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As aforementioned, these past weeks have been stuffed to bursting with work on the Eye, the (glorious, effervescent) arts & features magazine for which I am now managing editor. At long, long (long) last, at the asscrack of dawn (5:30-something, my foggy memories tell me) this past Thursday, the stars aligned, the dream was realized—&, indeed, the first issue of the magazine was published.
Look how pretty! Click to read the pdf!
Of course, such intense Eyely pride made me remember that I've been an absolute lump when it comes to cross-posting the many words I've logged in its service. So, for any & all interested in what I do with my Clark Kent self—that is, the shy, bespectacled newspaper persona, who fills the hours between my righteous badassery (AKA, Blogsmanship)—here's what I was up to last semester, while, you know, going entirely AWOL hereabouts:
Cinema Verité.
In which I profile the site of my fabulous fall internship—the Maysles Cinema, a nonprofit documentary cinema in Harlem, founded by Al Maysles of Grey Gardens fame—& give it some well-deserved love. (Everyone should go there! Always!)
“Excuse me, can I interest you in some information on upcoming screenings at the Maysles Cinema?” This phrase tumbles out almost mechanically after hours spent repeating it, my handful of fliers dutifully thrust forward into a stream of oncoming pedestrians. As the Cinema’s new graphic design intern, I initially imagined myself more on the crafting than the distribution side of the promotional process—but, after only a short time behind the scenes, I know I’m exactly where I want to be: on the steps of a local Harlem church, making sure everyone I can possibly reach knows about the cutting-edge sociopolitical discourse going on only blocks away at 127th and Lenox...
Let's Bounce.
In which I interview Big Freedia, queen diva extraordinaire of the Bounce scene—which was amazing, because it's Big fucking Freedia, but which was rough, because we had to talk over the phone, & my deafness did not mix well with her somewhat overpowering drawl.
So, I’ve heard that, even within Bounce itself, you’re in a sort of subgenre called “Sissy Bounce”—which I find especially cool because I feel like, in the music industry, there isn’t often a platform for genderqueer artists, and it seems like Sissy Bounce represents a place for that.
Well, we don’t separate it here in New Orleans. There’s no such thing as “Sissy Bounce.” It’s all Bounce music and we have a few gay artists that work within the Bounce culture, but we don’t separate it. That just got misinterpreted through an interview that was done a while back, and they named it “Sissy Bounce” or whatever, but here in New Orleans we don’t separate it at all. Everybody just calls it Bounce music—and, you know, myself [and] Katey Red, we represent a part of that, and we’re gay artists...
From Stage to Screen.
In which I traveled to a swank-ass midtown screening room to see Roman Polanski's latest cinematic foray, Carnage, adapted from Yasmina Reza's Broadway smash The God of Carnage—& then subsequently compared it at length to Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, thus nudging at the question of what makes these simple-seeming plays cinematic.
“I believe,” oozes Christoph Waltz, in the same sinister drawl that earned him an Oscar for Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, “in the God of Carnage—the God whose rule has gone unchallenged since time immemorial.” Dressed as a modern American lawyer in a Paris-shot-for-Brooklyn parlor, he’s lending his villainous appeal to Carnage, the latest cinematic foray of infamous auteur Roman Polanski, which opened this year’s 49th Annual New York Film Festival. The film, based on Yasmina Reza’s Tony Award-winning play The God of Carnage, chronicles a conversation between two bourgeois couples—the Longstreets (Jodie Foster and John C. Reilly) and the Cowans (Waltz and Kate Winslet)—as they confer about a violent dispute between their young sons...
Abnormal Halloween Costumes.
In which I collaborated with the lovely & talented Margaret Boykin to dream up some creative solutions to the year's most intense outfit dilemma.
Sexy Feminist: Think Susan B. Anthony & Simone de Beauvoir…if they were in Mean Girls. These two feminists are already rolling in their graves at the sight of knee-highs and push-ups, so why not bring the empowerment-through-sexuality to a head? Simone loved black turtlenecks—but how about going backless, American Apparel style?...
Untested Development.
In which I ask the question no one wants to ask—that is, "Should there really be an Arrested Development movie? No, but really—think about it..."—&, in the process, drag in David Lynch, Joss Whedon, & Exiled: A Law & Order Movie.
“No, I don’t see it as a series,” acclaimed director Ron Howard says in the final moments of Arrested Development—a surprise cameo that is a typically tongue-in-cheek move for the show he narrated through three seasons. He pauses, fingers tapping. Then: “Maybe a movie?” This hanging question has gone on to haunt diehard fans and entertainment news outlets alike since the show’s 2006 cancellation, through an agonizing five years of will-they-won’t-they pre-production turmoil with enough ups and downs to inspire its own Lifetime miniseries...
