Showing posts with label entertainment. Show all posts
Showing posts with label entertainment. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
I'd Rather be Swimming
For two weekends in a row now, we've all bundled up and trudged over to the Briggitenau Hallenbad--that's German for big-ass public indoor pool and sauna complex. Sunday is warm water day, so the pool is not actually freezing. Last Sunday it was snowing outside--today, there's a blizzard--but in the Hallenbad, V. shrieks with laughter as she leaps over and over again into the kiddy pool.
It's somehow magical--the rippling blue-green water and the bright white spotlights that shine from under the waves. I never learned to swim, but I've always loved swimming pools. I love their scale, the stretch, the emptieness of the space (even when the place is crowded), and especially the deep relaxation and langour that comes from the experience, even if you, like me, just splash around like a blind seal pup.
But a warm indoor pool, on a cold winter day--this is even more perversely enjoyable. When I look out from the great glass walls of the Briggitenau Hallenbad and see the city covered in snow, I think, 'Suckers! What are all you idiots doing out in the cold? Come on in--the water's fine!'
Meanwhile, Adinah's doing underwater somersaults and trying to pull down my trunks. Anette--who knows how to swim--is over at the big people pool, doing 60 or 70 laps. And V.'s having a blast, splashing around in her water wings and Olympic goggles.
Afterwards, we all camp out underneath the hot showers. And I have discovered that it's really delicious to stand shirtless underneath a huge wall-mounted hair dryer. At home, I just towel-dry, but at the Hallenbad, I indulge--the hot air feels excellent on my skin....
Then we all bundle up again and slosh back over the Spittelau bridge. It's still cold and snowy outside, but I feel lighter on my feet. Quite pleasantly dazed and exhausted. Tonight, everyone will sleep like a stone.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Ops Meeting Notes, November 24
The Deputy Assistant for Hair Whipping and Dairy Product Consumption begins the meeting by noting that she will require disbursement of additional funds (€ 1) for the upcoming Charismatic Transportation project (A.K.A the Field Trip.)
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee thanks the Deputy Assistant for her feedback and affirms that an R & D team will look into the matter. She then asks for updates from each unit.
The Vice Chair for Fried Foods and Belated Laundry Folding begins by noting some extant confusion in his department regarding use of the Cast Iron Pans. Is it the smaller one which is only for roasting, and if so, will the Managing Director please define "roasting"?
He also reports that Bed Sheet Replacement and Sanitation was completed at approximately 17:20 Sunday evening.
The Junior President in Charge of Kitty Litter and Chortling notes that, as the Deputy Assistant has yet to return her balloon, the Deputy Assistant will henceforth be referred to as "caca." Or possibly "lulu."
The Deputy Assistant registers an objection to this comment.
The Junior President continues, noting that the Second Undersecretary for Rodent Removal has been bathing in the toilet again.
The Second Undersecretary affirms this last, and adds that any and all household entities resembling mice--including shoestrings, wet sponges and the feet of the Junior President--have been warned to get out of town or face immediate Mexican drug cartel-style retribution.
Duly noted.
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee reports that the Holiday Celebration (i.e. Thanksgiving) will be downsized due to the absence of most of the usual suspects in the greater Vienna area.
She adds that "roasting" shall consist of, but not be limited to, preparation of onions, Grieskoch and pasta re-heats. She further notes all use of said pan is predicated on a mandatory and subsequent hydration process (i.e. "soaking.)
In addition, The Managing Director reports that immediate action is required on the Kitchen and Bathroom Sink Washer Replacement project, the Cellar Clearance and Moldy Furniture Destruction Initiative and the immanent Prague Visitation.
The Vice Chair inquires as to whether immediate action may be postponed until tonight after the Simpsons?
Meeting adjourns.
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee thanks the Deputy Assistant for her feedback and affirms that an R & D team will look into the matter. She then asks for updates from each unit.
The Vice Chair for Fried Foods and Belated Laundry Folding begins by noting some extant confusion in his department regarding use of the Cast Iron Pans. Is it the smaller one which is only for roasting, and if so, will the Managing Director please define "roasting"?
He also reports that Bed Sheet Replacement and Sanitation was completed at approximately 17:20 Sunday evening.
The Junior President in Charge of Kitty Litter and Chortling notes that, as the Deputy Assistant has yet to return her balloon, the Deputy Assistant will henceforth be referred to as "caca." Or possibly "lulu."
The Deputy Assistant registers an objection to this comment.
The Junior President continues, noting that the Second Undersecretary for Rodent Removal has been bathing in the toilet again.
The Second Undersecretary affirms this last, and adds that any and all household entities resembling mice--including shoestrings, wet sponges and the feet of the Junior President--have been warned to get out of town or face immediate Mexican drug cartel-style retribution.
Duly noted.
The Managing Director and Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee reports that the Holiday Celebration (i.e. Thanksgiving) will be downsized due to the absence of most of the usual suspects in the greater Vienna area.
She adds that "roasting" shall consist of, but not be limited to, preparation of onions, Grieskoch and pasta re-heats. She further notes all use of said pan is predicated on a mandatory and subsequent hydration process (i.e. "soaking.)
In addition, The Managing Director reports that immediate action is required on the Kitchen and Bathroom Sink Washer Replacement project, the Cellar Clearance and Moldy Furniture Destruction Initiative and the immanent Prague Visitation.
The Vice Chair inquires as to whether immediate action may be postponed until tonight after the Simpsons?
Meeting adjourns.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Here's the second half of my Sueddeutsche Zeitung article on underground culture and Austin Texas. It was published on Saturday, Oktober 16.
