Just Another Selfish Day

2003-03-12T23:07:00.000-08:00

Day the Eighteenth

Feeling under the weather today. I guess all of us on earth are literally 'under the weather'. Do astronauts tell their fellow astronauts 'I'm feeling a little bit above the weather today?' Anyway. I think I'm coming down with something nasty. Hopefully it's not shingles or a bad case of the gout or something. Not to be too much of a downer. Sitting in class after walking through the rain has got to be one of the shittiest things. Especially if you're wearing a sweater, all that steam, damp and never fully dry, like a wet afghan.I shouldn't complain. My socks were dry and my nose wasn't running, but now I'm all achey and have a kind of chill. Is it the impending war? Maybe nerves? Impending nerves? Saw a funny article today. Apparently, Peter Jackson decided his first two installments of the The Lord of the Rings were too adult, not enough for the kids who buy all the merchandise. So New Line has decide to incorporate a character named Jar-Jaromir, the half-brother of Boromir and Faramir of Gondor. Looks like there will be a funny scene where Jar-Jaramir decides it would be best to just give the ring to Sauron, but he drops it and accidentally kicks it into Mount Doom, thus saving Middle-Earth. I wouldn't be surprised.

2003-03-10T23:13:00.000-08:00

Day the Seventeenth

The other day I made the mistake of watching the 400 Blows while I was feeling a bit depressed. I guess I subconsciously felt the need to embrace my sadness by reexperiencing what is certainly one of the saddest films ever made. In the middle of it all, I found precious moments of joy that I had almost forgotten: Antoine's exhilerating ride in the amusment park Whirligig, the beautiful faces of the children at the puppet show, the long run to the beach that culminates in one of the most exquisite freeze frames in cinematic history. But I still didn't feel any better. Thanks, Truffaut. Jerk.

2003-03-09T00:59:00.000-08:00

Day the Sixteenth

Something oppressive about the rain today. I usually enjoy wet days, but I wore the wrong shoes. These old saddle shoes with cracks in the soles. I forgot to change them when I stopped by the apartment. It wasn't really the rain I guess, but wet socks that got progressively worse as I walked back and forth between libaries. Something oppressive about wet socks today. When aren't wet socks oppressive, huh? I guess that's the question. Here's another question: Have you ever read something quite as boring or uninteresting as this entry? I mean really. Where is my mind? My apologies to Kim Deal and Black Francis. My apologies to everyone.

2003-03-07T14:07:00.000-08:00

Day the Fifteenth

Recently I've been spending some time with the Maysles Brothers. Having only seen Gimme Shelter, I wanted to visit Salesman and Grey Gardens and see what these films were all about. These three films together constitute what I would consider some of the finest documentary filmmaking I have seen, much more insightful and poignant than most fiction could ever hope to be. The Brothers treat their subjects with reverence, wisely allowing the narratives to unfold naturally, without much interjection, unless initiated by the subjects themselves. Edith Beale and her mother, both the subjects of Grey Gardens, are simply fascinating; eccentric, to say the least, stuck in the past, lost in old photographs and memories of youth, these women are true relics, and the Maysles simply let them talk. That's all that's necessary. Off to work. Sorry so short. More about the Maysles later.

2003-03-06T23:21:00.000-08:00

Day the Fourteenth

When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me that if I swung all the way around on our swingset out back, that I would come down turned completely inside out. This was very funny to him, and I could never understand how he could think something like all of the guts in my body hanging out could be something to joke about. This is the same man who left the window of his Porsche 924 down for an entire winter, and could not understand why the door fell of in the spring. Taxi Driver was the only film he simply forbid me to watch when I was young, claiming that Travis Bickle's hyper-violent spree at the end was simply too convincing. Of course, I secretly watched it, and he was right. However, he had no problem allowing me to watch The Exorcist with him when I was nine, under the condition that I had to promise not to crawl into bed with mom and dad in the middle of the night. I thought I could handle it, so I consented to his terms. I made a mistake. He was an unhealthy man; he overate, smoked too many filterless Camels, and, needless to say, did not get enough exercise.But his humor had a profound effect on me, and at his funeral I could not help but recount stories about my dad that illustrated just how wonderful his sense of humor really was. I hated egg salad sandwiches when I was a kid (still do) and I remember once in a restaurant, he ordered one while I feasted on my standard grilled cheese. I couldn't help but notice how much he was enjoying his disgusting sandwich, and I began to rethink my fear of egg salad. He saw my eyeing his food, and asked if I wanted a bite. If dad likes it, I thought, maybe I should give it another try. I said yes. So he bit me. Not hard or anything, but I was little and I started to cry, thinking he was the meanest dad in the world at that moment. Plus his breath smelled like a fart. He felt so bad, naturally, that we went to Baskin and Robbins afterward and had chocolate chip mint ice cream. At night I think about my dad the most. He never got to see my band, never got to hear our records or hear us on the radio. At night, I miss my dad the most.

