Coco and Lafe, who are buskers you can see routinely around and about Boston during the summer, are doing a live performance on WDVX in front of a live audience tomorrow 4.24), to be broadcast across Tennessee and Kentucky and the whole wide world through a Webcast.
Details: 12 noon eastern (for those in Europe and down under, you’ll have to do the math).
From an email: We’re actually performing at a new, high tech performance venue called “The Square” (as it is located at 4 Market Square in Knoxville, Tennessee). Fred Eaglesmith and Joe Lamay/Sherri Reese will also be performing.
You can connect here or at their Website here.
Good luck, you guys. And if you're sitting in your cube tomorrow at noon with nothing better to do because, oh, I don't know, maybe one of your biggest customers or clients is about to go belly-up, give Coco and Lafe a listen.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
We're leaving on a trip; why am I depressed?
We're counting down the days we when we leave for Spain and North Africa. Doing all the little errands, paying off the Amex so we can put more on it for more frequent flier miles for future trips, buying presents for the people we'll be meeting for the first time, putting finishing touches on our itinerary, which basically amounts to when do we leave Spain for North Africa; Sue and I are very loose.
There's something about traveling, in the leaving, that makes me a bit sad, though. I've noticed it all my life, and I'm aware of it, the same way I'm now aware of the letdown that I'll have when a play that I'm in closes. I know the drop is coming and I'm prepared for it. It's like being depressed in the spring. Everyone thinks you're supposed to be so happy in the spring, just like you should be so happy when you're leaving on a trip. But I get depressed in the spring, just as I've learned so many other people do, and yes, I've read about people, serious travel writers, who have identified the depression that occurs in leaving.
And for anyone who thinks I'm overly sensitive, you know what you can do. I'm so tired of people--usually ones who are thick and dense as a block of wood who experience life with all the vigor of a sea slug, telling me how I should or shouldn't experience life.
It's all in the leaving, and guilt that I'm doing something really nice for myself, a problem I've had all my life thinking that I really don't deserve nice things. (Try growing up poor in the working class; it isn't all a Matt Damon movie.) There's the guilt that I'm leaving behind responsibilities (for awhile, at least) that may need my attention.
It's awfully decadent to be traveling in this economy, isn't it? Even though Sue and I live so frugally in order to travel, and pretty much backpack wherever we go. It's the life we want to live, and it's the life we set out to live. Still, there are all the shoulds: I should be saving my money. I should be spending my money on something more practical or saving it for an emergency. I should be concentrating on looking for permanent work or even a really good contract. Even the play I'm in makes me guilty because last night the cast and director met for the first time and it's a really tight group of people, and I'm leaving and we could be rehearsing when I'm away and I want to do a really good job for the director who I really like, and I don't want to let my cast members down, whom I like and have a lot of respect for.
It's all in the leaving. And I learned a long time ago, on my first really big trip, that you can't look at it that you're leaving, but that you're going somewhere. Never look back (and never look down, either!) But look to where you're heading, and you'll do fine.
There's something about traveling, in the leaving, that makes me a bit sad, though. I've noticed it all my life, and I'm aware of it, the same way I'm now aware of the letdown that I'll have when a play that I'm in closes. I know the drop is coming and I'm prepared for it. It's like being depressed in the spring. Everyone thinks you're supposed to be so happy in the spring, just like you should be so happy when you're leaving on a trip. But I get depressed in the spring, just as I've learned so many other people do, and yes, I've read about people, serious travel writers, who have identified the depression that occurs in leaving.
And for anyone who thinks I'm overly sensitive, you know what you can do. I'm so tired of people--usually ones who are thick and dense as a block of wood who experience life with all the vigor of a sea slug, telling me how I should or shouldn't experience life.
It's all in the leaving, and guilt that I'm doing something really nice for myself, a problem I've had all my life thinking that I really don't deserve nice things. (Try growing up poor in the working class; it isn't all a Matt Damon movie.) There's the guilt that I'm leaving behind responsibilities (for awhile, at least) that may need my attention.
It's awfully decadent to be traveling in this economy, isn't it? Even though Sue and I live so frugally in order to travel, and pretty much backpack wherever we go. It's the life we want to live, and it's the life we set out to live. Still, there are all the shoulds: I should be saving my money. I should be spending my money on something more practical or saving it for an emergency. I should be concentrating on looking for permanent work or even a really good contract. Even the play I'm in makes me guilty because last night the cast and director met for the first time and it's a really tight group of people, and I'm leaving and we could be rehearsing when I'm away and I want to do a really good job for the director who I really like, and I don't want to let my cast members down, whom I like and have a lot of respect for.
It's all in the leaving. And I learned a long time ago, on my first really big trip, that you can't look at it that you're leaving, but that you're going somewhere. Never look back (and never look down, either!) But look to where you're heading, and you'll do fine.
Monday, April 20, 2009
2009 Boston Marathon Day
The Boston Marathon was run today. We went in to watch it for a while, and caught the women's finish. But unless you get to Copley Square at the crack of dawn or you have a VIP pass to the stands, you're not going to see anything except flags and the backs of people's heads. Still, this video gives a good sense of the excitement and anticipation as the runners headed down the home stretch. You can see the flags getting whipped by the headwind the runners had to face the entire face.
Still, the marathon doesn't have the appeal that it used to have for me, back in the days when I was running hard, 40, 50, 60 miles a week, if my shins would let me. Back then I called it Boston, and everyone I was hanging with knew what I was talking about. I had runners from all over the country sleeping on the floor and on couches one year, coming to Boston trying to qualify for the Olympics (none made it, but there were two very low two-digit numbers under my roof at one time.)
Things, life, hasn't let me out on the roads in about, God, is it three years now? But even back then I was running up to 15 miles at a clip, in the dead of summer with a Camelback loaded with Gatorade and a packet or two of GU (raspberry was my favorite.) I want to get back into it, but first I have to find a doctor who will give me a stress test and say, sure, no problem, you're heart is fine. At my age, with heart disease part of a big one-two punch in my family (the other being the Big C) I don't want to get out there on the roads and collapse of a heart attack. (Well, at least he died happy.)
So we checked out the finish, where we couldn't see anything except the backs for people's heads and some flags. Around the corner there was a veteran's display. I have to think when dealing with a crisis like that in your life, 25,000 (I was told that was the number of runners today) endorphin-junkies is going to look pretty lame. From the work I did on The Boys of Summer, something like dealing with someone's death through warfare sticks with you for the rest of your life. You pretty much wake up everyday, and that's the thing that slams you between the eyes. It wasn't a dream, is the first thought through your head, and I feel for those people; I really feel for them.
Farther up Newbury we saw the Hempest store. I had heard for hemp being used for clothes, so we wandered in to see what the fuss was about. I have to say I really liked a few of the shirts, but still, I'm not going to pay $89 for a shirt, no matter how much I like it. I wouldn't be leaving for Spain and North Africa in a week if I spent that kind of money on clothes and luxuries. I'm a backpacker, and I like living like that. I've said if I won the Lottery the only thing that would change is I'd drink more premium beer and less beer on sale.