Searching for that Lost Cool Something
One of our greatest living philosophers, Grandpa Simpson, once said, "I used to be 'with it', but then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it', and what's 'it' seems weird and scary." Maybe only the jugendlich understand ‘it.’ So back in Vienna, which is where I call ‘home’ these days, I asked a fifteen-year-old friend how he finds out about new music. His words were 2010, but his method: classic. “Usually my friends give me a link.”
I asked the same of a colleague’s fourteen-year-old son, who has recently discovered punk rock in the recordings of Green Day. He told her that he finds out about bands from concert posters and handbills, and from the opening bands at those concerts. Sounds a lot like my methods of thirty years ago.
On the other hand, my Austin friends, being older Texans and therefore contrary, roundly dispute the notion that the underground is dead. “Bullshit!” says Davy Jones, guitarist for the Hickoids, Austin’s oldest country punk band. “Hickoids are known by a tiny group of folks, but sales and the nature of the material make it Underground, Cult, Counterculture, whatever you wanna call it today. It's not successful in any normal business sense of the word- it’s so niche.”
Another friend, who I once knew as Control Rat X, drops some very old school science on me. “What has been done will be done again,” he says. “There is nothing new under the sun." Then he tells me he’s quoting from Ecclesiastes 1:9-14. Gee, I always thought it was a record critic who had said that.
On a late summer afternoon, downtown Austin is like the Velvet Underground—all white light and white heat. Unlike the centers of some US cities, this part of town has never been successfully rehabilitated, and the lower blocks of Congress Avenue are a bit shabby. But one afternoon, as I stumble along the Avenue in the blinding, skin-searing heat, I remember to tip my hat when I pass number 316. This is the former site of the Vulcan Gas Company, a legendary sixties club which may be the true birthplace of psychedelic music, since it was the preferred haunt of the notorious Texas acid rock group, the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. Back then, everyone played at The Vulcan when they passed through Austin, from John Lee Hooker and Moby Grape to, well, the Velvet Underground. Today, 316 Congress Avenue is a Patagonia sporting goods and outdoor apparel super store.
The Armadillo World Headquarters is now a parking lot, and for the week that I’m in Austin, I involuntarily turn my head towards it every time I pass, searching for some trace of the first rock club I ever entered. The Armadillo was an ugly hangar with bad acoustics, great nachos and a crowd that ranged from cosmic cowboys and pink-haired punks to state politicians and off-duty policemen. I remember seeing Devo there in 1980, and goggling at one of the club’s murals, which depicted an armadillo bursting out of the chest of BB King. Then and now, the Armadillo would meet almost any standard definition of an underground club, and that’s how I remember it. But it wasn’t underground at all—Time magazine and Rolling Stone both wrote it up at the time. In fact, Frank Zappa recorded a live album called Bongo Fury there. This 1975 document of what I thought was an underground scene was distributed to the world by…Warner Bros. Records. When I look at that parking lot today, I think it may be time to revise our definitions of underground.
My host in Austin is my old friend Rich, who was also once the drummer for the Kamikaze Refrigerators. A few hours before I leave town, I am puttering around in Rich’s immaculately renovated, slightly kitschy nineteen-fifties house. Rich is in the next room working. Then I hear music. It has the unhinged tone of the Pixies, and all the leather mask perversity of Lubricated Goat. With a dash of Devo. I like this music. “What is this?” I ask Rich.
“Oh, it’s Adult Rodeo,” he shrugs. “Little local band who was playing around here a few years ago.”
Adult Rodeo aren’t the new Radiohead, but they sound weird and fresh. I believe I have made a discovery.
I guess I can leave Austin now.
Searching for that Lost Cool Something
One of our greatest living philosophers, Grandpa Simpson, once said, "I used to be 'with it', but then they changed what 'it' was. Now what I'm with isn't 'it', and what's 'it' seems weird and scary." Maybe only the jugendlich understand ‘it.’ So back in Vienna, which is where I call ‘home’ these days, I asked a fifteen-year-old friend how he finds out about new music. His words were 2010, but his method: classic. “Usually my friends give me a link.”
I asked the same of a colleague’s fourteen-year-old son, who has recently discovered punk rock in the recordings of Green Day. He told her that he finds out about bands from concert posters and handbills, and from the opening bands at those concerts. Sounds a lot like my methods of thirty years ago.
On the other hand, my Austin friends, being older Texans and therefore contrary, roundly dispute the notion that the underground is dead. “Bullshit!” says Davy Jones, guitarist for the Hickoids, Austin’s oldest country punk band. “Hickoids are known by a tiny group of folks, but sales and the nature of the material make it Underground, Cult, Counterculture, whatever you wanna call it today. It's not successful in any normal business sense of the word- it’s so niche.”
Another friend, who I once knew as Control Rat X, drops some very old school science on me. “What has been done will be done again,” he says. “There is nothing new under the sun." Then he tells me he’s quoting from Ecclesiastes 1:9-14. Gee, I always thought it was a record critic who had said that.
On a late summer afternoon, downtown Austin is like the Velvet Underground—all white light and white heat. Unlike the centers of some US cities, this part of town has never been successfully rehabilitated, and the lower blocks of Congress Avenue are a bit shabby. But one afternoon, as I stumble along the Avenue in the blinding, skin-searing heat, I remember to tip my hat when I pass number 316. This is the former site of the Vulcan Gas Company, a legendary sixties club which may be the true birthplace of psychedelic music, since it was the preferred haunt of the notorious Texas acid rock group, the Thirteenth Floor Elevators. Back then, everyone played at The Vulcan when they passed through Austin, from John Lee Hooker and Moby Grape to, well, the Velvet Underground. Today, 316 Congress Avenue is a Patagonia sporting goods and outdoor apparel super store.
