Blogtown and Z-Boys

The Two Sides of Reyner Banham

2011-11-10T18:51:00.000-08:00

Volcanoes

2011-11-10T15:09:00.001-08:00

Obviously Phil and I have been camping a great deal. This past weekend I went to Death Valley with my photography class. It looks like Mars. All this travel has been influencing my work a great deal and moving it an unexpected direction. Here are some images I'm working with.

Dee Day

2011-10-23T12:59:00.000-07:00

As Dee mentioned, yes, my much-anticipated road trip/camping blog is forthcoming, but she humbly neglected to add that it's her birthday. There's no bigger holiday in my calendar, because, if you think about it, Dee's birth was a necessary precursor to this blog. If for nothing else, that makes it worth it, and you can take that to the bank.

In case you were wondering what you should get Dee for her birthday, maybe you shouldn't bother. Because, again, in her endless humility, she has not yet announced to the blogosphere that she just adopted one of the world's cutest creatures, a dog named Stevie Something-Something (she likes her animals with full names). He's the perfect dog for her, probably the most California dog I've ever seen - he'll wear sunglasses like no problem. Dee's got all the good pics, but here you can catch a glimpse of Stevie, as always on the Ugg-booted heels of his master.

So, no, Dee doesn't need your gifts; she's already got it all - a great dog, a great blog, and later, we're going to drink a Navy Grog while sitting on a log. Now THAT'S what I call a happy birthday, Jaromir.

Seriously though, Dee, you're the best. Have a great birthday, and here's to many many mOH MY GOD LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Damn you, Jason Alexander.

Ghost Towns

2011-10-20T19:27:00.000-07:00

While we all eagerly await Phil's post about his recent camping adventures in Lone Pine and Big Sur please enjoy this tale of a ghost town in Death Valley, where I'll be heading in two weeks.

Skidoo was founded in 1906 when two prospectors, on their way to the Harrisburg strike, found gold. The town reached a population of 700 and became famous as the site of the only hanging to take place in Death Valley. It occurred when Hootch Simpson, a saloon owner who had fallen on hard times, tried to rob the bank, was foiled in the attempt, and later went back and killed the owner of the store in which the bank was located. During the night the townspeople hanged Hootch. According to legend, he was hanged twice. The second hanging was to accommodate news photographers who missed the first hanging. No one was ever arrested for the hanging. Skidoo is located off the Wildrose road on an unpaved high-clearance road not recommended for automobiles. Nothing remains of the actual townsite.

Buncha Jagoffs

2011-08-08T08:11:00.000-07:00

As Hollywood bloggers, it's imperative that Dee and I keep our fingers on the pulse of the entertainment industry. In 2010, nothing was hotter than films set and/or shot in Pittsburgh. Whether this trend had anything to do with the invasion of Pittsburgh tastemakers like your devoted bloggers into the City of Angels remains to be seen, but with 'Burgh-set films like She's Out of My League, The Next Three Days, and Love and Other Drugs coming out in 2010, and with The Dark Knight Rises (where Pittsburgh plays Gotham City) on the horizon, the City of Champions is officially a big deal. The last time the city received this much attention was in the halcyon days of the mid-90s when, on any given day, the movie stars outnumbered the Donnie Iris fans. Consider the stretch between 1993 and 1995, when Pittsburgh played host to Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, Bruce Willis in Striking Distance, Sinbad in Houseguest, Whoopi Goldberg in Boys on the Side, and Jean-Claude Van Damme in Sudden Death. That handful of films crystallizes everything that made the 90s a special time to be alive. And that's before taking into account the iconic Penguins jersey that Snoop Dogg wears in his video for "Gin & Juice" (1994).

JCVD has his mind on his money...and murder on his mind.

Of course, if Pittsburgh is going to have its screen renaissance, the movie will have to pass muster - you don't just luck into a Groundhog Day, or a Houseguest - so Dee and I convened at the West Blogtown headquarters to vet a couple of the new offerings. We rented The Next Three Days and Love and Other Drugs from our friendly neighborhood Red Box, and decided to see if they did justice to our home city.

Love and Other Drugs

This is a romantic comedy, so we are eating Chinese food out of takeout containers.

The Story

Meet Jamie Randall (Jake Gyllenhaal), a charismatic, handsome, and charismatic salesman who can't seem to find his way in life...though he has no problem finding his way into women's pants. When his wealthy brother helps wrangle him a job as a pharmaceutical rep in the Ohio River Valley, he seems to have realized his potential as a smug, amoral shit.

"I'm charming you. Check how charming I am."

On one of his sales pitches, Jamie meets Maggie Murdock (Anne Hathaway), a jaded artist with Stage 1 Parkinson's Disease and a hair-trigger bullshit detector. Very early on, it's clear that there is no way that the silver-tongued Jamie will win over the canny artist. Until he does. The two fall into a no-strings-attached, purely physical relationship, punctuated by sex scenes that we're sure were meant to be sexy, but which actually pinballed between baffling and stomach-turning.

"I think we're doing something wrong."

Now, just as we'd all come to terms with this relationship - Jamie has commitment issues, and Maggie is just too damn world-weary to play into the whole meet-your-parents, tell-me-what-you're-thinking, sorry-honey-I-have-to-work-late...thing (this is actually how she talks) - well, then love throws them a curveball. The feelings that they'd been running from their whole lives are suddenly standing right on their doorstep. So they fall in love, and that's a huge deal, because they're both so damned fucked up (Jamie's never told anyone he loved them! Not even his parents! Not even when he was a little baby!), and then they have a big fight and break up, and who knows what's going on. While the invention of Viagra has Jamie's career shooting into the stratosphere (if you don't think there's an extended priapism panic scene, you literally have never seen a movie or television show), Maggie's health is declining, causing her to drop glasses and cry non-stop. Will they get back together, or is the distance between them just too much to overcome??? I won't spoil it, but let's just say that OH MY GOD THEY GET BACK TOGETHER AND IT'S SO ROMANTIC!

The Buzz

Pretty much all I'd heard about this movie, aside from the fact that it was filmed in Pittsburgh, is that Anne Hathaway gets naked in it. Which she does. Like eight or nine times. So if that's enough incentive for you to see this movie, then by all means hit up your nearest Red Box. You make me sick.

The Good

Well, it's set in 1996, which leads to all kinds of nostalgic throwbacks, like: look how big that cell phone is, kind of! He's using a pager! and They're doing the Macarena! This is a really terrible film.

The Bad

The soundtrack. After getting my hopes up by starting with the Spin Doctor's "Two Princes," the music quickly devolves into vaguely ninties-sounding pop music that in no way corresponds to the content of the scene. Oh, and whenever there's a romantic scene, there's a sort of gospel chant song that they play.

The Ugly

The film, in its infinite envelope-pushing, serves us up a completely disgusting scene where the husband of a woman with Stage 4 Huntington's comforts Jamie by telling him that if he had the chance to do it all over again, he would never have married her. And somehow he still ends up being more appealing than Jake Gyllenhaal.

The Scene-Stealer

Josh Gad, who plays Jamie's younger brother, a fat slob living off dot-com millions, is sort of a poor man's Jack Black, in that he looks like Jack Black but is completely unlikeable. Being the token fat nerdy guy, he gets the chance to do all sorts of fat, nerdy things like being awkward around women and being embarrassed by his better-looking brother. But he takes the role to another level by adding to this boilerplate a soupçon of incest. I won't even describe the scene that puts this over the top (Jamie walks in on his brother masturbating to a homemade sex tape of Jamie and Maggie), because that kind of filth has no place on the internet. But, hey, Josh Gad's character, THANKS SO MUCH for being in this movie!

Some kind of disgusting sex game, I can only assume.

Most Memorable Line

The documentary quality of the film really shines through in a scene that takes place at a pajama party - you know, the kind of pajama party that was so prevalent in what Dee called the "Roaring 90s," where a doctor would invite drug reps and hot babes over to his house of a Playboy-mansion quality orgy...in Pittsburgh. Jamie is led by the annoying-voiced chick who played Booth's girlfriend on Bones to a private bedroom, where another hot babe is sitting in a tub. Booth's girlfriend says: "This is my friend. She's Thai. And I'm...Thai-curious." [the girls make out]. If my understanding of the filmmaking process is right, someone wrote that line!!

How Pittsburgh-y is it?

Not very. Despite the fact that Maggie works in the coffee shop just down the street from where Dee grew up in the North Side, and we noticed scenes set in Lawrenceville and the South Side. The film really fails to show the beauty of the city, and gives no real sense of how it looks. Also, the scenes set in "Chicago" were obviously shot in downtown Pittsburgh. Moreover, there were countless scenes in public spaces purportedly in Pittsburgh wherein not a single person is wearing a piece of Steelers, Penguins, or Pirates gear. Get real! If you find, as they show in this movie, a hospital waiting room, a senior home, or any other gathering of more than five people without anyone wearing black-and-gold, yinz ain't in Pittsburgh.

How Could This Movie Be Made More Pittsburgh-y?

It would take a lot. Jamie drinks Budweiser throughout the movie - for chrissake, spring for some Iron City in the name of authenticity! Or a Yuengling at least, or a Rolling Rock. What else? Well, Maggie's an artist - she can't take Jamie to the still-new Andy Warhol Museum? Or to a Bad Genes show at the Milvalle Industrial Theater? There's a couple of scenes set on a bus, which would seem the perfect basis for a Jerome Bettis joke...but nothing. Plus, the music and romance were so off-point that I feel they could have seamlessly integrated a sex scene where Jamie and Maggie feed each other Isaly's chipped chopped ham while listening to "Ah! Leah!" on the stereo. And, now I think of it, Maggie has so many histrionic scenes, venting her frustrations at the contrivances of Man at poor, dick-swinging Jamie, that a "jagoff" or two would not have been unwarranted.

I'm an artist and it's the 90s so I have a bathtub in my living room.

The Verdict

This movie is the worst kind of garbage. I wish I could go back in time to before I went to see this movie and explode the Red Box that foisted this abomination on me.
4 stars out of a possible 100 stars.

The Next Three Days

Okay! Now we're getting somewhere!

The Story

A guy, played by Russell Crowe, is married to Elizabeth Banks, and they have a kid with bad hair. Elizabeth Banks all of a sudden gets arrested for murder, and goes to jail. FLASH FORWARD. He decides to plan to break her out of jail, and begins making a "Break Wife Out of Jail" collage on his wall (which is essentially a Wall o' Clues for the police when they inevitably find it). Then, he breaks her out. It's not much of a story. There's a lot of scenes I've already forgotten because they had very little to do with breaking out of prison. But then again, this is a film by Paul Haggis, who was once a scientologist and, even worse, wrote the Academy-Award winning Crash.

The Buzz

From the trailers, all I gleaned was that this was a movie set in Pittsburgh, starring Russell Crowe and Liam Neeson. But it's not. It's a movie set in Pittsburgh, starring Russell Crowe, and Liam Neeson is in it for like a minute. Which is fine, actually, as I will explain later.

The Good

Well, there is a prison break, sort of.

The Bad

A lot of fine actors were completely wasted in this movie. Neeson, as I mentioned, is hardly in it. Elizabeth's Banks' talents go almost completely unused. Brian Dennehy almost went the entire film without saying anything. Olivia Wilde, whose star is at its highest right now, plays a part whose function I still haven't figured out. RZA makes a cameo as an unnecessary character. And there are four or five cop characters who seem to become invested in this case, so we can never really tell which one is supposed to be the "cop obsessed with a case that nobody else thinks is a case." The movie's like an overbooked flight: too many people, not enough roles.

The Ugly

I feel like I need to address Liam Neeson's performance. It's not just that it was such a short appearance. Neeson plays "Damon," a breaking out of prison expert (that's a thing!) who teaches Russell Crowe how to break out of prison. Damon is from Brooklyn, of course, allowing Neeson to try out his New York accent, with his lanky Irish ass. His attempt is so godawful bad that I had to pause the movie to explain to Dee that he was using a Brooklyn accent, because she thought he was using a British accent. Here, listen for yourselves:

I mean, that's a pretty embarrassing Brooklyn accent, right? Am I crazy? Couldn't Al Pacino, a guy who's pretty much disgraced himself for the past decade, have sold this role a thousand times better?

The Scene-Stealer

Brian Dennehy, who plays Russell Crowe's tough, unemotive father (now THERE'S a character I'd like to see in more movies), is one of our great character actors, but the joy of watching his performance in this film come from wondering if he would make it through the entire film without saying a word. Dennehy spends the first hour of the movie looking meaningfully, but saying nothing, because he's playing the strong, silent, never-said-I-love-you father. We were watching it like a baseball fan watches a pitcher work on a no-hitter. When he finally did speak, a lot of the wind was let out of the movie's sails.

Most Memorable Line

Probably when Russell Crowe goes to meet Elizabeth Banks in jail, and she's says, "Yinz gotta git me ahtta here! They don't give us no pierogies. Not even Mrs. T's!" She doesn't really say that, but this movie had no memorable dialogue., so Dee and I were forced to supply our own.

How Pittsburgh-y Is It?

IT's preeetty Pittsburgh-y. There's a great establishing shot of the skyline, and an early dinner scene at the Grand Concourse. A lot of the action happens in the jail in downtown Pittsburgh. And, of course, during the execution of Crowe's plan - which, after all his research and casing, seems to pretty much consist of changing jackets every so often - he and Banks put on Pirates gear so they can blend in with a crowd of fans walking to a Penguins game (a bit of a jersey foul, but still). Also, a scene set in the Toronto Airport was obviously filmed at the Pittsburgh Airport.

How Could This Movie Be Made More Pittsburgh-y?

Like I say, they do a fine job of establishing the setting, but as long as you've got an actor of Liam Neeson's caliber butchering an American dialect, why not make him a Pittsburgher? I would have enjoyed the film a thousand times more if Damon was a real yinzer, and told Crowe that after he broke his wife out of jail, they'd have to "get ahtta tahn!" And if he really threw himself into it, really n'atted it up, maybe he could have gotten a best Supporting Actor nomination for one tour de force scene even for his once scene, like William Hurt did in A History of Violence. No major actor has ever tried a Yinzer accent. Missed opportunity.

The Verdict

I mean, it's a completely serviceable prison break film, I guess, and there's a good amount of Pittsburghiness, but it's not good. You're better off watching some other movie.
31 stars out of a hundred.

The escape is delayed as they take in a Clarks concert.

So it seems like reports of Pittsburgh's Hollywood makeover were a bit premature. I still have high hopes that the film industry will continue to explore the complexities of Western Pennsylvania, that Pittsburgh will replace Boston as the setting of every blue-collar crime film, and that we'll have the opportunity to laugh at actors trying to pull off the accent. Until then, we've got Greg and Donny.

Write For Good

2011-06-17T14:07:00.000-07:00

I generally don't like to use my position of power here in Blogtown for advertising purposes, but I know that our readership is as literate and philanthropic as they come, so I thought I'd take advantage of my Internet soapbox to alert you all to a worthwhile project. My friend Matt has started a website, A Story For Two, which combines two of my favorite concepts, the pen pal and the exquisite corpse.

Why didn't I think of this?

The concept is simple: submit the beginning of a story and it will be sent to a student in the Phillipines, who will continue the plot and send it back, and so forth until a work of fiction has been created. It promises to be fun, and easy, and not require any actual writing skill (though if you have some, all the better). And beyond that, it might just make the world a better place, potentially offsetting some of the terrible shit you've done to make it a much, much worse place.

Signs (Not the M. Night Shyamalan Movie, or the Five Man Acoustical Band Song)...

2011-06-17T10:50:00.000-07:00

Like Dee, I've been trying to keep busy with some projects of my own, some of which even include leaving the house from time to time(!). One is a bunch of photos I took as part of a class project, of the many apartment signs I've noticed around the city. Los Angeles is full of amazing signage, mostly because the majority of buildings that have survived here date back only to the 1960s, when fonts were poppin' off and neon was king (is this true?). The signs that adorn so many of the otherwise faceless, low-rent adobe apartment blocks in L.A. can be pretty amazing, or at least amazingly kitschy. They announce, usually in florid script, that, despite all visual evidence to the contrary, this particular apartment building is of the calibre of any English manor or Zagat-acknowledged motel. Oftentimes, the signs are, in juxtaposition with the tenenments they advertise, pretty depressing. In other cases, they're just awesome. Either way, they seem to be very appropriate for Los Angeles, where erecting a flashy facade to obscure inner ugliness and decrepitude is standard operating procedure. Indeed, I would compare the signs to the Botoxed lips of a fading beauty, but I saw a lady with Botoxed lips at Marshall's the other day and they made me want to throw up, whereas these signs are actually pretty attractive and don't elicit that same "wanting to throw up" feeling when you look at them.

Here's a guided tour of some of my favorite signs that I've photographed. I begin, of course, with my own apartment building, the stately Alcott Arms. Fortunately, I can vouch for the fact that the interior very nearly lives up to the sobriquet, and I really do live in the lap of luxury. The very LAP.

₪

A couple blocks away, you can find the Cashio Capri. The vocabulary used in these names is interesting in itself. I imagine if you compiled a database of all the words used in Los Angeles' apartment names (a project I absolutely advocate, by the way), and took out street names, you'd be left with a staggering list of terms that evoke either a) a much fancier kind of edifice ("Arms," "Manor," "Villa") or b) something vaguely island-y ("Sands," "Dunes," "Capri"). Also, what's a Capri?

₪

The next two photos were taken on my bike ride down Venice Avenue, and both fall on the depressing side of kitsch. The fallen "I" of The Islander is just not the sort of thing you want to see every time you come home. All too fecund as a metaphor, if you ask me.

₪

The USC campus, where I've been interning the past couple months, is home to a lot of these apartment signs. Biking up and down these streets, you can almost hear the landlords beckoning: "Hey students, look at these classy digs! With a pad like this, in a building with a sign like this, you'll be the big man on campus in no time! Hot diggity! Month and a half security deposit please!" Poor, dumb suckers. (oh, and the second image is a shout out to my co-blogger)

₪

Finally, I present the world's coolest apartment building, The Hauser. Living here would be like living on the surface of the sun, except instead of melting you, it gives you confidence talking to girls, full, lustrous hair, and free Blizzards at DQ's around the country. If I lived here (and one day, dear readers, I will, as God as my witness), I would adopt the nickname "Hauser" and throw parties that would make the model-besotted affairs in lite beer commercials look like Tuesdays with Morrie. It's going to be so awesome, and you're all invited.

₪

Any Angelenos out there who want to contribute photos to my project, please send them along. Be sure to take note of the address where they were taken, please!