Farther up, Natural Bean was giving away free coffee to celebrate the opening of a new store. Sue told them I'd blog about them, so here I am doing it, but I'm not just doing that because Sue said so. It was really good coffee. I mean, really good. And giving it away is one way to get people turned on to your stuff. (Hey, fat-cat music execs--are you listening?)
We ran into a stream of runners up on Hereford Street that we couldn't cross, just like you might with a swollen stream out in the wilderness, so we turned around and headed home, via Park, going through the crowds again. It's weird, how the race and the runners just became a backdrop for our day, instead of the focus like it used to so many times in the past. The end of Marathon Day was always a cookout. Today we went to REI to pick up a couple of things for our trip.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Anais Mitchell at Club Passim 4.19.09
Anais Mitchell played her magic tonight at Club Passim. Amazing songwriter when it comes to the opera she wrote about the story of Hades. She told the audience tonight that Ani DiFranco is part of the project. She said it was due out in the fall. When it's released, definitely check it out. I've seen her three times now, twice at Club Passim. It's a small, intimate place, perfect for someone like Michell who has almost a delicate way of presenting her voice and herself. She has a really unique voice and way of phrasing songs, that can get a bit tedious. But when she throws her talent into a cover, like she did tonight with a Gillian Welch number, the tedium is brushed aside and it's like seeing her again for the first time. (Sorry, one of these days I'm going to start bringing a notebook to concerts; I swore to myself tonight that I'd remember it, but at this late hour it's completely gone from my head.)
Sorry about the poor quality. But it does give a good idea of her voice, which is so unique.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Second Annual Record Store Day...huh?
Just another forced holiday, and if anyone bemoans the decline of records, CDs, whatever you want to call the hard round things that have music on them, this is just a last-gasp effort to delay the inevitable.
I'm part of that demo that still buys CDs. Newbury Comics. Looney Tunes on Boylston Street by Mass Ave. In Your Ear on Comm Ave. in Allston. They're all still my favorite haunts, especially the used CD stores for the bargains. Also Amazon.com, where I also buy used. I download, but still like the quality of the sound that comes from my Denon stereo and Mission and Advent speakers. But my seventeen-year-old daughter won't go near a CD. She'll cringe, just like I cringed at my father's heavy, 78 RPM records. My world was the vinyl LP. It's all digital downloads for her, all the way to playing her iPod in her car. Digital is her world.
A great book to read to understand all this is Appetite for Self-Destruction, The Spectacular Crash of the Record Industry in the Digital Age. Written by Rolling Stone Contributing Editor Steve Knopper, it minutely trace the players and events that led us to where we are today in the musical world. It was greed, pure greed (surprise, surprise, huh?) coupled with just plain on bad business that sunk the record industry. They were making money hand over fists selling CDs, and never saw the Internet coming. Well, some did, but they were too stupid to figure it out. Illegal downloads. I just don't understand that concept, to tell you the truth, and that's a subject for a whole 'nother blog. Downloads are a way to promote music, and the record industry was too stupid to figure out a way to do it. Steve Jobs with iTunes and the iTunes Store finally figured it out. And now just about every "media" company is pushing their digital downloads. My cell phone that I just bought in December has a link to the ATT store that I can't delete from the phone's menu. They're still trying to ram it all down our throats, and the big, greedy suits probably will never get it.
But...when I say the record industry is sunk, that doesn't mean music is tanking like the economy. Music is more vibrant than ever, with more new music and more ways to hear it and grab it that ever before. Who knows what the Next Big Thing will be. But for sure, the little stuff is the way to go for smaller, up and coming bands. MySpace. Yourbandsname.com. Internet radio. That's just three.
Just the other night I saw The Bittersweets at Club Passim, one of the sweetest venues in the Boston area to see an act. They're touring, they're hitting the right audience, and guess what, they're promoting digital downloading of their music. That night they were promoting their latest live album on noisetrade.com. Pay what you want, including nothing, and you download the album. If you don't pay, you give up five of your friends' email addresses (sorry guys, but I picked five of you who I thought would be interested in music.) That's kind of a interesting way to look at things. If you don't pay, you give them email addresses, which actually are just about good as gold in the marketing world.
I highly recommend the album, by the way. Scroll down a bit on Action Bob Markle and there's a widget on the left you can click on.
I'm part of that demo that still buys CDs. Newbury Comics. Looney Tunes on Boylston Street by Mass Ave. In Your Ear on Comm Ave. in Allston. They're all still my favorite haunts, especially the used CD stores for the bargains. Also Amazon.com, where I also buy used. I download, but still like the quality of the sound that comes from my Denon stereo and Mission and Advent speakers. But my seventeen-year-old daughter won't go near a CD. She'll cringe, just like I cringed at my father's heavy, 78 RPM records. My world was the vinyl LP. It's all digital downloads for her, all the way to playing her iPod in her car. Digital is her world.
A great book to read to understand all this is Appetite for Self-Destruction, The Spectacular Crash of the Record Industry in the Digital Age. Written by Rolling Stone Contributing Editor Steve Knopper, it minutely trace the players and events that led us to where we are today in the musical world. It was greed, pure greed (surprise, surprise, huh?) coupled with just plain on bad business that sunk the record industry. They were making money hand over fists selling CDs, and never saw the Internet coming. Well, some did, but they were too stupid to figure it out. Illegal downloads. I just don't understand that concept, to tell you the truth, and that's a subject for a whole 'nother blog. Downloads are a way to promote music, and the record industry was too stupid to figure out a way to do it. Steve Jobs with iTunes and the iTunes Store finally figured it out. And now just about every "media" company is pushing their digital downloads. My cell phone that I just bought in December has a link to the ATT store that I can't delete from the phone's menu. They're still trying to ram it all down our throats, and the big, greedy suits probably will never get it.
But...when I say the record industry is sunk, that doesn't mean music is tanking like the economy. Music is more vibrant than ever, with more new music and more ways to hear it and grab it that ever before. Who knows what the Next Big Thing will be. But for sure, the little stuff is the way to go for smaller, up and coming bands. MySpace. Yourbandsname.com. Internet radio. That's just three.
Just the other night I saw The Bittersweets at Club Passim, one of the sweetest venues in the Boston area to see an act. They're touring, they're hitting the right audience, and guess what, they're promoting digital downloading of their music. That night they were promoting their latest live album on noisetrade.com. Pay what you want, including nothing, and you download the album. If you don't pay, you give up five of your friends' email addresses (sorry guys, but I picked five of you who I thought would be interested in music.) That's kind of a interesting way to look at things. If you don't pay, you give them email addresses, which actually are just about good as gold in the marketing world.
I highly recommend the album, by the way. Scroll down a bit on Action Bob Markle and there's a widget on the left you can click on.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Count your blessings if you're employed and stop your complaining
About four hours ago this status line appeared on my Facebook wall:
Wishes it was 5:00
This is from a person who is working. Working at a very good job, I might add.
Well, I'll trade places with you.
I don't mean to be mean. Just ironic.
I'm at least familiar with this person (because I do have "friends" on Facebook who I have no idea who they are), and I know this particular person didn't mean any harm. I also know that there are people working who are probably suffering, doing work that is so stressful that it might end of killing them--very literally. Actually, this particular person just may be a good example of that.
