwood, a species once thought to be extinct until its rediscovery in China in the early 20th century. This tree is a deciduous conifer, of all things. I'm nerdily excited to go to the Arboretum.

Thank goodness that the people of Portland were concerned about the importance of city parks as far back as 1903.

That's Why We Drink It Here

This post began as an attempt to delve into the relationship between Werner Herzog & Klaus Kinski. Its inspiration & its title was the following Kinski quote: "I wish Herzog would catch the plague, more than ever." That would have been a fun little post, but it went straight from Fitzcarraldo to Les Blank. I'm powerless to resist.

Fitzcarraldo has an amazing documentary of its making, Burden of Dreams by the inimitable Les Blank. Blank is probably my own personal favorite documentary filmmaker. It makes sense, I s'pose, that I'd love him so. Blank tends to be drawn to a few topics of more than passing interest to yours truly: food (Yum, Yum, Yum!; Chicken Real; Garlic is as Good as Ten Mothers), music & musicians (The Blues Accordin' to Lightnin' Hopkins; Hot Pepper; Sworn to the Drum: A Tribute to Francisco Aguabella; Chulas Fronteras) & Werner Herzog. Throw in some culturally anthropologic film (Gap-Toothed Women; God Respects Us When We Work, But Loves Us When We Dance; Always for Pleasure) to taste & you've got all the fixin's for fun.

In Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe*, Blank films Herzog doing just that, the result of a promise to Errol Morris. Now, for people who consider "documentary" to be more than an excuse to jerk yourself off on-camera a la Michael "Fucktard" Moore, Morris is often considered to be the foremost American documentarian working today. But back in the late 1970s, he was just another kid bitching about having no money to make a film. Our dear Mr. Herzog told him if he really wanted to make the film, he'd find a way, & said that if Morris ever did do it, he'd eat his shoe. Bless him; we got the magnificent Gates of Heaven & so much more; & Herzog kept his word.

My favorite Blank film is In Heaven There Is No Beer?, a humorous yet fond exploration of polka culture in the the eastern U.S. My particular favorite "character" is the short-shorts-wearing teenage girl we always referred to as the "polka slut" who proclaims her desire to cruise the broadwalk with a ghetto blaster pumping out polka tunes. Back when empty cases of PBR passed for acceptable living room end tables, a wicked drinking game guaranteed to inebriate even the hardiest souls by the conclusion of its 50-minute running time was devised by my friend ChrisAnn & I around this film. (It's the "Who Stole the Kishka" segment that really fucks you up.)

I keep forgetting I live in a real city now. Netflix, wonderful as it is, sometimes fails me. In this instance, the only Blank they have is Criterion's edition of Burden of Dreams. BUT - I have the fabulous Movie Madness (a fantastic video store peppered with movie costumes & props) within walking distance. And the fabulous Movie Madness has twelve Blank films for my viewing pleasure. Granted, it's not a terrible lot when you consider how many he's made. But still. It's been years since I've watched his work, so I'm excited for the refresher. And believe it or not, I've never actually seen Garlic is as Good as Ten Mothers, so I'm particularly enthused about that one. Heh.

Of course, per his Flower Films website, Blank came to the NW Film Center here in Portland in June 2006. Damn it. It's really a shame I didn't get my sorry ass dumped sooner or I might have been here for it. I'm mildly heartbroken to have missed it, actually. Kind of like waaaay back in the day when I was all into Allen Ginsberg &, because my parents wouldn't let me go to college early even though I'd worked my butt off to graduate high school a year ahead of schedule, I missed him speaking at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst. He died not long thereafter. I'm still kinda pissed, though I've long since laid his works to the side.

OMG!!!!! (Heh. Blame the influence of "lolcats") Not only did I miss him in 2006 here in Portland, I also managed to miss him in Virginia in 2001. Looks like he was showing stuff around those parts about four months before I moved there. Why does Les Blank hate me when all I give him is love?

In conclusion! may I present the following:

Someone stole the kishka
Someone stole the kishka
Who stole the kishka,
from the butcher's shop?
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Someone call the cops!

Fat and round and firmly packed
It was hanging on the rack
Someone stole the kishka
When I turned my back
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Someone bring it back!

Someone stole the kishka
Someone stole the kishka
Who stole the kishka,
from the butcher shop?
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Who stole the kishka?
Someone call the cops!