I'm taking a ride with my best friend

2011-06-16T20:49:00.001-07:00

Dorothy and Phil's Blogtown Field Trip--June 16, 2011

Tunes listened too and sung by Phil and half sung by Dorothy:
Tired of Being Alone
Baby Baby Baby
Genius of Love
Changes

Places visited:
Ramos Brothers Circus (outside holding pen for a camel, a zebra, a little horse, a HUGE horse, some other horses)
MOCA (also Dorothy's temp place of employment)
RedCat
Clifton's Cafeteria
A shoe store (where Phil almost bought $18 shoes of questionable quality and Dorothy almost bought old vans with skulls on them)
Central Market
Griffith Park
Griffith Park Observatory

Best Place to park downtown:
3rd and Hill

Homeless men who have fallen down helped:
almost 1

Sighting of the Hollywood Sign and how many times Phil talked about it
1/1000

Spotlight in Return: Sophie Klahr

2011-06-15T12:27:00.000-07:00

The other week one my best and most certainly my oldest friend Sophie posted old photographs of the two of us on facebook. One shows us both in our leotards at PBT when we were what? 6 maybe. Sophie's heading one way, feet moving forward. I'm standing still in a little pose with my hands in a weird pray position, facing away from her. But we have the same smile on our faces. Like we just shared a joke and then moved on. I love this photo so much because now after over 20 years we're still exactly like that. Sharing something secret and then going our own way.

Sophie's a poet studying at Houston right now. She has an amazing blog and has been published all over. She's the poetry editor of Gigantic Sequins and has released a chapbook called Versus Recovery. But man, if she isn't an amazing photographer as well. She just recently posted a photograph of herself at the Andy Warhol Museum

photobooth (another place we've shared) and I couldn't stop thinking of the photographs taken of Patti Smith.

Shine on Sophie.

My Attempt at Graphic Design

2011-06-15T11:43:00.000-07:00

My sister Elizabeth Hoover is an amazing poet. (I'm very lucky to have so many talented writers close to me). She has a chapbook coming out and asked me to design the cover. Listen, drawing is pretty low on my skill list, which, these days, seems to be the norm with art students. But I wanted to give it a try. So here are some of the things I came up with....

Elizabeth (Liz or Lizzie to me) has been published in multiple journals, is an accomplished journalist and was even nominated for a Pushcart! (the real deal). Here are a couple of links to some of her work.

Inquiry: The Geranium

Against Minimalism-Recording

My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys

2011-04-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for hardboiled detective novels; oftentimes I'll go to the library and borrow a stack of them to keep next to my bed. It's not just the tawdry, convoluted plots or the world-weary antiheroes that appeal to me, it's the quality of the prose, the clipped, brute sentences and unexpectedly lush metaphors. Raymond Chandler was unmatched in this respect; he could describe a punch in the face with the impact of...well, a punch in the face (yeah, I'm no Raymond Chandler). Imagine my surprise when I was reading Chandler's 1953 masterpiece The Long Goodbye (now a major motion picture starring Elliot Gould!), and read this passage at the beginning of chapter 24:

When he opened the door the buzz from the living room exploded into our faces. It seemed louder than before, if possible. About two drinks louder. Wade said hello here and there and people seemed glad to see him. But by that time they would have been glad to see Pittsburgh Phil with his custom-built icepick. Life was just one great big vaudeville show.

Now, dear readers, by this point you know that I am from Pittsburgh, but most of you know me by my pseudonym, "Old Top." In my regular life, however, I go by Phil. So reading the name Pittsburgh Phil, which so readily described ME, piqued my interest, to say the least. Is Pittsburgh Phil a real historical figure, I wondered? Is it some antiquated turn of phrase? Is the book...talking to me??? After yelling these questions at the book proved fruitless, I decided to do some research of my own.

Help me, Ghostwriter!

As it turns out, I was joined in my confusion by Chandler's London publisher, Jamie Hamilton. Chandler wrote Hamilton in 1953 to inform him, and us, about this colorful figure. The letter, dated June 26, reads:

Pittsburgh Phil: either you have heard of this character or you haven't. He was the kingpin killer of the Brooklyn murder mob. His real name was Harry Strauss and he was a bit of a dandy. He loved his work. I mean he actually enjoyed killing people on contract, usually by strangulation and then forty or fifty with the ice pick to make sure. His method of strangulation was very artistic in that he liked to truss the victim up in such a way that he strangled himself trying to get loose. He was electrocuted with a sneer on his face...

Indeed, Harold Strauss, aka "Pittsburgh Phil," aka "Pep," was a bad man. It's hard to become the go-to hitman for a group of professional criminals who called themselves Murder, Inc. (no relation to Ja Rule's record label) without having something of a mean streak. During his decade-long "career," Strauss killed between 100 and 500 people - depending on who you ask - and did so in style. As the photo above testifies, he was a natty dresser, famous for wearing $60 suits as the rest of the nation suffered the Great Depression. He was an equally flamboyant murderer, traveling with a gun, a knife, a length of rope and the aforementioned ice pick, and unafraid of being creative. He followed one hit to a movie theater in Florida - he was a favorite hire for out-of-town gangsters who wanted someone dead, but didn't want to get their hands dirty - where he decided that his gun would be too loud. Looking for an alternative, he spotted an axe in an emergency case at the rear of the theater. By the time he'd picked up the axe, though, his target had moved to a different seat. Strauss, fed up, left the theater and returned to Brooklyn, sparing the life of the unsuspecting mark. Asked why he didn't go through with it, Strauss complained that the man was "a goddamn chair hopper," and left it at that.

This, from Neil Kleid's Brownsville (illustrated by Jake Allen)
tells a different story, but it's a nice rendering of ol' Pep.

It seemed that Strauss could go on doing this forever, just traveling the country, killing people at every stop, then coming back home to Brooklyn to see his best gal, the impeccably named Evelyn Mittleman, who earned the nickname "The Kiss o Death Girl" by dating a succession of gangsters who ended up dead. Maybe Strauss should have heeded that red flag, because he wouldn't live to see forty. Murder, Inc. big shot Abe "Kid Twist" Reles turned stool pigeon and implicated Strauss in the murder of Puggy Feinstein - I really can't emphasize enough how great people were at giving nicknames in the thirties. Well, Kid Twist found his way out a sixth story window while under police guard, but not before helping the state amass a watertight case against Strauss. Strauss, being the natural Phil he was, cannily recognized that he was dead to rights, and immediately started working on an insanity defense. He refused to shower, shave, or change clothes. When asked his name at trial, he merely licked his lips, then spent most of his time in court trying to chew the leather strap off his lawyer's briefcase.

Pittsburgh Phil rocking the playoff beard in court.

Despite his method-actorly attempts, the jury saw through his efforts and found Strauss guilty of murder in the first degree. Strauss would keep up the insane act in Sing Sing, in hope of a commuted sentence, until the final day of his life. On the day of his execution, June 12, 1941, he gave up the act, shaved off his beard, returning to the dapper Pittsburgh Phil, who had been such a ladykiller (in the figurative sense...and probably the literal sense) on the outside. Resigned to the fact of his ineluctable doom, he revealed that he himself had offered to turn state's evidence in return for the chance to talk to Reles; he admitted, though, that he was not planning to inform. "I just wanted to sink my tooth into his jugular vein," Strauss promised. "I didn't worry about the chair, not if I could just tear his throat out first." Say what you will about Pittsburgh Phil; sure, he'd eat your throat if you crossed him, but he was no rat.

So, I now understood Chandler's reference and added a heartless sociopath to my list of honorary namesakes. But still, Jerry Seinfeld's voice nagged at the back of my mind: "WHAT'S THE DEAL with Pittsburgh Phil? He's not from Pittsburgh, and he's not named Phil! WHA-AAT'S THE DEAL?" Jerry had a point; by all accounts, Strauss had never been to Pittsburgh in his life, and he certainly wasn't named Phil. The origins of the nickname are something of a mystery - "Eleventh Stack," the Carnegie Library's staff blog, features an excellent post investigating the matter - but the likeliest answer leads us to yet another Pittsburgh Phil. A Pittsburg Phil, to be more precise.

George E. Scott, aka. "Pittsburg Phil," was a legendary horse-racing handicapper, who earned three-and-a-quarter million dollars (that's about 80 million in modern-day Sacagaweas) betting the ponies. Obviously, his name was also not Phil, but at least he was from Pittsburgh - he was given the nickname by William "Silver Bill" Riley, who ran a betting club in Chicago, in order to set him apart from a "room full of Smiths." The Pittsburg part made enough sense - Smith was born in Sewickley, PA - and Smith's nephew James McGill holds that the Phil was short for Philadelphia. Smith's wisdom was captured in The Racing Maxims and Methods of 'Pittsburg Phil,' George E. Smith, compiled by Edward Cole in 1908, three years after Smith's death, and the year of Harold Strauss' birth. The book included gems that obtain to this day, like, "A man cannot divide his attention at the track between horses and women," and "The racing man should arise in the morning cool and clear headed and should then take up the problem of the day."

So what connects these two? The most convincing answer I have heard was posited in the Eleventh Stack post, that they were both dandies, rare wing-tipped figures striding through the disreputable back alleys of the American metropolis. The other hypothesis put out in that post suggests that the nickname was given to Strauss to make him sound tough - I guess "The Guy Who Killed Between 100 and 500 People" was a bit too on the nose - and I think both could be right. As I know all too well, we Pittsburg(h) Phils are dedicated followers of fashion, but not afraid to flash a little muscle at the same time.

In the end, this is a fairly middling line of historical inquiry, but I have to admit - if it's not obvious from the blog - that I like these little research projects, drawing a thread between the things in my life. For those of you reading this and wondering what all of this can mean to you, the moral should be obvious: get yourself a beguiling nickname, and you will never be forgotten.

Old Top

Rememblog: Sports Night

2011-04-16T17:19:00.000-07:00

Note: this is not about the seminal television show Sports Night, though I have very fond memories of that show. Sorry if the title was misleading.

It's mid-April, so naturally I've been spending an awful lot of time thinking about hockey. I don't get to write much about sports on this blog, but I wish I did more. My family moved to Pittsburgh in 1987, when I was four. The timing was felicitous; as I grew into a sentient being, Pittburgh's baseball and hockey teams, the Pirates and Penguins, seemed to be growing into juggernauts. The Pirates had drafted a slim, small-headed, non-bacne-scarred Barry Bonds in 1985, and by 1990, he and the Killer Bs had developed into a perennial World Series contender, painting for me and my fellow young fans a beautiful vision of championships to come and relevance in perpetuity. In 1993, the Pirates traded pitcher Stan Belinda, and the team was never seen again.

Meanwhile, the Penguins lucked into God-on-skates Mario Lemieux in the 1984 draft, surrounded him with a supporting cast of Tom Barrasso, Kevin Stevens, Ron Francis, Jaromir Jagr, and other ice luminaries, and picked up consecutive Stanley Cups in 1991 and 1992. The team was unstoppable, and the promise of multiple cups in the future made it unlikely that Mario would pull a Belinda on Pens fans.

During these halcyon years, I followed both teams religiously, watching games on TV or, on special occasions, in person, wearing the appropriate ballcaps, buying the celebratory Wheaties boxes. I know this happened, but my memories of the time are restricted to abstract glimpses: sitting in the upper decks for a Pirates-Braves playoff game with a guy holding a big cardboard sign reading "HATCHET THIS" that when someone behind me yelled "Hey! Did you paint that with your feet?" - a joke so funny and shockingly confrontational that it was seared into my memory in a way that my cell phone number will never be. Or watching the Penguins dismantle the Washington Capitals in the 1992 playoffs on the third floor of my house, running outside with every goal to announce the score to my older brother and his friends, who were playing basketball to celebrate his birthday; it seemed like a pretty awesome party to me at the time, and my human-scoreboard routine got my foot in the door, if only for a glorious moment. All of my memories of the time are like this; anecdotal, inflected by the conditions of how I was consuming the games and not by what was actually happening in them. This pitiable sports amnesia haunts me to this day - I can't recall Game 1 of the 2009 NHL Finals any better than Game 1 of the 1991 Finals, though I know each was desperately important to me as I watched them.

But I don't want to talk about my premature memory loss, because it's scary. I want to talk about the most memorable season I've ever seen, the best team I've ever followed, and the only game I can remember. The 1992-93 Penguins are a team near and dear to the heart of Pittsburghers who remember them as a breathtakingly talented Icarus, the dream of a dynasty that was too beautiful to exist. The roster was stacked, and Mario came out of the gates playing the sport like no one has ever played it. His numbers were cartoonish, Gretzkyian, so ridiculous that they pretty accurately illustrated how easy the game was to him. But in January of 1993, with Pat LaFontaine looking up at him from second place on the scoring list through a telescope, Mario announced that he'd been diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease, a type of cancer that...well, we all kind of stopped hearing things after the word "cancer." The following months are fuzzy; I have a vague memory of the nine-year-old me actively trying not to think about it, about why Mario wasn't going to be playing anymore, why I had to watch Pat fucking LaFontaine win an undeserved scoring title, and it seems to have worked - memory suppressed.

Of course, Mario came back, fresh off radiation therapy that apparently gave him superhuman powers of being good at hockey. The fans were cautiously optimistic: amazed that he was back, worried that his "Hodgkin's might act up," and unsure of what that might entail. He scored in his emotional return on March 2nd in Philadelphia, but the Pens lost the game. And the next one. Then Mario decided he didn't want to lose again, and they didn't, for the rest of the regular season. Starting with a March 9 win over Boston, the Pens went on an unprecedented 17-game winning streak, with Mario putting up stat lines that read like a Ray Bradbury novel. In those 17 games, he scored 27 goals and 24 assists, for a total of 51 points. That's three points per game, even. Pat LaFontaine became withdrawn, eventually taking to bed with a mysterious illness that made him sob uncontrollably; he retired soon after to look after his mother full time, while Mario lapped him in the scoring lead. My family went on vacation to Florida while the streak was going on, and I can remember tearing through the hotel lobby newspaper to gawk at the box scores the morning after each game. In win four, against the Capitals, Mario scored four goals. In win five, four more. He scored goals in eleven straight games - kind of disappointing, seeing as he'd put together a streak of twelve pre-Hodgkins - the last coming in a win in New Jersey on my tenth birthday that put the Penguins within one of the previous record win streak - fifteen, by the 1982 New York Islanders.

My dad took me to the next game, against Patrick Roy and the visiting Montreal Canadiens, as a birthday present. Roy was the best goalie in the league, a seemingly unbeatable goaltending machine who scared the crap out of me. The atmosphere at the Civic Arena was incredible; the fans had come to terms with the idea that Mario was a living miracle who had actually beaten cancer, everyone was caught up in the chase for fifteen straight wins, and playing against Roy had the crowd anxious. Every puck we got past Roy was as surprising as it was exciting. The teams traded goals, with star right winger Rick Tocchet scoring all three of the Penguins goals, the third coming on a breakaway right out of the penalty box with the Pens down 3-2. Fans' minds were so powerfully blown by the goal that the force of it propelled their hats onto the ice.

I had that shirt.

The game went into overtime, and the Canadiens came out shooting, giving fans heart murmurs and forcing Pens goalie Tom Barrasso to make a number of saves. But when future Penguins failure John LeClair turned the puck over, Joey Mullen - yes, the Joey Mullen - moved the puck up to Tocchet, who crossed center ice and worked it to defenseman Larry Murphy. Murphy pulled up just past the blueline, and for some reason, Ulf Samuelsson, the Pens' lumbering giant and stay-at-home defensemen, started driving to the net. The puck hit Ulfie's tape and he snapped it at the net, low to the ice and not particularly hard. But he had a screen, and Roy was late to react; the shot glided by his left pad before he could - to borrow a phrase from Doc Emrick - cancel it out. The house came down like I'd never seen it before; the historical import of the win coupled with the absurdity of Ulf Samuelsson - he of three goals on the season - beating Patrick Roy to earn it, none of it was lost on me, or any of us. It was an unforgettable feeling. I know this, because I can remember it.

(Note: do yourself a favor and watch the first 15 seconds of this video.
Female yinzers and nineties fashion went together a little too well.)

The Penguins would go on to lose in the second round of the playoffs on an overtime goal by notorious cretin David Volek. The loss was a heartbreaking end to what seemed like a season of destiny, and Pittsburghers still mourn the Volek Game. I guess it's fortunate that I don't remember it, but since I'm going to be an archivist and all, it seems like a worthwhile thing to try and preserve the precious few memories that my hard living hasn't evaporated. Thanks to this blog entry that I'm sure no one will ever read, at least I'll remember this one game, the best hockey game I ever saw.

Geryon was a monster everything about him was red

2011-03-19T13:57:00.000-07:00

ed note: I have no idea why this whole thing is underlined.
other ed's note: Old Top fixed everything. As usual.

In my Special Topics in Design class I've been working on adapting Anne Carson's novel in verse Autobiography in Red into a play. Or I guess at this point, just a model with a loose script I wrote myself and written out action. It's been insanely exciting. I've never tried adapting anything before. When we work on theoretical plays in class I usually play it pretty straight. But now I'm hooked. I keep making changes and storyboards and one day plan on actually realizing it.

In short, Autobiography in Red follows the life of a boy called Geryon. Geryon is a little awkward, a little inarticulate but full of big big feelings. He was sexually abused by his older brother as a child and his mother, whom he adored, was loving but flaky. One day Geryon begins "writing" his autobiography meaning he collages pages and sculptures together with things lying around the house. Then he discovers photography and then he meets Herakles. Told in a beautiful and simple "time stands still" poem by Carson, Geryon falls for Herakles immediately and this relationship with another flighty and flaky (but also lovable) man dictates his early life. In his 20's he flies to Buenos Aires and stumbles into Herakles again who broke his heart some years prior. Herakles is now in a relationship with Ancash, a stoic and observant man and Geryon latches onto them as they travel throughout South America.

This is the basic story but there are two other important things one must know. While living with Herakles, Geryon comes face to face with both an inactive volcano and a photograph of the volcano taken during its eruption many years before. Much like Herakles, these two things haunt him throughout his life. Also, Geryon is a red and winged monster. He has to contain his wings under his shirt so as to live a relatively normal life. No one seems to mention these wings until Ancash sees him undress one night. Ancash relates the story of the winged people who are able to fly in and out of volcanos, the heat turning their skin red.

My sister introduced me to this novel last year. A life told through photographs is what appealed to me at first but the more I read it the more obsessed I become with Carson's language and the tense relationships she creates between her characters, all so fragile they could break at any time.

With this model I'm keeping the idea of the photograph manual (if that's the right way to describe it). Geryon does not take photos (and no projections!) but brings out large scale printed photographs which he then collages against a huge photograph he took of the photograph of the volcano.