It's just that, sometimes it seems that we can only get perspective on things after we lose it. Like a job. We bitch and moan and complain about our jobs, our bosses, the loudmouth in the next cube who can't talk quietly on the phone. But you take all that away and you suddenly get a good idea of what you've lost.
Kids are like that. I used to wake up almost every day to a woman screaming at her kids. Get up. Pick this up. I'm not telling you again. That kind of stuff. This family was wealthy and frankly I couldn't figure out what the woman had to complain about; she had everything any human being could ever want. And there I was, lying in my bed, my kids living in the next town and I was seeing them maybe a day or two a week, if that much, and I thought to myself, you don't know how lucky you are. Yeah, kids can drive you crazy, but you know, maybe it's only when you don't have them in your life anymore, through divorce, like it was for me, or even you almost lose them through sickness, that you really get a good idea how much of a treasure they are.
So, tonight, if you got a job, get down on your knees and thank the good Lord. And if your kids are in the next room sleeping, go in and kiss them on the head. Like I've said before, the warmth that comes off a sleeping child's head could raise a dead man.
Wishes it was 5:00
This is from a person who is working. Working at a very good job, I might add.
Well, I'll trade places with you.
I don't mean to be mean. Just ironic.
I'm at least familiar with this person (because I do have "friends" on Facebook who I have no idea who they are), and I know this particular person didn't mean any harm. I also know that there are people working who are probably suffering, doing work that is so stressful that it might end of killing them--very literally. Actually, this particular person just may be a good example of that.
It's just that, sometimes it seems that we can only get perspective on things after we lose it. Like a job. We bitch and moan and complain about our jobs, our bosses, the loudmouth in the next cube who can't talk quietly on the phone. But you take all that away and you suddenly get a good idea of what you've lost.
Kids are like that. I used to wake up almost every day to a woman screaming at her kids. Get up. Pick this up. I'm not telling you again. That kind of stuff. This family was wealthy and frankly I couldn't figure out what the woman had to complain about; she had everything any human being could ever want. And there I was, lying in my bed, my kids living in the next town and I was seeing them maybe a day or two a week, if that much, and I thought to myself, you don't know how lucky you are. Yeah, kids can drive you crazy, but you know, maybe it's only when you don't have them in your life anymore, through divorce, like it was for me, or even you almost lose them through sickness, that you really get a good idea how much of a treasure they are.
So, tonight, if you got a job, get down on your knees and thank the good Lord. And if your kids are in the next room sleeping, go in and kiss them on the head. Like I've said before, the warmth that comes off a sleeping child's head could raise a dead man.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
The Bittersweets with Audrey Ryan at Club Passim--April 8, 2009
Front row table at Club Passim to see The Bittersweets, who I first heard on Radio Paradise and just fell in love with their music, their lyrics, their harmonies. The Bittersweets are Chris Meyers (guitar, keyboards, vocals) and Hannah Prater (vocals, guitar). They pretty much just followed the playlist of their CD, Goodnight San Francisco, including playing the title track because when they were tuning up someone (moi) asked Hannah if they were going to play it and she said, We'll see. They also played Long Day from The Life You Always Wanted, and a song that was a tribute to Julie Miller (one of these days I should start taking notes.)
Originally from San Francisco (well, that's where the two met), now they live in Nashville and from all reports (from mom and dad Meyers who I talked to by the door and also the mom in line in the bathroom) they like it there. I sincerely hope Nashville doesn't ruin them. Chris was already speaking in kind of a weird hillbilly accent, which is fun and folksy and all but God please don't get caught up in all the hoopla that I suspect can come from the record industry there. My God, look what they did to Lori McKenna's album Glamorous.
Anyway, they started with Birmingham and Hannah's voice is such a surprise live. It's sweeter and softer and a bit velvety compared to the studio version. Her soft voice and easy guitar strumming is a nice counter to Chris's keyboard and raspier voice. Chris is a wildman on stage; you can just see how much he loves what he does, and how much the music means to him. A couple of the Taylors they had on stage were both gouged up at exactly the same place right where the pickguard ran out and the wood was exposed to some serious strumming.
Audrey Ryan opened for them. Ryan is an interesting performer. Hmmm...quirky? Innovative? Eclectic? That night she was playing this Jordin electric guitar, tambourine, bass drum, maracas, and oh yes, an accordion. I didn't know her music, and what she played that night was hard to place, which actually is a good thing. Start with the all-encompassing alt/indie label, but then where do you go when she records a loop with her guitar, then layers the percussion over it and sings? A bit into her act she brought up a friend (Steve?) who works in the kitchen at Passim. Um, Steve didn't add a whole lot, which was kind of funny because in a weird way he became another one of Ryan's instruments, which he probably wouldn't want to hear but it did all work together.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Curse of the Unemployed: Overqualified applicants
Got this as part of an email today:
"Thank you for your patience in regards to feedback from the hiring manager. The quality of applications for this position has been particularly high and we regret to inform you that we will not be moving forward with your application."
The quality of the applications for this position has been particularly high? Well, since I have 28 years of experience at this particular position, the quality must be extraordinarily high. Like Mount Everest high. Like, overqualified. Like, people who are overeducated who are out of work and willing to do the kind of work I've been doing for the past 20+ years.
Yeah, it's fun out here. It really is.
"Thank you for your patience in regards to feedback from the hiring manager. The quality of applications for this position has been particularly high and we regret to inform you that we will not be moving forward with your application."
The quality of the applications for this position has been particularly high? Well, since I have 28 years of experience at this particular position, the quality must be extraordinarily high. Like Mount Everest high. Like, overqualified. Like, people who are overeducated who are out of work and willing to do the kind of work I've been doing for the past 20+ years.
Yeah, it's fun out here. It really is.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Good Friday lyrics by the Cowboy Junkies
"Do you ever finally reach the point of knowing/Or do you just wake up one day and say, I am going?"
Sat at my window watched the world
Wake up this morning
Purple sky slowly turning golden,
Distant elms so orange
You'd swear they're burning.
All this flowing water
Has got my mind wandering.
Do you ever finally reach
A point of knowing
Or do you just wake up one day
And say, I am going?
What will I tell you
When you ask me why I'm crying
Will I point above
At the Red Tail gracefully soaring
Or down below where it's prey
Is quietly trembling?
Two thousand years ago Jesus is left there hanging.
Purple sky slowly turning golden.
Cowards at his feet loudly laughing.
Loved ones stumbling homeward
Their words reeling.
Red Tail above my head quietly soaring.
Waters turn from ice, creak is roaring.
He says, enough of all this shit I am going.
Sat at my window watched the world
Wake up this morning
Purple sky slowly turning golden,
Distant elms so orange
You'd swear they're burning.
All this flowing water
Has got my mind wandering.
Do you ever finally reach
A point of knowing
Or do you just wake up one day
And say, I am going?
What will I tell you
When you ask me why I'm crying
Will I point above
At the Red Tail gracefully soaring
Or down below where it's prey
Is quietly trembling?
Two thousand years ago Jesus is left there hanging.
Purple sky slowly turning golden.
Cowards at his feet loudly laughing.
Loved ones stumbling homeward
Their words reeling.
Red Tail above my head quietly soaring.
Waters turn from ice, creak is roaring.