Health Over Weight.
In which I rehash America's body image crazy, focusing specifically on the new documentary America the Beautiful 2—whose director, Darryl Roberts, savvily debunks the BMI myth—the Adipositivity Project—whose photographer, Substantia Jones, may just be one of the coolest people in the history of ever—& the controversial children's book Maggie Goes on a Diet—whose author, Paul Kramer, then kindly took the time to yell at me in the comment section.
“So, who do you want to look like?” The question catches me off guard. She smiles sympathetically, folds a stray piece of honey blonde hair behind her ear, and rephrases: “I find it's helpful to have a goal in place—a physical role model.” She grabs a dog-eared People from behind her desk and opens it. “What about Kate Winslet? She’s pretty healthy-looking, don’t you think?” I’ll admit, when I entered this nutritionist's office I was hoping for something a little different—given that none of the previous three had produced lasting results. Despite layers of meticulous meal logs and food pyramids camouflaging my fridge, I remained a significantly overweight (and therefore significantly distraught) 13-year-old—weary of feeling socially inferior to my classmates because I was physically larger. So when the doctor brought out her pictures of Kate, I smiled back and nodded and prayed silently that this plan, please, would stick.
Best of 2011: Best All-Nighter.
In which I recount the "best" of my many hateful study experiences—which can best be summed up by three key terms: "Immanuel Kant," "cockroaches," & "Valentines Day."
As a college student, consummate procrastinator, and incorrigible coffee fiend, I exhibit all possible risk factors for a user and abuser of the All-Nighter. Though my year has thus seen plenty of these harrowing 20-plus hour library entombments, one in particular sticks out: At 10:30-something on a Sunday night in icy February, I enter Butler to begin a five-page essay on the Categorical Imperative of Herr Immanuel Kant, due Monday afternoon...
Then, of course, I also edited a few articles—including one on aging punk rockers (called "Crusty Punks") & another on knitting culture (entitled "Yarns & Recreation").
...&, scene. End shameless self-promotion. (But, seriously, y'all—read the Eye!)
Today's Headphone Fodder:
More rumbly, mumbly acoustic boys, perfect for rumbly, mumbly brain-brambled girls, hacking away at keyboards long past the point of sanity.
Advertising has got to be tricky—& not just for that sonuvagun Don Draper. Consistently tempted by the thralls of this zippy, media-saturated Internet Age, we as consumers seem to have lost our last ounce of patience for straight-up salesmanship, such that ads are now expected to be especially fun & entertaining in & of themselves, attention-grabbing as the programming they're paired with, if not more so.
Of course, as this recent evocation of Auschwitz to sell gym memberships proves, there are many instances in which advertisers lose sight of any & all common sense in pursuit of this ardent viewer appeal—& in so doing, they don't just fail to hit their target demographic, but in fact fail to hit any potential demographic in the history of ever, apparently firing with the laser precision of 800 quail-hunting Dick Cheneys. (Hey there, 2006!—re: That's honestly the only place my brain went when it came time to think of an "inaccurate marksmanship" joke. Can more relevant people suck at shooting things, please?)
It stands to reason, then, that this problem of bafflingly self-sabotaging ads would be compounded tenfold when the product in question is even more fundamentally unappealing than exercise—for example, abstinence. Because, really now: in an industry with the simplest & most alliterative of mottos—that is, "sex sells" (as in, "Organ donation? Okay, but how can we make it sexy?")—creating an anti-sex PSA that is successful by modern advertising standards is likely going to be very, brain-bendingly difficult.
Anyhow, all of this is my attempt to somehow explain away the terror &/or bemusement &/or utter, stark lack of comprehension with which I view the following "Day of Purity" PSA, simply titled, "The Purity Bear."
In the first place, let's start with the opening dialogue:
"I really like you a lot. You're not like the other guys."
"I really like you a lot, too. You look so pretty tonight."
Now, I could put on my feminist smoking jacket (the kind with the elbow pads—I imagine it makes me look both authoritative & approachable, with a wink of vintage charm) & point out that the boy is praised for his substance while the girl is praised for her appearance, & so has it been since that whole rib-apple-serpent incident, etc.—but instead, I'm going to put on my person with a motor cortex jeggings & point out that no self-respecting teenagers would ever say these sentences to one another. At least not back-to-back. At least not when sober. Really, though—is it too much to ask that you splurge a little on your screenwriter?