Yusef found the kishka
Yusef found the kishka
Yusef found the kishka
And he hung it on the rack.
He found the kishka
He found the kishka
He found the kishka
Yusef brought it back
Heeeeeyyyyyyyy Hey!
huh-huh-huh-huh

For anybody who rents In Heaven There Is No Beer? & wants to party like they're 21, here are the rules (at least, to the best of my memory):

1) Drink once every time someone says "polka"
2) Drink once every time a new polka song comes on
3) Drink twice every time someone says "polkabration"
4) Drink once for every "kishka"

*Netflix fiends, you're in luck! This film is included as an extra on the release of Burden of Dreams.

It's Funny Because It's True

Or, alternately, it's funny because I am (1) in the third straight day of an unrelenting headache, (2) still slightly ill & (3) delirious from staying up until 3 a.m. painting.

Okay, they are admittedly totally cheesy. But while procrastinating today, I came across one of those "you know you're an Oregonian when..." lists & it actually made me smile & nod. Holy crap! Here's a small selection of choicer cuts (I've made no grammatical corrections):

You stand on a deserted corner in the rain waiting for the "Walk" signal.

You consider that if it has no snow or has not recently erupted, it is not a real mountain.

You are not fazed by "Today's forecast: showers followed by rain," and "Tomorrow's forecast: rain followed by showers."

You notice, "The mountain is out" when it is a pretty day and you can actually see it.

You think people who use umbrellas are either wimps or people from california

You blame everything that's not right on ex-Californians.

You know what is in between the East Side and the West Side, and how to pronounce it.

You are sitting at a red light surrounded by Subaru Legacy Outbacks.

You only honk your horn if collision is imminent and never for anything else.

If someone ran your car off the highway, you might drown.

Obey all traffic laws except "keep right unless passing."

You know the exact day you had school off because it snowed like....one inch.

You remember Ramblin' Rod...and you laugh because you used to watch it....or because you were on it for your birthday.

you say "pop" instead of "soda."

you smile at people you don't know as you walk by them on the sidwalk.

you make subtle remarks about washington drivers, but save your real road rage for california drivers.

You've witnessed 300 nude bicyclists just cruising around downtown like its no big deal.

Well, yeah...pretty much.

Phase 2

Ever since I completed painting the living room, I have been aching to paint the kitchen. If your kitchen were this horrible & watered-down a pink, hell, wouldn't you (& I like pink)?:

Pardon the mess; this picture was taken in the midst of painting.
Pardon the blur; the flash renders inaccurate color representation & thus is useless for my purposes.

I'ma make a long story short. To wit:

Benjamin Moore. Matte finish (shiny paint is hideously wrong). Charmed Violet for the walls; Heather Plum for the cabinetry & trim.

My initial impression was, My God, that's too much even for me. In fact, I only took pictures to obtain second opinions. The more I looked at it, though, the more I liked it. Sure it's bright; but I like bright. See the first picture in the post for an example of modest color use = ugly as fuck. Also, purple? I'm a fan.

When it occurred to me to paint the interior of the cabinets silver, though, I knew that I actually really loved this. Frankly, it was a bit disconcerting this morning when I went into the shoebox...er, kitchen...to feed the cats. But it's so gloriously purple, I can't even front. I love it.

More pictures no doubt to follow, once I've actually painted the kitchen beyond this miniscule strip of wall. Although I suspect this is a rare time that tiiiiny kitchen will work in my favor - there's not all that much more to paint.

Silver cabinets! So fantastic.

Most Of The Time, It Started Like This...

My attempt on Saturday to buy a ticket for the upcoming Bloc Party show was rudely denied (i.e., sold out. Bastards). However, my subsequent journey of shopping-to-ease-the-pain led me through a labyrinthine path not unworthy of its titular heroines to discover that Jacques Rivette's astonishing Celine & Julie Go Boating was being screened Sunday as part of a Rivette retrospective at the Portland Art Museum's NW Film Center. I'd seen a crappy VHS copy years ago, & as with The Conformist, had dreamed of seeing it again ever since.

But then, the next morning...

Naturally, like so many amazing things, the film is unavailable (in the U.S.) on DVD. Possibly its 193-minute running time scares people off. It shouldn't. The film is so solid that even my ass was entertained - at least, I presume it was, since at no time did I find it numb. The film critic David Thomson famously called Celine & Julie "the most radical & delightful narrative film since Citizen Kane." There's a buttload of movies I haven't seen that were released between Kane & Celine & Julie, so I can't verify the truth of that. But I do find it deeply admirable that Rivette made a tremendously entertaining 3-hour-plus movie in which, frankly, not a lot happens & much of what does happen is repeated &/or extended ad infinitum, particularly in the film's second half. I wasn't watching the clock or anything, but I'm pretty sure it's a good 30 or 40 minutes in before a single line of dialogue is spoken.