A slip stage dominates the space which moves horizontally back and forth to changes scenes and locations.

Sheets, rickety chairs and a stick ladder was used in a variety of ways to create shacks, kitchens and beds where both evil and tender things occur.
I've included some crappy photos here now but hope to take better ones soon.

special thanks to Sophie Klahr and Laura Johnson. I "borrowed" some of their beautiful photographs to serve as Geryons.

Remembering Miriam Bratu Hansen

2011-03-06T17:13:00.000-08:00

I hate to come back to the blog on a somber note, but it would seem that only tragedy (or computer solitaire) can tear me away from my schoolwork. I learned last night - sadly, a month after the fact - that Miriam Hansen, a dear friend and mentor, passed away in Chicago.

I won't try to turn this into obituary - find that here or here. Her accomplishments and her impact on the discipline of film studies are self-evident. But, in the absence of anything else I can think to do, I feel the impulse to pay some tribute to a teacher who has had more influence on my life than anyone outside of my immediate circle of family and friends. I first met her in my freshman year at the University of Chicago, when she taught a course in Film Theory and Aesthetics. I was entirely out of my depth, but Miriam encouraged me, doing what she could to make me feel comfortable in a class of grad students and upperclassmen. More than anything, I spent the class just listening to her talk, this woman who, with her clipped German accent and intimidating (to me, at least) demeanor, was more obviously intelligent than anyone I'd ever heard speak. Every sentence out of her mouth was so full of analytical complexity and nuance I felt smarter just hearing it. I sopped it up, intrigued and entranced by the sheer collegiate brunt of her intellect.

Two years later, I had the chance to take another class with Miriam, a study of director Max Ophuls. It was during the course of this quarter that I blossomed as a scholar; the combination of seeing these amazing films I'd never heard of and hearing Miriam speak so enthusiastically about them set me on the road toward becoming the hopeless academic that I am now. I worked closely with Miriam that quarter, developing a level of engagement with the work that I'd never felt before. My final paper for the course would grow into my undergraduate thesis, for which Miriam served as my advisor, dedicated supporter, and trusted critic. The paper that resulted is still one of my proudest accomplishments, not least for the kind words Miriam had for me at the end of the process. That warm glow of approval, that unexpected but always hoped-for moment of validation, well, it was like manna from heaven for a neurotic like me. And it gave me the confidence to continue giving voice to the odd, half-formed notions that float into my head from time to time.

After graduating from college, I tried to keep in touch with Miriam, but too often I felt I was writing her only when I needed advice or recommendations. Regardless, she was supportive and accommodating without fail, and even as her health was failing she was always willing to help me out. It was thanks to her that I got into grad school (twice), and I can only hope that my "success" in the world of academia gave her some modicum of pride.

She was, I've always said, the smartest person I've ever met, and the fact that she decided I was worth her time - ME, one shlub among hundreds of undergrads, grads and PhDs - is something I'll forever hang my hat on. The commitment that she showed to her students when she had so many better things to do is rare, the stuff that only the greatest teachers are made of. I realized that early enough that I never took her for granted, and I can take some solace in the fact that my final emails to her at least tried to express my gratitude to her. I realize, now more than ever, as I struggle through a graduate program where most of the instructors seem generally uninterested in me, how lucky I was to learn from Miriam. And to think, she really made it seem like it was her pleasure. Her death is our loss, it's my loss, and I'll miss her desperately.

Pretty much the reason both Phil and I moved to California

2011-01-23T23:00:00.001-08:00

Making up for Lost Time

2010-12-12T17:57:00.000-08:00

I feel really terrible about blogging so infrequently lately: between finals week and getting cable, my life's been one heck of a ride. But now I've got nothing but time on my hands, so I'll try to get in a hearty amount of bloggings.

First, on the matter of chairs:

I reupholstered two chairs recently. I bought them for a combined $25, and Maria and I picked out some exciting fabrics. I wish I had taken "before" photos, but I'll just try to paint a verbal picture for you. (to enlarge the photos below, just give 'em a click)

This is a beautiful Danish chair that came upholstered in a god-awful, dusty, beige, wide-wale corduroy fabric. We went with this awesome, Flemish-looking pattern we saw at Mood Fabric ("Thank you, Mood!"). I added a bunch of padding and staple-gunned that crap on there, and now it looks like a hundred dollars.

This bizarre chair we got at a great store in Burbank. It was covered in white vinyl with a huge coffee-colored stain (might have been coffee) on the seat. Maria and I envisioned something "oriental" for it, and we found this awesome pattern at Diamond Foam and Fabric. I stapled-gunned that crap on there and now it looks like a hundred dollars. Oh yeah, and did I mention...

IT OPENS?? This is pretty much why we got it, because just think of all the stuff you could keep in there. Actually, if you can think of anything to put in there, let me know. We don't know what to put in there.

The chairs aren't the only thing that's new in the apartment. In the office, we strung some wire across the back wall to hang things:

On the right is something I made in my letterpress class. The lettering is all hand-set, and the words are mine. It was extremely fun to make, and I'm happy with the result. It's a screed.

Been hanging some art too.

On the left are two framed posters from a portfolio edition of Chris Van Allsburg's The Mysteries of Harris Burdick that my brother Dan gave me, which I put up in the living room. On the right, next to our new succulents, is a bitching saw that my friend, artist Brian McNearney, painted and gave to me. It's a prized possession. I don't have it hanging correctly, but for simplicity and safety's sake, this will have to do.

So that's what's new. Maria got a pretty awesome new camera, hence all the photos. I'm very relieved and excited to be done with finals, and free until the new year. I plan to spend this week enjoying LA as I haven't had a chance to, before heading to Pittsburgh for the holidays. I'm going to try to do something fun and new each day, and will blog about it in a way that is hopefully less boring than this post has been.

Yesterday's adventure was the Renegade Craft Fair holiday sale in Chinatown, which I went to with Maria and Dee. There were lots of booths set up with people selling precious shit, mostly quilted owls and crap repurposed into other crap in ways that would surprise and bewitch you. Maria got some earrings and a stuffed animal shaped like a piece of bacon (precious shit, I tells ya), and Dee got lots of nice things, and a lot of attention from the boothmasters. Afterwards, we went to Wurstkuche, a gourmet hot dog place so cool I can't even pronounce it.

Today's adventure was at UCLA's Fowler Museum, which was giving a free kimchi making workshop as part of its "Kids in the Courtyard" series. Maria and I, being kids at heart, showed up, pushed some little babies out of the way, and had at it. Here's how it worked:

First, we were given jars and instructed to decorate them. We did; Maria braided some colored twine for a ribbon and put some sweet racing stripes on there with some silver reflective tape. I went the old-fashioned route, putting dinosaur stickers on my jar, and wrapping the lid in red yarn. See the finished artworks below.

Making the Kimchi itself was pretty easy: fill the jar partway with salted water, add spices (garlic, ginger, and chili powder), then fill with vegetables (cabbage, green onions, cucumber, and carrot), and fill to the top with water. Voila!

We're going to wait three days to let this ferment, then it's kimchi time. Watch out!

[crickets]

2010-12-12T17:51:00.000-08:00

Bad scene at Blogtown:Hollywood. But the blogging's about to pick up. So pack up your horses and tie up your little booties, because this cowboy party's about to get...

Anyway, just keep reading the blog.

so I made these chairs

2010-12-02T18:00:00.000-08:00

but I don't know what to do with them.
Should I make little people to sit on them? Should I just put them on the floor and have people walk around them? Maybe a little cat curled up on one of the seats. Or a corner for them to sit in?

I don't know, I'm stumped.

Photo Research

2010-11-13T21:03:00.000-08:00

Things I'm looking at lately

Things I Like About LA: The Radio

2010-10-28T21:28:00.000-07:00

Engage anyone in a conversation about Los Angeles, and I'd wager that within the fist two or three sentences you'll be talking about the traffic. Great conversation you're having, champ. But the fact of the matter is that LA is a driver's city, a fact I thought I'd have a lot of trouble acclimating myself to. Indeed, the transition from car-as-transportation to car-as-waiting-room isn't easy, but for one, the traffic here is overstated, and for two, who cares, because the radio stations here are off the chain. Allow me to take you on a journey across the dial, through the six stations that have made my car radio's preset spots, to give you a glimpse of how it is exactly that we Hollywood types cope.

(Not my finger)

1. HOT 92.3

May as well start with the heavy hitter. My favorite radio station, maybe, ever. It's like they designed the station to suit my tastes - which my girlfriend compares to that of a 40-year-old black woman. I choose to take that as a funky compliment.

What you'll hear: Lots of Jacko. Like, six MJ songs an hour. And an awful lot of Prince. Pretty much all the soul, funk, and R&B you need. Oh, and do you enjoy the rare treat of hearing songs like Carl Carlton's "She's a Bad Mama Jama," Heat Wave's "Always and Forever," or Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love?" Well, get ready to hear these songs twice a day, at least! What more could you ask for?! Late night song dedications? Oh, they have those too, just to warm your damn heart on the long ride home.

The Downside: They play that Rob Thomas and Santana song way too often.

2. KDAY 93.5

The old-school hip-hop station. Every city should have one, but many don't. The rare station that always seems to be playing something worth listening to.

What you'll hear: Heavy on West Coast gangsta rap, Snoop and Eazy-E and the whole gang. But also a lot of late 90's-early 00's hits that we (or I) hope never to forget, like Luda's "Splash Waterfalls," and any duet featuring Ja Rule, plus some really excellent remixes from the likes of DJ "Creativity."

The Downside: Am I the only one who thinks that listening to "Rapper's Delight" is like watching Gone With the Wind? I get that it's important, but does anybody still really want to sit through it?

3. 100.3 The Sound

Your classic classic rock station. Solid through and through, like a Mullingar heifer.

What you'll hear: LA classic rock stations are even more monolithic than your average classic rock stations. They love playing: The Doors, the Beach Boys, Tom Petty, and the Mamas and the Papas, among only a few others. Thankfully, Petty and the Beach Boys are pretty much the best driving music around.

The Downside: I hate the Doors. Really can't stand listening to their music. Any DJ that plays "Riders on the Storm" when it's raining out should be punished by rotten fruit.

4. K-Earth 101.1

The requisite oldies station, but with a superior jingle that goes: "KRTH, KRTH-HD Los Angeles!"

What you'll hear: Oldies. You know what they sound like: a soft breeze blowing through the poplars of your nostalgia fields. Plus, they sometimes play three songs in a row. And sometimes those three songs are Tom Petty.

The Downside: Can we, as a society, come together and agree that Don McLean's "American Pie" has no place on the airwaves? Does anyone NOT change the channel when it comes on? What's the rationale behind it? "You know what people probably want to hear? A whiny song by a crappy musician about other, better musicians DYING. Oh, and the song is seven minutes long." If "Rapper's Delight" is Gone With the Wind, then "American Pie" is Triumph of the Will. I actually feel like I should be spearheading an initiative, on behalf of America's families, to get this song permanently stricken from the radio. And, if I have time, Three Dog Night's "Joy to the World."

5. 102.3 Radio Free KLJH

Okay, okay, I'm a sucker for smooth jams. So sue me! What, you don't like smoothness?

What you'll hear: Awesomely smooth jams, like Sade, Usher, and Mary J. Blige, plus some embarrassing shit like Brian McKnight.

The Downside: On Sundays, it turns into a straight-out evangelical Christian channel. And sometimes the songs are pretty funky, and I find myself getting sucked in.

6. 105.9 Power 106

Top 40, so I can stay hip with what's hip.

What's you'll hear: Drake. And Weezy. And that's it.

The Downside: Nicki Minaj.

Free presents!

2010-10-23T18:47:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to use this most public of forums to wish a very happy birthday to Dee, my partner in crime for the past decade and my partner in blog for the past year. To celebrate, I got her this animated gif:

Menny appy returns, palomino!

Warrior Farmer

2010-10-14T01:02:00.000-07:00

Tonight after getting home at 12 all cracked out on too much work I sat drafting and watching Top Chef: Just Desserts. They're supposed to make edible fashion for LA fashion week a la Project Runway. One of the cheftesants said he wanted to make a dress for a fashionista burlesque dancer..warrior which caused me to choke on my whiskey remembering Phil's favorite Project Runway contestant saying he was inspired by a warrior and a farmer. A what? A a a a farmer. So I tried to find that clip on youtube. No avail. So here's Project Runway The Musical from the only season that mattered, Season 2.

good post Dorothy...it's late.

Tale of the Tape: Booth v Pete

2010-10-08T21:09:00.000-07:00

The other night, I sent a communique to Dorothy reading, "Booth is my favorite guy on TV, even better than Pete." This, needless to say, sent reverberations throughout Blogtown, and Dorothy implored: "Blog it!" A brilliant idea, because so often on this blog, I get caught up writing about school, family, and friends, and forget what really matters: television.

To backpedal a bit, and decode my message, "Booth" refers to Agent Seeley Booth, the male lead of the TV show Bones, played by David Boreanaz, and "Pete," of course, is Pete Campbell, of Mad Men, played by Vincent Something. I guess in the heat of the moment that I'd chosen them as my two favorite guys on TV, an impulse which needs some scrutinizing before we continue on. The other guys currently on TV that I like include: Parks and Recreation's Ron Swanson is up there, to be sure, as is House's House, Hell's Kitchen's Gordon Ramsey, the guy from Project Runway who said his hat spoke of a warrior, or a farmer, and Pete's Mad Men colleague, Lane Pryce. But, despite the competition, I'll stand by my two finalists.

What follows is an empirical (and illustrated) comparison between Pete and Booth, in hopes of bestowing the mantle of "TV's Best Guy." The criteria are my own, as is the point system. To make it clear, this is not meant to judge which is the better show; I'm fully aware that Mad Men is TV at its finest, and the Bones is just embarrassing. But, get off my back.

Are they good guys?

Booth is definitely a Good Guy. His tough exterior hides a caring man who would do anything to protect the ones he loves. He always comes through when needed; the term "stand-up guy" could have been invented with him in mind. He is a protector, a loyal friend, and a holdover from a more honorable time. Booth has to his credit some of the tenderest and most touching moments recorded on the Fox network.

Pete, on the other hand, is one of the great pseudovillains of our time. Watching him, you find yourself (or, I find myself) so often repulsed, but always sympathetic, and hoping down deep that he will find the success he wants and calm the fuck down. But, as much as I love him, he's not a good guy - the guy's inspired his own "Pete Campbell's bitchface" website, for crying out loud. +5,000 points for Booth.

Style

Has to go to Pete, right? I mean, Mad Men is the most stylish show on TV, maybe ever. And while Pete isn't lighting the world on fire, Don Draper-style, he's no slouch in the dress department.

Great tie, and he's looking good compared to Bowtie over there, but check your sleeves, Pete! The snug cut of his suits and his, shall we say, rigid stance tend to make him look a bit uncomfortable and child-like, which makes it hard for people to respect him, which makes him indignant and defensive, which makes him more rigid.
Ease up, guy. You've still got most stylish in the bag. Or have you?? Let's look at your competition:

You gotta admit, for a big guy, Booth really knows how to wear a suit. He looks professional and agent-y, but his choice of accessory sets him apart from the other men in black. Taking a page from my book, Booth understands that the formula for timeless and idiosyncratic style lies in skinny ties and attention-grabbing belt buckles (or, in this case, suspenders). In an upset, +2,500 points go to Booth, for pulling off the '60s skinny tie look off with a much higher degree of difficulty than Pete, who is skinny and lives in the 60s. But I award Pete +5 points for every scene in which he wears pajamas.

Comic Effect

Booth has a very healthy sense of humor, as evidenced by the above photo of him dressed as a nerd for Halloween, and his chummy back-and-forth with Bones (dressed here as Wonder Woman).

Pete, meanwhile, has no discernible sense of humor. He's all business, and scheming, and backstabbing, and when he tries a joke, it's obvious grandstanding for clients, and falls flat every time.

But God help me if Pete doesn't have the most devastating repertoire of hilarious faces. I mean, look through that tumblr page of Pete's "bitchfaces" and tell me he shouldn't replace Lon Chaney as the Man with a Thousand Faces (all of them funny!). There aren't a lot of guarantees in this life, but I can guarantee that every episode, provided Pete is in it, will produce at least one memorable expression. Which is why my eyes are glued to him every time he's on screen, even in the back ground; especially when he's in the background, actually, because that's when you find gems like these:

High comedy. +2,000 points to Pete and his "Joan is on the warpath" face.

How does he look with a gun in his hand?

Booth:

Are you kidding? The guy looks like he was born with a firearm in his hand. Not that he needs one.

Pete:

Hope you kept the receipt. Toys R Us' return policy is surprisingly stringent. +1,000 points for Booth.

Should they experiment with facial hair?

No.

And No. No points awarded.

Catchphrase

Pete's catchphrase, "Why would you tell me that?" is an instant classic, perfect for diffusing tension in any hot situation. Booth's catchphrase is, I don't know, "Hey Bones, look at this." It hasn't caught on. +400 points to Pete.

Do they have good ideas, or are they good with people?

You know what? Pete has good ideas. In fact, he used to carry around a notebook and a pen, just to keep track. Direct marketing? He thought of that. It turned out it already existed, but he arrived at it independently. And then he comes to Sterling Cooper, and those people tell him that he's good with people, which is strange, because he’d never heard that before.

Booth is pretty good with people, but he's only got two ideas, and they're the ones at the ends of each arm. His fists. They're his fists. +300 points to Pete, for his idea diary, er notebook.

Significant others

Though their relationship is strictly of the will-they-or-won't-they variety, Booth's female counterpart is Dr. Temperance Brennan (yeah, the writers got carried away with the names), better known as Bones. Brennan is a genius scientist, a fox, and might have Asperger Syndrome. She's also a Deschanel, sister of Zooey. Let's look at the tape:

Here, Booth shows us how to wear a trench coat. Stunning. Bones is wearing a cape. There's probably an explanation for that, but I'm not really interested.

Pete's wife, Trudy, is his better half in every sense of the term. She is unfailingly supportive and optimistic, not to mention so damn adorable, and is often the only person who can get through his hard shell of insecurity.

Pete resents her for being so wonderful. She'll pay for that. +2,000 points for Trudy.

But can they dance?

No point even looking for clips of Booth dancing. +5,000 points for Pete. I use these moves all the time.

Judging from their character bios on Wikipedia, do they seem like guys I'd want to hang out with?

It doesn't start well for Pete. His bio begins:

Pete Campbell was born in New York City to an upper class WASP family.

