Oct

31

Halloween.

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So, are children so far removed from their responsibilities to society at this point that the first two words of “trick or treat” have been rendered meaningless? If I refuse to hand out candy to today’s youth, am I safe? If so, I’m disappointed, and fear for the future.

On a related note, unlike in years past, on this go-around, D and I received a sizeable number of minors at our house, begging for sweets. Double digits, actually. Which, based upon our experiences at past residences in Olympia, we were unprepared for. As in, we hadn’t purchased sufficient quantity of chocolate. Oops. In a moment of panic, as we disgorged our last two pieces into the pillowcase of a lonely, straw-haired child, we scrambled to find alternate forms of sugar that might be acceptable.

Should we bake brownies? Should we hand out this Fall’s crop of Mallomars? Of course not: they’re not individually wrapped. We might have put poison on them. Or whatever it is that the insane parents of today worry about. What is prepackaged? Hmm…we’ve got a few bars of Trader Joe’s 72% cacao darks, originally procured for personal use. But what if more than three costumed solicitors come a-knocking? What about inedibles, where poison is less of a concern? Perhaps coins? No…remember what we did to the house that gave out the pennies when we were children. Shudder. Maybe…applesauce? Individually foiled applesauce containers? Can we really stoop to handing out applesauce?

We left four tubs of applesauce by the door until ten, at which point we breathed a sigh of relief that we didn’t need to test whether a “treat” of applesauce would be more insulting than no treat at all. Dodged a bullet with that one, no?

Oct

28

Dylan’s Christmas vs. Ken Tucker.

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I’m not sure I agree with NPR music critic Ken Tucker that Bob Dylan’s voice sounding awful on his new Christmas album is bullshit criticism. Frankly, I too find the sorts of songs where Dylan can make his, well, limited vocal range work are many. But that collection does not include most traditional Christmas songs, which require a much stronger set of pipes. Judging from the clips interspersed between Mr. Tucker’s review, unless the entire album is actually intended as a joke, I’m not going to be buying.

But I do appreciate Mr. Tucker’s describing Dylan’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” as sounding “more like a threat than a promise.” So maybe, for charity, I ought to give Christmas in the Heart a try.

Oct

27

Ingmar Bergman’s Field of Dreams.

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I’ve never been much of an Ingmar Bergman fan. Wild Strawberries was good, I suppose. But Seventh Seal and Fanny & Alexander bored me to tears. I’ve also was never that enthusiastic for Field of Dreams–it isn’t even my favorite baseball-related Kevin Costner film. I would imagine I’d feel different if I were somewhat older. Or had a falling out with my father. Or something.

But I do appreciate recut trailers. And this one’s pretty quality. So enjoy: Ingmar Bergman’s lost classic, Field of Dreams.

[From Pajiba.]

Oct

24

Baldo vs. talking animals.

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I am a devoted newspaper comics reader. Indeed, the only strip that does not appear in the daily Olympian that I cannot abide is the wretched Family Circus, which, like most of the movies used on Mystery Science Theater 3000, is only palatable when modified by humorists.

But I do regularly read Baldo. Which is why I’m sort of bothered by the recent Yenny Lopez crossover storyline that started last Sunday. It isn’t so much the overtly sexual overtones that really don’t fit with what had heretofore been a relatively family-friendly comic. It isn’t even the creepiness of Papi hitting on the same chica as Baldo. Or the Internet stalking theme.

No, it’s that fucking talking iguana that appeared in today’s strip. Some comics–Get Fuzzy, Garfield, Peanuts, Dilbert–have talking animals. Others–For Better or For Worse, Blondie, Pickles–don’t. Baldo has been a no-talking-animals comic for as long as I’ve read it…until now. Because some hootchy imported character apparently ascribes to different rules. Boo-urns. I’m this close to boycotting.

Oct

21

November 2009 election.

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Time again for another election. This time around, here in the Washington 22nd, we’ve got an initiative, a referendum, a county commissioner race, a pair of port commissioner races, four city council races (and an uncontested municipal judgeship, and three uncontested school board positions that I’ll be ignoring).

First, Tim Eyman’s latest: Initiative Measure No. 1033. What this initiative seems to be about is freezing (with certain qualifications and exceptions) government revenue. Ordinarily, I’d support such an endeavor. But what it does with any taxes collected in excess goes toward property tax relief. Which is unnecessarily regressive. As a homeowner, the self-interested part of me is sort of tempted to go down this road, but in the end, if you’re going to make quasi-permanent the sorts of cuts in government services (e.g. Basic Health), the least you can do is focus tax relief on those who lost those services, not the wealthiest among us. So, Mr. Eyman, I’m going to have to vote no.