Still, once the kids are done waxing poetic, the girl, being the instigating strumpet she is (ahem, rib-serpent-apple), mentions that her parents aren't home—&, as the two take long, paralyzingly awkward looks into each other's eyes... suddenly, like a muppet crawling from the depths of Hades, a teddy bear slides his way onscreen. & not just any bear. Oh, no. This is a "purity bear"—who, incidentally, sounds like he has an affinity for chain-smoking, cheap whiskey, & driving slowly around his neighborhood in an unmarked van offering candy to small children. "I'm cuddly," he whispers insidiously into the young lad's ear, & it's hard not to shudder at the thought of the many counseling sessions filled with those to whom he's said those words before.
So, kids, the moral of the story is, if you want to have sex with your cuddly girlfriend (also worth an eyebrow raise), hug a cuddly teddy bear instead. Just don't get too serious—especially if you're interested in actually getting a message across, not haunting my dreams with lurking stuffed animal sex predators.
Today's Headphone Fodder:
A relevant title for today's subject matter—& a relevant song for my state of mind (read: insomniac, collegiate, aimless). Bright & boppy strumming with blithely despairing lyrics—sweet indifference, as its crooner croons, with the wry breathiness of those jaded left grinning, bitterly, grinning.
So, I know it seems like I've been slacking somewhat on my "write more" resolution, having gone AWOL over a week at this point—but, in fact, I've been writing a sickening, daunting, patently hateful amount... of e-mail. Indeed, this is the one potential downside of my otherwise lovely & exciting new position as managing editor of Columbia's (brilliant, indubitable) arts & features magazine, The Eye: the necessary parameters of the post are such that, as I've taken to describing it, were GMail rendered real, my life would resemble that scene from the first Harry Potter movie, when all the thousands of letters are pouring in through the Dursleys' fireplace—except, instead of jumping & giggling like a cracked-out Carebear, I'm huddled in the fetal position, quietly weeping, until the swamp of envelopes swallows me whole. (Or, you know, just making the face Aunt Petunia's making.)
My point is, I'm still getting used to this new influx of textual responsibility—still figuring how best to juggle many the balls unceasingly catapulted in my general direction—so, for today, it's going to have to be quick, which means some more music.
Still, I'm confident that this offering is pretty excellent—especially for movie nerds & Pixies fans. (& honestly, if you're neither, I suggest seriously examining your life choices.) In short & in sweet, welcome to Kim Deal, backed by her original band, crooning away to "In Heaven," the song sung by the Lady in the Radiator from David Lynch's Eraserhead.
Her version is softer than another I have, where Frank Black takes up lead vocals—found, if I'm not mistaken, on the band's Complete B Sides collection. Where Black grates & surges, Deal remains subdued—only slightly flubbing the lyrics, just enough to be charming. Meanwhile, the persistent thrum of her bassline entwines effortlessly with the quiet pull of the guitar, tap-tap of the cymbals—soft & lovely & only a little terrifying, much like the best of things.
Okay, to be fair, I came across this song on Hypem.com's Music Blog Zeitgeist of 2011, so there is every chance that I am literally the last person in the Western hemisphere to have heard it, let alone to spout some online commentary thereupon.
However, what I will say is, while doing dishes in my pajamas earlier this evening, idly listening to Hypem's most-blogged artist countdown, I was struck by this song—"Honey Bunny" by painfully hip(ster) pop-rock outfit Girls—so much so that I ended up dancing in soap-splattering circles in front of my kitchen's large picture windows, grinning like a loon.
There's just something about the pounding snare-cymbal pickup of the multivoice chorus: They don't like my bony body / they don't like my dirty hair...
Because, though I don't have a particularly bony body & would hope that my hair smells, at least not infrequently, like Garnier's interpretation of flowers—nor, indeed, do I tend to go for men in bellyshirts who try to pick up women from inside their convertibles & hold band practice in the woods—I can't help but jive with a song that takes that brand of omnipresent romantic self-consciousness & turns it into a defiantly upbeat sing-along. Aggravating Hipstamatic sepia tone of its video aside, "Honey Bunny" is the jangly ideal with which to twist & shout away the blues—preferably while wielding a dish sponge.
I am absolutely not the first person to point this out—nor, hopefully, will I be the last—but upon paging through my local newspaper this morning, I came across the following headline & was immediately struck by a wave of profound & interrobang-laced indignation:
Now, no one loves a good movie pun more than I do, & while the Out of Africa linkage is more than a little forced in this case, I would be willing to accept it, I suppose—chalk it up to inept headlining & all (Lord knows I once tried to call an article about Knitting Culture "Needle Exchange")—were it not for sentences like this:
Auerbach said she initially had no idea what African people needed. But through her interactions, she found two needs: school tuition and income.