Since the plot is hardly the point of the film, I don't think revealing it will spoil anything. Basically, the film is quite akin to Alice in Wonderland albeit with notable lesbian overtones. And hot chicks. 'Cause what film that I like would be complete without hot chicks? The whole thing actually is very feminist, I think (I am entirely unfamiliar with feminist theory), which I understand to be Rivette's modus operandi not exclusively, but overall: films which are not only led by female protagonists, but do not place any great reliance or indeed importance on the male at all, beyond perhaps that of a pawn in a chess game. In Celine & Julie, Celine-posing-as-Julie exposes Julie's childhood sweetheart as a horny oaf, literally catching him with his pants down & telling him to go jack off in the bushes. Later in the film, Julie-posing-as-Celine returns the favor, as she performs a cabaret audition for three ogling men, only to stop & pointedly ask the men to show her what they can do. The only other male figure in the film, Olivier (played by Barbet Schroeder, of all people!) is subjugated & trivialized by the four women in his life: Camille, his dead wife's sister; Sophie, whose role is never made clear; Madlyn, his daughter; & Angele Terre (Miss Terre, if you will), the nurse who is alternately played by Celine & by Julie (um...yeah. I might get around to explaining that later. Or not).

Anyway, enough primitive feminist thought; back to the plot! Then again, is that not one of the most clever things about the film? That attention is so drawn to details, to asides, to the circles upon circles upon circles, that "plot" is but the skeleton to the film itself, rather than the flesh it serves as in so many other films? Rivette's film is marvelous in part because it doesn't lend itself to interpretation; it demands it; & that is as key as any external element in determining the entertainment factor of the work. He acknowledges the ever-present fact, both within the film itself & through its form & structure, that a work does not exist without an audience, & that any one member of said audience will bend & twist it to suit their own experiences & ideas. It's refreshing, particularly given that most movies take a lot of effort to pose under the guise that their existence, their raison d'etre, is independent of you. Which is simply ridiculous.

But then, the next morning...

Speaking of audience, I am extraordinarily grateful that I was given the opportunity to see this film in a theatrical setting. There are few things less funny than watching a comedy alone; & seeing Celine & Julie in this way made it infinitely more farcical than I had recalled (again, crappy VHS copy, college dorm room...somehow even in college I didn't know people who were willing to watch a three-hour French movie).
The sequence with the sweetheart & Celine-as-Julie in the park, for instance, is one of the most hysterical things I've seen in ages. Oftentimes the dialogue in the film veers off the logical path into absurdist, to hilarious effect; this scene provided one such instance. Sadly, the wittier bon mots escape me; although really, they don't make sense without the context provided by the images, the actors & so on...it's important to know what occurred prior & what is happening as Gregoire says, "There is a homosexual pancreas in the closet" in order to find it laugh-out-loud funny.

Good lord! I could go on for days, but duty calls. I do long to have this movie at my perpetual disposal & I'm mightily miffed at its unavailability. Crap, Rivette's La Belle Noiseuse is out on DVD. It's a whole hour longer than this one. Probably damn Frenchie-er, too.

But then, the next morning...

Moral of the story: you will probably rarely encounter an opportunity to see Celine & Julie Go Boating, unless it is released on DVD here in the States (I refuse to acknowledge that VHS persists in its sordid existence; but if you can find a VHS copy at your local video store, well (huffy sigh) I suppose it's better than nothing. Marginally). But it's a damn fine film, & if you have the chance to see it, I would urge you to do so.

Neither Celine nor Julie are in this boat. However, Rivette is not the type of filmmaker cruel (or perhaps "stringent" is more apt?) enough to deny us the literal meanings & mystery-solvings for which we as audience long. Ergo, Celine & Julie are in the other boat & this shot is taken from their perspective.

I Love My Ocean

It may not be yellow-sand-blue-ocean-palm-tree-postcard material, but DAMN! I love me the OR coast. I've yet to find a coast that pleases me more. Granted, my experience outside of Oregon is limited to the following: (1) Virginia Beach; (2) Gulf of Mexico via Florida; (3) Santa Barbara & (4) Monterey; a list which could never be mistaken for comprehensive, but still.