He says, enough of all this shit I am going.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Life's little ups and downs
It's been a while since I've consistently blogged. A couple of people have mentioned it to me now, and say they enjoy reading this. It would have been a lot of the same old, same old. Being unemployed sucks. It still sucks, but like everything in life--or at least the way I experience it--it's always a roller coaster ride with continual ups and downs every day.
Yesterday I woke really bummed. It all came crashing down on me. And today? I was called in for an audition for a viral video, which I think is really cool to begin with, and I know I nailed the audition. Whether or not I'll get the part remains to be seen, but it's nice to know that I can actually do the work.
Just like I know I can write. I haven't been blogging because, along with looking for work and a job, I've been submitting to Trazzler. They've accepted a few of my stories, and hopefully some of those "user stories" will turn into Trazzler stories. (BTW, become a friend of mine on Trazzler. I think it will help my odds of getting freelance from them.) That's the plan, anyway. I honestly believe there are things in this world that make it better. Actually make the world a better place. And I think travel is one of those things. And if I can use my promotional writing talents and skills to induce people to go travel, then I don't think I'm doing such a bad thing. Someday--and hopefully that someday is sooner than later--Sue and I hope to travel around the world. Big dreams? I don't know. What's wrong with big dreams. If you shoot high, you may miss, but you'll still probably hit higher than if you aimed low.
And Sue and I are leaving for southern Spain and north Africa in three weeks. I was laying on our bed in our guest room, where you can look out the window and see the planes coming and out of Logan, and I thought to myself, what the heck are you doing lying here? Get moving. Decisions sometimes are made quick, and Sue and I can't wait. The economy can go to hell. I found a cheap flight out of JFK. We're taking the Fung Wah bus out of South Station to Chinatown. The subway to JFK. And I can live on fifty cent burritos. I know I can. I've done it.
And one more thing about Sue. God love her. Easter is Sunday. Some of her family is scheduled to come. It's still up in the air. My Kathryn is coming in tonight. I came home from my audition to find Sue here at the apartment on her lunch hour, vacuuming. She said she wanted the place nice for Kathryn. Now, we have a really crummy vacuum cleaner. So I told her if I got this part, we'll buy a new vacuum cleaner. One that works. Her response? She said, I'd rather have an amp. You gotta love a woman like that.
Yesterday I woke really bummed. It all came crashing down on me. And today? I was called in for an audition for a viral video, which I think is really cool to begin with, and I know I nailed the audition. Whether or not I'll get the part remains to be seen, but it's nice to know that I can actually do the work.
Just like I know I can write. I haven't been blogging because, along with looking for work and a job, I've been submitting to Trazzler. They've accepted a few of my stories, and hopefully some of those "user stories" will turn into Trazzler stories. (BTW, become a friend of mine on Trazzler. I think it will help my odds of getting freelance from them.) That's the plan, anyway. I honestly believe there are things in this world that make it better. Actually make the world a better place. And I think travel is one of those things. And if I can use my promotional writing talents and skills to induce people to go travel, then I don't think I'm doing such a bad thing. Someday--and hopefully that someday is sooner than later--Sue and I hope to travel around the world. Big dreams? I don't know. What's wrong with big dreams. If you shoot high, you may miss, but you'll still probably hit higher than if you aimed low.
And Sue and I are leaving for southern Spain and north Africa in three weeks. I was laying on our bed in our guest room, where you can look out the window and see the planes coming and out of Logan, and I thought to myself, what the heck are you doing lying here? Get moving. Decisions sometimes are made quick, and Sue and I can't wait. The economy can go to hell. I found a cheap flight out of JFK. We're taking the Fung Wah bus out of South Station to Chinatown. The subway to JFK. And I can live on fifty cent burritos. I know I can. I've done it.
And one more thing about Sue. God love her. Easter is Sunday. Some of her family is scheduled to come. It's still up in the air. My Kathryn is coming in tonight. I came home from my audition to find Sue here at the apartment on her lunch hour, vacuuming. She said she wanted the place nice for Kathryn. Now, we have a really crummy vacuum cleaner. So I told her if I got this part, we'll buy a new vacuum cleaner. One that works. Her response? She said, I'd rather have an amp. You gotta love a woman like that.
Quincy Billboard: Bet on the U.S....and lose all your chips
This billboard in Wollaston, on the corner of Newport and Beal, always has a patriotic theme with Uncle Sam cheering on the U.S. Someone added their two-cents.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Good Boston theater: The Pain and the Itch and Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls
Saw a double-header of theater this weekend, not something I get to do as much as I used to, primarily because I simply can't afford the price of a ticket. Disposable income is not something Sue and I have a lot of, and if we have any at all it almost exclusively goes straight into the travel fund. On a Friday or Saturday night you're as likely to find us at home, reading or delving into our musical pursuits as much as you'll see us out on the town.
But...
Currently there are two shows running in Boston that are must-sees: The Pain and the Itch at the BCA, produced by Company One, and Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls at The Factory Theater, produced by Holland Productions. Both are crisply written, superbly acted, and very well-directed.
The Pain and the Itch is aptly titled because it is painful to watch what you're seeing on stage and you will squirm from that itch in your very private parts: A family of very well-off white people who drink the right white wine and watch PBS and espouse all the appropriate, liberal values. Of course there are a few characters who act as flies in the ointment, but funny, those aren't the ones who are making us squirm. The cast is a terrific ensemble. There's no need to give accolades to any one actor on the stage because each character is perfectly drawn and presented, and meshes (or not) with the other characters. The set is sublime, complete with working HD TV. Get ready for the surprise ending, which frankly, threw me at first. Contrived, I wondered, until I reached back and realized how deftly the playwright, actors, and director led me by the nose.
Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls, as the title might intimate, asks, Are there times when you can't tell if your life is coming or going? Well, then aloha, which means both hello and goodbye. A fun, quirky script that transverses time and space--one minute you're in Alaska, the next Hawaii, and sometimes that person looks vaguely familiar and so does the dog. The cast barrels along at a non-stop brisk pace, and it's all fun but in retrospect it does ask some serious questions, particularly about our relationships with one another. And that's the production's charm: It's so darn entertaining you forget its serious theater until you're having drinks afterwards.
If I don't call attention to particular cast members of either production, both directors should be given high praise. Avid baseball fans will know that many times a win on a sleepy, hot summer's day comes from one manager out-dueling the other. The success of both productions rests humbly and mightily on the shoulders of their respective directors: M. Bevin O'Gara for The Pain and the Itch and Krista D'Agostino for Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls.
But...
Currently there are two shows running in Boston that are must-sees: The Pain and the Itch at the BCA, produced by Company One, and Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls at The Factory Theater, produced by Holland Productions. Both are crisply written, superbly acted, and very well-directed.
The Pain and the Itch is aptly titled because it is painful to watch what you're seeing on stage and you will squirm from that itch in your very private parts: A family of very well-off white people who drink the right white wine and watch PBS and espouse all the appropriate, liberal values. Of course there are a few characters who act as flies in the ointment, but funny, those aren't the ones who are making us squirm. The cast is a terrific ensemble. There's no need to give accolades to any one actor on the stage because each character is perfectly drawn and presented, and meshes (or not) with the other characters. The set is sublime, complete with working HD TV. Get ready for the surprise ending, which frankly, threw me at first. Contrived, I wondered, until I reached back and realized how deftly the playwright, actors, and director led me by the nose. 
Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls, as the title might intimate, asks, Are there times when you can't tell if your life is coming or going? Well, then aloha, which means both hello and goodbye. A fun, quirky script that transverses time and space--one minute you're in Alaska, the next Hawaii, and sometimes that person looks vaguely familiar and so does the dog. The cast barrels along at a non-stop brisk pace, and it's all fun but in retrospect it does ask some serious questions, particularly about our relationships with one another. And that's the production's charm: It's so darn entertaining you forget its serious theater until you're having drinks afterwards.If I don't call attention to particular cast members of either production, both directors should be given high praise. Avid baseball fans will know that many times a win on a sleepy, hot summer's day comes from one manager out-dueling the other. The success of both productions rests humbly and mightily on the shoulders of their respective directors: M. Bevin O'Gara for The Pain and the Itch and Krista D'Agostino for Aloha, Say the Pretty Girls.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Eminem will someday be on the oldies station
Boston.com posted a link on its home page to yesterday's post on actionbobmarkle on The Sheltering Sky, which I thought was kind of funny because the post basically consisted of me copying about a page and a half from the novel. I wrote a little introductory paragraph talking how the passage nailed what it's like to be a traveler and how that is the pivotal moment in the book that gives it its title.
And that was it. Funny, that an editor over there thought that was worth sharing.
Or maybe not. I'm just guessing, or maybe hoping, that the editor decided that what I wrote about that particular passage is worth something. An appreciation for the art of the novel is waning, just as the art of making an album is waning because digital downloads now let us concentrate on acquiring just one or two songs, and not an entire album. But there is that one point in a novel--a good novel, at least--where the author pulls together for sometimes only a paragraph or two all the loose ends and clarifies why the novel is called what it is, and maybe even why he wrote it. And it takes a certain kind of mind to appreciate that.
Appreciating that is like enjoying going into a museum just to see one painting, which I love to do. (If I'm in the area, I'll go into the Boston MFA just to sit in the Buddha room for awhile, or I would sit and gaze on Gauguin's Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? at least I used to until they put it in storage.)
Once, I absolutely floored Allison when she was maybe nine or 10 years old when I told her that Eminem would someday be on the oldies station. True. Someday, everything ends up on the oldies station. And I guess that's where we are with novels right now. With all the "new media" out there, readers are going by the wayside. I remember showing my blog to a very hip young woman at the ad agency I used to work at, and her first, very fast initial response was a reaction against all the words. Who's gonna read all that, she wondered.
Say this in your best old fart voice: These young kids today don't appreciate a good book. Or geography or history or painting or anything else, including that meanderings of the mind of a blogger.
Well, not true. It's all changed and morphed. The responsibility, I think, lies with the younger generation to not leave behind the art of the novel. Or of painting or the theater or any of the other cultural traditions. Move forward, but preserve the traditional forms, too. Time and society move forward, and by moving forward I simply mean in time, I don't mean to infer necessarily that things are getting better, they're just changing. Let future generations be the judges of the quality.
But as society moves through time, there's more culture to embrace and understand. Understandably, how can a novel that needs so much time and energy to read and comprehend compete with a movie or a video game or Facebook or the latest shenanigans of pop stars. But there is something inherently wrong with leaving it by the wayside. There is a beauty and a connection to today's world that shouldn't be lost because, and here's a huge cliche but it's true: You'll never know where you're going if you don't know where you've been.
And that was it. Funny, that an editor over there thought that was worth sharing.
Or maybe not. I'm just guessing, or maybe hoping, that the editor decided that what I wrote about that particular passage is worth something. An appreciation for the art of the novel is waning, just as the art of making an album is waning because digital downloads now let us concentrate on acquiring just one or two songs, and not an entire album. But there is that one point in a novel--a good novel, at least--where the author pulls together for sometimes only a paragraph or two all the loose ends and clarifies why the novel is called what it is, and maybe even why he wrote it. And it takes a certain kind of mind to appreciate that.
Appreciating that is like enjoying going into a museum just to see one painting, which I love to do. (If I'm in the area, I'll go into the Boston MFA just to sit in the Buddha room for awhile, or I would sit and gaze on Gauguin's Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? at least I used to until they put it in storage.)Once, I absolutely floored Allison when she was maybe nine or 10 years old when I told her that Eminem would someday be on the oldies station. True. Someday, everything ends up on the oldies station. And I guess that's where we are with novels right now. With all the "new media" out there, readers are going by the wayside. I remember showing my blog to a very hip young woman at the ad agency I used to work at, and her first, very fast initial response was a reaction against all the words. Who's gonna read all that, she wondered.
Say this in your best old fart voice: These young kids today don't appreciate a good book. Or geography or history or painting or anything else, including that meanderings of the mind of a blogger.
Well, not true. It's all changed and morphed. The responsibility, I think, lies with the younger generation to not leave behind the art of the novel. Or of painting or the theater or any of the other cultural traditions. Move forward, but preserve the traditional forms, too. Time and society move forward, and by moving forward I simply mean in time, I don't mean to infer necessarily that things are getting better, they're just changing. Let future generations be the judges of the quality.
But as society moves through time, there's more culture to embrace and understand. Understandably, how can a novel that needs so much time and energy to read and comprehend compete with a movie or a video game or Facebook or the latest shenanigans of pop stars. But there is something inherently wrong with leaving it by the wayside. There is a beauty and a connection to today's world that shouldn't be lost because, and here's a huge cliche but it's true: You'll never know where you're going if you don't know where you've been.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Guthries: Trials and Tribulations
The Guthries, from nodepression.com...just homegrown music...sigh...
The "Trials" video is a big, one-camera, DV production by none other than Andrew Watt of the Heavy Blinkers. It cost us nothing (that'll be evident if you watch it - no slight to Andrew) but it's better than all of the big-budget stuff we've done. It was shot in the living room of 2 Grove St, which is just "off Windmill" Rd in Dartmouth. Everyone lived in the house - it was our own version of "Big Pink". We recorded out first album "Off Windmill" there with Andrew.
The "Trials" video is a big, one-camera, DV production by none other than Andrew Watt of the Heavy Blinkers. It cost us nothing (that'll be evident if you watch it - no slight to Andrew) but it's better than all of the big-budget stuff we've done. It was shot in the living room of 2 Grove St, which is just "off Windmill" Rd in Dartmouth. Everyone lived in the house - it was our own version of "Big Pink". We recorded out first album "Off Windmill" there with Andrew.
The Sheltering Sky by Peter Bowles
In a little more than a month, I'll be in Morocco. Then, who knows where? When I travel, I like to learn as much as I can about where I'm going, before I go. I read guide books. U.S. State Department reports. And I read novels set in the locale. The Sheltering Sky was a novel Sue suggested. I suggested Morning in Antibes to her.
Here is the passage from which the novel takes its title. Port and Kit, two travelers loose on the face of the earth, have ridden bicycles out into the Sahara. Kit cheated on Port the night before, having made love to Tunner on a train. It clearly shows a traveler's fear of belonging, fear of dying, of living for the moment, of looking for companionship, knowing they'll never fit in. The Arab rooted to a rock in prayer is an especially nice touch.