The Armadillo World Headquarters is now a parking lot, and for the week that I’m in Austin, I involuntarily turn my head towards it every time I pass, searching for some trace of the first rock club I ever entered. The Armadillo was an ugly hangar with bad acoustics, great nachos and a crowd that ranged from cosmic cowboys and pink-haired punks to state politicians and off-duty policemen. I remember seeing Devo there in 1980, and goggling at one of the club’s murals, which depicted an armadillo bursting out of the chest of BB King. Then and now, the Armadillo would meet almost any standard definition of an underground club, and that’s how I remember it. But it wasn’t underground at all—Time magazine and Rolling Stone both wrote it up at the time. In fact, Frank Zappa recorded a live album called Bongo Fury there. This 1975 document of what I thought was an underground scene was distributed to the world by…Warner Bros. Records. When I look at that parking lot today, I think it may be time to revise our definitions of underground.
My host in Austin is my old friend Rich, who was also once the drummer for the Kamikaze Refrigerators. A few hours before I leave town, I am puttering around in Rich’s immaculately renovated, slightly kitschy nineteen-fifties house. Rich is in the next room working. Then I hear music. It has the unhinged tone of the Pixies, and all the leather mask perversity of Lubricated Goat. With a dash of Devo. I like this music. “What is this?” I ask Rich.
“Oh, it’s Adult Rodeo,” he shrugs. “Little local band who was playing around here a few years ago.”
Adult Rodeo aren’t the new Radiohead, but they sound weird and fresh. I believe I have made a discovery.
I guess I can leave Austin now.
Monday, October 25, 2010
one night at the book store
“Open 24 hours” is not a phrase uttered lightly in Vienna. In fact, it’s not uttered at all. Most of the stores, boutiques, and trading posts here shut down by 6 or 7. But as a patriotic American, I still have the right to confuse shopping for entertainment. So last night at 7:30 pm, I really only had one choice: the Thalia.at superstore at Landstrasse. It’s Borders for Wieners.
Does anyone go to bookstores anymore? I can now report that yes, they do, especially when there isn’t anything else to do. Last night I was just another clod who was shuffling around, gathering up a bunch of books I had no intention of buying, just so I could indulge in a little “late-night” libro-philia. The tables, chairs and banquettes were mostly occupied, largely by people who were awake.
I plopped down with six items: Sebastiao Salgado’s Africa (beautiful, astonishing but ultimately clichéd black and white photographs of the Continent); a coffee-table book about cathedrals (did I not mention I am addicted to big picture books?); a smaller book about a Viennese movie poster artist who was working in the forties and fifties (nice local color); a black and white graphic novel about Stu Sutcliffe (who was he again? A fifth Beatle, right? Wait, this is in German!); a gargantuan new Taschen book of vintage funk and soul album covers (uh-oh, there goes thirty Euros!); and another graphic novel called The Night Bookmobile.
After a few pages of the Taschen book of funk and soul art, I knew I would have to possess it. The Night Bookmobile, on the other hand, looked sort of amateurish, and the author’s name--Audrey Niffenegger—meant nothing to me. The title is what put the hook in me. ‘Bookmobile?’ I thought. ‘That’s a phrase I haven’t heard in—oh--forty-five years.’
CAUTION: Middle-Aged Jaunt down Memory Lane to Follow! When I was seven, the Bookmobile kicked ass! The Public Library in my town had lots of branches, but it also had a book-filled Winnebago that drove around then laid anchor in various supermarket parking lots. It didn’t really have a lot of stuff in it, and looking back, I’m sure it was the same things I could have gotten at the smaller libraries. But there was something so cool about climbing up into a big recreational vehicle full of copies of Charlottes’ Web, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and those Alfred Hitchcock mystery stories for boys. Anyway….
So, The Night Bookmobile turned out to be a great, though slightly macabre, sorta sad book. A very nice story actually. I won’t ruin it for you. But it’s about a woman who loves to read. And after reading it, as I left the superstore and started back down the stairs to the subway trains, I felt all gooey inside. I’m really too young to feel nostalgic, but I miss books a little.
Now I live in Screen World. I’m looking at screens all day: my computer at work, my computer at home, my other computer at home, my wife’s computer, the tv screen, the screen in the u-Bahn station, the screen in the U-Bahn train. In New York, of course, one may watch tv in the back of a taxi now. Whoo-hoo. And the thing is, Screen World is sort of cold.
But a good book? Whoa, that is hot stuff. It’s really delicious to luxuriate in a long, totally fascinating history book (or novel or biography) by a writer who not only has style but really knows her or his shit. Books don’t have emoticons. Books have complete sentences. Many of them avoid slang! No one ever writes ROFL in a book.
I’m going to read one now. After I finish this post. And check Facebook. And send that e-mail.
Does anyone go to bookstores anymore? I can now report that yes, they do, especially when there isn’t anything else to do. Last night I was just another clod who was shuffling around, gathering up a bunch of books I had no intention of buying, just so I could indulge in a little “late-night” libro-philia. The tables, chairs and banquettes were mostly occupied, largely by people who were awake.
I plopped down with six items: Sebastiao Salgado’s Africa (beautiful, astonishing but ultimately clichéd black and white photographs of the Continent); a coffee-table book about cathedrals (did I not mention I am addicted to big picture books?); a smaller book about a Viennese movie poster artist who was working in the forties and fifties (nice local color); a black and white graphic novel about Stu Sutcliffe (who was he again? A fifth Beatle, right? Wait, this is in German!); a gargantuan new Taschen book of vintage funk and soul album covers (uh-oh, there goes thirty Euros!); and another graphic novel called The Night Bookmobile.
After a few pages of the Taschen book of funk and soul art, I knew I would have to possess it. The Night Bookmobile, on the other hand, looked sort of amateurish, and the author’s name--Audrey Niffenegger—meant nothing to me. The title is what put the hook in me. ‘Bookmobile?’ I thought. ‘That’s a phrase I haven’t heard in—oh--forty-five years.’