Possibly I find the Oregon coastline more pleasing than the others because it successfully marries the two things that always come to mind when I think about the ocean - terrifying beauty & epic danger. It slightly astounds me that people find the sound of waves soothing considering how violently the act plays out in the vision, for instance. The Oregon coast, with cliffs both jutting & eroded, permanently wind-blown fir trees, virtual forests of driftwood & enormous rock masses against which the waves can most satisfactorily crash, is almost a mirror image to the ocean itself. It doesn't pretend like it can't kill you if it wants.

The Oregon coast is no Beach Blanket Bingo, thank heavens. Although, now that I think of it, the classic late 80s Kurt Russell-Goldie Hawn vehicle Overboard was filmed & set on the Oregon coast. And Wikipedia's entry on the fictional town in which it's set (yes; there really is an entry for this) just drives my whole point home:

"[T]he final scene showing the main characters swimming in the ocean would not have been filmed off the Oregon Coast: the low water temperature would cause hypothermia in minutes."

Damn straight.

File This One Under "Not Mentioning To My Parents"

On the evening of 4 March 2007 as I approached Zupan's to purchase no doubt some sort of fancy schmancy food thing, I saw a police car parked across Belmont Street. Blocking traffic. Closer inspection revealed a yellow "DO NOT CROSS" marker stretched across the street as well.

Obviously, my curiosity was piqued. A brief interwebs search today revealed that a man was shot in a botched robbery attempt at Belmont 34, a little convenience store kitty corner from Zupan's. Not that it's of particular interest to anyone but me, since I live about six blocks from it, but here's the full story. I mean, Portland's a city. Crime happens. I'm sure if I read the news I'd be chock full with knowledge of all sorts of vile goings on. But, not to sound lofty, Belmont's a great area. I know there are sketchy parts of Portland. Hell, I occasionally feel weird walking around Old Town during the day. But friggin' Belmont? Never even crossed my mind that violent crime happens here. (I'm a bit naive, though. I'm still reeling from the truly disturbing shock of discovering that I in fact live in Ghost World.)

I own a firearm. It looks a lot like that there picture, except mine is more girly. All snub &, frankly, cute. I'm certainly prepared to use it if bodily harm is threatened upon me (hollow points, holla!). But until now, I've operated under the assumption that such would happen only in my home. I've considered getting a concealed weapon permit, mostly as a fleeting thought. After this, though...the notion isn't so momentary.

But for those folks coming to visit me in the near future (& the list keeps growing, to my endless delight...) - don't worry! It'll be fine. Read the story. Clearly an uncommon occurrence for the area. Besides, it smells like flowers in my neighborhood! I'm so serious. It's pretty awesome. I guess it shouldn't be overly surprising, since Stumptown (for some reason, to me the most amusing of Portland's nicknames) is the City of Roses & all. Anyway, spring is going to be fantastic.

The Fabulosity Process Begins!

BEFORE:

AFTER:

(All right, I need to clean my camera lens. Sorry.)

Fortunately for you, dear reader, during the interim of when I finished painting my living room through when I photographed it last night, my desire to spew forth on the various vagaries & horrible circumstances of painting has largely exhausted itself. Suffice to say, it was hell. The one rather perfect anecdote I will proffer is that after a solid 5 days of standing on a ladder, bruising my shins & feeling my weak ankle getting weaker, it happened that last Wednesday not two minutes after I officially finished painting, said ankle snapped & I found myself on the floor, my face contorted in an unnatural grimace of pain. Actually, it still hurts. Never again will I be so foolish as to disregard numerous offers of help in painting, as I imagine that actually having other people would greatly increase both the speed & fun of the process.

BUT. The ceiling is now a nice warm yellow shade of white from Benjamin Moore called "Linen White" which improves greatly upon the previous stark Wal-Mart white, not that the difference is apparent to anybody save yours truly. The ceiling's peeling cracks & water damage were largely eradicated by mesh fiberglass tape, joint compound & oil-based stain blocker. As for the walls? I love, love, LOVE the color, though I'm unsure as to whether the nighttime photos truly represent it at its best. I need floor lamps in half the space (the Ventana Lamp is the one for which I currently lust). The shade is "Olive Tree" by Ralph Lauren. (Naturally, I've fallen in love with the most expensive line of paints short of YOLO Colorhouse.) It's fantastic & PERFECT. A green enjoying such a yellow undertone that it's a very warm color. Saturated sans garishness. Technicolor without tackiness. Plus, it meets the goal of indulging my purple/green fetish by its effortless harmony with my purple velvet chair. The one bummer is that to me the color looks so natural in the space that I almost feel like I didn't do anything. John at Powell Paint Center was absolutely correct when he said it was "bitchin'". It's too bad that the retarded monkeys who painted the room that nasty pale piss yellow had never heard of a little thing I like to call painter's tape, because now I have to figure out what to do about all the woodwork that's splashed with yellow.