2003-03-05T22:37:00.000-08:00

Day the Thirteenth

Met a guy today named Philip Quincy Buffington. Surprisingly, he was not wearing an ascot, he was not, to my knowledge, on his way to the Hamptons in his Studebaker, he did not seem to be late for a cricket match, a polo tournament, or celebrity smoker; no, he did not address me as 'my good man,' he did not mention anything about a girlfriend named Muffy or Tippy, and he was not drinking a Mint Julep, nor did he make mention of any kind of craving for a Hot Toddy; his snifter collection was conspicuously absent from our exchange, he made no allusion to a recent trip to 'islands' of any kind; yes, he had good teeth, would never be caught dead wearing a bolo, and he most definitely thinks that the Apple G4's are 'so 2002,' nowhere in our discussion did he refer to anything as 'gauche,' nor did he exclaim 'Excelsior!' at any time, though I felt that he wanted to very badly. His skins was waxy brown, but he assured me it was from that oppressive Seattle sunshine that we all are accustomed to. No, he was simply a square-jawed young man named Philip Quincy Buffington, and that was, perhaps, the strangest thing of all.

2003-03-01T16:12:00.000-08:00

Day the Twelfth

Beautiful day here in the Emerald City. Warm with a chill; the sun is trying. Traffic always seems to be the worst on days like this. People scrambling to get out of town for a day, to get back to nature in their $50,000 SUV's. I love how commercials for these behemoths always show some family giggling like morons as they drive their status symbols up impossible slopes, only to make it to the very top of some mountain that no human has ever previously reached, just as the sun is burning red at sundown, sinking behind the most breathtaking vista that would never be seen without the help of their big fat car. Are you kidding me? No one is going to drive something that expensive into the untamed wilderness (is there any left in America?) just to get back to nature. You'd scratch the paint, maybe blow a tire, and there are no lattes in the woods. Wanna get back to nature? Spend $50 on a comfortable pair of walking shoes and go for a hike, you lazy goof. You don't have to fill them up and you won't blow a sole, and, best of all, you won't be helping to perpetuate the ridiculous notion that you have to fork over 3 years worth of income (at least for some of us) to get back to basics. Go ahead. Buy a monstrous car. They're comfortable, they're fun to drive, they make us feel powerful, in control of our surroundings, sexy. Just don't pretend that there are other reasons for your purchase. That transparent dishonesty makes the SUV owner such an easy target. Even if I could afford it, I'm just not buying it. And besides, it's still a gorgeous day in the Emerald City.

2003-02-25T23:11:00.000-08:00

Day the Eleventh

My car was towed.I use the term 'car' loosely. Every time I hit a bump in the road the rearview mirror falls off. The entire thing shakes like mad when I hit 55; when I hit 70 (which always amazes me), it's smooth sailing. There's a tape that's been stuck in the stereo for 2 months. I use the term 'stereo' loosely, and, yes, I still have cassette tapes, so shut up. About a month ago the key got stuck in ignition, so I have to wrap a towel around the steering column to keep anyone from getting any crazy ideas. Yes, it's the same key that unlocks the doors, so I have to keep one door unlocked at all times, and I can't get into the trunk; forgot to make a spare before it got stuck. Oh, yes, it's the same key that unlocks the gastank cover, so, naturally, I had to break the lock on that so I could fill my 'car' with gas. The front bumper is fucked, since someone had some trouble avoiding my parked car one winter night. I backed into a tree the other day. But you know what? The heater works great, the wipers are fine, it always starts no matter how cold it is, the brakes seem to be in good shape (I learned long ago that stopping is far more important than going). Damn, I just realized that I kind of like my 'car'. I mean car.