When I was imbibing on Saturday in Purr, a gentleman came around shilling for Referendum Measure No. 71. Which at first puzzled me: aren’t I supposed to be against the bigots? Or maybe this guy was pushing me to vote “Yes on 71″ because of some philosophical problem with the inherently separate but equal zone in which Engrossed Second Substitute Senate Bill 5688–the so-called “everything but marriage” bill that expands the number of rights available to registered domestic partnerships under Washington law–dares to tread? No, it’s just that I hadn’t read the damned thing. That, and apparently the sorts of queers that frequent Purr are perhaps not the most reliable voters in the foxhole. It’s pretty straightforward, actually. “Approved” means “that’s a good law.” “Rejected” means “I’m a worthless bigot who thinks my fuckbuddy relationship is more special than your fuckbuddy relationship.” So, Approved.

Regarding the County Commissioner District No. 3 position, Patrick Beehler terrifies me with his pixelated face, the creepy blond children endorsers, and the fact that law enforcement seems to like him. Karen Valenzuela freaks me out a little with her “we love farmer’s markets” thing, and the “let’s tackle global warming at the local level” conceit. But ultimately, I’m voting for Valenzuela for the simple reason that I believe “Return to the letter and spirit of the growth management act” to be code for “more density.” Whereas Beehler’s “Government should be of laws rather than of men and we must rescind all existing moratoriums” seems to signal a preference for more sprawl.

Bill McGregor is running against an assortment of disorganized and possibly fictitious write-in campaigns for Port Commissioner District No. 2. But in the end, McGregor seems like a better choice than the raving lunatics that want to turn the Port into a sewage-laced water park or a setting for absurdly expensive Atlantean-style public housing. So, McGregor it is.

Jeff Davis lost my vote for Port Commissioner District No. 3 when Emmett O’Connell posted speculation that Davis is out of touch with likely future trends regarding traffic at the Port of Olympia. Thus, Dave Peeler.

Karen Rogers lost my vote for City Council Position No. 4 the first time when she vehemently opposed development on the isthmus for stupid reasons. She lost my vote the second time for picking a fight with my wife. The unsatisfying but satisfactory Karen Veldheer by default.

I actually voted for Stephen Buxbaum in the primary regarding City Council Position No. 5. But after seeing him advocate neighborhood residents know better than professional traffic engineers about the transportation infrastructure needs of the community at large, I realized this guy doesn’t know shit. That, and I’m down on the whole idea of farmer’s markets temporarily, and Buxbaum is certainly identified with farmer’s markets. So I suppose I’m back to Jeff Kingsbury.

Jeannine Roe, in addition to having too many instances of the letter “n” in her first name and reminding me of my abortion rights, apparently also supports the return of free parking downtown. Ugh. And so Joan Machlis for City Council Position No. 6. All the more so because she actually appears to be a generally bright, capable individual on the right side of damned near every position I care about.

I’m torn about the Jon Hyer vs. Tony Sermonti race for the City Council Position No. 7. I like Hyer’s knowledge of issues, and his being a fan of my law firm on Facebook. I like Sermonti’s involvement with Capital City Pride, and his relentlessly-pro-market-rate-housing-in-downtown stance. A toss-up? Nah. I’ll just echo The Olympian and selectively denigrate flip-floppers. Sermonti.

Oct

14

MarQueen.

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The NLG Conference this weekend in Seattle has accompanying festivities such that a drive back to Olympia was deemed inadvisable. Especially on Friday night, when the student party is bound to render me more than a little puzzled.

Therefore, I decided that lodgings were in order. As it turns out, the futon at A’s house is decidedly full, what with being covered by a pair of felines and a recovering Fulbright scholar. And, as attractive as the offer may have been at a younger time, as B pointed out, I’m too goddamned old to sleep on the floor.

Thus, a room at the MarQueen. Which is a fabulous hotel, with an odd history. Apparently it was an automotive repair college, with dorms atop, for a time. And then low-income housing. And now a “boutique” hotel. Which is sort of like “luxurious” without the luxury. Quirky. Not owned by Choice Hotels International, Inc. Or something.

The kicker is, when I went to book a room through Hotels.com or Orbitz or one of those fuckers, they said it was sold out. But when I called, they recognized me. “Oh, are you the Christopher Taylor who lives at [street address] in Olympia who stayed with us before”? Yes, miss, I am. I’m your loyal fucking customer. Now give me a room for Friday and Saturday night. And you know what? They fucking did. Rah, rah.

Oct

12

JoAnn Fabrics is the devil.

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Had a 50% off single item coupon at JoAnn Fabrics. Decided to purchase a mirror for the foyer. Also decided, since I was there anyway, to procure the mounting brackets for our curtain rods. Because the brackets that came with the house were improperly installed, making a mess of the drywall, and were too small to boot.

Mistake. Apparently no one informed JoAnn that the quality of the screws that come with the brackets actually matters. As in, when you’re screwing into the wall, you shouldn’t have flecks of metal coming off on the screwdriver. Especially not at a rate that means you never actually can get the screw entirely into the wall. Or remove it once it’s there. Stripped to hell.