New York City? -2,000 points! And it only gets worse:

He attended The Buckley School (New York City) and Deerfield Academy and spent summers at his parents' estate on Fishers Island, as well as at exclusive country clubs in the Hamptons and Newport. Pete was in a fraternity during his college years at Dartmouth College.

He sounds awful! But let's not be too hard on him. After all:

Pete has a strained relationship with his mother and father.

+20 points for that little morsel.

According to his Wikipedia bio:

Seeley Booth is a former sniper in the United States Army who served in the 101st Airborne Division, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the U.S. Army Special Forces. He is also an expert knife thrower.

So far, so good. +500 points for the expert knife throwing. Nice touch.

Although Booth tries to keep personal and professional life strictly separate, aspects of his personal life leak through. He is a religious man by nature, having been an altar boy as a child. He knows some Latin and is still a practicing Roman Catholic, seeking to atone for the lives he took as a sniper and since through his work in the FBI.

I'll admit: I like a man with something to atone for.

Booth has a troubled relationship with his family.

Oh, snap, Pete! He stole your thunder! But what could be worse than cold, WASPy parents?

Booth's father was a barber and an abusive alcoholic. His mother composed jingles for television advertisements.

A barber and a jingle composer. +750 points for such a random pedigree. And it gets better.

[H]e grew up in Pittsburgh. In season 1, episode 13 "The Woman in the Garden" he is seen drinking from a Pittsburgh Steelers coffee mug in his office, suggesting he may also be a fan of the football team.

This is quickly turning into a massacre. +100,000 points for being from Pittsburgh, and an extra 50,000 for repping the Black and Gold. At this point, Booth is walking away with the Best Guy on TV award, barring an historic collapse. All he needs to do is take a knee, run out the clock, and....NO! NOOOOOO!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!

He has stated that he is from Philadelphia, and is a fan of the Philadelphia Flyers.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is unprecedented! Seeley Booth has choked away the title, incurring a -1 million point penalty at the buzzer for being a Flyers fan! Never in the history of hypothetical, blog-based TV character comparisons have I witnessed such a turn of events! The crowd is completely and utterly shocked!

Booth is challenging the decision, but the judge's ruling is final, and no amount of physical intimidation is going to change that. He will surely carry this gaffe with him for seasons to come. Who knows if he will ever recover, psychologically, from this loss. The trophy was within his grasp. But, in an amazing last-second upset, Pete Campbell sneaks in and snatches away the Best Guy on TV award. Just like he had planned all along.

The Nude Kid in School

2010-09-27T22:41:00.001-07:00

This story's going to come out eventually, so I might as well get out in front of it.

Today was my first day of class, so needless to say I was up with the morning sun. By 7.30, I had showered and had a healthy and extremely Hollywood breakfast of yogurt and granola, and a fruit smoothie. I double-checked the classroom of my 9.00am class and made sure I had plenty of time to bike to campus. I had my backpack packed, and my outfit planned out; I'd only wear my undershirt while biking, so I wouldn't sweat through my good shirt, which would be safely nestled in m'knapsack.

I got on my bike, and started out at a nice leisurely pace, thinking to myself what a great first day I would have, how many great new friends I would make, and how it would be nothing like the previous night's nightmare of showing up to class in my underwear. Ain't nothin' horrible gonna happen today! I thought.

Midway to campus, somewhere on Santa Monica Boulevard, I remember thinking, Gee, my hair is getting blown about. I had forgotten my helmet! And not noticed it for 15 minutes. My sense of comfort was immediately supplanted by one of impending doom, like a Looney Tunes character who's been running in midair, and has just now looked down to see he's run out of cliff. It worried me that I had been so forgetful, but I chalked it up to first-day jitters and Monday morning grogginess, not to brain softness or something of the sort. Carefully, I finished the ride, sticking to empty side streets.

I made it to campus, sweaty and exhausted from my ascent through Westwood, but also 15 minutes early for class, so I had time to clean myself. I opened my backpack and took out a towel to dry my face, then reached in for my shirt. I guess it was the wrong pocket, so I unzipped the other pocket, and....no. Flash cut in my mind to my desk chair, whereupon my modest, body-covering shirt was draped, freshly cleaned and ready to impress my peers. I looked around me, hoping in my panic to see someone selling tshirts on the sidewalk, but no such luck. I rechecked my backpack, as though there were some hidden depths to it that much shirt must have fallen into, jostled there during my commute. I finally resigned myself; there was no shirt.

I told myself, You have two options here: You can suck it up and go to class, sit through it as quietly as possible, and hope that no one notices, or, if they do notice, they think you're just exhibiting body-confidence, and a weather-sensibility (it WAS 113 degrees today, after all). OR, you can drop out of grad school. I ran my sweat-soaked towel over my skin again, hoping to achieve a healthy "glistening" as opposed to a disgusting "drenched." I checked my tank top (I'm trying to avoid the name "wife-beater") for stains, not that there was anything I could do about a stain if there was one, and with first-day-of-high-school level trepidation, I opened the door.

My stylistic forebear, apparently. Says Dooley, "You forgot your shirt."

I'd like to tell you that jaws dropped and heads turned when I walked in the room, but no such thing happened. I took my seat and class went ahead without incident. Sure, the room happened to be so well air-conditioned that I could see my breath, but I simply wrapped my bare arms around myself tighter and thought to myself, So this is what it feels like to live your dreams.

Blogging your brains out

2010-09-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

Our first liveblog!

Sunday night, dinner and Mad Men, Silverlake, CA

8:13pm

Phil explains the rules of liveblogging. I hope I'm doing it okay! Right now Phil is wandering around the kitchen doing impressions of my old roommate Ethan. He's whipping up a marinade for steak and I'm making this yummy recipe...
http://smittenkitchen.com/2007/07/pearly-whites/

8:16pm
Phil here. So, dear readers, here we are at the beginning of a historic moment. You'll always remember where you were when we first liveblogged our Sunday night status meeting (which nicely coincides with the new Mad Men) at Dorothy's Silverlake office. There's only one rule tonight: there are no rules. We will be updating every few minutes with anecdotes, thoughts, questions, etc. You should feel free to add your own comments, and we'll address them - LIVE!

8:19 pm
Ethan's here! He's Dorothy's ex-roommate and rides a motorcycle. He's excited by the steak.

8:27pm
Hot day today in Blogtown: Hollywood. Temperatures reaching into the triple digits. But we're keeping it breezy.

8:31pm
Can I just say that I hate Ikea? It's Old Top here. I went to Ikea today, and I knew exactly what I needed, and still managed to get really, god-honest lost three times and leave without half the things on my list. The entire place is designed by little evil minimalist Swedish scientists to confuse and enrage me in to buying things, or living there forever. It didn't work. And don't try telling me about th one dollar fro-yo cones. I had one; it wasn't that good.

8:48 pm
Phil and I are explaining the rules of Rock Band to Ethan. I reminded Phil about the time I got 100 % on Go Your Own Way only to follow it up with being disqualified on Livin' On Prayer. I think I scared some of Phil's neighbors away with that one.

9:27pm
Since we last blogged, Matt, Ethan's friend and Laura, have come over. It feels like we live in an episode of Friends. The steak was great and we learned that Ethan has an unusual fear of sphere. Sfear's Syndrome. He can't eat isreali couscous without crying. Then Phil and I tried to guess other things he hated. Phil guessed four, grapes, roe, tapioca balls, gushers and I guessed 0. Mad Men beings in 30 minutes.

9:56 pm
Sorry for the delay folks, we were sidetracked by dinner. But now we're sated with steak and ice cream, and have all convened on the couch - Mad Men in 2 minutes. By the way, don't worry if you haven't watched the episode, this is a No Spoiler Zone. Here we go!

10:00pm
Rubicon is over. Believe it or not, I don't kno what that show is about, or what the word "Rubicon" means.

10:03pm
No sooner do we begin, than we've paused the episode - Ethan wants the aspect ratio just so. As it is, the screen is stretched out, which - while we love the funhouse mirror effect it has on Joan's body - is not optimal. Ethan's on the case, pressing many buttons.

10:12pm
Apparently, acording to Laura, there is a special "Bunny dip," by which Playboy bunnies put a drink on a table. You learn something new evey day.

10:20pm
This movie "Secretariat" is going to fill a void that's been in our lives since the movie "Seabiscuit" came out, I can just feel it. But let's be honest: that horse looks nothing like the real Secretariat. Let's hope he's a real good actor.

10:29pm
I could live inside Pete's "holding the elevator" face.

10:32pm
Why would they put a soul patch on a claymation character? Just leave it off, verissimilitude be damned.

10:33
Mac's using a Cake song to advertise their new iPod?? How hip can they get? Can't wait for the next one with Matthew Sweet, or They Might Be Giants, or whomever.

10:34pm
The bike courier in the Blackberry commercial is Ethan's friend from San Francisco, Fergus. Maybe we can get him to make a cameo appearance next week.

10:38pm
Dorothy had the bright idea that I should put a pillow on my lap, so the laptop stops burning a hold through my thighs. Much better.

10:41pm
Ooh, someone from Drive Me Crazy (and Bring it On, and 10 Things I Hate About You) has made an appearance. Things just got interesting.

10:56pm
Trudie just made an appearance in this amazing easter egg of a pink nightie all pregnant and adorable. The boys were a little unsure of the outfit but Laura and I loved it. Then Laura did an impression of Trudie, "Have you lost your mind!".

11:02pm
Pete is learning all of Don's secrets.

11:09pm
Well, that'll just about do it for tonight. Eveyone is filing out, the TV is off. Good episode, but it felt kind of short. Lots of talky-talky. We hope you enjoyed watching it with us, and we'll do it again soon.

See How I'm Livin'!

2010-09-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

Starting so settle down here in Blogtown: Hollywood, and it's about time I let you all into the fun, my precious readers. So, in the spirit of Cribs, allow me to be your guide through this state-of-the-art facility - housed in the stately Alcott Arms building in West LA - where ideas are turned into typed gold.

Whoops! This is the "before" picture. This is the pod that we crammed all our crap into. Let's see where that crap's journey ends, shall we?

We enter onto the living room. We are still awaiting a rug and couch, so for now this space is for me to walk through and feel anxiety. You'll notice, please, the wood floors and the balcony just beyond. I spend a lot of time out there, sitting in the shade and talking with my awesome new plant, who merits her own post, so I won't bother you with the details.

Hang a louie at the living room and suddenly you're in a Parisian sidewalk cafe! No, wait, that's only the dining area, adjacent to the well-equipped kitchen. And look! Among the detritus you can catch a rare glance of your blogger doing what he does best: standing around, looking pale.

Aaaannnnd this is where the magic happens. In fact, I'm sitting in that very chair, at that very desk, at this very moment. Heavy stuff. This, obviously, is the office/second bedroom. That's right, two bedrooms; that means if any of my beloved readers finds his or her way to Blogtown: Hollywood (and, if you follow your dreams, you will), he or she will be hosted in the warm, creased lap of sensible luxury. Oh, and it's got an en suite - look it up!

Now, here's where the magic ACTUALLY happens. In fact, I practice my magic act every morning, right at the foot of the bed. This is the master bedroom. No need to stick around in here, ya freaks, get your own room.

That's it for tonight. Bear in mind that these photos were taken right after we moved in - things are a mess. I'm happy to report the place is much more homey now, and is getting better every day. In no time at all, BT:H will be up and running like Jackie Joyner-Kersee. So come back, now, ya hear? We'll leave the light on for ya.

who me?

2010-09-20T01:13:00.001-07:00

he might have a point

2010-09-16T23:30:00.000-07:00

tonight i sat on my porch, at about 11:10pm, checking out my plants, drinking a martini. a man in a pickup truck had just strapped the fridge sitting on the curb to his truck. i looked up from my glass and across the street, standing in the pool of light from the street light, i saw a tall, lanky blond man swinging around what looked like a long stick. he was doing some sort of karate, baton twirling thing, spinning it around and pausing and poking and then doing it all over again. a cop drove by at one point and he paused. then continued. swinging and twirling. then there was a strange boom in the sky and he walked toward my house (i got ready to flee inside or the very least throw my gin at him) and he turned the corner and walked on. i got a good look at the "sword". i think it was a store bought double sided light saber. so yeah, maybe everyone here is crazy.

Blogging All Over the Place

2010-09-10T10:59:00.000-07:00

Lost in all the hectic moving drama is the fact that my friend Justine at the excellent, real blog Whatever...Eurotrash has allowed me to write a guest post about Kenneth Anger's collaboration with Missoni. Click here to read it, and then read the rest of her blog! It's fashiony and Canadian and awesome! Thanks.

First Impressions of LA

2010-09-10T10:17:00.001-07:00

Everyone here is crazy.

Hollywood, Here We Came

2010-09-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

Leaving Lake Havasu was exciting, and it was made even better by the fact that the route took us all the way around the lake, which was actually pretty amazing. Once past the lake, though, it was desert as far as the eye could see. Maria was a champ and did the driving, which was a lot of fun until the desert started getting to us. We saw some very interesting things out there: for a while, train tracks ran alongside the road, raised up on a slight hill, and on the hill, for the entire length of the tracks, was graffiti, spelled out in different colored stones. We wondered how so many people had thought to come out to the middle of the desert and announce their love in rock form, and we agreed that that kind of devotion probably meant that they would indeed be together 4ever. We also saw some wildlife, a coyote lazily sauntering across the blacktop, and a snake that found its way, unfortunately, under our tires. Take that, nature!

Just as the never-ending emptyness was starting to drive us desert crazy, some small shacks popped up, right there in the middle of nowhere. The shacks grew in numbers as we continued west, and we even saw some actual houses, that looked like actual people lived there. How, we have no idea. Eventually, these desert homes congealed into a city, 29 Palms, where we stopped for lunch. The restaurant was called the Mango Hut, and though it was as unwelcoming from the outside as everything else in that desert, inside was a charming Filipino-Hawaiian restaurant, where we had a delicious meal of Spam sushi, various grilled meats, and, for desert, fried bananas with ube ice cream. Ube, apparently, is a purple yam, and makes for a damn good ice cream. After this, we attempted to drive through nearby Joshua Tree National Park, but decided against it, as LA was calling, and, besides, there was a $15 charge to enter. $15?! Why do I pay taxes again?

Anyway, freshly indignant at the Department of the Interiors' scam, I took us hurtling through the desert, past huge windfarms, and into what was immediately recognizable as the Los Angeles area. This we could tell because there was much more traffic, and the people were driving like maniacs. But we made it into town safely, and headed straight to our apartment, named - a large sign in script announces - the Alcott Arms. Genuine class. We were excited and relieved that we'd made the entire trip without problem. SO excited and relieved, in fact, that I celebrated by backing my car into the side of a car parked DIRECTLY OUTSIDE OUR APARTMENT. It was the much-needed punctuation for an otherwise un-antic trip, and I look forward to kicking myself for the next few weeks about it.

But, in any event, we're home, and loving it. I'll post photos and thoughts when we get settled, so don't touch that dial.

Albuquerque to Lake Havasu

2010-09-10T08:14:00.000-07:00

Albuquerque, as expected, was a nice city and the Plaza Inn earned both its stars and then some; compared to the other places we stayed on the road - a Comfort Inn and, somehow, TWO Days Inns - it was the very lap of luxury. So it was with some sadness that we left, but the road, as always, beckoned.

Western New Mexico and eastern Arizona are not much to drive through, with very little in the way of landscape, so when we saw signs for the Petrified Forest National Park, we figured we deserved a side trip. It was well worth it; just off the highway, it is a 28-mile drive that sends you through ridges, hills, mesas, and buttes that have been painted in bright bands - some rust-colored, some yellow, some blue - by the build-up, over the course of 28-million years, of soil that had been oxidized to different extents. We decided to park and get the bikes off of the rack on my car, and had a nice three-mile ride along the blue mesa, which was breathtaking and left us out of breath. Further on, we saw the huge petrified logs that give the park its name, awesome hybrids of wood and stone, that, after we left the park, were being sold in small chunks for 25 cents. We passed.

We continued driving through Arizona, surprised with the tall mountains and numerous trees that appeared out of nowhere around Flagstaff, and reached our destination around nine that evening. The destination was Lake Havasu, which I have since redubbed Lake Have-a-second-thought-before-staying-there.

The town is on the Arizona-California border, and is a popular Spring Break destination, but in the off-season, it seems, it reverts to a tacky, commercialized ghost town, populated by confused travelers and bedraggled townies. When we asked the "concierge" at the Days Inn - which should really be called the Day Inn, because, let's face it, no one's spending more than one day there - if there were any decent restaurants still open, he said "At this hour??" and suggested Chili's. It was 9:30. We were starving and angry, driving around the deserted city muttering epithets about each closed business we passed - Casa Bonita Mexican restaurant, Red Robin, Chronic Tacos, and, eventually, Chili's. After some soul-searching in the parking lot between two awful-looking, but open, taco places, we decided on In 'n' Out Burger, which was a wise choice I think.

We had listened to an informative and harrowing account of the recent rise in the bedbug population on the radio, and spent a few minutes combing the hotel room for signs of life. Finding nothing, we went to sleep with visions of leaving Lake Havasu dancing in our heads, and the siren call of Hollywood ringing in our ears.

Photos: Missouri - Oklahoma - Arizona

2010-09-09T07:56:00.000-07:00

As far into the cave as we got. Jesse James' hideout in plain view.
Crappy hiding place, guy.

A sign outside the Mule Trading Company somewhere in Missouri.
Looks like had the giant guns torn from his cold, dead hands.

A prarie dog or something, poking it's head out of a hole. Probably took a wrong turn at Albuquerque.

In Arizona, they are very respectful of Native American culture.
These giant arrows, for instance, stuck out of the ground outside a gas station.

All photos courtesy Maria's camera phone.

Acknowledgements

2010-09-07T18:21:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned earlier, the past couple weeks have been an absolute whirlwind of packing, planning, moving, and orchestrating things both local and remote. I won’t bore you by reciting from the well-worn and sweat-soaked pages of the Moving Pains tome, but both Maria and I would like to thank some people who helped us live through the headache. First, Maria’s parents, who took us in when we were homeless, and let us use their home as a temporary storage unit, and her brother John, who made his daughter's tastefully-painted bedroom available to us. Thanks! Also, our friend Brian, who, even after I described to him how convoluted our move was, involving packing a van and making trips to a nearby suburb to pack up a small metal cube with our belongings, agreed to donate his steady packing wisdom and brute strength to our cause. He also sent me a touching (and probably since forgotten) goodbye text message that I will save forever to warm my heart and embarrass him with. Thanks! And last, but not least, we have to thank Dee, who, after my investigatory trip to LA left us with nothing but two beautiful apartments that got snatched from under us, was our eyes in choosing an apartment from Chicago. Thanks to her trusty eye and ironclad recommendation, we are now excited to be traveling to an actual apartment, in the Pico-Robertson neighborhood, which no one knows is a neighborhood. Thanks, Dee! And thanks to everyone else reading the blog. Thanks!