2003-02-22T21:55:00.000-08:00

Day the Tenth

Well, I'm finding that it's becoming more and more difficult to keep up with this thing as time goes on. Have to play a show tonight at the Sit n Spin (which, by the way, is closing down near the beginning of March; all the rock clubs seem to be going the way of the dodo in this town, which makes perfect sense in a town that fancys itself some kind of rock Mecca or something. Now we have the Crocodile, which will probably be the last structure left in the world after WWIII-and Peter Buck will be right out front, I'm sure- the Sunset, the Tractor, the Paradox-no, wait, that's going down, too-the OK Hotel-wait, that was killed in an earthquake-shit, there's nowhere left to play in this poop town-the Downtown YMCA, run by the nicest group of people you'd ever want to meet, that's still around-knock on wood). Anyway, sorry about the digression. Off to the show. Hope it doesn't end up like Great White's show in Rhode Island. Jesus. Happy Weekend.

2003-02-18T23:38:00.000-08:00

Day the Ninth

Not too much today. Got a little mad at my cat for chewing off half the cover of a school text I was hoping to return at the end of the quarter. Probably won't do that now. The way he reacts when I'm mad at him is wonderful. He'll hide somewhere and wait until I walk by, then launch himself at me, yelping a little for effect (I can't really describe the sound), and then run away. It's like he's sure I'm wondering who did that. He'll slink away somewhere else for awhile, and just wait. It's not that I like being mad at him; sometimes it's just kind of fun. Have to get to some reading. Hope the cat's not around.

2003-02-14T15:42:00.000-08:00

Day the Eighth

Homework assignment for this weekend... please, for the love of Billy, do yourself a favor and find a copy of Lynne Ramsey's Ratcatcher. It's one of the finest films I've seen in the last few years, period, and definitely worth your attention. Set in Glasgow during the garbage strike of the 70's, the story revolves around a young boy and his family as they struggle through daily life. In her first film, Ramsey has given us something decidedly unsentimental, a beautifully shot tale which favors honesty of character over mere caricature. She extracts the poetic out of innocence lost, and each scene has a quiet, devastating power that few directors manage to achieve in a lifetime of work. I can't think of a recent film which I could recommend more enthusiatically. And, although I haven't had the chance to see it, her new filmMorvern Callar, is supposed to be exceptional. Thus endeth the lesson.

2003-02-12T12:16:00.000-08:00

Day the Seventh

Saw the Devil's Playground last night, a fascinating film about the Amish tradition of rumspringa, in which 16-year old Amish youth are released from the constraints of the family and allowed entrance into the "english" world for as long as each indivdual deems necessary. There is no time limit placed on this pilgrimage, but it is generally thought that by the age of 21 each youth will have enough information about the outside world to make an informed decision concerning a return to the Amish community and, subsequently, a formal baptism and lifelong allegiance to the Amish church. The director and crew were allowed unprecedented access to this very private community, and the resulting film is quite powerful. What do we know about the Amish faith? Let's review: The Amish do not believe that children should be baptized; this is an adults-only decision. Rumpsringa is a way to ensure that each child feels that he/she has been given a choice concerning which path they choose to take in life. No electricity (children generally have cell phones, however), no automobiles (the horse and buggy as the central mode of transportation reflects the overall pace of living that is most conducive to the Amish; the slower the pace, the more time one has in a day to reflect upon God and the Bible), the man is master of the household, the woman is subservient-the weaker sex, and Amish families are expected to have as many children as possible (in fact, the Amish generally tend to promote promiscuity among their own as a way to foster an early interest in procreation-like kids need any help in that area), idle time is the devil's playground, and each house must have as many windows as possible (for heating in a practical sense, and to allow the light of God into the home at all times). Oh, and at least 14 Bibles must be present in each living room. What may come as a surprise to many about the Amish? Let's review: Amish children, from the eve of their rumspringa until such time when they are ready to make the choice to return or not, throw the hugest, drunkest, most out-of-control-parties this side of Carnival. I'm not kidding. Kids from all over the country will drive (they are allowed all the freedoms of the modern world- cars, trendy clothes, drugs/alcohol, living away from home- during this period) to a certain community and drink and smoke and fool around until everyone has passed out or there's no more beer in Pennsylavania. When a young person's natural, exploratory interest are suppressed for so incredibly long, the results of a 16-year old being introduced into a world without restrictions for the very first time are absolutely explosive. The kids literally go shit mad. These parties are often thrown on parent's property, and the police are called constantly to try and disperse crowds that sometimes exceed 1,500 people, all drunk, many for the first time, all stoned, many for the first time, all, in essence, freshly released from jail. They can imbibe for as long as they like, and the Amish community will welcome them back with open arms, regardless of their previous transgressions. Here's the catch: if a child decides, through his/her experience during rumspringa, to become officially Amish, they are in it for life, there's no turning back, no exceptions. They have all the time in the world to make this decision, but, once made, it cannot be retracted. If a child enters into this life and decides that he or she has made the wrong decision, complete ostracization results All backs are turned and the individual is forever banned from the community. Everything you ever knew (and probably left at the bottom of a beer bong somewhere) is off limits to you for the rest of your life. Have you ever heard of a police raid on Amish meth dealers? It's in here. An with all this access, the directors were apparently forbidden to interview any older Amish women; only male elders spoke on camera, along with children of both sexes. So, my question to you is this: who wants to roadtrip to Penn state and get all f'd up with Amish this weekend? Again, I'm not kidding.