CAUTION: Middle-Aged Jaunt down Memory Lane to Follow! When I was seven, the Bookmobile kicked ass! The Public Library in my town had lots of branches, but it also had a book-filled Winnebago that drove around then laid anchor in various supermarket parking lots. It didn’t really have a lot of stuff in it, and looking back, I’m sure it was the same things I could have gotten at the smaller libraries. But there was something so cool about climbing up into a big recreational vehicle full of copies of Charlottes’ Web, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and those Alfred Hitchcock mystery stories for boys. Anyway….
So, The Night Bookmobile turned out to be a great, though slightly macabre, sorta sad book. A very nice story actually. I won’t ruin it for you. But it’s about a woman who loves to read. And after reading it, as I left the superstore and started back down the stairs to the subway trains, I felt all gooey inside. I’m really too young to feel nostalgic, but I miss books a little.
Now I live in Screen World. I’m looking at screens all day: my computer at work, my computer at home, my other computer at home, my wife’s computer, the tv screen, the screen in the u-Bahn station, the screen in the U-Bahn train. In New York, of course, one may watch tv in the back of a taxi now. Whoo-hoo. And the thing is, Screen World is sort of cold.
But a good book? Whoa, that is hot stuff. It’s really delicious to luxuriate in a long, totally fascinating history book (or novel or biography) by a writer who not only has style but really knows her or his shit. Books don’t have emoticons. Books have complete sentences. Many of them avoid slang! No one ever writes ROFL in a book.
I’m going to read one now. After I finish this post. And check Facebook. And send that e-mail.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Boogie Fever
The ballet they were dancing at the Staatsoper tonight was called Onegin. I went in on a lark. Based on Puschkin, music by Tchaikovsky, okay, whatever. One standing room ticket: € 4.
Here’s the plot: A bookish Hottie gets her bloomers in a rustle over this gloomy Gus who thinks he is all of that and a turkey sandwich. He also wears a cape like Dr. Acula, and comes out of her mirror one evening so they can do the Hustle. Then the babe and Gus and her sister and the sister’s boyfriend go to a big ball and Gus reverts to form. Stuff gets said, jealousies inflamed, then suddenly—Duel time. Long story short: Gus is a real prick (plus now a killer) and even though the Hottie meets a nice Rear Admiral (or something), she still wants to kiss him one more time. Which she does. Then she tells him to get the hell out of her boudoir. Curtain.
I liked it a lot.
Really, what have I been doing, paying good folding money to see garbage movies when I could have been spending a night at the Oper for a few Euros?
Watching Onegin, I got all choked up about the cruelty of passion, and the, uhhh, futility of bad love. I thought I'd just stay for an hour then leave. But I stayed for the whole damn show because I wanted to see that Hottie take the trash out.
I thought I didn't like ballet. Of course, I'd never seen one, but I was positive this wasn't my bag. It turns out I like the way they stand on their pointy little toes! I like the soft "clack!" sound of twenty feet hitting the stage at the same time! And that orchestra, sawing away in the pit, that's okay too!
What a dope I've been. This means I'll never have to see another Kate Hudson movie.
Here’s the plot: A bookish Hottie gets her bloomers in a rustle over this gloomy Gus who thinks he is all of that and a turkey sandwich. He also wears a cape like Dr. Acula, and comes out of her mirror one evening so they can do the Hustle. Then the babe and Gus and her sister and the sister’s boyfriend go to a big ball and Gus reverts to form. Stuff gets said, jealousies inflamed, then suddenly—Duel time. Long story short: Gus is a real prick (plus now a killer) and even though the Hottie meets a nice Rear Admiral (or something), she still wants to kiss him one more time. Which she does. Then she tells him to get the hell out of her boudoir. Curtain.
I liked it a lot.
Really, what have I been doing, paying good folding money to see garbage movies when I could have been spending a night at the Oper for a few Euros?
Watching Onegin, I got all choked up about the cruelty of passion, and the, uhhh, futility of bad love. I thought I'd just stay for an hour then leave. But I stayed for the whole damn show because I wanted to see that Hottie take the trash out.
I thought I didn't like ballet. Of course, I'd never seen one, but I was positive this wasn't my bag. It turns out I like the way they stand on their pointy little toes! I like the soft "clack!" sound of twenty feet hitting the stage at the same time! And that orchestra, sawing away in the pit, that's okay too!
What a dope I've been. This means I'll never have to see another Kate Hudson movie.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Home Alone Sunday Listening
(pretty much in this order)
Alexei Rybnikov & Dmitry Rybnikov-Through The Thorns To Stars (Bootleg)(soundtrack to Humanoid Woman)
Ron Geesin - Electrosound
Buddy Holly - Not Fade Away (The Complete Studio Recordings and More)
Mike Oldfield-Tubular Bells
The Jimi Hendrix Experience-Axis Bold as Love
Joni Mitchell-Court and Spark
Various Artists-Hotel Costes Volume 4
Pentangle-Basket of Light
Sol Kaplan, Gerald Fried and Alexander Courage- Star Trek Original Television Soundtrack Volume Two: “The Doomsday Machine” and “Amok Time”
Grace Jones-Warm Leatherette
Captain Beefheart-Doc at the Radar Station
Elton John-Goodbye Yellow Brick Road
Friday, August 13, 2010
Giggling in the Dark
My mind doesn’t always move in a straight line, so bear with me for a few paragraphs here.
As some of you may have guessed, I’ve been going to some Kino Unter den Sternen (cinema under the stars) nights lately. Vienna summers being what they are (i.e. colder than San Francisco and rainy as hell), the weather hasn’t permitted it every night, but so far this year I’ve seen The Damned, In a Lonely Place, In the Heat of the Night and just the other night, Goldfinger.