In conclusion! Lots o' work left. Touching up the paint. Acquiring artwork for the walls (when I went out on Saturday to find some, I ended up buying a buffet (shown in the second "after" picture) instead. Which is fine, because I really needed that too). Rearranging the furniture. Getting more furniture & a nice rug. Figuring out whether I want to go to all the trouble of staining the futon a darker color, or if I should just sell the sucker & get a new one. Plus then there's the rest of the place. But nevertheless. I've completed an important first step in the fabulo-zation of my apartment. And I'm extraordinarily pleased with it.

Can You Say "Gimme"?

Okay, so three famous friends of Martin Scorsese - George Lucas, Steven Spielberg and Francis Ford Coppola - were the presenters of the Best Director Academy Award last night...and you're tellin' me the winners are a secret? Bitch, please. I am glad that Scorsese finally won, though I hardly number among his acolytes, if only because now people can no longer whine incessantly about it. The Last Temptation of Christ & Goodfellas are about the only films of his I can stomach. Though, yes, I have been intending to watch The Departed.

On an unrelated note, although the German cinephile in me is pleased as punch that The Lives of Others won Best Foreign Language Film, the me in me is totally bummed that Pan's Labyrinth didn't get it. But, per my earlier wish, Guillermo Navarro got Best Cinematography! Sweet.

Mind, I didn't actually watch the Oscars. Given the paucity of contemporary film in my viewing selections of recent years (although said dearth has been recently somewhat allayed by more frequent trips to the cinema & borrowing from my mother DVDs such as The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants & Hidalgo, which somehow are the wrong kind of cheesy to allow inclusion in my Netflix queue, but obviously I secretly want to watch anyway), I generally haven't seen/have no interest in seeing much of anything that's been nominated. That said, I was mildly interested in witnessing this year's telecast; but as I spent Sunday cooking up a storm & tending to the hungover person on my futon, I clean forgot.

Still, somehow I don't think I missed much.

Good God! I Need To Change My Panties

This is so dork-tastically awesome. I've got a film geek's hard-on for the Criterion Collection, but a cheapskate's abhorrence of the often $40+ price tags. (For the record, if anybody out there has a love for me that is priceless & would like to prove it, they can buy me this & I will worship them forever. For those whose love is budgeted, the recently released 50-title Essential Art House - 50 years of Janus Films collection will get you blind adoration for at least a decade.) So news of their Eclipse sublabel makes me quiver all over.

The Eclipse collection is dedicated to releasing series of noteworthy films from noteworthy directors that don't quite conform to the Criterion mission of "gathering the greatest films from around the world and publishing them in editions that offer the highest technical quality and award-winning, original supplements", but are nonetheless essential viewing for serious fans & have heretofore been unavailable outside the big city art-house circuit, unless you could get yer mitts on a crappy VHS copy.

In fact, one of the only times I have truly regretted not living in New York City was during last fall's Kenji Mizoguchi retrospective - I mean, I had had the good fortune to see all six of those titles previously in 16mm prints, but that was years ago, & there's simply no such thing as too much Guch & no such thing as Guch DVD, 'cept Crit's recent release of Ugetsu (a spectacular work whose richness inspired probably the best piece of theory I've ever written, regarding Noh theater's influence on the film). So to read that Eclipse intends to correct this grievous error & at some point release a Mizoguchi series, well, it provides the inspiration for this post's title.

While one could quibble for days about Criterion's choices (for instance, I would argue that Ozu's Late Spring & Early Autumn are surely worthy of the luxe treatment), the point is that these films are finally going to be available on DVD, at prices averaging about $15 per title.

And that's something that every cheap-ass film fuck should get happy about. Hot damn!

Wrong. Wrong. WRONG!