2003-02-10T23:11:00.000-08:00

Day the Sixth

Allright, great. Here's my favorite joke:
(ahem) A grasshopper walks into a bar. The bartender says "Hey, you know we have a drink named after you." The grasshopper says,"What, you have a drink named Kevin?"
You see, it's funny because grasshoppers can't talk. My head feels funny.

2003-02-09T17:56:00.000-08:00

Day the Fifth

Good news. Does anyone remember the band Archers of Loaf? Really great purveyors of fractured, dissonant and totally arresting indie-rock (hate the term, but here it is being used in a strictly complimentary sense). From Chapel Hill, N.C., the Archers (who, more often than not, got their name misspelled in newspaper adverts by 'music critics' who always fail to do their homework before hitting the keys. Most common type-o: Hailing from North Dakota, it's the Archers of Love!,) The band broke up a number of years ago, and Eric Bachmann, ex-head Archer, founded Crooked Fingers, a decidedly more folky yet no less compelling endeavor (a good song is a good song, regardless of genre, and Bachmann most certainly knows this). Well, hallelujah, I say, cause this bit of news has just been confirmed: Bachmann has left the warmth of sunny Florida (no idea how or why he ended up there in the first place) and has decided to make our perpetually soggy and sunless state his permanent place of residence. An old friend of mine, whose name I will leave out simply because he's shy (Here, I'm operating under the illusion that someone is actually going to read this and then tell him that they saw his name in a weblog somewhere), used to play with Greg Sage and the Wipers, and is, quite simply, an outstanding drummer. But he's always depressed and somewhat bitter (weird qualities for a musician to have, I know) because can't seem to settle into a musical relationship that is satisfying for more than a few months. Well, not too long ago, said drummer went back east to collaborate on a project with the very same Bachmann of Archers of Loaf fame, with wonderful, emotionally satisfying results, at least for my drummer friend. Problem is, drummer friend (let's call him Ned) could only stay back east as long as was absolutely necessary, and upon returning to Seattle, is in a state of melancholy over this lack of sustained emotional and musical release. Heaven praise the Gods of Mental Health...Eric and Ned have been reunited, and our dreary corner of the world can now rejoice over the fact that we can now call Crooked Fingers local. Welcome to Seattle, Eric. Now maybe Ned will stop being such a big fat whiny baby.

2003-02-02T23:48:00.000-08:00

Day the Fourth

"Not much to say today," he said, as he helped himself to some string cheese.
"Well now, I appreciate your honesty, good sir," said cyberspace, in a fake British accent. "I was just rereading your weblog entries from a few wiffins past. Smashing stuff. Simply smashing."
"Thank you, cyberspace. String cheese is good."
"I wouldn't know, Billy." (insert electronic sniffle here) "I wouldn't know."