Fun Facts from the Road Atlas

2010-09-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

Our trip will take us through the second, third, fifth, and sixth largest states in the country (Texas, California, New Mexico, and Arizona, respectively – number one being Alaska, number four Montana), and through the first, second, and fifth most populated (California, Texas, and Illinois, the outliers being New York and Florida).

I love this book.

The Spirit of the Great Horse

2010-09-07T18:15:00.000-07:00

We are in New Mexico. As I write, our overstuffed Acura is hurtling through the eastern part of the state. For the past fifty or so miles, we’ve (I should say, Maria has) been passing through Ugly Little Shrub National Park, which is to say, a whole lot of nothing. So far, the thing that has most impressed us is the fact that we’ve made it this far already. The going has been fast and easy, and we’re hoping for more of the same. The highlight of the day so far was a rest stop ten miles across the Oklahoma border, outside of which some animal – maybe a prairie dog, was burrowing a hole, undisturbed by the parade of drivers passing by on their way to the bathroom. Which was, by the way, populated by metal toilets that more closely resembled smelly robots. We should be arriving in Albuquerque around six this evening, so we’ll have some time to wander the city, assuming there is one. I’ve booked us a night in a TWO-STAR hotel, so…yeah. (edit: I am in the hotel now. It is awesome. Albuquerque seems nice. We're getting fish tacos soon.)

Yesterday, we made our way out of Missouri and into Oklahoma, taking a brief side trip to the Menamec Caverns, a seven story cave so well advertised that we felt literally compelled to stop off, lest the dozens of billboards fall on deaf ears, and the very future of roadside advertising be put in question. The area was a sort of shanty town of quaint Americana and hickish oddities. Besides the Caverns and the adjoining campground, there was a Toy Museum, and a Jesse James Wax Museum, and a Creative Chainsaw Carving store, and a “Wildlife Center” that offered gifts, leather goods, and live alligators. Being as it was Labor Day, most of the places were closed, and none of them looked too good anyway, so we went straight to the caverns. They sounded cool – 60 degrees all year round, in fact! – but it cost $19 to go in, so we just looked at it from the ticket counter. It looked like a big cave, with a linoleum floor.

And so we were priced out of Missouri, and found our way to Oklahoma City, making a much needed stop along the way at a Food 4 Less supermarket, where – our bodies still feeling the fried crap we’d eaten at the cafeteria outside the cavern - we loaded up on provisions of the salad-in-a-bag sort. Can’t really comment much on OK City, though it seemed okay. A ha aha. We stayed at a Days Inn near the airport, watched cable TV and fell asleep. All in all a good night, and pretty much in keeping with the breezy nature of our trip thus far. I’m sure something really interesting will happen to us soon enough, probably involving coyotes or turquoise jewelry.

On the Road Again

2010-09-05T22:55:00.000-07:00

It's moving week here at Blogtown: Chicago...er, Hollywood. Technically, it's Hollywood: Pacific, Missouri at the very moment. Today was day one of the cross-country journey that began in Holland, MI and will end at a new apartment in Pico-Robertson, Los Angeles, California.

So this marks a return to my beginnings as a blogger, though I'm making the trip not with my blogger-compatriot Dee, but with my girlfriend, and our timeline won't allow for the same meanderings. But we are looking forward to the drive, which will take us next through Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and finally California. I will be posting updates whenever the mood strikes and wi-fi access allows.

As for now, we're both tired from an eventful weekend celebrating the wedding of our friends Hanna and Jo. The last couple weeks have been a blur, so we want to realy enjoy thhe next couple days. As much as we can enjoy four days of hardcore driving. To be continued...

We belong

2010-08-17T23:50:00.000-07:00

Just to prove to all you naysayers out there that LA is the place to be for the permanent home of Blogtown I give you....

See, Los Angeles has wanted us here before we had even heard of it.

Bird's-Eye, Nerd Guy, Word Pie

2010-08-17T08:20:00.001-07:00

Sorry for the quietude on here lately, darling readers. We've been girding our loins for the big Blogtown relocation project. In fact, I'm traveling out to L.A. tomorrow to find our new digs. While I was doing my recon, I discovered this breathtaking view from google maps:

I'm gonna parachute right onto that spot.

* * *

In other news, an essay I wrote about cartoonist and filmmaker Frank Tashlin is published in this month's online issue of the Bright Lights Film Journal. If you're interested, have a gander. If you're not, and you'd rather just heckle me, please email insults and brickbats to me at foureyes@nerdspot.geek.

Keep your eyes out for exciting updates soon!

Why We Blog

2010-07-26T18:37:00.000-07:00

Dee stumbled across this amazing comment on our old blog, and I wanted to share it with everyone, because it filled us both with so much joy. When we read something like this, something that says our blog has touched someone's life, well, I think I speak for both of us when I say it vindicates every stupid little thing we've done on this blog. It's for you that we do it, and to know that our work is not falling on deaf ears (or blind eyes, or cold, ironic hearts) is the ultimate repayment. And I hope that this will inspire all of you to leave comments for us - it doesn't need to be anything grand like Brian's, but we really do want this to be a forum for conversation, however silly. Your feedback is our fuel.

* * *

Yesterday, I took the 40 minute drive just across the border to Whiting, Indiana for the annual Pierogi Fest, a three day celebration of Polish culture and flagrant obesity. It's like Lardstock, with 'Rogi-heads such as myself traveling from all over the bloated Midwest. I know what you're thinking: that sounds awesome. Well, this is the second time I've been, and if I'm being perfectly honest with myself (and, more importantly, honest with you, my precious readers), it's a disappointment. I'll set aside the blaring heat, the crowds, and the slightly-too-high prices - all of which I can deal with, generally - and address only the pierogies. You'd expect (I know I did), at a Fest devoted (in name at least) to the pierogi, to find some pretty mind-blowing 'rogies, right? WRONG!

Now, before you say anything, let me put my credentials on the table: I'm only a quarter Polish, but that quarter represents my grandfather, who was a Polish hero. I grew up in Pittsburgh, a town so 'rogied up that between innings at Pirates games, they have the Great Pierogi Race, where people dressed up as giant pierogies race around the stadium.

(From right to left: Cheese Chester, Oliver Onion, Sauerkraut Saul. . .and the lovely Jalapeno Hannah - there used to be Potato Pete, but no more. We miss you, Potato Pete.)

A couple years ago I had almost-serious intentions of opening up a gourmet pierogi restaurant with a friend that would be called Pierogatory, and would serve only pierogies.

I know from pierogies.

Which is why I'm so befuddled by what they pass off as 'rogies here in the Midwest. This is no coastal-bias, nostalgia for the imagined foods of an apocryphal childhood; the Pierogi Fest pierogi is a horse of an entirely different color than what I was weaned on. Forget for a moment the lack of variety and inventiveness in the Pierogi Fest pierogies - this one we don't even need to worry about what's on the inside, we can just judge the book by its cover. To my mind, real pierogies look something like this:

Long, flat, crescent-shaped dumplings, boiled to perfection and tossed in a pan for just a bit of crispiness, slathered in onions and sour cream. Seriously, look at that picture and tell me you're not hungry.

What they serve at Pierogi Fest (and at most of the places I've been to in Chicago) look more like this:

Shorter and more bulbous, a bit chewier - tending towards gnocchi, perhaps. I'm not saying that these are bad - they're tasty. But they're not the pierogies I expect (and love), and when I get them at a "Pierogi Fest" I wonder something hasn't been misnamed.

But, I will allow for the possibility (however slight) that I'm wrong. Is there a cultural misunderstanding going on? Are these pierogies from a different part of Poland, or a different country, or did Chicagoan (and vicinity) Poles simply remember the 'rogies of home differently than those who ended up in Pittsburgh? Are these a different food altogether, like kolduny, disguised as pierogies? Anybody else notice this discrepancy, or even prefer the Chicago variety? I feel like Mrs. T would know.

The Newman Problem

2010-07-16T12:18:00.001-07:00

For the past three weeks I have been fostering a dog named Newman (see above).

As you can see, he's a pretty top quality dog. He's part husky, part somekinda terrier. Newmans' so half and half that depending on his mood and time of the day, he either yipps or howls. He's not the best behaved, he digs up plants, escapes from the house, jumps and chews. But again, he's only 1 years old. Here's another picture...

Yeah, he's pretty cute.

I can adopt him. I can just go for it and pay the outrageous expensive $300 and have a dog at last. Or I can keep fostering until he's adopted. Every Saturday we have to go to an adoption fair in Hollywood. Last week, no one wanted him but I figure it's only a matter of time before someone scoops him up.
The reasons I hesitant every time are:
1. money. I'm a grad student
2. I'm a grad student and work all the time
3. I have to move out of my house in Val Verde which has a back yard so I can finally live in LA proper.

What can I do? What am I suppose to do. My heart is torn.
And if I do keep him we might change his name.
Options we're working with:
1. Vernon Hardapple
2. Roger
3. Hud
4. Hawkeye Pierce
5. Walter Matthau

Any thoughts out there?

epicblog

2010-07-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

My impending move to Blogtown: Hollywood involves more than just the consolidation of two blogging powers that could, and should, shift the balance of Internet power to the Golden West, maybe permanently. It also represents a huge step in the growing up of me. After a half-assed move to Toronto from Chicago, and a twice as half-assed move (that's a quarter-assed move, for those of you keeping score) back to Chicago, this is a fully-assed move I'm making, a two-year commitment that means big things in terms of my career (cough), as well as my personal and romantic lives. Since I'm becoming a for real grown-up, a career-path-haver, a cohabitant with my girlfriend, and etc., I'm marking the occasion by buying furniture. It's like in movies, when the police pull out a big target on the street to catch someone jumping off a building (I cannot for the life of me drudge up the vocabulary to find this in Google Image). Buying this furniture is helping me get comfortable with my big jump by padding the landing. So behold:

(Wood Coffee Table, yard sale near my apartment, $50)

(Wood table, Picker's Paradise Antique Mall, Niles, MI, $20)

(Wood mirrors, craigslist, $65/pair; Hanging wine rack, Picker's Paradise Antique Mall, $15)

(Wood candleholders, Broadway Antique Mall, Chicago, $35; Wood clock and cheese plate, Unique Thrift, $3)

(Ceramic teapot and mugs, Eshelman Pottery, gift; Tea set, The Ark Thrift Store, $5; Spice Rack, Picker's Paradise, $4)

As you can tell, Maria and I are excited about furnishing our new apartment (wherever in LA it might be), and looking forward to settling into our heavily-wooded, lodge-like Eden. We're both relieved that we share a similar aesthetic sensibility, and I think we're both a developing a pretty keen eye for nice-looking, well-made, cheap furniture, which is pretty much what I always dreamed I'd have by the age of 27. Which reminds me....

I see pathetically few movies for someone who plans to give the balance of his life to the study and preservation of film history, but the last movie I saw deserves mention here.

Nicole Holofcener's Please Give (2010) focuses on a New York couple - Oliver Platt and Catherine Keener, using the sitcom marriage logic of funny fat guy and extremely foxy lady - who own a mid-century modern furniture store, which they stock by lowballing the children of dead people, who have no sense of the market value of their things. It's a film wherein not much happens, without hysterics or intrigue, without heroes or villains, without most of the things that most other films fuck up anyhow. But what the film does, and does expertly, is offer a believable, relatable portrayal of the maddening push-pull of liberal guilt, and the anxiety of operating (and succeeding) in a capitalist economy that seems to ascribe value to things willy-nilly (albeit in a way that always upholds an in-place hierarchy of moneyed trend-setters and cognoscenti), to the detriment of community-building and lump-sum humanity.

Keener battles with her complicity in this process, struggling to empathize with the people she buys furniture from, who assume that anything they own must be worthless, and sympathize with the people who buy the furniture from her, who assume everything in their purview - and price range - to be of highest value and importance. The movie addresses these tensions without beating you over the head with them; even the title is, to me, quietly provocative, referencing the homeless people to whom Keener feels compelled throughout the film to give money (as amends, perhaps, for the homes that she figuratively steals and sells for profit), but also serving as an entreaty against the abandonment of the gift evidenced in the film. The few "gifts" given in the film - like Keener's small acts of charity and the furniture inherited by ungrateful children - are framed as pay-offs or burdens, and immediately thrust into the language of capitalism. Which reminds me...

I'm reading this book (well, I was until the library recalled it):

(Note: the book is now available in a 25th Anniversary Edition with the subtitle,
"Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World." But the cover isn't as cool.)

I've been interested in theories of the gift ever since I wrote my undergraduate thesis, which leaned heavily on the theory of the gift set out by "noted deconstructivist" (my contradiction in terms) Jacques Derrida in his Given Time I: Counterfeit Money.

(Derrida looks like Columbo)

To Derrida, the gift is impossible, because it is always attended by feelings of indebtedness and a need for repayment, which destroys the idea of a "pure" (i.e., purely selfless) gift. It is a pretty grim formulation, and not without its merits, to be sure, but it kind of shoots the conversation dead before its had a chance to open its eyes.

(Lewis Hyde - casual.)

Lewis Hyde's notion of the gift is much more, shall we say, generous (intended). The exchange cycle of gift-repayment that, to Derrida, renders the gift impossible, becomes in Hyde's book the very essence of the gift. Hyde writes that a gift, to be a gift, needs to move, to be passed from person to person. When it is stopped, the spirit of the gift atrophies. Ditto when the gift is given a monetary value, at which point it enters into the very non-gifty world of capitalism. The gift exists in its increase: the gift is given, and the recipient is filled with gratitude (as opposed to Derrida's poisonous indebtedness), inspired to pass on his own gift that has increased with with force of the gratitude, and on and on. Hyde argues that communities are created on the back of this fair, mutual gift economy (he provides plenty of anthropological morsels in support), whereas a capitalist economy is predicated on iniquity, competition, and the dissolution of community (capitalism really takes it in the teeth in this book).

This can be tough to figure, especially when thinking about individual gifts, but Hyde is more interested in thinking about the work of art as a gift, and this is what he devotes the meat of his book to (granted, I haven't finished it yet...). Actually, the work of art is comprised of three gifts: first is the gift of inspiration, which finds the artist sitting in front of a painting, hearing a song, or whatever, and receiving it as a gift, holding it within herself, developing a sense of gratitude, a divine afflatus that compels her to create her own work. The second gift is in this work; that's what we're talking about when we talk about a "gifted artist" - the artist toils to grow her skills, which she then gives to her artwork. The third gift occurs when the artwork is given back to the world, to inspire another artist and keep the cycle going - this is also the step where most often the gift is valuated, commercialized, priced, and ceases to be a gift.

Let's put this tripartite gift into terms we can all understand. I read this book (well, as much as I could before I was daunted by my $2.20 late fee and returned it) and felt edified, inspired, and grateful (gift 1). I spent all day (minus breaks for frozen grapes, racquetball, and some other of life's most wonderful diversions) researching and writing this post, drawing from the style, vocabulary, and wealth of knowledge that I have developed in my years of writing and blogging (gift 2). And as soon as it's finished, I will publish it and gift it to you, my dear readers, so that you can absorb it and give your own gifts to the world. You're welcome!

Which reminds me...

I wanted to talk about this show called Downfall that's on TV (on ABC, right after Wipe-Out, and before the new hit, Butt-Punch! Part of ABC's "Senseless Sunday" line-up!), but it really befuddles me, and I can't figure out. Also, I've only watched one minutes of it so I don't actually know the, er, plot. But since this post isn't long enough, I'll mention it. I encountered it in a bar in the Denver airport, when my interest was piqued by the teaser that proclaimed it "The only TV show filmed on top of a ten-story building" (I thought Cheers had done it first, but no, it was set in a Boston bar). The idea of the show (as far as I understood it) was that contestants are asked questions as prizes ride past them on a conveyor belt. If they get the answers wrong, the prizes fall of the building and smash - for instance, the woman in the photo above seems in danger of losing that awesome cello (shit!). (Also, sometimes a person is on the conveyor belt, and they fall off, but they're attached with cords, and they don't even fall that fast, so forget about that part).

When I saw this, I was shocked. It seemed like, at the same time, the most outrageous display of, and an explicit and accurate metaphor for, the consumption doctrine: "If YOU don't win the prize, we'll just fucking SMASH IT!" (cue audience chanting "Smash! Smash! Smash!") In my version of the show, the object falls of the building, but parachutes directly into an orphanage, and the loser is forced to watch the poor children have their lives enriched by the prizes that could have been hers - now THAT'S how you turn the emotional thumb-screws!

THEN, I did a bit of research and learned that the actual prizes are not falling off the building - no, instead, their prop department builds worthless facsimiles which are sent off the building. This blows my mind. I'm not sure where I can place this on my continuum of cultural head-nodding and moral outrage. It seems awfully wasteful, for one thing, not to mention extremely stupid. But it also might have something accidentally interesting to say: if the prizes themselves are merely symbols for an abstract economic status, then these are symbols of symbols, and by smashing them, you may as well be smashing the things themselves, right? I don't know. It seems like the concept of use value needs to come in here, and that where I check out.

Sorry for this long and boring post, and thanks for humoring me. You all are the best. I'll try to make my next post about something more popular and light-hearted, like, I don't know....ADORABLE PUPPIES?!

And It's Hot, Too

2010-07-07T18:41:00.000-07:00

Last couple days in Blogtown: Chicago have been hot. Like, really hot. Weather.com reported this afternoon:

Kill me! Good thing I'm moving to Hollywoodtown. Boy oh boy, is the weather nice over there. I mean, really:

Keep cool, everyone. SPF 50 or higher.

Report from Blogtown Hollywood

2010-06-23T22:08:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night I was at Cafe Tropical in Silverlake and guess who I spotted!? I bet you can't. You can't possibly guess. Sweet Pea from Season ? of Project Runway! I know! Can you believe it! And guess what!? Her tattoos are real! And she seems to be mighty friendly with the cook staff at the place. Don't really know what to make of that. Maybe after her failed run at Project Runway she's looking to open up her own little Cafe Tropical. You heard it here first dears readers, on Blogtown Hollywood.

The waves at Manhattan Beach last Tuesday were still riding high by mid-afternoon. So high a surfer got stung by a sting ray. You better believe dear readers. I thought my bee sting was big news on that tranquil little beach. Nope, some else's ankle gushing blood onto the sand was the top news story of the day.

Feel Flows by the Beach Boys

Tonight I had a meeting at Stories in Echo Park. There were a bunch of stoned poets reading while Carmelita played on the outdoor patio.