Courtesy ABC News reporting on next season's "Dancing With The Stars" lineup:
Nice little career capsule, right? So you might think. BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG. Prior to this year's sudden interest in football, the only manly sport I ever watched was basketball. In the late 80s to early 90s. When Clyde Drexler played for the PORTLAND TRAILBLAZERS. The TRAILBLAZERS, people. The very first "my team" selected, yes, based solely on geographic proximity. Who gives a crap about the Rockets? He won the Olympic gold medal while he was a BLAZER. He was named one of the 50 greatest players in NBA history in 1996. In other words, his qualifications stemmed almost entirely from the period in which he was a BLAZER. He graced the Wheaties box as a BLAZER. To wit:


The only reason he played for the Rockets was because he wanted to win an NBA championship. Not that I can blame him - by 1995, the Blazers' glory days were fading (from what I understand, they have yet to cease fading). And he deserved one. But come on. He played in Houston for three fucking years. He played for the Blazers for OVER A DECADE. TWELVE YEARS. Houston doesn't get Clyde the Glide just because he grew up there. Or went to college there. Or even because he deigns to live there now. They passed him up in 1983 draft, fer chrissakes! And fuck ABC.

I concede that I may be overreacting to a miniscule biography from a news story on some stupid (yet strangely fascinating) show. But for a time, I was every bit the fiercely irrational, utterly obsessed Blazers fan. I bought that Wheaties box knowing full well that I never had & probably never would eat Wheaties. I watched every game. I knew every player. I would've worn the equivalent of the cheese hat for the Blazers. So, yes, dismissing nearly the entirety of a man's career as a result of sloppy/lazy/don't give a fuck research does ruffle my feathers a bit.

But If You Look Twice You Can See It's All Lies

Lily Allen is pretty friggin awesome. It took a few listens, but I'm totally addicted to Alright, Still. It's as fun as I wanted Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds to be (which, apparently, is my music equivalent of Office Space - everybody else fawns over it, but for some reason I found it passable at best & not in the least remarkable). Regardless, my adoration of Alright, Still is a completely personal love with no basis whatsoever in anything resembling theory or reason. Christ, I don't even know the names of the songs, because I haven't printed a track listing. But still. I really, y'know, kinda relate to that album. It speaks to me & of me from a joyously poptastic palette. It indulges, bouncily, & it dances precariously on the precipice betwixt sunny, happy sounds & acrid, biting sentiments. Is it any wonder then that I've come to love it? The album practically is me. To paraphrase Dr. Cox, it's a creamy-coated chocolate with bastard filling. Trying to find a spot of Ms. Allen's lyrics to illustrate this is well-nigh impossible, since the whole thing is a veritable minefield of bitterness-tinged bon mots.

And even though I don't much care for Portland's Aladdin Theater as a venue due to the ponderous number of seats it contains (which might have posed an impediment to my enjoyment of the fantabulous Los Amigos Invisibles show, replete with an encore performance of Devo's "Whip It", except hardly anybody was there (what the hell, people?)), I'm so going on 28 March to see her. It's the least I can do, given that singing loudly & terribly to the CD saved my sanity on Tuesday when I was about 12 hours into a 16-hour pain(t)fest. Whether the next-door tenant, who listens an average of thrice-weekly to Fiona Apple's Tidal (could be worse - could be Ani DiFranco) & what sounds like I imagine to be emo the rest of the time, was able to maintain her sanity is a matter for debate.

I don't know anything about Ms. Allen. Don't think it really matters. What more could I possibly need to know beyond the fact that she's got a link to Stuff On My Cat on her website? She's fantastic.

Question: Why Are Red & Green Christmas Colors?

Currently I'm knee-deep in the laborious, time-eating & painstaking process of painting my living room walls an utterly fabulous shade of green (no doubt entirely too much more on that later). It occurred to me that, even though red & green are a pretty terrific color combination, I would never feel comfortable using red for, say, my futon cover. At best I would use red for accent pieces. Maybe a pillow, or a bit in a painting. All because of this Christmas crap.

It seems entirely unfair that the same holiday which stole so much from the pagans should also take away a perfectly valid color scheme. Why? Why green, why red? Why couldn't they have picked yellow? Or beige? I don't like either of those. I know it's not like you can't use green & red in tandem...but who wants to, given the implications? You might as well paint the walls with red & white vertical stripes.