First of all, "needed" followed immediately by "needs"? Let's vary our word choice, please. More disturbing than stylistics, though, is the geographical adjective: though the reporter has already specified that Ms. Auerbach did her subhead-touted chance-giving in Uganda, the sentence still reads "what African people needed."
In fact, in my estimation, what "African people" need is for people to stop blithely referring to them as "African"—to recognize that Africa is a continent, not a country, nor a "nation" (thanks again, Mr. Bush)—that it is, in fact, made up of many of these, each of which is host to its own separate concerns.
While Americans are also apt to use other continent-consuming adjectives in similarly problematic ways (re: "European techno sounds like a very unhappy cat being shoved through a synthesizer"), I still think we can all agree that each individual country therein gets far more autonomous consideration far more often. For example, if Friendly Suburban Lady decided to bring her Dell laptops to a village in Thailand, we wouldn't say she figured out "what Asian people needed."
It's a frustrating semantic trend to be sure—one I think is symptomatic of a far larger conceptual Othering, but that's a problem for other days & greater minds. For now, let's just concentrate on our words—which we can change, now, ASAP.
(Also, because this post is simply begging for it, here's a link to "I Studied Abroad in Africa!," an "I'm laughing in disbelief"-type Tumblr on which this article would be right at home. Also, here's one pseudo-relevant recent post—though, to her credit, this woman did at least say "Ugandan.")
Today's Headphone Fodder:
I've long appreciated VV Brown & her wispy-voiced, rounded-voweled retro-techno-pop style—especially as regards her truly brilliant cover of "This Charming Man." Recently, though, I've found myself particularly drawn to this song—its chorus's nonsensical string of warnings beckoning through the surge of computerized brass.
[ The Year, she has Newed—& the resolutions have thus, well, resoluted. While perched atop a barstool in the back corner of Church, there to man Sidewalk Driver's merch table, having recently been mind-blown by their smashing cover of "Major Tom"—AKA, "Völlig Losgelöst," the (far superior) German version—I scribbled out the following list come 11:58 PM:
In case you can't read my impeccable handwriting, that's: wear more sparkly things, get enough sleep, suck less @ guitar, write more, stop being crazy, exercise semi-regularly, stay resolute
Note that, in a lovely twist of the Universe being how it so often is, "resolute" is the only word that got smudged.
Now, on to—wait for it—my first post in 875,000 years. Get psyched. (I know I am.) ]
For those who have yet to experience the joys of a collegiate Finals Season—or, for those who have since repressed all memories thereof, whitewashing them into halcyon oblivion in an attempt to regain control & general sanity—the process is essentially akin to hefting a large boulder up a down escalator, wearing shoes made of quickly-drying superglue & balancing a stack of plates on your head, while Alex Trebek yells Final Jeopardy questions in your face & shoots at you with a bebe gun every time you hesitate—& all of this, mind you, on absolutely zero sleep. It could not be further from "exciting," "fun," or "productive"—a time to severely overcaffeinate, laugh despairingly at odd intervals, dream up some creative voodoo with which to torment those ever-smiling student-slash-models on the cover of you school's treasonously propagandistic brochure of lies—& yes, accordingly, to whip out some Villain Songs.
Indeed, by the end of that week & a half of hatefully constant verbiage production, I found myself listening almost exclusively to villain anthems from cartoon movies. I think the reasoning behind this is twofold. In the first place, of course, Villain Songs are unfailingly the best in the film, as they are 1) patently, delightfully sinister & 2) campy as a camping ground.
Moreover, when unjustly put-upon & facing Greek tragedy levels of distress, it's not enough to sing in blithely unthreatening major chords about happiness & sunshine & predictably vanquishing evil. No, in times like these, you are at war with the universe & the travails it dared to throw your way—a motherfuckin' monster, a dungeon dragon, a bad bitch who will kick ass, take names, then gladly go back for more. Yes, Nicki has filled this niche in Finals-times past—but this particular bout was beyond the pale, requiring exceedingly evident levels of menace.
Because when facing so daunting a fate, you don't want to save the world—couldn't possibly. You want to rend it from its very frame, to upset & overthrow, not just color outside the lines but burn the book & eat the crayons. & the best way to do this, as it turns out, is to sing about it in a self-aggrandizing, plan-explaining 2-3 minutes of sheer animated badassery—or, at the very least, to sing along.
With that, here is a list of my top 10 Villain Songs for your perusal—to aid in times of Sisyphean stress, or merely, as they were intended, to entertain.
1) In the Dark of the Night (Rasputin, Anastasia).
Line of note: "Terror's the least I can do!"
