Random Poking Fun

Before we jump into the chapter of my life called "Thanksgiving Recovery: The Day After," I must share something that I found while surfing the 'net. It takes itself so seriously that it well crosses the boundary into the kingdom of cute absurdity, where "cute" is taken in the most condescending and demeaning manner possible. The following is from ConservativeMatch.com, an online dating service for conservatives seeking conservatives. (I'm not predicting a lot of "BiDBM seeking same" on this particular dating service...) Anyway, here is the introduction to the site.



So far, so good. I can't say I'm thrilled about the prospect of Republicans reproducing, but that's well within their right, and personal ads with political bents are nothing new. However, I did do a double-take when I saw the following:


Now to be completely fair, the word "exciting" does mean "to elicit an emotional response," and I suppose if you're living the lifestyle of a 70-year-old man on dialysis, things such as the daily arrival of the mailman and dressing yourself could count as "exciting." Hearing about Paris Hilton acting like a vacuous ninny can be considered "exciting" as well, in that the emotional response elicited is constant seething rage. So yes, the English language is a diverse and colorful tongue, but even that still doesn't explain why anyone would call a pro-life prayer group an exciting conservative event, much less attend one on a date. I think your chances of getting on base are pretty much shot when the majority of the night is spent talking to God about fetuses.

So ConservativeMatch.com may be for you if you're into really fun stuff like guilt-ridden sex, followed by "Breakfast with the GOP" the awkward morning after. Good luck with finding that special someone!

Top 24 Reasons Why...

Dear Kiefer:

Wow. Just...wow. I'm almost a little speechless. Really, congratulations - you've made an incredible turn-around. You've gone from the B-list actor about whom I knew practically nothing to the living, breathing embodiment of the most badass federal agent to have ever graced television's neon kingdom. Fox Mulder and Sydney Bristow would consider it an honor to fetch you a coffee and cherry Danish.

But seriously, though, Kiefer. Two decades ago, you weren't more than what Wikipedia calls an "auxiliary member of the [Rat] Pack." You made two films with Corey Feldman. You were lucky - lucky! - to have escaped the embarrassment of VH1's "Where Are They Now." I present, as well, Exhibit A:



That is a photo of you with Richard Marx. His 1997 greatest hits CD currently sells on Amazon for $7.97. I'm sure no one reading this has any idea who he is, possibly yourself included.

But now? Holy shit, Kiefer, now you are fine. You are damn fiiine. You're my desktop background. On a slow day, I'll watch you for six to seven hours straight on back episodes of 24. I'd gladly spend the rest of my life as one of Jack Bauer's undershirts if it would mean clinging to your sweaty, sculpted, and at times, bloody, chest. And your overflowing sex appeal is not just limited to the fairer sex either. I know a slew of straight men who would strip away their claim to heterosexuality without a second thought for a bedroom romp with your gun-toting alter-ego. Do you understand this, Kiefer? Everbody wants you.

Anyway, if you're still reading this in the hopes of finding some deeper insight into your acting, I should say now that the whole point of this letter was to talk about how hot you are. I'm sure you've got a lot of wisdom to share about the whole Hollywood experience and being Donald Sutherland's son and all, but I really don't think that will be necessary.

A big fan,
Amy

Saturday in D.C.

To: archives@corcoran.org
Subject: Painting Identification?
Message:
Hello-
I'm not sure if this is the correct email address to send my inquiry, but this weekend while at the Corcoran, I saw a painting hanging on the wall of the main museum stairwell, of a bear about to stone a sleeping woman. I can't remember the artist or name of this superb masterpiece. Hopefully somebody can help me with that.
Thank you,
Amy Chen


Update:
"Mother Mother I am Ill"
Ida Applebroog

Chris and I went down to D.C. on Saturday and we hit up the Corcoran, where there was a pretty cool Andy Warhol exhibit that dealt with his central themes of celebrity iconography, death and pain, power, and of course, Mao. Also on exhibit were the draped canvas paintings of Ron Gilliam. His contemporaries are Color Fieldists like Morris Louis and Helen Frankenthaler, but I think his art combines elements of Abstract Expressionism and Minimalism as well. Some of his paintings are reminiscent of artists like Jackson Pollock and, oddly enough, Roy Lichtenstein.