She pinched his arm. "Look there!" she whispered. Only a few paces from them, atop a rock, sitting so still that they had not noticed him, was a venerable Arab, his legs tucked under him, his eyes shut. At first it seemed as though he might be asleep, in spite of his erect posture, since he made no sign of being conscious of their presence. But then they saw his lips moving ever so little, and they knew he was praying.
"Do you think we should watch like this?" she said, her voice hushed.
"It's all right. We'll just sit here quietly." He put his head in her lap and lay looking up at the clear sky. Over and over, very lightly, she stroked his hair. The wind from the regions below gathered force. Slowly the sky lost its intensity of light. She glanced up at the Arab; he had not moved. Suddenly she wanted to go back, but she sat perfectly still for a while looking tenderly down at the inert head beneath her hand.
"You know," said Port, and his voice sounded unreal, as voices are likely to do after a long pause in an utterly silent spot, "the sky here's very strange. I often have the sensation when I look at it that it's a solid thing up there, protecting us from what's behind."
Kit shuddered slightly as she said: "From what's behind?"
"Yes."
"But what is behind?" Her voice was very small.
"Nothing, I suppose. Just darkness. Absolute night."
"Please don't talk about it now." There was agony in her entreaty. "Everything you say frightens me, up here. It's getting dark, and the wind is blowing, and I can't stand it."
He sat up, put his arms about her neck, kissed her, drew back and looked at her, kissed her again, drew back again, and so on, several times. There were tears on her cheeks. She smiled forlornly as he rubbed them away with his forefingers.
"You know what?" he said with great earnestness. "I think we're both afraid of the same thing. And for the same reason. We've never managed, either one of us, to get all the way into life. We're hanging on to the outside for all we're worth, convinced we're going to fall off at the next bump. Isn't that true?"
She shut her eyes for a moment. His lips on her cheek had awakened the sense of guilt, and it swept over her now in a great wave that made her dizzy and ill. She had spent her siesta trying to wipe her conscious clean of the things that had happened the night before, but now she was clearly aware that she had not been able to do it, and that she never would be able to do it. She put her hand to her forehead, holding it there. At length she said: "But if we're not in, then we are more likely to--fall off."
Here is the passage from which the novel takes its title. Port and Kit, two travelers loose on the face of the earth, have ridden bicycles out into the Sahara. Kit cheated on Port the night before, having made love to Tunner on a train. It clearly shows a traveler's fear of belonging, fear of dying, of living for the moment, of looking for companionship, knowing they'll never fit in. The Arab rooted to a rock in prayer is an especially nice touch.
She pinched his arm. "Look there!" she whispered. Only a few paces from them, atop a rock, sitting so still that they had not noticed him, was a venerable Arab, his legs tucked under him, his eyes shut. At first it seemed as though he might be asleep, in spite of his erect posture, since he made no sign of being conscious of their presence. But then they saw his lips moving ever so little, and they knew he was praying.
"Do you think we should watch like this?" she said, her voice hushed.
"It's all right. We'll just sit here quietly." He put his head in her lap and lay looking up at the clear sky. Over and over, very lightly, she stroked his hair. The wind from the regions below gathered force. Slowly the sky lost its intensity of light. She glanced up at the Arab; he had not moved. Suddenly she wanted to go back, but she sat perfectly still for a while looking tenderly down at the inert head beneath her hand.
"You know," said Port, and his voice sounded unreal, as voices are likely to do after a long pause in an utterly silent spot, "the sky here's very strange. I often have the sensation when I look at it that it's a solid thing up there, protecting us from what's behind."
Kit shuddered slightly as she said: "From what's behind?"
"Yes."
"But what is behind?" Her voice was very small.
"Nothing, I suppose. Just darkness. Absolute night."
"Please don't talk about it now." There was agony in her entreaty. "Everything you say frightens me, up here. It's getting dark, and the wind is blowing, and I can't stand it."
He sat up, put his arms about her neck, kissed her, drew back and looked at her, kissed her again, drew back again, and so on, several times. There were tears on her cheeks. She smiled forlornly as he rubbed them away with his forefingers.
"You know what?" he said with great earnestness. "I think we're both afraid of the same thing. And for the same reason. We've never managed, either one of us, to get all the way into life. We're hanging on to the outside for all we're worth, convinced we're going to fall off at the next bump. Isn't that true?"
She shut her eyes for a moment. His lips on her cheek had awakened the sense of guilt, and it swept over her now in a great wave that made her dizzy and ill. She had spent her siesta trying to wipe her conscious clean of the things that had happened the night before, but now she was clearly aware that she had not been able to do it, and that she never would be able to do it. She put her hand to her forehead, holding it there. At length she said: "But if we're not in, then we are more likely to--fall off."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Death by jelly: You can run, but you can't hide
I'm not sure what worries more, that it was determined that the Welch's grape jelly may have had mold in it, or that BJ's knew I bought some and was able to track me down to tell me in a letter.
Nobody died or got sick, that I know of, but the jelly didn't live up to Welch's high standards, so the letter said.
But I just figure that the amount of all of this information that is constantly being taken on us from stores and Web sites and credit cards is so colossal in size that there is no way that anyone can sift through it to find me.
Then I got the letter that was so pointed and accurate, I half expected it to say that the two-pack of jelly I bought, one of which is in the right-hand cabinet above the counter and the other one you've already opened and is on the top shelf of your refrigerator, can be returned for a full refund.
It's too late to run or hide in this world. I pretty much discovered that a long time ago. And I guess I should be glad that I could be warned about a potential health hazard (death by jelly!) Still, there's a part of me that won't ever be comfortable with all this.
Nobody died or got sick, that I know of, but the jelly didn't live up to Welch's high standards, so the letter said.
But I just figure that the amount of all of this information that is constantly being taken on us from stores and Web sites and credit cards is so colossal in size that there is no way that anyone can sift through it to find me.
Then I got the letter that was so pointed and accurate, I half expected it to say that the two-pack of jelly I bought, one of which is in the right-hand cabinet above the counter and the other one you've already opened and is on the top shelf of your refrigerator, can be returned for a full refund.
It's too late to run or hide in this world. I pretty much discovered that a long time ago. And I guess I should be glad that I could be warned about a potential health hazard (death by jelly!) Still, there's a part of me that won't ever be comfortable with all this.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Helsinki Complaint Choir
"Finnish artists Tellervo Kalleinen and Oliver Kochta-Kalleinen collected the pet peeves and angst-ridden pleas of people in Helsinki and then composed this choral work around the list of complaints..."
And what's so funny is how the complaints are pretty much universal to Westerners. I'm not too sure how someone suffering from hunger in Ethiopia would feel about a meter sandwich being only a half meter long, but let's not get too serious here.
You can’t get rich by working, and love doesn’t last forever. In the public sauna they never ask if it’s ok to throw water. Old forests are cut down and turned into toilet paper. And still all the toilets are always out of paper. Why products on sale drive the people crazy? In the middle of Helsinki they built another shopping hell. My neighbour spies on me through the peephole whenever I come home with guests, and he always arrives too early for his sauna turn.