Combine a vengeful reanimated corpse with a jaunty new-age rock chorus & what you get is holiest of holies, the ultimate conceptual ideal: up-tempo, major-keyed evil. It's the same brain-tickled feeling you get when listening to Morrissey's boppy morbidity—except even better, as it's not merely tongue-in-cheek, it's epic. Plus, in work mode, as endless words flow haphazard from my clumsily puppeted fingertips, I can ride that key-change surge & smirk, Come, my minions, rise for your master...
2) Be Prepared (Scar, The Lion King).
Rhyme of Note: "prizes" / "emphasize is"
Ranking this second was, of course, an achingly close call—because, as explored here before, I have a capital-T Thing for Jeremy Irons, particularly as regards his voice, the brooding rasp of which is showcased perfectly in this, the Platonic Villain Anthem. I mean, "In the Dark of the Night" rightly takes the title—I'm no flip-flopper—but God is this song ideal. Everything from the stretched-drum-tight rhyme scheme (see above) to the ominous trill of bassoon after the casually spat, "No, fool, we're gonna kill 'im"—& that little waver he does on the word "lifetime," the ensuing gleeful voice crack on "sen-sa-tional"... Chills, my friends, for which I don't think I'll ever be adequately prepared.
3) Poor Unfortunate Souls (Ursula, The Little Mermaid).
Line of Note: "...& don't underestimate the importance of body language. Ha!"
This will forever be known, at least in the brain of me, as "the song that made me say non-bile-laced things about the Jonas Brothers"—which you might think would sour me on it somewhat, but which in fact proves the utter & unruinable appeal of one of the most patently fabulous lyrical outlets of villainy around. Of course, it almost couldn't not be, given that the character design for Ursula was based largely on my doppleganger/spirit animal, Divine. Still, the song itself is also brilliantly off-putting—jaunty, jazzily plodding, again making expert use of that bassoon—& the expressive range of Pat Carroll's vocals spells nothing if not Diva, in the most delightful way. Also, you've got to appreciate a movie that has the bad guy (re: the one you're supposed to disagree with) spouting super-sexism (re: the It's she who holds her tongue who gets a man verse)—thus continuing Disney's delightful trend of sneaking strikingly blatant life lessons into catchy tunes. (See also: We don't like what we don't understand—in fact, it scares us—& this monster is mysterious at least, c. "The Mob Song" in Beauty & the Beast.)
4) No More Mr. Nice Guy (Rothbart, The Swan Princess).
Rhyme of Note: "zinged 'em" / "kingdom"
From my all-time favorite kids movie, no contest, no questions asked: The Swan Princess. Truly ideal on every level sonically, as well—a jazz-infused set of couplets declaring, in many creative (& very creatively rhymed) ways, the joys of viletude.
5) Oh, Ratigan (Ratigan et. al., The Great Mouse Detective).
Line of Note: "An even grimmer plot has been simmering in my great criminal brain!" tied with "You're more evil than even you!"
So, my guess is, you haven't seen The Great Mouse Detective. I don't blame you: like The Swan Princess, it was one of those off-brand animations from the mid-nineties that got all but lost amid the shuffle of Disney hits. Still, I highly recommend it, if only because it remained a staple in my VCR, long after it's deemed appropriate for children to obsess over cartoons. Though much of this movie's charm can be found in the non-musical moments—the sly Holmes references, the oddly dark & often actually frightening sequences—this is, indeed, a top-notch Villain Song, wrought with alliteration & pink champagne. Moreover, Ratigan proudly continues my beloved trend of wonderfully fanciful (re: queer as every last folk) villains—a primly accented clotheshorse who fixes his coif before beginning his big number, plucks his own harp for the tragic monologue portion, & proudly keeps a bow-bedecked attack kitten.
6) Prince Ali (Reprise) (Jafar, Aladdin).
Line of Note: "Where were we? Ah, yes: abject humiliation!"
&, speaking of queeny villains... Really, though: in this category, Jafar can't not take the cake. I mean, that eyeliner? Diva, please. Moreover, here he pulls the ultimate in catty villainry: parroting back the hero's main theme with an evil twist—& no small amount of snark.
7) Gaston (Le Fou feat. Gaston, Beauty & the Beast).
Line of Note: "I'm especially good at expectorating!" tied with "I use antlers in all of my decorating!"
This is one of the more fabulously absurd Disney songs around—the "no one x like Gaston, no one y like Gaston" paradigm wearing thin after, say, one or two rounds & quickly devolving into a game of "what can we lyricists get away with" (hence, say, the above mentioned "expectorating" quip). Still good for a giggle after all these years.
8) Mine, Mine, Mine (Governor Ratcliffe, Pocahontas).