Also graced with our presence was Idle Time Books, a used bookstore in Adams Morgan. I picked up a book on Art Nouveau, "Problems" by John Updike, and a really old edition of "Godel, Escher, Bach." If you believe what Chris says, my interests are incredibly predictable. Well, you know what else is predictable, Chris? You...sitting in a bookstore...reading....

Yeah, take that.



And last but not least, we had dinner at a sushi/Thai restaurant where the decor consisted of this sculpture, located right by Chris' head:



If we didn't know we were in Dupont Circle before, we certainly knew then.
All in all, a good day.

SFA? More Than OK

When I heard about a month ago that Super Furry Animals was going to perform at the 9:30 Club, my biggest fear was that I wouldn't be able to find anyone to go with me. Given that even my own knowledge of the band was purely incidental, it wasn't an unfounded doubt, and I wasn't surprised when person after person responded to my invitations with a half-hearted, "Never heard of them." Ultimately, though, Chris gamely stepped up to the plate and decided to give this 12-year-old Welsh psychedelic/experimental/electronic rock band a chance. For everyone reading this who spent their Tuesday night trudging through campus in the rain or bundled up with some light bedtime reading (say, on data structures, psychopharmacology, or Foucault), I think it’s safe to say that my biggest fear undoubtedly became everyone else's greatest loss.

But not one to be haughty, I must confess that going into the concert, my familiarity with SFA’s particular brand of techno-tinged rock was minimal. Granted, my love for rock music has been longstanding and my ear for electronica, while still amateur, is developing healthily (thanks to some whole-hearted immersion and excellent tutelage over the last few months). But really, how many people out there can say they’ve heard of bands like Thirdimension and Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, much less are familiar with their repertoire? No, not me either – I’m more comfortable comparing SFA to more mainstream groups like the former Beta Band (mellower and more restrained) and the Flaming Lips (not quite as cheeky and irreverent). The truth is, we’ve all been force-fed the same musical tripe for most of our lives, so bear with me as I try to make some sense of the untested waters I’ve steered us into.

Returning to the concert, it should first be said that whatever credit is given to SFA for a rockin’ (or trippin’?) performance, the same must be given to the opening band, a Canadian outfit called Caribou (formerly Manitoba) whose artistic efforts were as spirit-rousing as their talents were unique and unexpected (think two drum sets, no bass, and occasionally, a…flute??). Their performance, equal parts visual art and music, was an hour-long electronic jam session that told, in various “movements”, a roughly-sketched story of several characters whose fates come full circle by the last song. Instead of lyrics, Caribou instead cleverly opted for the frenetic and childlike animations of Dublin-based artists Delicious 9, projected onto a huge screen behind the musicians. It was truly something one-of-a-kind and larger-than-life, injected with a subtle blend of comedy, caprice, and, at times – gravity. My personal favorite showed the Sisyphean efforts of an old man dragging a suitcase up a flight of stairs. Played to the haunting and spidery melody of “Pelican Narrows,” every tumble he took back down the stairs was made all the more heartbreaking by the accompaniment of a delicate descending cascade of notes, indifferent and unmoved by his plight.

Although any hour-long jam session threatens self-indulgence and excess, Caribou did two things that may have made the audience forget that they had paid to see a different band (and made me and Chris feel that this was the best opening band we’d seen to date). First, they remembered that slippery basic tenet of all good art: substance over style – and rarely did they lapse from that. Too many times have I seen opening bands with lots of noise and lots of attitude – but little else.

And secondly (maybe even more importantly), they really fuckin’ performed to please. It’s not easy when you’ve got a narrow fan base and the venue is barely half-full, but Caribou jumped into their gig whole-heartedly and left us satisfied but craving more.