Okay, I’ve seen Goldfinger about a million times, but I had the night off, and I thought, ‘It’s spectacular, gotta be nice on a big screen, and really, how many warm nights do we have left this summer?’
Of course, I laffed my ass off at stuff I’d never noticed, and I got caught up in the sheer velocity of the sequences all over again. Halfway through my second large cold beer, I had what appeared to be a thought. Goldfinger should be a key text for me. The whole thing is besotted with gadgets—the laser, the super Aston Martin, the junkyard auto compactor, etc. It’s pure techno-filia, drenched with the belief that fancy machines will save your ass. (Or kill it.) But @t the end, Bond himself cannot defuse the Bomb—he’s baffled, and he even panics a bit. It’s a marvelous joke, because in the end, one realizes that even though the superspy likes all this hi-end junk, he’s actually pretty lo-tech. Bond is all fast fists and Martinis. Like me.
No. What I mean is I really identify with this teetering between techno-filia and techno-phobia. I love my computer. I just don’t understand it.
Anyway, this beer-battered epiphany of mine wasn’t the best thing that happened that night.
During the climactic Fort Knox sequence of the film, as everything is accelerating and it’s all pretty ridiculous but you don’t care because it’s so fun, I noticed two teenage girls sitting behind me. They were giggling in the dark, and talking non-stop, apparently about the movie. They were tickled pink. Maybe it was the first time they’d seen Goldfinger. Or any James Bond besides Daniel Craig. Or any film older than Lord of the Rings.
After the movie, I saw them spill out onto the path that leads to the street. They were still giggling as they ran over to pick up the schedule for the rest of this film festival. Then they scampered, chasing each other out, altogether in a tizzy about this crazy, corny, really ancient movie they just saw, yeah!
How great to witness such teen gaga discovery, such a rush of thrill and spritzing enthusiasm!
I smiled to myself. My daughters will have moments like this, years from now. Giggly discoveries with each other or with friends. By that time, I won’t be hanging out with them as much as I do now, so maybe I won’t see them capering around exactly like this. That’s okay. But it’s sweet to think they may laugh and hoot at stuff which I’m too over to care about, at things I’ve long taken for granted.
Youth isn’t always wasted on the young. When you’re fifteen, everything’s an adventure, especially if you’re out with your friends. At fifteen, there are so many things left to discover. When you see Goldfinger for the first time, it seems like the most outrageous artifact of a prehistoric time. You can’t even believe someone actually made such a zany film. Without CGI!
Dear reader, please do not cynically judge me. I do not miss that joy of discovery. I experience that joy every time I Google. It’s just nice to catch a glimpse of things to come for Adinah and V.
It makes me happy.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Blow Your Whistle
I ♥ the public library. Doesn't matter which city-the library is the bees knees. I loved the branch libraries and the Bookmobile when I was a kid in Austin, Texas. I adored the gigantic reading rooms of the New York Public. And now I dig the Stadt Bucherei--you know, the one with the dizzy facade, at the Burgasse stop of the U6 U-Bahn. The library has always been where I go to get new ideas for absolutely fucking free.
Something caught my eye when I was there a few weeks ago. A shiny silver glitter ball in the shape of a Big Apple. And the word "Disco" in the title. I picked it up casually, gave it a glance, then put it back--I was on a different mission that day. But I noticed that it was written by Vince Aletti, who I've always been intrigued by: he wrote about photography and pop culture for the Village Voice, now he's at the New Yorker. He's smart. But I didn't know he was also the inside man journalist at Ground Zero Disco Manhattan nineteen-seventy-five baby!
A week or two later, I went back, checked it out, and brought that book home with me. It's called The Disco Files 1973-78, and it collects all of the columns Aletti wrote about dance music for a trade magazine in the middle 70's. This is a great book. It came out (!) in 2009, but I must have missed it. Aletti writes about music with a ton of passion, but he balances that with the perspective of a DJ, who has to also think of music as a functional thing. A surgeon thinks a heart is just another kind of pump, and a DJ thinks of a piece of music as a people mover. Or a sedative. Music as a firestarter or a fire dowser. This perspective makes The Disco Files a nice mix of infectious music criticism and epic shopping list.
So now I'm obsessed with finding a copy of Hot Blood's "Soul Dracula." And I'll also be needing a copy of "7-6-5-4-3-2-1 Blow Your Whistle" by Gary Toms Empire. Yes! Did you know the Ventures did a (allegedly great) disco tune? It's called "Superstar Revue"! One, please!
Friday, May 21, 2010
Eight Reasons Why Mahler and his Sixth Symphony are the Bomb
1) The first thirty-six seconds of the symphony sounds like a storm warning of the biggest trouble you have ever seen, bearing down on you Right Now.
2) The Sixth was immediatley labeled "satanic." Just like Cradle of Filth.
3) After the premier performance, Mahler was found pacing the floor in the dressing room, weeping from the intensity of hearing what he himself had created.
4) Mahler was Anette's mother's favorite. Knowing Mahler is like knowing a little more about Resi.
5) The strange little cow bells which shimmer, almost beyond (my) hearing range, in both the first movement and the Finale. But maybe I'm just imagining them.
6) The fact that with the Sixth, which was first performed in 1906, Mahler expressed something of the mindset of the Austrians and Germans who would, eight years later, declare Total War on the World. (Credit for this insight, as well as info in 2 and 3, goes to Alex Ross, and his awesome book The Rest is Noise.)
7)Here was a man who understood the phrase "terrible beauty."