Line/Rhyme of Note: "With all you've got in ya boys / dig up Virginia boys!"
Okay, so this Villain Song does get briefly interrupted by Mel Gibson adventuring about, but before & after that unwelcome intrusion, there are dubious rhymes & delusions of grandeur aplenty. Also, I can't help but notice that Ratcliffe bears a striking resemblance to Ratigan—the prim demeanor, the portly frame, the obsession with piles of shiny riches—&, for that matter, even to Ursula, to Jafar... There is a paper to be written here—one that I am 100% sure some grad student somewhere has stashed in their sock drawer.
9) You're Only Second Rate (Jafar, The Return of Jafar).
Line of Note: "You look horrendous in your underwear."
Try, if you can, to ignore the infuriating Robin Williams impersonator & focus on the fact that this is essentially a song composed entirely of capital-S Shade—proving, once again, that Jafar is the most fabulous queen in Disney showbiz, which is why she earns two spots in our countdown. Really, though—everything about the punchy brass & syncopated syntax make this song the ultimate "Oh no she di'int" of cartoon evil.
10) We Hate the Sun (The Duke, Rock-a-Doodle).
Line of Note: A flashlight!
Of course, this song has already made an appearance hereabouts, in service of exemplifying my love of organs in music, but it also functions perfectly well as a somewhat off-brand Villain Song—definitely epic, excellently orchestrated, & capped off with a snooty British accent.
Today's Headphone Fodder:
When not taking in animated villainy, I was busy subjecting my ears to a series of other tunes—what I can safely say is, by far & away, the single weirdest "pump-up" playlist in the history of ever, running the irony-free gamut from Johannes Brahms to Demi Lovato & back again. So, without further ado:
12-17-11: Sisyphean.
[ As usual, click above for the expressly convenient YouTube playlist experience of a lifetime. ]
The King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1—Neutral Milk Hotel.
Exquisite Corpse—Hedwig & the Angry Inch.
Everyday I Love You Less & Less—Kaiser Chiefs.
Leeds United—Amanda Palmer.
Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't've)?—The Buzzcocks.
Commissioning a Symphony in C—Cake.
Y Control—The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
Jet Boy, Jet Girl—Elton Motello.
Poem to a Horse—Shakira.
She Moves in Her Own Way—The Kooks.
Tranquilize—The Killers (feat. Lou Reed).
Infinity Guitars—Sleigh Bells.
Him Dancing—Throwing Muses.
Shock Horror—The View.
The Wind Blew All Around Us—The Bevis Frond.
Jique—Brazilian Girls.
Girl Inform Me—The Shins.
Drinking Gasoline—Ben Godwin.
Gigantic—The Pixies.
Violin Concerto in D, III—Johannes Brahms.
Take the Skinheads Bowling—Camper van Beethoven.
Superheroes—Ruth's Hat (Rocky Horror cover).
212—Azealia Banks.
The Problem With Saints—Neil Gaiman.
Unbroken—Demi Lovato.
Okay, as to that last song: 1) not gonna lie, it makes for an excellent pump-up lip sync, & 2) when asked "why," followed by several interrobangs, on the ol' BookFace (Spotify, you traitorous snitch...), I provided this retort, which I believe still holds:
There are two possible explanations:
1) Stuck in the especial purgatory of an already-late 7-page analysis of Wagner & Barber as pertains to the Romantic Era, which my body seems to have developed some sort of physical aversion to finishing, I find her blithely despairing pseudo-sinister techno mundanity on mind-numbing repeat a welcome respite from tempo rubato & wheedling violins.
2) Demi Lovato is a genius.
Pick your poison.
More Eye-itude—this time, a Blog-to-Blog: give Anneliese a prompt about Paul McCartney & ballet, replace the strictures of print with the intentionally punchy wink of the online division, & behold the bizarre, pictorialized response:
As you may have seen in recent dance news (assuming, you know, you read dance news), Paul McCartney made headlines for composing his first ever ballet, Ocean’s Kingdom—it’s the gentleman’s “Octopus’s Garden”—and enlisting the help of his daughter, Stella, to design the costumes. Apparently, it’s not considered nepotism when you’re the Walrus.
It was promptly panned with more than a hint of incredulous snark. NY Times reporter Alastair Macaulay points a finger: “We can blame the ballet’s costumes, by Mr. McCartney’s daughter, the fashion designer Stella McCartney: they’re intrusive, unflattering and clichéd.” Macaulay goes on to inquire if Ms. McCartney might require some aloe for that burn...
Today's Headphone Fodder:
For whatever reason, this song has been spinning through my head all morning—now alternating on my newest Spotify playlist with t.A.T.u's cover of "How Soon Is Now?"—stumbling listless through lady voices tracing young men's songs (see: the Zutons original of Winehouse's hit).