We always lose to Sweden in hockey and Eurovision. Christmas season starts earlier every year. Why do people never agree with me? Jobs go to China, tramline 3 smells of pee. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair!
Why is the Metre Pizza only half a metre long? And why is the cord of the vacuum cleaner too short – just like the summer. Going to work every morning, then home at night, eventually you lose your mind. The battery on my mobile is always going flat, and all ring tones are just as irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones...(Sorry, I’m in a bad spot. Call me later.) When you buy furniture, all you get is a pile of boards. Tissues are too rough and I can never find them when I need to sneeze. My tights slip when I’m walking. There is always a tall man in front of me. At work they pat me on the shoulder, then stab me in the back?
My dreams are boring. Reference numbers are too long. Women are still paid less than men. Bullshitters get on too well in life. The daily paper is too thick. Why always me? It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair! ...(and Finnish language is bloody difficult to learn!
The queue for the dentist is over six months long, after waiting for so long the whole tooth must be pulled out. Nice shirts get discoloured in the wash, but ugly shirts never do. People have no time for Fair Trade goods, but still rush to where they grow. I can’t escape the headlines of the tabloids. The weather’s always foul. I don’t get laid enough…(And this is Finnish language is bloody difficult to learn. We always lose to Sweden in hockey and Eurovision. Christmas season starts earlier every year. Why do people never agree with me? Jobs go to China, tramline 3 smells of pee.
My flat is tiny yet it eats all my money. So I’m left nothing to save the world with. People only take a stand in sms-forums. Idiots don’t know which side to stand on the escalator. My husband snores too loud and he walks too slowly, and only washes his hockey-shirts – And my wife always complains! It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
Evenings wasted hiding from the TV license inspector because I don’t want to pay for sports and reality TV. The employment agency only needs Java programmers. Old people are fed with tranquilisers so they won’t complain. My friend likes his mobile phone more than he likes me. Our ancestors could have picked a sunnier place to be. My dreams are boring. Reference numbers are too long. Women are still paid less than men. Bullshitters get on too well in life. The daily paper is too thick. Why always me? It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair – it’s not fair!
And what's so funny is how the complaints are pretty much universal to Westerners. I'm not too sure how someone suffering from hunger in Ethiopia would feel about a meter sandwich being only a half meter long, but let's not get too serious here.
You can’t get rich by working, and love doesn’t last forever. In the public sauna they never ask if it’s ok to throw water. Old forests are cut down and turned into toilet paper. And still all the toilets are always out of paper. Why products on sale drive the people crazy? In the middle of Helsinki they built another shopping hell. My neighbour spies on me through the peephole whenever I come home with guests, and he always arrives too early for his sauna turn.
We always lose to Sweden in hockey and Eurovision. Christmas season starts earlier every year. Why do people never agree with me? Jobs go to China, tramline 3 smells of pee. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair!
Why is the Metre Pizza only half a metre long? And why is the cord of the vacuum cleaner too short – just like the summer. Going to work every morning, then home at night, eventually you lose your mind. The battery on my mobile is always going flat, and all ring tones are just as irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones are all irritating. Ring tones...(Sorry, I’m in a bad spot. Call me later.) When you buy furniture, all you get is a pile of boards. Tissues are too rough and I can never find them when I need to sneeze. My tights slip when I’m walking. There is always a tall man in front of me. At work they pat me on the shoulder, then stab me in the back?
My dreams are boring. Reference numbers are too long. Women are still paid less than men. Bullshitters get on too well in life. The daily paper is too thick. Why always me? It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair! ...(and Finnish language is bloody difficult to learn!
The queue for the dentist is over six months long, after waiting for so long the whole tooth must be pulled out. Nice shirts get discoloured in the wash, but ugly shirts never do. People have no time for Fair Trade goods, but still rush to where they grow. I can’t escape the headlines of the tabloids. The weather’s always foul. I don’t get laid enough…(And this is Finnish language is bloody difficult to learn. We always lose to Sweden in hockey and Eurovision. Christmas season starts earlier every year. Why do people never agree with me? Jobs go to China, tramline 3 smells of pee.
My flat is tiny yet it eats all my money. So I’m left nothing to save the world with. People only take a stand in sms-forums. Idiots don’t know which side to stand on the escalator. My husband snores too loud and he walks too slowly, and only washes his hockey-shirts – And my wife always complains! It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
Evenings wasted hiding from the TV license inspector because I don’t want to pay for sports and reality TV. The employment agency only needs Java programmers. Old people are fed with tranquilisers so they won’t complain. My friend likes his mobile phone more than he likes me. Our ancestors could have picked a sunnier place to be. My dreams are boring. Reference numbers are too long. Women are still paid less than men. Bullshitters get on too well in life. The daily paper is too thick. Why always me? It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair – it’s not fair!
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Low Anthem: To Ohio
Opening for Ray Lamontagne, writeup in Rolling Stone, playing at SXSW. It's so great to see hard-working artists make it. Not only hard-working, but nice people too.
And being an old Ohio boy, this song gives me goosebumps...
I left Louisiana on the rail line
I left Louisiana on the rail line
Lost my love before her time
Lost my love before her time
I was trying to get to Ohio
Trying to get to Ohio
Now every new love is just a shadow
Every new love is just a shadow
‘Cause once you’ve known love you don’t know how to find love
Yeah once you’ve found love you don’t know how to find new love
All the way to Ohio
All the way to Ohio
Heard her voice coming through the pines of Ohio
I heard her voice singing in the pines in Ohio
She sang bless your soul you crossed that line to Ohio
Bless your soul you crossed that line
All the way to Ohio
All the way to Ohio
And being an old Ohio boy, this song gives me goosebumps...
I left Louisiana on the rail line
I left Louisiana on the rail line
Lost my love before her time
Lost my love before her time
I was trying to get to Ohio
Trying to get to Ohio
Now every new love is just a shadow
Every new love is just a shadow
‘Cause once you’ve known love you don’t know how to find love
Yeah once you’ve found love you don’t know how to find new love
All the way to Ohio
All the way to Ohio
Heard her voice coming through the pines of Ohio
I heard her voice singing in the pines in Ohio
She sang bless your soul you crossed that line to Ohio
Bless your soul you crossed that line
All the way to Ohio
All the way to Ohio
Sunday, March 8, 2009
A gay weekend
I think I've used that subject line before.
Friday night we went to see Milk, which goes to show you just how far behind the curve we really are. But I love Sean Penn. Who doesn't, right? Penn and Nicholson are the two all-time greats, and when I watch either one of them I am so inspired.
Amazing work by Penn, but I wasn't that crazy about the movie itself. Sorry. I guess I have to turn in some kind of club card now, huh? It's just sort of the inevitable problem with a movie like that: You know the ship is going to hit the iceberg and you know he's going to get shot. Camera work and special effects can only take it so far. But this is nothing new for me. Everything I've seen in the past couple of years has left me tepid, if not downright cold. Oddly, the only other I saw in the running for any Oscars was Slumdog Millionaire, which I thought was good, but again, if that's the "best", well...