2003-01-31T13:32:00.000-08:00

Day the Third

Actually this is more like 'Day the Seventh' or something; I missed a few days due to world-weariness and a general sense of malaise. I always thought that would be a good stage name for someone in a band. General Malaise, lead vocals. How about Dustin de Wind or Justin de Nickotime? Either you'd get a good laugh, or you'd get beat up. Or, if you happen to be playing a show any night here in the Emerald City (not Oz, you ninnies out there), you'd probably get a bunch of people standing with their arms crossed, staring at you with a sense of priviliged indie detatchment, thinking to themselves, "I could have come up with a much funnier name. But I have no sense of humor; just on overwhelming sense of upper middle-class entitlement that stems from the turbulent, oppressive childhood years I spent surrounded by loving parents and an excessively supportive family structure in the barrios of Kirkland. Man, this $30 hair product I recently switched to has a very unpleasant drying effect. Thankfully I'm still on my parents insurance (those assholes), so I'll make my mom take me to the dermatologist on Monday. After she makes me a hearty breakfast and polishes my wallet chain, of course." Now, those of you out there currently in bands, don't get your Calvins in a bunch. I'm sure your band is awful, which means that major label knock will be coming any day now. Good for the world. And I'm sure you'll have no trouble with $6 a day per diems, smelling parts of your three best friends that your worst nightmares could never have prepared you for, promises like "This label wants to help the band grow at an organic pace; we'll work with you, friends", getting pulled over in Helena, Montana because some convenience store clerk called the local police to report a group of shady looking ruffians wearing fingernail polish who 'looked like they were in a gang or something, officer', fistfights at some redneck bar because you wouldn't play 'Freebird' on request, getting seriously electrocuted in Minneapolis by some shoddy sports bar PA that's been sitting in the same pool of murky water since March, bad backs, chronic fatigue, AM/PM burrito sickness, and a host of other pleasantries that accompany life on the road in a hard working rock band. I know, I know, it's not a question of if you're going to make it, it's when. Besides, even if you don't (which you will), it's not about the money anyway, right? It's about the music, and your'e not gonna change for nobody. But, as long as Gary Agreeable, your resident PR guy, thinks there should be one more chorus after the final verse, hey, he's just trying to help, so why not go ahead and change it? Gary cares about the music, too. He has no idea what 'if you don't shift 200,000 units on your next record, your done' could possibly mean. He's your friend. So get ready (Your band name here), it's time to take it to the top. The top of what ? you may ask. Well, that up to you.

In the words of Jon Polito from the Coen Brothers near-perfect Miller's Crossing:

" You're fancy-pants, all a yas."

2003-01-26T23:31:00.000-08:00

Day the Second

OK, so I came back a little later than I'd anticipated. I got sidetracked by a little French New Wave number entitled Band of Outsiders. Although it didn't make my eye feel any better (lint or something; even Godard cannot use his profound directorial influence to trollop the insidious dust bunny), my heart sure thanked me. The Madison dance sequence (one of the greatest scenes in any film, period - many directors make the nod, but look to Hal Hartley's Henry Fool for an especially wicked tribute), Anna Karina's liquid eyes, melancholy Paris cool...here's a haiku based on an actual question posed by a customer who came into the video store where I work. I can't remember if the haiku is structured 3-5-3 or 7-5-7. Whatever, haikus suck. I choose 7-5-7:

Do you have the film
I think it's called Alphaville
by Jean-Luc Picard ?

Now, I'm sure that most of you have experienced the feeling of being knocked on your ass after a particularly powerful film, a great show, etc. It's an amazing feeling; pretty rare, unfortunately.The other day at work (I promise I won't continually refer to experiences at work) I was putting some VHS tapes back on the shelves when a co-worker of mine came by to grab some films for a customer. He moved quickly, like the wind, really, and in the midst of his quest for superior customer service, managed to knock a film from the top shelf out of it's slot and onto my nose. (These are the actuals, mind you, not the empty boxes) Big cut there now. The first time in my life a movie has literally punched me in the face. I think it was The Kid Wih the 200 I.Q.. You know, the one with Robert Guillaume (I think that's how you spell it) from tv's Benson and Gary Coleman (no introduction necessary). Be careful, folks. Bad movies can be dangerous.

2003-01-25T20:55:00.000-08:00

This blog has been created with one thing in mind: Me. My thoughts and opinions are the stuff of legend, and all of you who happen upon this blog should thank your lucky stars that access to my unparalleled brilliance has finally been made available for mass consumption. Be warned, however: Genius is quite filling. Read these entries at a pace you are comfortable with; those who rush may suffer severe bouts of disorientation, selective amnesia, cranial swelling, or just all around general poopiness...So strap yourself in, dear reader. And if you can't find a strap, just stand really still. You are about to enter the extraordinary world of an ordinary boy who thinks he's extraordinary...

Day the First
Has anyone ever seen the movie 'Kicking and Screaming'? In it, there is a video store. The manager gets royally pissed when he finds that one of his underlings has accidentally misfiled 'Terms of Endearment'. "It's supposed to be in Terminal Illness," he thunders at the poor dolt who didn't know such a section existed. Well, I work at that place. It's real. Except that I work with beautiful people, and our Terminal Illness section is called VAOWG, or Vengeful Acts of a Wrathful God. More later. My eye hurts.