Lesson: JoAnn Fabrics is the devil. Don’t shop there. Their products are of absurdly low quality. At least with respect to hardware. I cannot speak to their fabrics.

Oct

10

Concert films.

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Notwithstanding my giddy joy over Block Party, I am generally disappointed with concert films. There’s an energy in a live performance that simply cannot be recreated on a screen. And yet over and over, I get sucked into watching the critically acclaimed members of the set. The Last Waltz. Stop Making Sense. And, now, Berlin.

A have an awful fondness for Lou Reed. Transformer is easily one of the greatest albums ever recorded. The Velvet Underground put out some great stuff. But I never quite got around to giving Berlin a listen. So there’s nothing about Julian Schnabel’s concert film that would be familiar (absent the surprise inclusion of variants on the Velvet’s “Candy Says” and “Sweet Jane”). The film does not suffer for its lack of familiarity, though. I dug on the music. Quite a bit.

But the visuals, as stoner-captivating as they are, are frankly quite dull. Indeed, I had to move the damned thing to the background to stay interested after only twenty minutes or so. There’s something profoundly uninteresting about seeing aging rockers stand on a stage with flickering images in the background. At least when television is involved.

So what’s the allure? Why do people keep suggesting I come back in the fold? I think I could understand more if there were visually interesting witty anecdotes. Or faces not completely hung up on the music. But what’s the appeal of the concert film?

Oct

9

The Brothers Bloom.

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After some thought, I’m convinced that whatever initial disappointment I had with The Brothers Bloom stemmed from my misapprehension that it is, at is core, a confidence picture. A clever riff on the formula perhaps–compare to Matchstick Men–but centrally concerned with flim flam. The Brothers Bloom, whatever superficial theme it may appear to have, isn’t really a grifter story.

***SPOILER ALERT***

The revelation I kept waiting for is that Penelope, the apparently uberwealthy recluse savant, as actually attempting to con the titular brothers. Or perhaps that she was in cohoots with Stephen in an elaborate plot to bring a little more reality into the life of Bloom. Or something.

But now I’m starting to think the longstanding status of Stephen, Bloom, and Bang Bang as confidence persons wasn’t really central to the story. Because what Bloom was really about is the tension between the balls-out artist-until-death and the more common art-hobbyist.

See, Stephen lives for his art. Scripting and then carrying out elaborate and satisfying cons where all the players get what they want. The financial payoff of the cons is important only insofar as it allows the lifestyle whereby Stephen and his crew can continue live to con another day. On some level (although it would have made a less coherent and effective movie), Stephen could have been a graffiti artist. Or a Se7ven-style serial killer. Or a Civil War reenactor. Or a heroin addict.

Bloom, on the other hand, wants to live for something other than his art. Although he certainly is good at, and on some level enjoys, playing Stephen’s protagonists, he wants a more real life than being a part of Stephen’s troupe.

The central dramatic device of the film is the same as in Trainspotting. Or Road Trip. Or Control. As in, you’ve got a person that really digs on a particular lifestyle for a while (e.g. cons, heroin, a particular romantic relationship, a band), but then decides to move on. [That's Bloom. Or Renton. Or Tiffany. Or Ian Curtis.] The person or people with whom he used to engage in that lifestyle, however, don’t seem to want him gone, in part because of a numbers game. [That's Stephen (and Bang Bang). Or Begbie. Or Josh. Or future members of New Order.] The lifestyle simply doesn’t work without the usual suspects. And so efforts are made to entice the individual seeking to move on to return. Ah, the drama!

So ultimately Bloom succeeds on its own terms, because it has the right sort of story arc and resolution you’ve come to expect from that central plot device. Bravo.

[It also succeeds because there's great chemistry between the actors, an extremely witty and quirky script and look, and the most adorable character Rachel Weisz has ever played.]

Oct

3

The World I Know.

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Having heard “Shine” while listening to nostalgia-pop radio a couple of weeks ago, I was busy bad-mouthing Collective Soul in a bar in Richland last weekend. Of course, amid the vitriol spewing–sandwiched between “Possum Kingdom,” “1979,” “No Rain,” and other popular 90s “alternative” hits for which I have a certain fondness–”The World I Know” started playing.

Of course, I knew all the words. And of course I got all warm and fuzzy in my remembrance. And of course, I completely didn’t believe the person with whom I was drinking when he said I was digging on Collective Soul. And of course he was perfectly right.

Which got me to wondering how “The World I Know” could be made better. And what I came up with is that it should be rerecorded by Neil Diamond on a sort of Johnny-Cash-American-Recordings sort of album. Not old school “Sweet Caroline“-era Neil Diamond. Not mid-career “Coming to America” Neil Diamond. No, I’m thinking 12 Songs Neil.

Which, after contemplating what I just wrote, gets me to wondering if what I really want is a new Collective Soul album produced by Rick Rubin. Huh.