My initial thought was that green = tree & red = blood (from sacrifices during Saturnalia - though it seemed unlikely the Romans would make sacrificial offerings during this celebratory festival, they did get their jollies from watching gladiators prance about slaughtering exotic animals, so...). While forming definitive answers to most anything is of little interest to me, I did come across the following in a brief perusal of Google search results:

1) Green = tree. Red = poinsetta.
2) Stolen from the Africans! In this version, green is the adopted color of Islam & means "everlasting life". Red symbolizes blood shed in defense of the principles of love, truth, peace, freedom & justice.
3) The red represents the blood of Jesus Christ at the time of his crucifixation (I'm not much of a religious scholar, but is this not why we have Good Friday & Easter? Isn't Christmas a celebration of his birth?). The green was stolen from the Africans! Nah, it didn't say that, but it did say "everlasting life".
4) Romans gave each other gifts of green plants during Saturnalia, including holly, which has red berries. The plants were meant to symbolize the continuance of life & the coming of spring.
5) According to a former Wal-Mart employee who was "let go" after writing this email, red & white represent the aminita muscaria mushroom. No mention of green.

So, I have gone from having a vague guess to having some vague ideas, with no notion as to the veracity of anything I read. Oh, internets. You tease with knowledge & statements the truthfulness of which tends to be questionable.

Holly seems to be quite the loaded symbol, though. You've got your thorns & your drops of blood in the leaves & berries. Steal the wreath theme from the Romans & you can make a nice little crown.

Too bad it's for the wrong holiday.

Why Not Then Continue To Look Upon It All As A Child Would...?

As a child growing up in very rural Oregon, I always loved walking in the rain. There was something about it that was so...real. It made me feel gloriously alive. Rain on the face, arms, whatever limbs I'd left exposed to its simultaneously de- & re- mystifying ways, had a way of taking me outside myself, beyond inner world & out into world world, something with which I've always struggled. (And yes, we can debate what real & world world mean til the butcher kills the cows, but I have yet to find a more concise & definitive argument than G.E. Moore's "Here is a hand. And here is another" in defense of the existence of the external world. Since I never could even approach a firm decision regarding that particular quandry, let's just make this a post about rain & leave it at that.) It's the quickest fix for an enduring issue. Forget hats, raincoats & galoshes, I just liked to walk in our field whenever it rained. (Which, this being, you know, Oregon, I had ample opportunity to do.)

So it was a bit out of the ordinary, then, when I went to college in Massachusetts & suddenly for the first time in my life found myself the proud(?) owner of...an umbrella (gasp!). If it was raining, the umbrella was my friend. I always chalked it up to growing up - assumed the rain simply didn't astound as it once had. The childlike wonder was replaced with irritability over sopping wet clothes. Also, the fact that around my third year I actually deigned to wear the glasses I'd been prescribed since I was 13 may have had some influence. (I still kinda miss blurry world, but that's a tale for another time.) And as anyone who wears glasses surely knows, glasses + rain = match made in hell.

As I found myself living in various areas of the East Coast, my newfound avoidance of the rain grew unabated. From Massachusetts to New York City to Pennsylvania to Virginia, I always had an umbrella or three. (This despite never actually having purchased one, umbrellas being one of those things that just kind of make their way into lives.) After many years of this, I pretty much assumed that rain & grown-up me could only communicate with each other through the umbrella-interpreter. Well, except for one night last summer when I stood barefoot & bare-headed in a constant rain listening to that song by Eddie Kendricks & that song by New Order & that song by Robyn on repeat on my iPod & chainsmoked & cried for a really long time. However, I think I was drowning myself more in vodka & tears than rain, so it doesn't really count.

But last November I learned to love the rain again. It wasn't a big deal - I was just walking in the rain. No barriers comprised of rain-retardant gear. And suddenly realized I enjoyed it again. (Don Ray's "Standing In The Rain" was my mental soundtrack, which probably didn't hurt.)

See, here's the secret: Pacific Northwest rain isn't really kin to the rain in those other states. It's immeasurably more pleasant to walk in the rain here. Usually. It drizzles, it teases, it's rain enough to be rain, but not so much rain that you feel the ill effects. It invigorates but does not overwhelm. And, best of all, as when I was a child, it still reminds me that I am alive in the world. And that the outside world is vastly more open & interesting & fascinating when you're in it, than it is when you're looking at it from the inside world. Inside is for grownups, which is not always a bad thing. But right now, outside is where I want to be. Even if my glasses get wet.

