All three soccer teams I follo…
Written on August 29, 2009 at 9:59 pm, by richard
All three soccer teams I follow (the one avidly, the other two casually) won today. Mom’s b-day party, too. And I saw a photo of a molecule.
I love Dan Neil
Written on August 28, 2009 at 12:05 am, by richard
A few years ago, Dan Neil beat out all America’s opera, film, ballet, music and literary reviewers to win the Pulitzer Prize for outstanding criticism. Here’s a small sample of why:
Lathed from solid envy, thick with menace, low with conspiracy, wide with mayhem, the DBS Volante sends other motorists into a lane-crossing frenzy as they dive for their cellphones to take pictures.
It’s tremendous fun to run up behind an SUV with adolescent boys in the back and watch as, their noses pressed against the rear window, their little minds become permanently warped with car fever. Their mouths go slack, their eyes spin. The Aston is the end of automotive innocence for them. Xbox will never be the same.
And then, shift down a couple of gears and stomp the throttle: The 6.0-liter V-12 starts murdering air and gas, the tailpipes tear the veil off reason and common sense, and the car . . . just . . . disappears.
Mommy, I want an Aston Martin!
Yep, he writes about cars, and really well, too. I cackle aloud at least once every time I read one of his reviews, and I start hatching get-righ-quick schemes about as often. When Maybach lends him a super-luxury sedan, the Los Angeles Times’ readership is briefly escorted into the plush serenity of a chauffeured ride up Rodeo. We can taste the grit on our tongues when he goes off-road in a four-by-four.
But he doesn’t just write about whipping the latest exotic supercars around mountain roads and German highways for our vicarious thrills. Neil also writes about the economic, environmental, political, and social challenges facing the global car industry and motorists, and as far as I can tell (other than what I read in the Times, I know little about these things), he does it with sophistication, precision, fairness, frankness, and clarity. An impressive acheivement for any critic, and he should be proud of the way he informs his readers about something that matters very much to them in many practical and emotional ways.
Read the whole article quoted above here.
I was so lonely . . .
Written on July 19, 2009 at 3:09 pm, by richard
But thankfully, I now have dozens and dozens of new Internet friends! Lots of them come from Laos or Malaysia, and have just started writing in English; it’s amazing how much they’ve picked up in such a short time, and how much they know about online pharmacies! I also appreciate the advice on where to get Cialis, Levitra, and Viagra for cheap; Lord knows I wouldn’t want to pass into middle age without the proper preparations, if you know what I mean. You’re so kind. And to those of you from Ukraine and Russia, I don’t know if you know this, but your keyboards are acting up or something; when I logged in to moderate your comments, my screen was filled with pages and pages of words written in letters that I can’t read. I tried turning the computer upside down and giving it a good whack, but nothing — sorry.
(I wish people would cut it out with the spam comments. This is moderated, and I’m not gonna click on your links, and if I recognize your IP addresses, which are logged, I will ban you.)
Got the C:HV soundtrack on iTu…
Written on April 27, 2009 at 12:16 am, by richard
Got the C:HV soundtrack on iTunes. I love it in the same way I love Melt-Banana. It’s mostly short bursts of manic noise. Patton’s great.
Crank: High Voltage. See it. L…
Written on April 26, 2009 at 11:23 pm, by richard
Crank: High Voltage. See it. Laugh uproariously. So over-the-top. Mike Patton=great score. Statham rules too.
A hummingbird just flew into t…
Written on April 26, 2009 at 5:43 pm, by richard
A hummingbird just flew into the house. Got him out, safe and sound. After getting photos, of course.
I can’t tell where not botheri…
Written on April 25, 2009 at 2:03 am, by richard
I can’t tell where not bothering to shave stops and growing a beard starts. Either way I can’t stop scratching my jaw.
McCartney: Sir Paul shows how it’s done
Written on April 23, 2009 at 12:01 am, by richard
Paul McCartney, Coachella Music and Arts Festival, Friday, April 17, 2009.
My back was about to collapse on itself and my heels felt like the bones were slowly mashing together into jelly, and I was slightly dizzy from dehydration, heat, and hunger, but I was not about to give up my spot 100 feet from the stage. The Black Keys had shredded their speaker cones with sweet feedback, Franz Ferdinand had lay down energetic, melodic dance grooves, and Morrissey had sung beautifully through a grimace induced by the aroma of barbecued meat from across the festival lawn. It had been five hours, and Ben, Mia and I were damned if we were going to budge.
After that long, you have to occasionally crouch down or even sit, if you have enough space, to relieve pressure on your back and joints. I’d say that at 29 I’m finally, or already, starting to give in to the frailties of approaching middle age, but I recall it being the same way when I was 19, and anyway I’m in much better shape these days than I was back then.
But then it lifted as Sir James Paul McCartney MBE, the surviving half of the rock songwriting team before which all others should rightly bow and scrape, strode onstage, fulfilling the best chance I will likely ever have to see pop genius in person, in all its glory. I mean . . . he was a Beatle. (Just a warning: Very soon, I lose any sense of objectivity and you’re about to read the biggest load of soppy gushing I’m likely to ever publish here. If that last sentence doesn’t mean to you what it does to me, or if you want something with more emotional variety, skip to a couple posts ago, when I gripe about sports.) Read more
Amanda Palmer rules, and other Coachella news
Written on April 21, 2009 at 12:00 am, by richard
Amanda Palmer at Coachella 2009.