Good afternoon, Blogosphere. Time for another faithful cross-post from your favorite (& somewhat heinously active) Eye contributor. (I know, I know—I'll get back to my own profanity-laced Bowie-gushing ASAP—but it's at least cool that these are actually published, right?)
Today, it's a bit more of a blip—some humour, if you will—"Seriously, Mark?: An Open Letter to Mark Zuckerberg." (Because really now: some bonkers shit is going down on the ol' BookFace, & it is patently unacceptable.)
Mark, we need to talk.
First, it was that awkward second location of Chat. Then, you started sorting my friends into these mysterious “Lists.” Soon enough, my every sidebar was filled with bizarre tidbits of information, ranging from the humiliating (e.g., “More Photos of Person You’re Already Shamelessly Stalking!”) to the just plain hateful (believe it or not, I’d rather not be reminded that, on September 23, 2007, I happened to think my lunch was “awesum!! <3”).
Today's Headphone Fodder:
It's perhaps apt that I'm starting with Mr. Zuckerberg, given that his recent portrayal in The Social Network showed us a young man obsessed with exclusivity—with belonging, being "in"—if only because, this past week, I was subject to the rather unpleasant (but, I'm sure, necessary, adult) experience of being turned down for something to which I applied—in layman's terms: being Rejected.
Sure, it sucked, for lack of a more artful expression—but really, in moments like these, one rarely has the requisite drive to be artful, to do anything more than wallow, situated squarely in a Funk (& not the fun "ph-" kind, like Fergie sings about—this is some we know Major Tom's a junkie shit).
Still, there comes a point when enough is enough—when you can't deny that the sun's still rising & personal rainclouds seem increasingly ridiculous—when you have to realize that, honestly now, you are a Grown-Ass Woman (because, regardless of personal gender expression, in this moment, we are all Grown-Ass Women), & it's long past time to scrub off stray eyeliner, pull up your pantyhose, & Make a Fucking Playlist.
So, here it is—for any & all of us who've felt that castaway sting, who've muddled endless through those infamous Five Stages & landed, at last, upon:
Rejected—Flight of the Conchords.
Get Over It—Ok Go.
Wandering Star—Portishead.
Oh! You Pretty Things—David Bowie.
Eleanor Rigby (4 Centers Dubstep Remixxx)—The Beatles.
Shut Me Up—Mindless Self Indulgence.
It's Alright, Baby—Komeda.
The Passenger (Live)—Iggy Pop.
Angeles (Live)—Elliott Smith.
You Oughta Know—Das Racist.
Special—Garbage.
Golden Hours—Brian Eno.
She Hates Me—Puddle of Mudd.
Good Day—The Dresden Dolls.
Your Name is Jake—Dr. Skinnybones. [** Not on YouTube, but FREE-DOWNLOADABLE on BANDCAMP.]
Whip My Hair (Drowning in Blood)—Skull Tape (Willow Smith cover).
It's Not—Aimee Mann.
It Ain't Gonna Save Me—Jay Reatard.
Lithium—Nirvana.
Forest Whitaker—Brother Ali.
Emerge—Fischerspooner.
So What—P!nk.
[ NOTE: Though, of course, these are meticulously organized for your listening pleasure into an 80-minute whole, I would like to single out "Your Name is Jake" by Dr. Skinnybones—not only because it is not, as you may have noted, included in the YouTube playlist—but moreover, because it's a delightful new addition to my collection, a perfect anthem for room-bound slam-dance comebacks. ]
Ack!—a few days late on re-posting this one. It's this new schedule of mine—limbs churning tireless like a hamster on a caffeine drip—but buoyed, always, by the knowledge that I'm doing what I love (designing, film-learning, tofu-cooking—all them essentials of my awkwardly burgeoning Grown-Up-itude). Who needs sleep when you have iCal, says I.
Anyhow, to counterbalance my somewhat manic contentment, here's a few paragraphs of Eye-ly blather on that beloved Slacker extraordinaire, Mr. Geoffrey "The Dude" Lebowski:
“In wayfarer’s worlds out west was a man,
A man I come not to bury, but to praise,
His name was Geoffrey Lebowski call’d, yet
Not called, excepting by his kin.”
Thus begins Adam Bertocci’s “The Two Gentlemen of Lebowski,” a re-working in full Shakespearean verse of the Coen brothers’ 1998 cult classic The Big Lebowski—that now infamous tale of carpet-pissing, kidnapping, pornographers, and nihilism, with a few marmots thrown in for good measure. It was the cover of this unlikely book—a be-sunglassed Bard holding a bowling ball the way Hamlet might a skull—that first caught my eye upon entering The Little Lebowski, a small store near Washington Square Park (215 Thompson St., to be exact) entirely dedicated to the vending of all things Dude...