8) Cool glasses.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Men in Tights
I'm a little obsessed with Kick-Ass, the new (to Vienna) film about teen super-heroes and ultra-violence. It's funny and sweet and then someone gets shot in the face. That's a little confusing, and the parent in me squirmed a bit when the teens were suddenly having the kind of hot porno sex that only happens in Hollywood movies. But otherwise, it's a pretty great film.
And the soundtrack's great, too. Liam Prodigy put it together, and contributes a really fantastic Stax soul-meats-Bristol-Big Beat instrumental theme. It also includes the cartoon punk classic recording of the "Banana Splits Theme" by the Dickies, which plays under the scene when the film suddenly turns super-gory.
anyway. My theory is that underneath the music and mayhem that I'm crushing on, I like this idea of heroes. Maybe everyone loves a hero. But one man's hero is another man's working father. I may not be wearing purple tights (at least, not at the moment), or leaping over tall gothic churches. But sometimes just getting our girls fed and out the door to school feels like a heroic act.
Of course, sometimes I get grumpy and impatient with them. Then I'm more like a super villain. I become Black Cloud. Or Red Face.
This morning I was both. V. woke up at 5:15, a full ninety minutes before any of us needed to be conscious. She insisted on coming into our bed, where she squirmed and whined and yelled at us until I got up and went somewhere else to not sleep. But not before I yelled back at her.
Even as I lay on the couch not sleeping, I thought, 'Adinah used to wake up in the middle of the night, and I just got up and played with her. Somehow I'm not so patient with V....'
A little later, as I was helping Adinah get ready for her day, I saw that she hadn't eaten the snack I put in her school bag yesterday. "Deanie, why didn't you eat your snack from yesterday?" She heard me, but gave no answer. I looked at her. "You don't have an answer for me?" Uh huh, she nodded. It was clear to me that she simply thought it was better for her to give no reply.
And what do you do with that?
Well, you go and stare out the window for a second. Count to 10,000. Try to be the adult in the room.
All this angst, and I hadn't even made 'em breakfast.
Somehow, I made like Black Flag, and rose above. Got them out the door and over to Deanie's school, where I helped her take fotos of twenty-two of her twenty-three classmates (special secret class project--don't ask.) Then we reversed and went to our neighborhood cafe, the Blue/Orange, where we got bagels with cream cheese. V. had a lot of fun getting cream cheese all over her face, then wiping it off again.
The morning slowed for a long moment. A moment I really enjoyed having with my precious daughters.
That's when I felt like a super hero. Or maybe I just felt super good.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Top Ten Ill-Advised Facebook Status Updates
1) I think I'm getting a raise!
2) Initiating launch sequence in 5...4...3...2...1-.
3) Joey's wife is hot!
4) Joey's brother is a douche lord!
5) What *is* the difference between irony and sarcasm, anyway?
6) Music sounds so great when you're high.
7) Underneath my clothes, I'm naked.
8) Look, tracheotomies are easy and fun. You just cut through this stuff here and-oh. Wait.
9) That's it, I'm quitting this stupid job.
10) These people are fools! They'll never suspect it was I, Colonel Mustard, in the Ballroom, with a Candlestick!
2) Initiating launch sequence in 5...4...3...2...1-.
3) Joey's wife is hot!
4) Joey's brother is a douche lord!
5) What *is* the difference between irony and sarcasm, anyway?
6) Music sounds so great when you're high.
7) Underneath my clothes, I'm naked.
8) Look, tracheotomies are easy and fun. You just cut through this stuff here and-oh. Wait.
9) That's it, I'm quitting this stupid job.
10) These people are fools! They'll never suspect it was I, Colonel Mustard, in the Ballroom, with a Candlestick!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
dead again
I'm all about zombies lately. And that is not just because I'm reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, or because the folks in Wienertown shuffle down the street like the walking dead. I’ve come to realize that I quite like zombies. Or: I quite like zombie movies. Or, at least, I like one zombie movie: Dawn of the Dead.
The best horror movie about consumerism ever. Plus, it’s got a really great exploding head scene.
So I finally got around to seeing the 2004 remake of Dawn. Until now, I’ve avoided it, along with the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes, and The Pink Panther. But then I succumbed to this zombie fever of mine, and I found out that the remake stars Sarah Polley, and Ving Rhames. They have talent, right?
Anyway, I watched the damn thing.
It’s got its moments, like the bit where the heroine stumbles out into her front yard to discover that, overnight, the planet has descended into mayhem. Or the spot where the redneck mall security cop takes a break from wasting manky dreadfuls to bob his head along with the mall Muzak version of “All Lost in Love” and he says, “I like this song.”
But that’s all it’s got: moments. The suspense and humor of the original are AWOL. It's tense but undramatic. It made me nervous, but it didn't disturb me. Who cares about these characters in a mall? Not me.
Dawn of the Dead 2004 includes a scene where a hillbilly grandma, gun in hand, finishes a cigarette before she goes into a dark room. Extreme Close-Up of the cherry on the tip of the cigarette, sound of the tobacco and paper crinkling with fire. She drops the stogey and steps on it--another Extreme Close-Up. Why are we seeing these filmic flourishes? How do they advance the story or tell us something we don't already know? They don't. These shots are just close-ups, and they only cue us to the fact that something may or may not be about to happen.
It amazes me that young filmakers--in this case, one Zack Snyder, who went on to "direct" 300--can take a story about braineaters in a shopping mall and fashion a movie that is long on style and really short on well, guts.
And it amazes , and delights me even more that this thought leads me back to the greatness of George Romero's 1976 film. Dawn of the Dead is ridiculous, a comic book. I mean the zombies are blue, for gawd's sake. Check these shots of both Dawns for comparison--which look more like real zombies?!