By the time the lights re-dimmed around 10 o’clock in anticipation of Super Furry Animals, 9:30 was comfortably packed. I don’t know whether or not I was surprised that SFA’s key demographic was heavily male, primarily ranging in age from the mid-20s to early 40s. Standing next to a few guys with graying hair made feel – even in the dark – mildly self-conscious of the deep-blue stamps branded on the backs of my hands, letting the bartenders know that I was no good to buy a beer. But if there’s ever a good time to practice patience, it is that antsy half-hour before a band for whom you have high expectations.

It didn’t take long after our first glimpses of the SFA band members for the audience to erupt into enthusiastic applause and cheers. No matter that the stage was still empty – a video projection of the four musicians, clad in identical glow-in-the-dark hooded cloaks and driving a golf cart from around the back of 9^th Street into the backstage, was enough to make the audience feel that the time for a sharp and inimitable performance was at hand. SFA sure knows how to milk it with style. By the time they finally made it on stage, live and in person and to a trumpeted fanfare fit for royalty, I wouldn’t have been surprised if balloons and confetti began falling from above, preparing us mere mortals for the best two hours of our meager lives.

And for the most part, they made good on that. It was not hard to see where the audience’s loyalty and love for SFA comes from – the show was a well-balanced blend of their sophisticated and mature sound combined with the quirky and eccentric oddities that could only accompany a group of guys with names like Gruff, Huw, Guto, and Cian. (All right, I know they’re Welsh, but that only makes them more endearing.) They started off with newer and more hypnotic songs off their latest album, Love Kraft. The playfully agitated Zoom and the more laid-back Atomik Lust reminded us that they could be simultaneously brassy and subtle. (A testament to the former was lead singer Gruff Rhys’ occasional donning of an oversized motorcycle helmet that reminded me of last year’s Viktor & Rolf fashion shows. And I know at some point both Chris and I both turned to each other with the same thought – specifically, Wow, this is like salvia.)



As the night progressed, SFA moved into some of their older and more catchy songs, and it was at this point that I felt like the band could have flexed their stage presence muscle a bit more (helmets and cloaks aside). Mainstays like Juxtapozed With You and Something 4 the Weekend could have elicited much more participation out of the already jumpy and excited audience, but they came and went without much incident.

But far be it for me to say that the night didn’t end with a bang. The high point of the last half hour of the nearly two-hour-long show was undoubtedly the unforgettable performance of Man Don’t Give a Fuck. “All governments,” the background screen told us in bold white letters, “are liars and murderers.” SFA’s leftist roots, suddenly projected so brazenly and repetitively, seemed slightly out of place amidst Rhys’ usual crooning. But as the screen bombarded us with the relentless black-and-white images of Bush and Blair’s various facial expressions while Rhys reminded us (through song, of course), “You know they don’t give a fuck about anybody else,” the political message quickly evolved into another one of SFA’s catchy, off-kilter props. Whether they intended it or not, the real message being sent was WE ARE HERE TO ROCK YOUR FUCKING SOCKS OFF. The song’s techno-ish rock beats gradually spiraled and unraveled into a euphoric cacophony, and even now, a full two days later, I still can’t get that whole infectious atmosphere out of my mind.

So Hopkinites out there, take note: there is only one way to properly end a Tuesday night, and that is with your senses slightly battered while pondering if the last few hours weren’t just an injection of hallucinogens straight into your auditory cortex. Congratulations, Furries. We got your message. Loud and clear.

It's About Time!

Valentine's Day is coming late next year, but when the reward to be reaped is one of history's most acclaimed - and, well, BEST, dammit! - shows on television, it'll be well worth the wait. Yes, after over a year of waiting and having my hopes dashed, Fox Entertainment has finally given the word for the official DVD release of NYPD Blue, Season 3. The day to be counting down to will be February 21st (107 days to go, as of this writing). And frankly, if I may say so, as long as I've got Sipowicz and Simone dancing on my screen, this will be one V-Day weekend that I won't mind spending alone.