Today's Headphone Fodder:
Okay. Um— Okay. I don't quite think I can even begin quantify my feelings about the existence of this recording. What I can tell you is that, a week or so ago, mixing & mingling at one of many year-starting galas, I fell into a rather serious Bowie Conversation with some young gents—during which I jumped, squealed, danced, gestured vigorously, & at least twice interrupted to remark how awesome it was to nerd out like this—you know, all those charming, spastic Bowiephilisms that guarantee me more mental health referrals than phone numbers. Anyhow, in the course of our discourse, this recording was mentioned, &—after an incredulous squeal & jump & a few much-needed hours of sleep—I finally tracked it down.
This is, no question, one of my favorite songs of all time—note it, quoted, in the first line of my wee tongue-in-cheek Bio (to the right)—& the fact that Bowie liked it enough to cover it— His voice, scratching & cracking over the lyrics— To feel that kind of connection to your heroes— The same Bruce Springsteen song! I— We— Garble— Squeal— Melting.
Honestly, though:
1) Pick an artist whom you idolize to a sickening degree.
2) Pick another artist whom you regard as a sort of nostalgic, not-quite-guilty pleasure (e.g., inextricably associated with driving around in your old car with your mother)—of whom you have no real reason to believe Artist 1 is a fan.
3) Imagine that Artist 1 covers, not just any song by Artist 2, but the song—not some obvious chart topper, but an identity-defining B-side that you love, intensely.
Now, try to contain yourself while writing about it prose English.
Oh hey there. Not like it's been three months or anything...
I know, Reader, I know—but times are tough: buried beneath mounds of camp directing, now giving way to heaps of schoolwork, I hardly have time to breathe, let alone weave together complex musings on the eminent hotness of Michael Fassbender (the upcoming topic in my ever-accumulating pop-arsenal—get psyched).
Still, there are some chances that are too good to pass up: when The Eye contacted me towards the end of summer with a pitch about the rising popularity of zombie literature, despite being so thoroughly burned by them in the past (oh, Annaliese & her morays...), I snatched at the opportunity to muse about the scribed undead.
The piece was published today, & I'm happy to report that this time around, they were generously faithful to my original copy—only a couple of meaning-altering edits ("years-long" to "year-long," "fake-bloody" to "fake-blood," repeating the word "faux" twice in two sentences, etc.). Moreover, speaking from a place of giddy narcissism, I'm almost happier to report that I've now officially gotten my picture in the paper—& blood-drenched to boot. I expect a call from Hollywood any day now. (Many thanks to Adam Hawthorne & Steve McGowan for taking the photos!)
So, without further ado, here it is: my torn, reanimated hand grasping from out the muck of these past inactive months. Enjoy.
They came in hordes: limping lopsided through Boston’s poshest districts, trailing clothing strips and rubber limbs, snarling peppermint-flavored blood at unsuspecting brunchers—because, well, there are worse ways to spend a Saturday. These hundreds of brave and faux-battered souls were none other than the eager participants in Boston’s seventh annual Zombie March, an occasion for any ex-makeup artist or horror enthusiast to break out some spirit gum and stroll brokenly through the streets. As startling as a mob of faux blood-drenched adults hobbling through Sephora might be, the existence of the march itself should come as no grand shock, if only because, in recent years, zombies have been lurching their way into every aspect of our pop culture with gusto—especially, and perhaps surprisingly, onto the literary scene...
(Here's the downloadable PDF—pages 12 & 13.)
Today's Headphone Fodder:
Okay, this officially sucks, because my musical taste has gone through several full cycles these past mute months, such that the thought of summing it all up with one song is daunting if not impossible. As much as I would like to take the next hour to put together a downloadable ZIP file playlist (à la "I Know It's Gonna Happen Someday"), the aforementioned heaps of homework beckon—so, if you'll permit, I'm going to put that task aside & trust you to understand that the following is, true to its name, the music of today & today alone. That said, the track currently gracing these staticking white earbuds is:
Bopping but unconventional, like the best output of this particular glam-pop outfit, this is one of those songs that manages to sum my life up perfectly, in lyric & tone: daylight, I'm so absentminded, nighttime meeting new anxieties... An upbeat ditty dipping its toes just far enough into the profound, it's the perfect song for chowing down film theory, for nagging yourself out of bed to attend 10 AM lectures thereupon—for buoying the hazy, aimless summer drives I'm doomed, for now, to miss.