And yet, it's a complete and disturbing artistic statement about life, death, the world, hell, mortality, humanity, disease, and brains. For me, that's genius: a cheesy movie that's really about something, that is funny and horrible and deep and dumb, all at the same time.
For me, that's cinema.
The best horror movie about consumerism ever. Plus, it’s got a really great exploding head scene.
So I finally got around to seeing the 2004 remake of Dawn. Until now, I’ve avoided it, along with the remake of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes, and The Pink Panther. But then I succumbed to this zombie fever of mine, and I found out that the remake stars Sarah Polley, and Ving Rhames. They have talent, right?
Anyway, I watched the damn thing.
It’s got its moments, like the bit where the heroine stumbles out into her front yard to discover that, overnight, the planet has descended into mayhem. Or the spot where the redneck mall security cop takes a break from wasting manky dreadfuls to bob his head along with the mall Muzak version of “All Lost in Love” and he says, “I like this song.”
But that’s all it’s got: moments. The suspense and humor of the original are AWOL. It's tense but undramatic. It made me nervous, but it didn't disturb me. Who cares about these characters in a mall? Not me.
Dawn of the Dead 2004 includes a scene where a hillbilly grandma, gun in hand, finishes a cigarette before she goes into a dark room. Extreme Close-Up of the cherry on the tip of the cigarette, sound of the tobacco and paper crinkling with fire. She drops the stogey and steps on it--another Extreme Close-Up. Why are we seeing these filmic flourishes? How do they advance the story or tell us something we don't already know? They don't. These shots are just close-ups, and they only cue us to the fact that something may or may not be about to happen.
It amazes me that young filmakers--in this case, one Zack Snyder, who went on to "direct" 300--can take a story about braineaters in a shopping mall and fashion a movie that is long on style and really short on well, guts.
And it amazes , and delights me even more that this thought leads me back to the greatness of George Romero's 1976 film. Dawn of the Dead is ridiculous, a comic book. I mean the zombies are blue, for gawd's sake. Check these shots of both Dawns for comparison--which look more like real zombies?!
And yet, it's a complete and disturbing artistic statement about life, death, the world, hell, mortality, humanity, disease, and brains. For me, that's genius: a cheesy movie that's really about something, that is funny and horrible and deep and dumb, all at the same time.
For me, that's cinema.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
The English Cinema Haydn
A subterranean theatre in the basement of what is probably a pretty shabby hotel. Two of the three screens are small compared to US multiplex screens, but hey, the concession stand sells beer.
Last night, I got there early, sat down, opened my computer, and continued trying to figure out how to add my own artwork to songs on my iPod. Around me, other English speakers (not all American) discussed their current projects at their various NGOs and IGOs, or tried to convince the ticket seller that they know the theatre owner.
A tv monitor in one corner is perpetually tuned to CNN--last night it was blabbering on about the three richest men in the world. Fascinating.
I shut the computer a few minutes before my movie was set to start, and got in line up at the snack bar. I usually order the Haydn Menu 2, which is the second hugest popcorn and a "large" drink. But, hey, caveat emptor, this large drink is barely a thimblefull compared to US multiplex drinks. And to add insult to injury, the snack bar staff never even fill the cup to the top! I'm wanting for cola, here! I see them over there, futzing around with my drink, as if they were topping it off, but no. When they slide it across the counter to me, without even taking off the lid, I can see it's, you know, only about two thirds full!!
Before entering the auditorium, I loiter around the place, deriding the posters and advertising materials for the upcoming atrocities, most of which I will eventually pay to see. "Is Sandra Bullock blind now? Wha-?" "Oh my god, another Shrek?!"To think some Hollywood imbecile was paid--highly--to 'develop' this retread of a remake of a film version of an old tv show?!"
Sometimes the movie is good.
And around 11 pm, I scuttle out and down the street to my awaiting subway train. Clutching half a bag of movie theatre popcorn.
Last night, I got there early, sat down, opened my computer, and continued trying to figure out how to add my own artwork to songs on my iPod. Around me, other English speakers (not all American) discussed their current projects at their various NGOs and IGOs, or tried to convince the ticket seller that they know the theatre owner.
A tv monitor in one corner is perpetually tuned to CNN--last night it was blabbering on about the three richest men in the world. Fascinating.
I shut the computer a few minutes before my movie was set to start, and got in line up at the snack bar. I usually order the Haydn Menu 2, which is the second hugest popcorn and a "large" drink. But, hey, caveat emptor, this large drink is barely a thimblefull compared to US multiplex drinks. And to add insult to injury, the snack bar staff never even fill the cup to the top! I'm wanting for cola, here! I see them over there, futzing around with my drink, as if they were topping it off, but no. When they slide it across the counter to me, without even taking off the lid, I can see it's, you know, only about two thirds full!!
Before entering the auditorium, I loiter around the place, deriding the posters and advertising materials for the upcoming atrocities, most of which I will eventually pay to see. "Is Sandra Bullock blind now? Wha-?" "Oh my god, another Shrek?!"To think some Hollywood imbecile was paid--highly--to 'develop' this retread of a remake of a film version of an old tv show?!"
Sometimes the movie is good.
And around 11 pm, I scuttle out and down the street to my awaiting subway train. Clutching half a bag of movie theatre popcorn.