I have liked The Dresden Dolls from the moment I heard them. I think it was in my friend Simone’s car in the Bay Area. Driving through deserted downtown Oakland at night, I remember, she played me a song that built upon a simple melody on a toy piano and turned into a novel, melodically rich, clever take on loneliness (“Coin Operated Boy,” I discovered). Then she played for me “Girl Anachronism,” a much more frantic, anxious song, and I was sold — here was a group that made basic elements (mostly piano and drums) into a unique spectacle by sheer force of great songwriting and forceful performance. But I never got properly into them, save for the occasional listen in other people’s cars; I never bought any of their music, though my sister did.
Then, through Neil Gaiman’s blog, I found Dresden Dolls singer and pianist Amanda Palmer and noticed that she had new solo material out. I saw a video for a song called “Leeds United,” and I loved it. And then I heard she was playing Coachella, and I made a date with myself to see if her performance matched her record.
In a tent where the air must have been close to 100 degrees, after a bit of waiting, “Thus Spake Zarathrustra” boomed from the speakers. About 20 people came onstage, wearing next to nothing, their bodies painted in wild gray and white splashes; then they turned around to reveal Amanda Palmer’s name painted on their backs as Amanda jumped up on her piano bench, silver cape-like thing aflutter, in a majestic pose. She flung it off, sat down, and began playing.
What a show. First of all, she knows how to craft a beautiful, memorable song: I knew next to none of the music, but most of it immediately lodged in my head. Onstage, she is an electromagnet — you cannot give her anything but your undivided attention because the art you’re witnessing is powerful and personal and delivered intensely. Her songs are little melodic poems and stories, moving monologues. I was not at all surprised to learn that she did theater when she was younger; she delivers her songs with the complete immersion of an actor committed to the role, and she has the charisma of a born performer. She commanded that sweltering tent for an hour, with just an electric keyboard and her friend Zoe Keating on cello. She sings often of pain and despair and dysfunction, but the quality of the music and the cathartic satisfaction of her performance gave hope the final say.
She had a great personal rapport with her fans. She chatted between songs about her experiences with British media censorship, her observations on young musicians and young soldiers both playing Guitar Hero half a world apart, and other stories behind her songs. She told one fan, “yes, you can has setlist.” Obviously thrilled with how the show was turning out, she got her laptop and took a picture of herself with the audience in the background, Twittered for posterity.
At the end of the set, she had the audience carry her, in Superman pose, to the back of the crowd on their upraised hands:
Amanda Palmer surfing the crowd, Coachella 2009.
There, she sat on the shoulders of the members of a performance troupe, produced a ukelele, and led a singalong of Radiohead’s “Creep.” She had several hundred people singing about how they’re weirdos and they wish they were special but they don’t belong here, with smiles on their faces, together. It was a touching moment: a choir of misfits momentarily united in vulnerability, sounding joyful to be in a group of kindred spirits. Or maybe everyone was just singing along to a well-known pop song, ironically presented, and the contrast amused them. For me, both were true.
Then she led a parade to an outdoor performance-art stage in the middle of the grounds. She sat on the stage, amid a mob, and received fans with hugs and kisses. She took photos with fans, and was generally very gracious with total strangers. Later, I went to a tent where she was giving autographs and asked her to personalize some presents for people. I listened to one of those presents on the drive home, and I’m even more deeply struck by how thoughtful and inventive and personal and moving a lyricist she is, and by how well she turns interesting musical ideas into songs. Plus, Neil Gaiman and she worked on a book together that comes out soon, and as a huge fan of Mr. Gaiman, I am very much looking forward to this.
Because she was so good and so personable, and because I have been recovering from terrible Coachella dust-ravaged sinuses, I’ve been perusing her Web sites, www.amandapalmer.net and www.whokilledamandapalmer.com. There’s a lot of fun stuff there, lots of insights into the life of a fascinating artist, and a lot of thoughtful commentary on music, art, humor, and lots of other topics. Rather than rehash it all, I’ll just recommend clicking those links (with the obligatory warning that the material you stumble upon will certainly contain salty language and contoversy, and the sites may possible somewhere have images that your boss might not like too much, so look at home).
I got my photo taken with Miss Palmer, and I think I look like a total fanboy geek, but I’m actually just really happy at having just listened to her set. Other people love this photo, I guess. So here it is:
Me and Amanda Palmer, Coachella 2009
Sorry for rotten image quality. I didn’t have my own camera with me, and hadn’t figured out how to wring good photos in weird lighting from the one I did have.
I’ll write more later about the rest of Coachella, but I’m currently enjoying the new-discovery-obsession joy (yes, she counts, even though I knew of her beforehand), and I wanted to share.
Oh, and seeing Paul McCartney …
Written on April 20, 2009 at 12:33 pm, by richard
Oh, and seeing Paul McCartney sing my two favorite Beatles songs was wonderful.