Lately I've been making a salad with arugala, parmigiano-reggiano and figs that are finally ripening in the front yard. The apricots should by ripe by the weekend. I'll make sure to come up with a great recipe of that. Maybe apricot ice cream?!?!

Don't you just hate when traffic comes to a stand still of a sudden and you have no idea why. It's 130 pm on a Saturday what the hell is going on here? Oh wait, it's because there's an accident on the other side of the freeway and we all just want to slow down and stare. Haven't we seen enough! And don't get even get me started on the insistence the drivers in LA have at slowing down near the top of the hill. God, the 405 is so unbearable right by Sunset just after the Getty. We all know it's coming! And we don't slow down for anything else but I guess we're all just so scared at what will find at the top of the hill. Guess what!! It's just more freeway!

I just get such a kick out of driving from Santa Monica, up the 405 into the Valley and watching my temperature gauge in my car go from 64 to 110. What is up with that place! It's hotter than hell. Amiright?

Stay tuned dear readers. Later this week I hope to make it to Marina del Rey to interview Iggy Pops younger brother who hangs out on the beach weight lifting cinder blocks, crouching behind walls to smoke a joint and hitting on all the ladies he sees. It should be a exciting and fruitful interview.

Wow, that was easy...

Extry! Extry!

2010-06-22T21:57:00.000-07:00

We've been dancing around this for a while, but I think it's time for a good, old-fashioned proclamation:

BLOGTOWN IS RELOCATING!

Well, to be more accurate, I am relocating. Beginning Sept. 1, Blogtown: Chicago will be no more. Dee and I will be joining forces, blogging from a centralized location. We have been struggling, since the beginning of Blogtown, under the weight of distance. The dream of a transcontinental (and intercontinental) exchange of ideas was a sweet one, but even the move from Blogtown: Toronto to the more proximate Blogtown: Chicago failed to get the blog moving in the direction we envisioned. Well, enough is enough, we decided, and so Maria and I will be loading up my jalopy, Clampett-style, and heading for the verdant hills of sunny Southern California. Sure, the move across country is a pretty drastic measure, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for this blog (I'll also be attending UCLA in the fall), no mountain high, no valley low, no river wide enough, baby. Anyway...oh, I almost forgot the over-the-top unveiling. Dear readers, please gird your loins for:

Epic, I know. So, what can you expect from Blogtown now that it's unapologetically gone Hollywood? We're glad you asked:

Celebrity gossip, by the boatload. Who was seen, doing what, where? Are they just like us?? We'll figure it out.
Daily surf reports, updating our gnarliest readers on the gnarliest waves.
Beach Boys YouTube clips! So many it'll feel like the last few seasons of full house on here.
Cultural observation and criticism, as per usual. Except the cultures we're observing will be stoned all the time.
Delicious, heart-healthy recipes that include lines like "go to the papaya tree in your backyard and pick a bushel. Emulsify and pour over the salad. Add gold leaf to taste, and enjoy!"
Traffic rants - you can skip them!
Making fun of The Valley.
The Under the Boardwalk podcast, in which we'll interview people under the boardwalk. There's probably all kinds of folk living under there.
and much, much more!

We're so excited to make this move, gentle readers, and we hope you'll make it with us. Blogtown: Los Angeles marks a whole new phase in the life of this blog. It will be bigger, better, and beachier. I will continue to blog from Chicago up until (and including) the move, and you'll be hearing more about the impending merger, but for the moment, I think I'll just sit back, put on some shades, and look directly into that bright, bright future.

BLOGTOWN OR BUST!

Notes From the Belly of the Beast

2010-06-21T21:45:00.000-07:00

I don't have Facebook. This comes as a surprise to some people, generally the kind of people who try to turn chance encounters into meaningful relationships by saying "Oh, I'll just Facebook you." No, you won't. You'll never see me again. A few people have asked me why I don't have it, and my standard answer is meant to shame them into qualifying, if not outright renouncing, their own Facebook presence - generally some combination of "I don't need another waste of time in my life," "I don't want my business out there for all to see," and "I don't want to know what everyone I've ever known is doing at all times." All at least partially true, but I've never really interrogated why I so staunchly defend my slim online profile.

If I'm being honest with myself (and, of course, with my beloved readers), my resistance serves a twin purpose. On the one hand, it bolsters my argument that fulfillment is not to be found on the Internet; on the other, it preserves the possibility that fulfillment is, actually, right there on Facebook for the taking. Of course, I don't think that's the case - I actually think it's a dumb website in most ways. The way I see it, I stand a certain historical crossroads (ooooh): I'm not old enough to be really unaware of Facebook, but not young enough to have been weaned on it. At my age, Facebook is certainly a fact of life, but it's not a birthright. When I'm old and sitting in my rocking chair - or, since it's the future, in my rocket chair - I'll be telling my grandkids and/or whoever will listen to me (including you, dear lifelong readers!) that I remember a world without Internet, when all we had to keep us busy were Werther's Originals and manual labor. The curmudgeon in me wants to preemptively throw in with the Internet-denier lot and begin railing against anything cyber-, tech-, or robo- (and I do!), but there's another part of me that is afraid of missing the boat, and being left on this shore with a bunch of old people while all my peers are out there networking and dancing with robots.

Let's be clear here, though: I haven't missed any boat. I'm as reliant on the Internet as anyone else, and to be honest, I've come to love the damn thing - I sure as hell can blow a whole day in front of it. Yet and still, I use it in my own one-foot-in, one-foot-out style: I've got my few websites I look at and that's about it. Unless I have a "research problem," I pretty much stick to the exact same schedule: my email, my twitta, weather.com, espn.com, theonion.com, Blogtown, a couple sports blogs, and online cribbage. That's it. It's the equivalent of a TV addict slaking his thirst on the broadcast networks and refusing to get cable - which I also do, come to think of it. Both offer the masochistic pleasure of having someone else tell you about, say, something discovered on Facebook about someone you remember being interested in once, or the most recent episode of Big Love that you haven't seen/can't see. Like I say, I'm enough online to know that I'm not fulfilled by it, but left enough in the dark to suspect that somebody else (or, if my worst nightmares are realized, everybody else) might be. This ecstatic commingling of indulgence and self-denial pretty much defines the martyr complex, which I must got in spades. Hey, it works out great for me: I can blog and blog to my heart's content, and y'all can't poke me!

Sunshine and Oranges

2010-06-20T21:58:00.000-07:00

Remember me? I'm the other blogger on this blog. Sometimes I blog, sometimes I don't. I just wanted to check in briefly and congratulate Phil on his new diet as I chug Evan Williams bourbon and eat chocolate peanut butter ice cream. But to each his own.
In response to Phils post about the Chicago weather i can report that for his visit to LA on Thursday it should be a lovely 72 degrees. And not humid. Not at all humid. I don't realize how easy it is to get used to LA weather until I visit another city. I was in Brooklyn the other week and as soon as I walked out of JFK to wait for the A train to take me to Carroll Gardens I was cursing the humidity and missing the hot heat of LA which is occasionally interrupted with cool ocean breezes.
A similar thing happened to me in the winter when I went home to Pittsburgh. It was so cold and so snowy that I remember thinking "how can people live in a place like this" only to be reminded by everyone I'm a native Pittsburgher and on top of that lived in upstate New York for four years. It just goes to show the allure of LA.
So, LA welcomes Phil and Maria with open arms, no humidity, ocean breezes and plenty of karaoke bars.
more to come from me, the other one...

Fathers Knows Best

2010-06-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

It's Father's Day Night, and as the son of a great father, it seems only fitting that I should compose a small tribute to some great motherfuckers. (cough)

I'll start with my own father, you know, since he contributed half of my genetic makeup and supported me and fed me and stuff. He's an amazing surgeon, a saver of lives, and everyone loves him. He's a great dad; aside from my dashing good looks, he's responsible for my taste in music and my passion for sports, which, by my estimate, accounts for 75% of the conversations I've had in my life. He took me to see the Rolling Stones and Tom Petty, Mario Lemieux and the Killer B's, and now look at me. A college graduate. A graduate school graduate. A future graduate student. A job applicant. A successful blogger (in that I have successfully blogged).

As the years have passed, our relationship has transitioned, as relationships do, to one of mutual respect and admiration, an affection that isn't merely biological, but that's been forged by years of sacrifices, jokes, mistakes, embarrassments, and good times. Anyway, I just put all this in because I know it will make him get all teary-eyed because he's corny like that. But, for serious, my dad is awesome, but I don't have to tell you, because he had this mug named after him to save me the trouble.

Of course, my dad isn't the only dad in the world, so I'd like to give some shout outs to the following:

Bob Leers, my dad's dad, who was a bandleader, which is a much cooler job than I'll ever have, and who taught me to do crossword puzzles, which I'm now awesome at. At which I'm now awesome.

Emil Mach, my mom's dad, who I never got to meet, but who was a learned, handsome, Nazi-beating badass. If I could have lunch with one person (which I know I can't), he's him.

Super-Amazing Guy

My uncle Bruce, and his equally-prodigious progeny (and progeny-in-law) Steve, Alex, and Ashley, who have put all the cute people in my family.

Dee's dad Bob, who is a hilarious guy and a great cook. Maria's dad Mike, and brother John, who have also put some cute people in my life. Joe Dagati, who tells off-color jokes. Rapper Big Daddy Kane. Toronto Raptors power forward Pops Mensah-Bonsu. And, of course, Major Dad.

Thanks all, and to all the other dads who have played catch with me, metaphorically speaking. And here, for any expecting or hopeful future dads, is how fathering should look, from some experts:

Hank Hill:

Tobias Funke:

Coach McGuirk:

And How 'Bout Those Mets?

2010-06-19T18:24:00.000-07:00

Dear readers,

Day 2 and I'm craving meat. And cheese. And beer. Being in Chicago during this time is like trying to give up being around white people in Utah. On the plus side, my blogging has really flourished, and I hope you're all enjoying the fruits.

It was a hot day today, as the sun came out to remind us that, even between rainstorms, she's always got her hot, gaseous eye on us, and can zap our asses anytime she pleases, especially when we're sitting in traffic. As night falls, it's beginning to cool down, but as weather.com can attest, it still feels pretty swampy out there:

But it should drop back into the double digits overnight, and, this being Chicago, it should be snowing by Monday. If you're out there: wear layers. And nothing tight-fitting. Leave something to the imagination, for crying out loud!

(If you were wondering what happens when an uninteresting person tries to blog every day, it's pretty similar to when an uninteresting person tries to make conversation. Discussing the weather's a surefire winner, dummy!! You'll be networking in no time!)

Cliff Clavin Ain't Got Shit On Me

2010-06-18T20:29:00.000-07:00

Day Two....okay, Day One of the Week of Life Betterment through Worsenment. Brian and Elizabeth's ceviche dinner was decadent and wonderful, and Maria and I were too polite to mention that the cheese and margaritas (and later...cheesaritas!) were verboten that particular day. And so we began today, and everything's going hunky-dory, except for a huge storm which hit Chicago this early evening that rendered Lake Shore Drive a veritable twin of Lake Michigan. But we weathered the storm and, now safely alee, I want to write to my dear readers about a true shelter-in-the-storm, in the very heart of Humboldt Park, Chicago, Illinois. It's called the Division Street Bar & Grill, and, oh yeah, I'm a regular.

If you step into the DSB&G on any given night, this is what you can expect to see: a lot of empty tables. In fact, the first handful of times I walked past the place, I thought it had been shut down, or had not yet opened. But, one night when I had been exiled from my girlfriend's house for nefarious reasons beyond my control, I found myself needing a place to kill a few hours, so I took the short walk down Maplewood, took a deep breath, and pushed open the dark glass door.

I won't lie and say that I was knocked out at first glance. In fact, it looked much the same inside as it did outside: non-descript, and pretty dead. But I took a seat at the bar, three seats away from the guy who was sitting three seats away from the guy at the other end of the bar. And that was it. The dozen or so tables, the loungy area in the back, the rest of the barstools were all empty. Now, this was something I could get used to. Even better, there were two large flat-screen TVs behind the bar showing a basketball game, giving me something to keep my interest. I ordered a beer, made some small talk with the bartender about Lebron, and settled in. A couple of hours and drinks later, the bar was still empty, and I was still chatting with the bartender about basketball (he was a big Kobe fan, something I found it hard to wrap my head around), when a woman walked in and began to set up a karaoke machine. I was of two minds: the lonely exile in me was thinking "oh great, now the place is going to fill up with ruddy-faced men and women with big teeth, who will get up in big groups and sing terrible songs that somehow not one of them knows all the words to, and they'll all laugh through the whole thing and be busy holding the microphone in front of other people's faces and no one will really end up singing and the whole thing will be a real gas to them but to everyone else it will be like watching someone else's company picnic." The other part of me was thinking "karaoke!"

(Google Image search: "karaoke")

As it turned out, the karaoke didn't bring in any hordes. There were maybe eight of us in the place - five people who obviously came to the karaoke every week to sing showtunes (that hurt), the two glum drinkers who were sitting at the bar when I arrived, and perhaps before that for time immemorial, and me. I was hesitant to promise myself to either camp, so I ordered another $2 Pabst and signed up to sing Prince's "Little Red Corvette," which I'd never sung in public, but had vigorously workshopped in my head. As the bartender that night, Danny, likes to put it when he recalls the story (he does it often), I didn't sing the song that night. I performed it.

When I finished the crowd went absolutely politely clapping, and I sat back down at the bar, covered in sweat and a spontaneously grown pencil 'stache. Awaiting me was a shot, courtesy of Danny, an immediate fan and soon to become my bartender. Maria arrived and we ordered the appetizer platter, aka the perfect end to the perfect evening. For days afterwards, I tried to put into words exactly why the bar was so great: the bartender was nice, the drinks were cheap (and, as often as not, complimentary), the TVs were big and showed sports, but they didn't overwhelm the place, they had specials everyday, and karaoke, and board games, it was a two block walk from Maria's, the burgers were fantastic, and, most importantly, it was always empty - go in on a Saturday night and tell me it doesn't feel like a Tuesday afternoon. After a couple of weeks, karaoke night was canceled due to underattendance, and really, it's pretty amazing that the bar isn't canceled for the same reason.

But it's stayed open, and they've got big plans, involving art exhibits, DJ nights, beergardens, and other such flights of fancy that must keep the bar-owning population up all night. And I've kept going back, bringing Maria, and any of my friends who are willing to make the trip. I've become great friends with Danny - who was so happy when the Lakers won, I'm just glad I got to witness it - as well as the other bartender, Na, and the owner, Diana. For the first time I feel like I have a neighborhood bar all my own, where I'm greeted like a friend and get nods from the familiar faces around the bar. It's been an anchor for me during my brief return to Chicago, and I really appreciate that, and I'm going to miss it when I go, and I'm going to remember it well. If you're ever in Blogtown: Chicago, I highly recommend that you check it out. Or, better yet, don't. Get your own bar.

New Beginnings

2010-06-17T15:42:00.000-07:00

Today I am starting a week-long...hmm, what to call it? It's more than just a diet, it's not as new-age-y as a cleanse...Let's say a week-long Life Adjustment and Possible Betterment in the Interest of Health and General Curiosity. Better yet, let's not give it a name. Instead, let's get down to brass tacks: we (not the royal we - my girlfriend is doing it too) are denying ourselves dairy products, caffeinated drinks, fried foods, meat (fish excluded for sanity's sake), alcohol, and most sweets. Sounds like no kind of life at all, I realize, but those who know me best know I love a good test of self-control, and will be unsurprised that I am throwing myself into this headlong.

In fact, because the dietary restrictions alone seem a little vain and self-centered, I also vowed to fill the void in my life left by my meals of fried chicken dunked in a bourbon-yogurt sauce with blogging! That's right, dear readers, my loss is your gain. What a deal! So look forward to daily, or near-daily updates to the blog, and please adjust your expectations accordingly. They can't all be gems, and besides, who has seven interesting thoughts in a single week? I'm not Walt Whitman; I can't just walk outside and jerk off about some sunlight in a field for a half hour.

Instead, I'll just offer up some musings, Peggy Hill style.

I made this pie chart today, using a cool program called Microsoft Excel:

Any thoughts on what I could use these bad boys to represent? Something with percentiles preferably.

...

It's officially summer, or, as I call it, "fruit season." But maybe I should call it "fruit FLY season," because all that fruit certainly does attract the fruit flies. Well, yesterday, I got fed up with swatting fruitlessly (pun intended!) at the sneaky little bastards, and decided to do something about it. First, I washed the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, put my fruit in the fridge, took out the garbage...basically anything to spoil the ambiance favored by the flies. Then I slapped together a quick, easy fruit fly death trap, like so: I took a small plastic container and filled the bottom with cooking wine (apple cider vinegar and beer work just as well, but if you use the latter, you might end up catching a German fellow! Just kidding German readers! Forgive me, bitte!). I threw in a dab of dish soap and an apricot which had seen better days, then pulled some plastic wrap tight over the top. I poked some small holes in the plastic with the tines of a fork - the flies can get in, but they can't get out, like a regular insect "Hotel California!" Does it work? Well, I checked out my death trap this morning, and it's like a regular pool party in there. What do you call genocide when it's visited on fruit flies? Insecticide!

Bye-bye buggies!

...

NBA Finals Game 7 is tonight between the Lakers and Celtics. Two teams with a lot of history, and a series with a lot of subplots. Most interesting to me is whether Kobe Bryant can cement his legacy once and for all as the best guy at basketball who was also accused of sexual assault. Good luck, Kobes!

...

Well, I'd love to keep rapping at you, but I've got to get myself to dinner. My friend Brian is making ceviche; I'll let you know you how it went tomorrow!

Hug Me Tender, Hug Me True

2010-06-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

As Dee knows all too well, I'm not the world's best hugger. It's not that I can't give a good hug - because I can give hugs like you wouldn't believe, believe me - it's that I have trouble feeling comfortable enough with people to touch them. BUT, as Dee can also tell you, I've been working on it, and can now passably embrace a number of people with whom physical contact used to be an awkward disaster. Watching the NBA finals has inspired me to redouble my hugging efforts, because I strive to be a champion in everything I do (false). Last night, in fact, gave us this amazing scene of unadulterated and unself-conscious sweaty-man-on-sweaty-man hugging:

After the game, Nate Robinson (the little guy on top) compared his relationship with Glen "Big Baby" Davis (the big guy under him) to that between the Donkey and Shrek. Aside from being hauntingly accurate, this comment underlined one important truth for me: that, as the saying goes, it takes two to hug-o. The very best hugs are not the sole effort of one supratalented champion (damn!), but rather the unique, spontaneous, and often fleeting concatenation of two complementary elements - in this case, a Red-Bull-hyper, diminutive dynamo and a slobbering man-child. A match made in hugging heaven to be sure, and one which got me thinking about my ideal hug-mates. Well, after minutes of thinking, I present to you (in sort of true basketball spirit) my Dream Team of hugging. Honorees were chosen because of hugging acumen, of course, but I might try to get them together to play some basketball after this is all over.