North Park Blocks

En route to Powell's Books on Burnside yesterday, I passed this charming 12-foot sculpture in the North Park Blocks. It was a gift given in 2002 to the city from a Chinese businessman, Huo Baozhu, whose company made reproductions of Chinese artifacts. This particular one is a replica of an object dating from the Shang dynasty (1200 - 1100 BC). It's embellished with figures from ancient Chinese mythology, & the baby elephant symbolizes that offspring shall be safe & prosperous. (To which I say, whatever.) Huo decided to make & give the statue to the city as he was dying of a rare blood disease, because he'd traveled to Portland on many occasions & admired the city's balance of urban & green spaces.

And apparently Portland loves elephants. So do I!

They're All Very Moral Maladies

The first time I ever saw Bernardo Bertolucci's The Conformist was in a community college night class I took for high school credit. It was a crappy VHS copy, with the original Italian soundtrack dubbed in English; the film was never widely available & indeed, as I've learned, was barely released theatrically in this country to begin with (& then only at the behest of Coppola, Penn & Lumet, among others). I was just learning how to "watch" movies at that point & hardly knew what to make of this one. But it seared itself into my brain nonetheless. For instance, the above image I have carried with me exactly as it is ever since I saw it. (Obviously my TV screen picture doesn't do it justice; it's a magnificent tracking shot.)

For twelve years I have waited to see this film again.

It never had a proper VHS release that I could find; & since the dawn of DVDs I have scoured Google for news of its release. Although I really thought it would get the deluxe Criterion treatment, Paramount finally released the DVD in December 2006. Of course, I immediately bought it - as a Christmas present for somebody else. But yesterday, I finally went out & bought my own copy which I watched as soon as I got home.

The film is fantastic. Watch it. I command you.

Vittorio Storaro made his name & reputation as the cinematographer for this film & it's patently clear why - the entire thing is gorgeous. The disc's extras are sparse, given the richness of the film (the Mean Girls extras are more in-depth, fer chrissakes), but the most revealing thing to be gleaned from them is Storaro's inspiration for the look of the picture, which was specifically Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew. To wit:


Namely, that line over on the right betwixt shadow & light. It's pretty much the summation of the picture.

So, I'll give ya the bare-bones plot outline here: Marcello Clerici (Jean-Louis Trintignant) thinks, for reasons I'll not disclose, that he's different from the others. He wants to be like everybody else (hence the title, eh?). Of course, he's also living in fascist Italy in the 1930s, so his wanting to be like everybody else is a bit different from, say, some whiny teenager's. Although, he's convinced that he's so different, & feels such a need to conform, that he goes a bit further & volunteers to do a job for the fascist secret police that will, in effect, erase any reminders for him that he just mightn't be the perfect little fascist after all. But can you ever really escape yourself? (Cue "dah-dahn" here.)

Personally, my new favorite scene from this viewing is one in which he has a conversation with his old philosophy professor about Plato's cave (but I've always had a soft spot for that cave). Good stuff & just stunning to watch. I was also very impressed with the scenes which were filmed in the E.U.R.

From what I understand, this 1970 release is the most readily accessible of Bertolucci's early avant-garde films. Not having seen any of the others I can't speak as to the truth of that, but rumor has it The Conformist created a bit of a rift between Bertolucci & his "mentor" Jean-Luc Godard, who thought Bertolucci told its story too conventionally. I say, hallelujah! Let Godard go off & make dreck with Jane Fonda. I've yet to enjoy even one of his films, honestly - I fell asleep during Breathless, for starters - though I've meant for an age to watch Contempt before giving up on him entirely. (The funny part is, little as I care for Godard, I totally ganked his Tout Va Bien tracking shots for the first film I ever made. Nobody noticed, but I did get a Fellini nod from my professor. It's okay. Coppola ganked The Conformist's blowing leaves scene for The Godfather Part II.)

Also, what favorite movie of mine would be complete without a couple of hot girls? I can't believe there aren't better pictures of these two out on the internets, but alas! here is the best I can do:

Such A Great Idea

How cool is this? There are several bare hanging light bulbs in my apartment. Okay, there are two: one in the bathroom & one in the water closet. There are other hanging lights with, whaddayacallem, shades or something. But still! I'm so doing this. Not sure I like the bottle so much, but no doubt I could dredge up a modicum of ingenuity if I put my tiny mind to it. It even comes in three forms: lamp proper, PDF instructions (two euro!) & DIY kit. More info here.

Prince = God

The glory of my team's victory made me almost forget about the fantabulous halftime show. Not having seen any Superbowls before, nor having felt particularly inclined to seek out clips (read: Jackson nipple) on YouTube, I don't know how it ranks in comparison to others.

But I do know this: I *heart* Prince.