Monday, February 22, 2010
I'm Here to Kick Ass and Chew Gum, and I Just Ran out of Gum: (my first) Motorvational top ten iPod list
1) Replacements - "Fuck School" or "God Damn Job"
2) Daft Punk-"Rollin' and Scratchin'"
3) Gang of Four-"Ether"
4) the Rezillos-"Somebody's Gonna Get their Head Kicked in Tonight"
5) Fiona Apple - "Limp"
6) Diamanda Galas-"Let my People Go"
7) Led Zeppelin-"Hots on for Nowhere"
8) Neil Young-"Cinnamon GIrl"
9) AC/DC- "Sin City"
10) Soft Boys - "I Wanna Destroy You"
Monday, February 15, 2010
Our Big Fat Faschings Party Top 10
Best Kids Costume:
Tie: Oskar, who came as a Chemist (white lab coat with periodic table symbols scrawled on it) and Ainoah and her brother Andreas, who came as Ninjas (dressed all in black, with t-shirts that said 'Ninja')
My Daughters' Costumes:
Adinah-Witch, V.-Rockstar Fairy. (But she took the Axl Rose wig off after five minutes, and then she looked like every other pink girl in the place.
Best Adult Costume:
Christiana, who was completely done up in orange, with tights, cape and horn-rimmed glasses--apparently she was some kind of...Librarian Superhero!
Most Overheard Phrase:
"Gummi Bears-YAHHHHHHGHH!"
Bravest Costume:
Lino, who is six, came dressed as a Baby. With a pacifier. That kid was letting himself in for so much abuse from his fellow first graders. But apparently Adinah and her other friends at the party just laffed and said, 'Yeah, that Lino, he's so creative.'
Most Krapfen Eaten by an Individual:
4, consumed by the above mentioned Lino. (BTW, "Krapfen" is German for Jelly Donut.) At the end of the party, he did hurl.
Music on the small Jambox:
Miriam Makeba-"Pata Pata"
Elizabeth Mitchell-"You are My Sunshine"
Slayer-Reign in Blood
Ratio of Children to Meltdowns, Hissy Fits or other Conniptions:
25/8
Most Amazing Revelation:
Hand them a push broom and seven-year-olds love to sweep up streamers, confetti and dirty socks!
Most Dangerous Costume:
Our friend Andy borrowed my colleague Mark's full body Monkey costume, and the children tried to kill him. Last I saw, the Monkey was limping across the gymnasium floor, with a kid in a Tiger costume clamped to his foot.
Friday, February 12, 2010
beloved thing
I bought an iPod. Now pigs will fly.
A couple of months ago I suddenly noticed one of my colleagues’ ipod Nano. So sleek, so simple and nice to look at. Started salivating with pure design lust. Then I started perculating the idear—I’m always complaining (in my mind, if not out loud) that I can’t listen to music at volume any more. Either I’ll be waking up the girls, or distracting Anette from work or reading. But I still really really like having a Relationship with a piece of music. This is so delicious: giving some sounds—weird, spooky, lush, whatever-- your pure attention, your brain. Listening with all of yourself. And finally I put two and two together, and determined to buy myself a new toy. This I deserve.
Last night I snuck over to the mall, and lingered over a display case at Saturn for awhile. Like a sign from God, one of the sales clerks paused behind me and asked if I needed any help, which never ever happens at that place. So I asked a couple of guilty, perfunctory questions, and one hundred and fifty Euros later, I had become one of those people who walk around plugged in 24-7. Without even knowing it, I bought the exact color and model I’d seen on my colleague’s desk.
And it’s so fucking cool.
The first thing I listened to on it was a basshead stoner techno masterpiece I only discovered last week: Burial’s Untrue. The second thing I listened to was a record that’s almost forty years older: Fairport Convention’s lesser known electric folk jewel, Full House. They both sounded sooo...good.
I listened to Burial last night as I creeped around my neighborhood taking photos of the snow and brutalist architecture. It was the perfect soundtrack: dark, paranoid, lost, sad and mysterious, with a low-end that I can feel in my chest. It’s amazing how headphone music can re-contextualize the everyday and every-night landscape. Billboards look more poignant or tragic, shadows more sinister, street lights even harsher....
This may become my latest, greatest disease.
A couple of months ago I suddenly noticed one of my colleagues’ ipod Nano. So sleek, so simple and nice to look at. Started salivating with pure design lust. Then I started perculating the idear—I’m always complaining (in my mind, if not out loud) that I can’t listen to music at volume any more. Either I’ll be waking up the girls, or distracting Anette from work or reading. But I still really really like having a Relationship with a piece of music. This is so delicious: giving some sounds—weird, spooky, lush, whatever-- your pure attention, your brain. Listening with all of yourself. And finally I put two and two together, and determined to buy myself a new toy. This I deserve.
Last night I snuck over to the mall, and lingered over a display case at Saturn for awhile. Like a sign from God, one of the sales clerks paused behind me and asked if I needed any help, which never ever happens at that place. So I asked a couple of guilty, perfunctory questions, and one hundred and fifty Euros later, I had become one of those people who walk around plugged in 24-7. Without even knowing it, I bought the exact color and model I’d seen on my colleague’s desk.
And it’s so fucking cool.
The first thing I listened to on it was a basshead stoner techno masterpiece I only discovered last week: Burial’s Untrue. The second thing I listened to was a record that’s almost forty years older: Fairport Convention’s lesser known electric folk jewel, Full House. They both sounded sooo...good.
I listened to Burial last night as I creeped around my neighborhood taking photos of the snow and brutalist architecture. It was the perfect soundtrack: dark, paranoid, lost, sad and mysterious, with a low-end that I can feel in my chest. It’s amazing how headphone music can re-contextualize the everyday and every-night landscape. Billboards look more poignant or tragic, shadows more sinister, street lights even harsher....
This may become my latest, greatest disease.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
thought for the day
Do kids in the US play with little plastic colored beads that can be fused together into elaborate shapes with a common household clothes iron? Do you know the German for "common household clothes iron?" It is "bügeleisen." Now you know how I'm spending my Saturday with my girls.
I wonder if Captain Beefheart knew this. Then he could have changed the words to one of his songs every time he played Dusseldorf: "I'm gonna bügeleisen ya, baby!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