SG - JAMEER NELSON

I'll begin my starting five with an actual basketball player, someone who can handle the rock and take over the game when he needs to. More important, however, is that he comports himself with the sort of tough-guy-just-waiting-to-be-hugged manner to make him a perfect anchor for my backcourt. 6'-0" and 190 lbs, built like a brick shithouse - but one that's extremely soft around the edges - I expect him to be a vocal leader on this team. I just wanna squeeze 'im!

PG - Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott

At 5'-2", Missy gives up a lot of size at the point guard position, but she makes up for it with creative, ankle-breaking dance moves, her cameo in Pootie Tang, and the fact (documented on MTV Cribs) that she sleeps in a Ferrari-designed race car bed. Now, this is someone I need to get my arms around. She's shown her dedication by losing a few pounds on her waist for me, though in hugging, girth can be a definite asset. Fat or skinny, I want her and her race car bed on my team.

SF - John C. Reilly

John C. earns a place here as a stretch forward who can bring all kinds of game. He can do drama, he can do comedy, he can sing, dance, and act. He's a sneaky 6'-2" and can rebound when called upon, but can also draw his defender out to the three point line and drown a pull-up J. Crucially, he's a rock on D and a teddy bear on the H. Once you bury your head in his chest (I imagine) you're lost for hours. He's also perfect for team chemistry, having starred in my two favorite comedy scenes of all time: the Beatles scene in Walk Hard and the Sasquatch scene in Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny. The latter is vital in galvanizing his understudies on the bench, as seen here:

PF - Jordan Staal

Okay, I admit, this one is just for me. Jordy (on the right) is what I would call my man-crush if I went in for pop culture buzzwords. Instead, I'll say he's a man I have a crush on. He's tough, he's tall, and he's a gottdang champeen. He's also just a simple son of a sod farmer from Thunder Bay, Ontario. Sure, he's tough as nails on the outside, but I look at him and see a 100% stand-up fella just trying to impress his dad (there's got to be a reason he has three brothers also playing in the NHL). In other words, he's a sweet kid who needs a hug. And you know who's going to give him that hug? ME, that's who!! I'll give him all the validation he needs. I'll also take Evgeni Malkin, who's on the left in the picture. He's Russian, so his hugs are probably extra warm.

C - Dikembe Mutombo

I just want this guy at center. At 7 foot a million, he was one of the greatest pure defenders in NBA history, an intimidating shot blocker and a beast in the paint. His voice is extremely hilarious. Also, given his incredible dedication to public service and global activism, he is no question in line for the kind of hug I have planned for him: running at him at full speed, I'll link my arms around his waist and hope not to get squashed.

BENCH

Group Hug - Crosby, Stills & Nash

I know, they've been through their ups and downs, and by downs, I mean freebasing cocaine. But at their best they are harmonizing geniuses, and they possess the unbeatable hugging combination of two fat guys and a posh British guy - no doubt they would run the three man weave to end all three man weaves. Despite their tempestuous pasts, all three have a knack for joining winning teams (The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, and The Hollies, respectively). Furthermore, we all know there ain't no hug like a getting-the-band-back-together hug. Neil Young just didn't make the cut - we already have a Canadian guy.

Powerhuggers - Jack Black and Kyle Gass

You know I'm going to need their energy off the bench. And their D is, from what I understand, quite persistent.

Coach - Michael Caine

He's not just really British and really cool, he's also quite smart - here he is being hugged by Nobel Peace Prize winner Martti Ahtisaar, as Scarlet Johansson stands to the side and tries to laugh away the pain of knowing she will never deserve a hug from this man. Surely, Caine's Nobel-hugging pedigree will be a great boon to this team of young bucks, and let there be no doubt that I want an aging British man to embrace when my back is up against the wall. No, that came out wrong.

Assistant Coach - Jane Lynch

It's not simply a matter of her being awesome and funny, which she obviously is. No, I need her here because I think she could perfect the art of withholding a hug until the most desperate hour, when she would deploy a surprisingly tender and motherly embrace that would without fail right the ship. She would be the person we'd rally around.

Well, there you have it. I admit, this was a hastily assembled team, and I'm sure I left out some top-notch hugs. And let me also admit, happily, that I already have an unbeatable hugging team that consists of my family, my girlfriend, and my friends, including Dee. But one does like to imagine, doesn't one? Let's see the comment section blow up here for once - who would YOU like to hug? Come on, this blog gets boring when it's just two voices shouting into a well. This is the internet, let's DISCOURSE, people!

Dee's Secret Shame

2010-06-05T13:12:00.000-07:00

(Photoplay, Dec 1924)

This was a very dark moment for her. Fortunately, Dee was sent to the Ellis School for Girls, and now - boy oh boy, does she know her way around a silverware setting! And from what I hear, Baby Agnes was born with a buillon spoon in her mouth.

Meanwhile, thanks to my Central Catholic education, I still eat with a plastic shovel and a piece of driftwood I whittled to a point. (justkiddinggoVikes!)

Baby, eh?

2010-05-30T14:23:00.000-07:00

I guess there's one more new Zeta! We can keep the house! What do you say, Dean Simmons?

Uuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...
No. Sorry. Can't be a baby pledging a sorority.

Too bad. Congratulations Megg and Josh on an adorable kid, and congratulations to Auntie Dee for a kickass niece!

Babies and presents for babies

2010-05-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

On Saturday May 22nd my baby niece Agnes Honoria was born in Chicago. It's the first Hoover baby to be born since me.
And thank god, just in time. I spent all last night screen printing onesies for the little bean. I've been feeling like a fish out of water (I don't think I'm using that expression right. I'll find it) since school ended and desperately needed a project. So it's a win win win situation.
Below are the the first six. I have 15 onesies in all and might as well keep going.
Sorry for the crappy picture quality

f
Ono

Dogtown

In-and-Out palm tree

Birds

Girly T-Rex

Surf

Blasts from the Past

2010-05-24T16:39:00.000-07:00

My job requires me to spend a lot of time looking at microfilm (yeah, it still exists) of early Photoplay magazines. I generally try to keep my eyes on the prize, but every once in a while something unrelated to my research catches my eye. This ad for a skin treatment (from Nov. 1922) was one of those things:

I guess advertising was a bit more direct in the twenties. A few decades before the Mad Men were dreaming up inspired, lyrical, quasi-subliminal taglines between oysters, it seems marketing strategy consisted of blatantly referencing the public's insecurities. And I like it. In fact, I always had a sense that all around me people were judging me silently. It's nice that somebody finally acknowledged it.

***

Barbara La Marr was one of the great vamps of the early screen; in a way, she was a forerunner to contemporary dark beauties like Angelina Jolie. Also, in another way, she was a forerunner to Jolie, according to this May 1923 article.

Again, blunt honesty seems to be the modus operandi here. Barbara wasn't trying to save the world; she was just lonely, and wanted a little, trusting man-child to fill a void in her life. Angelina could take a page.

***

Finally, a letter to the editor from an Ottawa Photoplay reader lets us know that some things don't change.

Ha. Only a Canadian could so perfectly encapsulate the true nature of the country.

***

I feel like Jay Leno all of a sudden. Shudder. I'll try to blog at you again soon.

I also made this today

2010-05-14T12:19:00.001-07:00

Site-specific model for HamletMachine by Heiner Muller. Almost done....

A Break

2010-05-14T12:04:00.000-07:00

Inspired by Phils post, feeling a little guilty about not posting in ages and waiting for some paint to dry I decided to post some images about a project I'm working on. I started this recorded story/photo project during my one non-theater class at CalArts, Memory, Media and the City and now plan to work on it during the summer. I've been collecting stories from long term Los Angeles residents and recording them on Garage Band. The stories only requirement is that they occur in a specific location in LA. Then I go and take photos of that location. I've only done one so far and I'm still working on the display. In class I presented the photos I took of my friend Christina's story in Manhattan Beach on an overheard projector. My professor, the one and only Norman Klein was really into it. He liked the simplicity of it and the fact the images can overlap one another, much like how we see our memories. Below are a few photos I took. More to come.
I took the pictures on an old Nikon and scanned the negatives with a shitty scanner. I liked the way the strips looked.

And here's a single image

A New Pet Project, and On the Difficulty of Pet Projects

2010-05-08T12:40:00.000-07:00

After a much-expected silence from me, I figured I'd clear the air with a little discussion about a research project I'm working on. As part of a series of artist books I am making with my girlfriend/collaborator Maria Perkovic, I am making a(n artful) study of Delmer Daves' 1947 Bogie/Bacall thriller "Dark Passage."

(SPOILER ALERT! This is the best clip I could find of the film, and it's the ending. I know it's in bad taste - from a narratological standpoint - to post it, but it's such a lovely couple of scenes I can't help myself. If you hope or plan to see this film unencumbered by any knowledge of its denouement, please skip ahead.)

This research project, in addition to filling up the dead time of a very bored ex-film student, will interrogate what I think is a really interesting film in relation to:

-surrealism
-Robert Montgomery's "Lady in the Lake"
-Alfred Hitchcock's "Notorious"
-Bogart's physiognomy
-Warner Bros. cartoon "Hollywood Steps Out"
-star theory
-and many, MANY more!

I am already enjoying capturing film stills, drawing comparisons between films, leafing through my film books, and laying out my own book in my head. Of course, I'll let you all know how it turns out.

My investigatory work for this project has raised a lot of questions already - such as: why aren't there any people named Delmer anymore? - but it's also underscored the difficulty of doing independent research outside the auspices of an educational institution. Just a year ago, as I was writing my thesis at the University of Toronto, my apartment floor was riddled with over a hundred books either directly or indirectly related to my research interests. Every week, it seems, I would bring home some new ideas from my expeditions into Robarts Library's bountiful stacks.

Today, as my research has shifted from "academically relevant" to "an extremely nerdy hobby," my source materials come to me in fits and starts. As an alumni of the University of Chicago, I have limited access to the incredible collection at the Regenstein Library, but I can't take books out unless I am willing to pay (I am not!). And, as much appreciation as I have for Chicago's Public Library system, the CPL's collection is simply not designed to support my kind of research.

Perhaps the fault is my own, that I haven't fully thrown myself into being an eccentric, spending every waking hour poring over yellowed pages in a dim-lit room, known by name to every library employee who has learned via first-day training/hazing ritual that I am best left alone to my sisyphean obsessions. Or perhaps university libraries need to be opened up somewhat, need to acknowledge that academic work is not by definition of interest only to academics. It occurs to me that this restriction of access is one of those things that gives academia a reputation of insularity and elitism.

Of course, I fully admit that I am, at heart and in the eyes of the IRS, an academic myself, simply without a home for the time being, and wanting everything handed to me, nice and easy. But I like to think (and the glut of labor-intensive niche website bears out) that there are other academic hobbyists like myself who would (and should) benefit from the edifying resources at hand to those working or studying within the parameters of an "institution of higher learning."

Thanks for entertaining my cute little op/ed. I also have some problems with YouTube, like how I can't always find exactly what I want. I do want to reiterate that I'm really excited to be working on this book, and the other books that we have planned. Always nice to be using whichever side of my brain I've been neglecting (the inside?). And I'm also excited to be in Pittsburgh tonight for Game 5 of the Pittsburgh-Montreal series (that's NHL hockey, people!). Maybe I'll blog about it; and that's not an empty threat, that's an empty promise.

In defense of me

2010-04-17T10:43:00.000-07:00

If any of you are still monitoring this graveyard of ideas that we call a blog, I feel I should issue an apology. Trust me, I've been as frustrated by my lack of posts as anyone. Dee has an excuse - she's in school and working her tail off, so busy she doesn't even have time to remember my birthday. Conversely, calling me employed is like calling Anna Paquin sexy - no matter how much you might want to believe it, if you look hard enough it just stops being true. I've got a lot of time on my hands, a Masters degree, and at least a superficial interest in theories of media and popular culture ("What's the deal with reality TV? This is what passes as reality these days?"). There's no good reason I'm not pumping out blogs to keep the cyberworld buzzing (I could claim a social life, but who would believe me?).

But I'm not just writing to apologize; I want to try and explain myself. At the very least, it will help you all understand me a bit better, and isn't that what blogs are really about? (I honestly don't know.)

"Kids today" are always being criticized for having attention spans diminished by their dependence on a "media landscape" or some such horseshit. Nowadays, instead of playing outside or getting summer jobs, kids are raised on Twitter and Nintendo DS, and as a result, they refuse to listen to their parents...you know, like kids used to. Now, this may be true - I have no idea, I avoid children. But kids ain't the only ones who have turned into a bunch of obnoxious tubs - cue the cries from the twenty-thirtysomethings: "I only have facebook to see photos of my friends and reconnect with people from high school." (If there is something novel about the cybernet generation, it's the perverse desire to keep in touch with people from high school).

If anything, maybe we should be applauding the kids for managing to incorporate "the internet and all that" pretty seamlessly into what they call their lives. This is where we finally get back to me, and why I can't blog right. It's not that I can't write (I can), or that I can't use a computer (come on...). It's that I can't write on a computer. I sit down in front of my laptop and suddenly, I have a headache, I can't focus on any one thing, and it's six hours later than when I started. When I was in graduate school last year, I chose to live in an internet-free apartment simply so I could get work done. Now that that has changed, it takes me a week to respond to an email because I can't sit in front of the compy without getting dragged into eight straight games of online cribbage. I think I might actually be incapable of reading an entire non-sports-related blog entry, and insert your own joke about me needing a break while reading a tweet. Add to that the fact that it's NBA and NHL playoff season, and I can't reasonably be expected to come up with a new blog everyday, can I? Yes, of course I can. I could subject you to every half-humorous or near-interesting idea that pops into my handsome, genius head. I could choose my blog topics like Brendan Fraser chooses movie roles - indiscriminately, and while sitting on a pile of ill-gotten money.

But I won't. Because I've got the most deadly trait for a lazy jerk to have (aside from laziness and jerkdom): perfectionism. I'm too proud to half-ass this blog, but my mind is too addled to whole-ass it. Every time I write a new posting (including this one, which I can assure you took way too much of my Saturday afternoon to write), I approach it with the mindset that I need to write a masterpiece. And anyone who's tried to write a masterpiece knows it's ain't easy.

(This clip doubles as a fairly good approximation of Blogtown's creative process. Dee is the bald one. I bring the ketchup. Chakras are fucking exploded.)

So as I end this apology/excuse/spacefiller, I want to promise each and every one of our readers that I will strive only to give you the most fully-incubated and thought-provoking opinions (cue audience: "Yeaaaahhhhhhh!!!"), even if it means I'll only be blogging once every month or so (audience: "ohhhhhhh"). But trust me, I'm going to try and do these posts more often (audience: [leaving]). I just need to remember to take my brain pills. Go Pens.

Like me, look up if you like me

2010-03-15T23:44:00.000-07:00

I don't watch a lot of movies these days like Phil. I usually watch TV shows late at night once I get home or something like background noise I can put on in the studio when I'm mindlessly cutting out strips of bristol board and foam core. The last full movie I watched was Woodstock (both discs). But anyway, I keep watching and re-watching episodes of Skins, the British drama about high school kids. It's the kind of show where someone like me can identify with each character depending on my mood and for some reason I want to even though they're playing kids half my age. There's this one scene from the first season that reminds me so so much of the way I thought when I was younger and now find myself doing again now that I've been reminded of it. The...if five red cars drive by me on my way home he thinks about me, or if he looks over when I come into the room that means he can sense my presence and really really likes me. This weird disassociated hoping and I just watch it over and over again because I've done it over and over again...click here

My Adventures in Pictureland

2010-03-12T13:22:00.000-08:00

Being as I'm something of a film scholar, a lot of people have asked me what I thought of the Oscars. Okay, that's a lie; nobody really talks to me, but if you don't make things up in the blogging world, you end up going nearly a month without a post. In any case, to answer the question, I don't care about the Oscars. Why? Not enough antiquated picture language. It's time to bring back some of that quaint vocabulary that made early picture-going such a hoot. My choices for the Academy Awards (had I seen any of the films):

Best Actress: Carey Mulligan

A winsome ingenue in the manner of Mae Murray, natural and human at all times. Here she is playing with so much sincerity that she fairly wrings your heart. Hers was a fine performance; well shaded, deftly drawn and, above all, bewitching to the eye. A few scant years ago, she was little more than a charming, towheaded moffat, and now she promises to become one of the great Venuses of the silver drapery.

Best Actor: George Clooney

I am one of those to whom George Clooney is, or has been so far in my movie experiences, a constant source of joy. I the adoring fan, George the male Mary Pickford. Once I came near writing him a mash note. Credit him with an engaging personality and you have explained a lot, but not all. Back of that personality is a developed skill in pantomimic byplay, in facial expression, in poise, in all the arts and graces of a natural actor that many an engaging personality fails to acquire. And back of that is the natural, and human, and clean-minded impulse.

Best Director: Kathryn Bigelow

Some have thrown brickbats at this member of the fairer sex who has staked her claim among the Cecil Bs and David Warks of the world, but we have nothing but bouquets with which to fete this woman of most thoughtful turn of mind. Her opus holds your attention by sheer pictorial beauty and symphonic quality of production. The film has its moments of good old-fashioned melodrammer, but is heartily recommended to those who complain that the new-fangled movies haven't enough action.

Best Picture: "A Serious Man"

A four-star sockaroo photoplay from those irrepressible Coen Brothers, who have been spinning high-minded jazzbo since "Barton Fink" - and you know that means Entertainment with a capital E. The Coens extract every ounce of heart appeal from the story, but keep the picture interesting with a lot of good-natured hokum, and a fair share of naive and innocent deviltries. It's downright funny, too, in the cock-eyed burlesque manner of the comic supplements. Despite the title, "A Serious Man" is a hilarious laugh-maker, scattering mirthful situations all over the map and back again.

Good work, all.

For the Love of Film

2010-02-17T13:20:00.000-08:00

If there's anyone out there as interested in film preservation as I am (Anyone? Hello??), a number of film blogs are contributing to a blogathon - apparently, some kind of blogging marathon - on the subject. There's a lot of good stuff here, and it's really nice to see that there are blogs beside this one doing interesting work. Who knew?