Then last night we headed over to the Machine to see the Gold Dust Orphans perform the Ryan Landry original spoof on Of Mice and Men, Of Mice and Mink. Maybe it's live theater that keeps my juices flowing, because I love this stuff. Part Oscar Wilde, part vaudeville--hey, they're drag queens for God's sake--this is my idea of theater. Ribald, loud, real audience participation. I've always imagined that this is what Shakespeare was like back in the days before we got all snooty in the theater. Anyway, Harvey Milk would have had a grand old time, so I guess everyone's happy, right?
Friday night we went to see Milk, which goes to show you just how far behind the curve we really are. But I love Sean Penn. Who doesn't, right? Penn and Nicholson are the two all-time greats, and when I watch either one of them I am so inspired.
Amazing work by Penn, but I wasn't that crazy about the movie itself. Sorry. I guess I have to turn in some kind of club card now, huh? It's just sort of the inevitable problem with a movie like that: You know the ship is going to hit the iceberg and you know he's going to get shot. Camera work and special effects can only take it so far. But this is nothing new for me. Everything I've seen in the past couple of years has left me tepid, if not downright cold. Oddly, the only other I saw in the running for any Oscars was Slumdog Millionaire, which I thought was good, but again, if that's the "best", well...
Then last night we headed over to the Machine to see the Gold Dust Orphans perform the Ryan Landry original spoof on Of Mice and Men, Of Mice and Mink. Maybe it's live theater that keeps my juices flowing, because I love this stuff. Part Oscar Wilde, part vaudeville--hey, they're drag queens for God's sake--this is my idea of theater. Ribald, loud, real audience participation. I've always imagined that this is what Shakespeare was like back in the days before we got all snooty in the theater. Anyway, Harvey Milk would have had a grand old time, so I guess everyone's happy, right?
Friday, March 6, 2009
Unemployment's getting kinda weird
I'm going into my third month of unemployment (last night I heard about a fellow actor-type who's been laid off since September--six months!), and it's getting weird.
The government today reported that another 651,000 jobs were lost in February. Man, we're bleeding jobs faster than GM's bleeding dollars. Is that possible? Since December, 2007 when this so-called recession was first recognized (this intrepid reporter is calling it a depression; remember: You heard it here first, at Action Bob Markle) 4.4 million people are out of work. That officially puts the jobless rate at 8.1 percent, the highest in 25 years. But let's not forget that that figure does not include seasonal employees, the self-employed who aren't finding work, and people like those old timers who greet you at Wal-Mart who aren't making enough to feed their cats. Unofficially, let's call the jobless rate at around 15, or maybe 18 percent, okay?
There is no work out there. I've had one tiny job, and one acting job. You can only make so many batches of red sauce, chicken soup, bean soup, and chili before it starts to get a little repetitious. Make only so many dinners for your honey when she comes home from work before you start feeling a bit worthless. Only so many small chores and errands you can run before you start wondering if you actually are useless.
And you know those are the landmines you have to dodge. You don't just flop down on the couch and sigh and call it a life. I write everyday. I'm a writer, that's what I do. I'm taking low-cost classes around Boston. Music theory at Club Passim. Acting for the camera from a casting agent.
I'm starting to look into going back to school. All the time I was married I couldn't get my Masters because I was too busy working a dead end job to support the family. Now here I am, 53-years-old, out of work in a depression with a BFA in photography. Maybe it's time to finally get that degree, and God love Sue, she's the one pushing me to do it, thinking we can travel and teach at the same time. The one thing is the cost of a university degree is still as inflated as the value of homes. There is no way a Masters should cost between $20,000 and $30,000. Everything, everything still costs way too damn much, and we all need a serious realty check.
You got to get out of the house. Even going into Boston and wandering around, checking out the library, doing some people watching, changes your perspective. Those prison people know what they're doing when they throw you into solitary. We're social creatures. We gotta see some sunshine from time to time.
And I've finally started that play I said I'd write. Yeah, it's called Red Dog, and it addresses that theme I'm constantly beating to death, that we as a society don't recognize that the people who hurt us emotionally are no different than thugs who hurt us physically, and that as a species we still aren't evolved enough to actually see the thing we're hurting, but it's a part of us as surely as our arms and legs are. It's called Red Dog because red dog is a football term for a blitz, where linebackers or defensive backs suddenly charge and usually hit the quarterback from the blindside and inflict some serious harm (which is what these emotional thugs do; they just blindside us because most of us simply are not raised to believe people would do such a thing, so we're caught unaware), and also because dogs are color-blind and can't see colors, but it doesn't mean they don't exist. And the play has all of my favorite things in it: dogs, guitars and whiskey.
The government today reported that another 651,000 jobs were lost in February. Man, we're bleeding jobs faster than GM's bleeding dollars. Is that possible? Since December, 2007 when this so-called recession was first recognized (this intrepid reporter is calling it a depression; remember: You heard it here first, at Action Bob Markle) 4.4 million people are out of work. That officially puts the jobless rate at 8.1 percent, the highest in 25 years. But let's not forget that that figure does not include seasonal employees, the self-employed who aren't finding work, and people like those old timers who greet you at Wal-Mart who aren't making enough to feed their cats. Unofficially, let's call the jobless rate at around 15, or maybe 18 percent, okay?
There is no work out there. I've had one tiny job, and one acting job. You can only make so many batches of red sauce, chicken soup, bean soup, and chili before it starts to get a little repetitious. Make only so many dinners for your honey when she comes home from work before you start feeling a bit worthless. Only so many small chores and errands you can run before you start wondering if you actually are useless.
And you know those are the landmines you have to dodge. You don't just flop down on the couch and sigh and call it a life. I write everyday. I'm a writer, that's what I do. I'm taking low-cost classes around Boston. Music theory at Club Passim. Acting for the camera from a casting agent.
I'm starting to look into going back to school. All the time I was married I couldn't get my Masters because I was too busy working a dead end job to support the family. Now here I am, 53-years-old, out of work in a depression with a BFA in photography. Maybe it's time to finally get that degree, and God love Sue, she's the one pushing me to do it, thinking we can travel and teach at the same time. The one thing is the cost of a university degree is still as inflated as the value of homes. There is no way a Masters should cost between $20,000 and $30,000. Everything, everything still costs way too damn much, and we all need a serious realty check.
You got to get out of the house. Even going into Boston and wandering around, checking out the library, doing some people watching, changes your perspective. Those prison people know what they're doing when they throw you into solitary. We're social creatures. We gotta see some sunshine from time to time.
And I've finally started that play I said I'd write. Yeah, it's called Red Dog, and it addresses that theme I'm constantly beating to death, that we as a society don't recognize that the people who hurt us emotionally are no different than thugs who hurt us physically, and that as a species we still aren't evolved enough to actually see the thing we're hurting, but it's a part of us as surely as our arms and legs are. It's called Red Dog because red dog is a football term for a blitz, where linebackers or defensive backs suddenly charge and usually hit the quarterback from the blindside and inflict some serious harm (which is what these emotional thugs do; they just blindside us because most of us simply are not raised to believe people would do such a thing, so we're caught unaware), and also because dogs are color-blind and can't see colors, but it doesn't mean they don't exist. And the play has all of my favorite things in it: dogs, guitars and whiskey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