PRL-8-53

2010-02-10T22:54:00.000-08:00

Sometimes these things just fall into your lap. A few years ago, I bought a 45 single from a Chicago group called Phil 'n' the Blanks, because the sleeve was cool looking, and, like, my name's Phil too. Anyway, apparently they made a video for the song, using that awesome early '80s trick of having unappealing people act out the lyrics literally. So now you all can watch it:

This song was the B-side to a song called Autosex. Sadly, I couldn't find a video for that one, though that may be a good thing, as the literal interpretation of those lyrics could get ugly quick. Back with a real post soon - enough of these video cop-outs.

Quotes of a Professor

2010-02-10T20:22:00.000-08:00

I have a professor for a critical studies class I'm taking at Calarts. He's great. One of the best actually. But a bit of an eccentric, sort of rambles on. All in a Brooklyn accent. And he forgets things so he has to wear a fanny pack. So he stands in front of us, gray hair, fanny pack, sort of going on and on for two hours and occasionally checks in with us by looking at one of the students directly in the eye and saying "right?" and shrugging his shoulders. My friend Nick and I like to swap Norm quotes when we see each other and I thought I would write some down here....

a noise comes from the floor above us, Norm says "Yeah, I don't know what that is, is that Iron Man Landing?"

"I remember looking at a doughnut and thinking that's not what the universe looks like. Maybe it looks like some other kind of pastry. No! The universe doesn't look like a pastry"

"Why would Borges hate Joyce? Didn't he know?"

"That's not fair. I'm being cute beyond cute."

On Super Mario Brothers 2..."I have sleep issues! I can't sleep tonight thinking about this. Maybe I'll be the princess"

"If I teach Walter Benjamin again I'll wake up on the French/Spanish border"

At the end of class, sitting in a chair looking around at us..."maybe we should, i don't know, do something"

A story at the Post Office when everyone discovered the mail slot had been shut up and they didn't know where to mail their letters...."then this old lady walked by and said 'the world is looking more and more like Mexico every day. And I said to her 'You're old! And you're on social security and hobbling around giving people ridiculous advice. Thanks for melting the planet now we're just looking for a place to mail our letters!' "

Yinz Snowed In?

2010-02-08T22:34:00.000-08:00

The city of Pittsburgh had a historic snowfall this weekend, and - thanks to a conspicuous absence of plows - is still under a three foot blanket of snow. I've heard reports of cars stuck on the turnpike for upwards of twelve hours, and even the mayor has been snowed out of his own city while celebrating his thirtieth birthday (seriously) in the Laurel Mountains.

Most of you know Dee and I for our insider accounts of Los Angeles and Chicago, respectively, but you may not realize that Blogtown would not exist if not for Pittsburgh. It's the city where both of us grew up, where our families still live, and where we met. So our best wishes go out to our kith and kin braving the weather in the 'Burgh. Stay warm, stay safe, and if you must go out on the roads, make sure you're using appropriate means of transportation.

The Who in Pop Culture con't

2010-02-08T21:57:00.000-08:00

I won't be able to sleep tonight. Daltrey as a reject from Big Momma's House will haunt me for days. Whyyy why? I just want to always imagine him in suede.
I'm glad you posted that last video. I was hoping you would you leave your readers with a loving reminder of the band. I wish I could always have a pinstripped Moon following me around making faces as long as he didn't get too shitfaced and start breaking my things.
The Who has made other appearances on TV, better appearances, maybe because it was in spirit. Here are Lindsey's parents from Freaks & Geeks listening to the beguiling Mama Has a Squeezebox for the first time ever.

Ready, Steady, Retire!

2010-02-08T10:56:00.001-08:00

Palomino, I'll never forget seeing The Who playing under a double rainbow with you, nor your subsequent love affair with Zak Starkey and his drum kit. It was a great show by maybe the greatest rock band ever assembled (albeit minus Keith Moon, a 24-carat rocker if ever there was one). So of course I watched the entire Super Bowl halftime performance, hoping for at least a glimmer of their past awesomeness.

Woof. It was terrible. Really, really terrible. They stumbled through five of their most familiar hits, a medley that was apparently designed to make you question everything you've ever cared about. Roger's voice is washed up, and Pete just looked bored out there (come on, Pete! It's the biggest American football game of the year! Surely you're doing this for the love of the game, and not just for a paycheck?!). It's time for these two to say goodbye.

Now, I know it's extremely lame for me, a 26-year old who missed every significant phase of this band's career, to ask this, but what happened to these guys? Even when we saw them, about nine years ago now, they could bring it. They weren't kids anymore, but they could rock a crowd pretty hard. I suppose a lot of it could be explained by the death of Entwistle, who his bandmates admitted was the real heartbeat of their sound. Perhaps expecting a band to stay good after losing an all-time great rhythm section like The Who had is a pipe dream, but this was still depressing.

Poor Roger Daltrey. I mean, Pete's been turning into a bitter old coot for forty years, but Roger's fall has been precipitous. He was always the least talented guy in the band - he had a great rock voice and could shake a mean tambourine, but he was playing with three giants - but at least he had his looks. He was one of rock's great pretty boys, transitioning from the blue-eyed mod lover in tight white pants, to the golden-tressed Jesus figure in the fringed suede jacket, to (when we saw him) an undeniably sexy older man with a Clooney haircut and rock-toned sinews. Now? He looks (and dresses) like your aunt. Seriously, you probably have an aunt who looks like him.

Seeing him on stage recalled something that I thought I'd successfully purged from my memory; a year ago, I was awake at 3am, unable to sleep and - worse still - unable to find anything on TV besides CSI, the awful "forensic drama" whose use of The Who's "Who Are You" has extended the band's career indefinitely. The episode finds the team investigating a series of seemingly unrelated crimes which, it turns out, are all being perpetrated by an infamous mobster long thought dead, who is using state-of-the-art makeup to fly under the radar. All pretty convincing stuff until you actually see these "criminals," who look so obviously sculpted out of putty that the fact that it takes the CSI team any time at all to figure it out is a farce. I found it all pretty hilarious until everything was spoiled by the creeping realization that the person underneath these Eddie-Murphy-in-The-Nutty-Professor style disguises was the frontman for the greatest rock band on Earth. Let's take a look at the many faces of Roger, shown in order of least to most troubling:

This one's not so bad. Sure, he looks like what Jamie Kennedy will look like in thirty years if he begins turning into a rodent, but it's nothing compared with what's to come.

A fantastic look for him. Sort of a cross between Billy Zabka and Jiminy Glick. It gets better.

Now you're thinking, "They've gone too far - making Roger look like a country hick. He's a rock n'roll Hall of Famer, for Pete's sake, leave the man with some dignity." Sorry...but no.

This is a real photo of Roger Daltrey. I am not making this up. There are no words to explain this. Martin Lawrence must be spinning in his grave.

To be fair, I can understand why the makers of CSI felt the need to slather the man in makeup. He's fallen off a cliff.

I still love The Who and always will, but I have to say, if I never see them again it will be too soon. Unless Roger's playing someone's aunt on CSI: Miami. So, so sad.

Half Time Show

2010-02-07T17:12:00.000-08:00

Hey Phil remember the time we saw The Who at Star Lake Amphitheater and I fell in love with the drummer, Zak Starkey (and subsequently fell even more in love with Keith Moon) and made a little box into a drum kit fund? I would put change in it ever so often. Then I forgot about it. I found it about a year ago and spent the $3.57 that had been accumulated back in the 90's when I was in a bit of bind.
Well let's think of Zak Starkey and Keith Moon as The Who plays the halftime show (which my sister says is terrible. I have to take her word for it since I don't have a TV)

Super Sunday

2010-02-07T09:43:00.000-08:00

Well, the Super Bowl is later today, meaning today is the Pittsburgh Steelers' last as World Champs, so now seems like as good a time as any to mention:

What a wonderful day it was. Here's wishing both teams an exciting game free of injury.

Coast to Midwest

2010-02-01T20:33:00.000-08:00

Sorry we've been pretty quiet at Blogtown LA. But unlike in Chicago we spend most of our time on the road, tele-commuting. Here are some aerial shots of the things I spend a lot of my time on.
I actually really love driving down the freeways here. They're full of twists and turns and these fun dips when, if you're driving really fast you almost feel like you're flying. And plus traffic, while occasionally annoying, never comes as a surprise. And it is usually moving somewhat. LA also has pretty amazing radio station. KCRW and KPCC for talk radio fix and K-EARTH 101.1, your Hawaiian vacation station. Coast to Coast is broadcast starting at 11 for late night drive homes through the Valley.
And I'm sorry Phil had such a crappy time watching the Grammy's. I was in Beverly Hills sipping prosecco at The Little Next Door ignoring them.

You are the blog that I read each day...

2010-02-01T11:51:00.000-08:00

Maybe my post of earlier this morning was a tad bitter. I apologize, because I know you all aren't interested in hearing angry rants; those have no place on the Internet. Blogs are meant to spread a little joy, which I think is especially important in light of the depressing crapfest that was the Grammy Awards last night. I won't go into detail, but any of you who watched it (even if you did, as I did, with the sound off and only for a few minutes) witnessed possibly the Worst Thing Ever. BUT, this isn't another rant. I have good news, readers. The votes were retallied and the Grammys were all returned, put into a large pile, and incinerated, along with all tapes of the ceremony. A retroactive award for Greatest Thing in Town was given to this:

What a song! What a performance! And Bill Cosby dressed up as Groucho Marx! (UPDATE: had to find a shortened video because YouTube took down the full video. The Cos didn't make the cut.) It's got everything. This isn't some honorary Michael Jackson Memorial award on account of he's recently dearly demised, neither. It's just plain goddamned good music, the kind your Lady Gogos and Tyler Swifts couldn't find with a divining rod the size of Montanny. I could pretty much listen to this song on a loop for the rest of my life. I'd lose my mind, sure, but that seems inevitable; might as well make it funky. I'd tell my lady that she is the book that I read each day, the song that I sing, the four seasons of my life...Aw, hell, have another one:

This one's got more dancing. Peace.

The Almighty Loonie

2010-02-01T07:17:00.000-08:00

As I was doing laundry this morning at Blogtown: Chicago HQ, I reached into my pocket for a quarter and instead fished this out:

For the uninitiated, this is a Canadian two dollar coin, known in the common parlance as a "toonie" (because the one dollar coin is a "loonie" - it has an image of a loon on the obverse). No question, it's a handsome coin, and the queen a handsome woman. Indeed, it seems hard to find fault with such a fine piece of coinage, until you find yourself in a position that became agonizingly common to me during my stint at Blogtown: Toronto. You need change for laundry, or a subway token, or an afternoon of Tekken 3, but all you've got is a five dollar bill. You walk into a corner store already feeling crappy, because no one likes getting change for a bill. You expect that look on the cashier's face when she realizes you're not buying anything, and you endure the short eternity where it seems like she might refuse to make change, and allow yourself a tiny moment of excitement when she opens the register. Then she asks you what change you want, and the color drains from your face. Now remember, you're a grown-ass man, a respected member of the (blogging) community, but you're also an ex-pat trying to fit in in a new country and represent America well. Are you really expected to say the words, out loud, "Two toonies and a loonie, please?" Saying "Two two dollar coins and one one dollar coin" is overly formal and a waste of time, "Two twos and one one" makes you sound semi-literate. You can't pretend to be mute, because you already asked the lady for change. So there it is: "two toonies and a loonie." You walk out feeling emasculated and empty, and you've forgotten why you needed the change in the first place. Come on, Canada, you might as well call them onesies and twosies.

Start your week off with a laugh!

2010-01-25T06:32:00.000-08:00

Joke of the week from reader Tony D. from New York, NY:

Q: What did the girl dolphin say when her boyfriend broke up with her??

A: My life has no porpoise!

Thanks Tony! And to everyone else, remember to keep those jokes and stories rolling in. Who knows? You just might find yourself published on this very blog.

Blogtown: Chicago in pictures

2010-01-20T20:27:00.000-08:00

Here are some images of the new Blogstown:Chicago location. I won't bury the lead, I'll get straight to where the "magick" happens. Here is the Blogtown office space, equipped for pretty much any situation that I might encounter in my blogging:

The view from the office is just as breathtaking. To my right, a funky contraption and a duck:

(photograph courtesy Brian and Elizabeth, duck courtesy ebay.com)

To my left, an unfathomable tableau: the city of London eaten up by a whale:

(city of London courtesy cousin Sandra, whale courtesy Casey)

After that, I grew tired of taking photographs and got back to work. We don't sleep here at Blogtown. That's why you don't see any bed in the photos.

A Moving Story

2010-01-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, Dee gave me a rather serious assignment: to relocate the satellite Blogtown office from Toronto to Chicago. International news is all well and good, she told me, but what the people really want are reports from the heart of America. So I settled up all my accounts in Hogtown and on Saturday packed my modest possessions into a U-Haul, helped in no small part by Leigh-Ann Pahapill's roving band of able-bodied movers and my friend Nay's heroic lifting exploits in the face of a nearly insurmountable hangover. After a memorable send-off at the city's finest establishment, The Beast, and two hours of sleep, I willfully tore myself away from Toronto at 5.30am and pointed my truck toward Chicago.

The day was as reluctant to rise as I was. I drove through the near-darkness until 9 before accepting that I wasn't going to get the brilliant sunrise that I hoped would inspire me, and so I concentrated on appreciating the natural beauty of Southern Ontario. Instead of that, though, I was greeted with endless fields of off-white snow on all sides of me, which transitioned almost imperceptibly into the cloudy sky. The horizon and everything on it looked ghostly and imprecise, like Greta Garbo filmed through cheesecloth. Needless to say, I was feeling the Highway Hypnosis something awful. Thankfully, I breezed through the Sarnia checkpoint into the U.S. and made it to the Cranbrook Academy of Art outside of Detroit for an early lunch with my good old friend Casey. She took me to the best diner in town for some out-of-sight pancakes, eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy. Thusly sated, she showed me around campus which was almost entirely designed by Eliel Saarinen. The buildings are really exquisite, particularly the Library and Art Museum building:

Check out the details:

(Photos courtesy of: Internet)

The rest of the ride to Chicago was cake, and I eased into town at 2pm, none the worse for wear. The next day I moved in, with the help of friend Brian and pardner Maria, to my new digs in Logan Square - my first venture north of the meridian in Chicago. The apartment is fine, dear readers, and I am happily settling into my quarters. I am sharing the place with an as-yet-unseen roommate, Beth, but nevertheless will have both a bedroom and an office from which to do my important blogging. I expect the frequency and quality of my blogs to experience an uptick, and I am sure that all of you will truly love the new Blogtown: Chicago.

Star Parties

2010-01-13T22:43:00.000-08:00

One Saturday a month you can go to the Griffith Observatory (always free) and look through lots of different telescopes. They're called Star Parties.

My travels

2010-01-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

Here's a brief rundown of all the places I've been between December 17th until now.
Chicago
Pittsburgh
Bloomington
Manhattan Beach
Val Verde

It's been a lot of traveling and I'm exhausted but I'm pretending I'm not. I haven't left the house all day and I keep beating myself up about it. I have some work I should start before the first day of classes which luckily is two weeks away. In the meantime the theater school has a thing called Interim. Here are the class descriptions of the two courses I'm signed up for:

Cultivating Confusion/Expanding Fields
During the first week, we will explore "play" as a directionless, self-perpetuating activity and it's relevance in aesthetic practice. We will also examine uncertainty, nonsense, and stupidity, and how they relate to the creative process. During the second week, we will discuss and execute strategies for exploiting Los Angeles as a cultural and creative resource. This will include field trips to a section of the city's most intriguing locales. Both weeks of class will involve lectures, discussions, games, trips, optional readings and viewings, and a final project (with
enough cultural ammunition to keep one busy for the next 20 years).

Instructions, Events and Action: Performance Score Workshop—
The traditional notion of a theatrical text is where the performance is notated as words spoken by the performers. However, all art disciplines now include concepts of art as the result of instruction or procedure. This interim workshop will explore creating performance through the creation and execution of instructions and actions. The works of key artistic figures/movements will be discussed (Fluxus, Cage, Happenings, Wooster Group) as well as artists currently using this strategy (MIranda July, e-flux). The workshop will be experiential and experimental.
Each session we will consider different approaches to instructional art, and create/perform scores.
They both sound pretty amazing.

But anyway back to traveling. I stopped in Chicago to see my pregnant sister (she's having a girl, Agnes). We didn't do much as it was freezing and well I never do much. We went to the Smart Museum and saw an exhibition by an outsider artist Joseph Yoakum who was amazing. I liked his work for the same reason I love Cy Twombly; because you can see the artist thinking and planning in their every stroke and line. And there's an almost childlike sense of enjoyment present in each piece. We went to Maiz in Humboldt Park and ate lots of yummy Mexican food and I had a Michelada (spicy beer).

Then I went home to Pittsburgh. Where I pretty much hung out with my other sister who was in the process of moving back from Bloomington...which is why I went to Bloomington, to help her move all of her stuff out of her apartment. I got my first speeding ticket on Rt. 37. I guess LA really does make you a faster driver. And we packed and went to the Co-op and ate a lot of yummy food at Farm and Finches. I'm actually going to miss that little town.

On my flight back to LA, Urkel, aka Jaleel White hopped on in Phoenix. He was playing cool, with shades and a cap. And then I spent some time visiting in Manhattan Beach and driving up and down Vista del Mar which is my absolute favorite road in the world. I really did miss the beach.

Now I'm back in Val Verde sitting in the backyard. It rained last night and the weather is perfect. The blood orange trees are ready to be eaten and I'm making liqueurs out of the grapefruits. Tonight I'm going to the Kogibbq truck finally. Famous taco truck...of course.
-d

Fear-Love-Hate

2010-01-12T19:49:00.000-08:00

The making of...

2010-01-06T19:42:00.000-08:00

Many of you have asked us, What's it really like working at Blogtown? Well, readers, it's about as antic and wonderful as you probably imagine it. Dee and I are in constantly interfacing via transcontinental live chats, discussing the content, format, and future of our blog, and let me tell you, it can get pretty wild. See for yourselves...

me: YES

you can send me any blogs you like that you want to link to and i'll put it up

Dee: ok cool

me: like any yes fanblogs

Dee: oh good idea
me: good people to be friends with

Sent at 9:50 PM on Wednesday

Dee: good people to have in your pocket

Sent at 9:58 PM on Wednesday

me: they'll do our bidding...in and around the lake

Sent at 9:59 PM on Wednesday

Dee: what!?

This kind of thing happens all the time behind the scenes at Blogtown. And to think: most of these gold nuggets never even make the blog!

Prog-Rock

2010-01-06T18:40:00.000-08:00

Yes.