So I disappeared down the rabbit hole of reality for a while. I could pin the blame on life, responsibilities, low energy, but that would be skirting the issue. The real reason I was gone for three and a half weeks is this guy, and even more specifically this post:
You see that shit? Oh, he'll tell you it was playful, but don't be deceived. It was a cold-hearted curse that kept my writing locked up and away from you, my faithful reader.
Earlier in the delightful afternoon, a challenge was issued to me in a rather bold way.A "friend" of mine, who for the purpose of this account we will call T. Lynn, no, no, that's too simple, we'll call him Tyson L., anyway, this guy did some downright dusty shit!
He began our conversation by insulting my mother's virtue, via means of comments that I found to be quite lewd. As anyone who is acquainted with me knows, I am very easily offended: and this anus exploited that. Now look at that, I'm sinking to his level!
After the preliminary taunting, he began engaging me in conversation about the occult, and that's where I drew the line. He would later teach me that it was not one line, but actually a series of lines that form the pentagram (but that's a story for another day). By this point, I had had enough, so I hit him where it hurts!
He's always bragging about his "precious English degree", flaunting it like it was the last piece of cake at fat camp. So I says to him, I says, "Hey Tyson L., why comes yous gotta write those blogs alls the time? Pappy Jee! Yous writes those things every day!"
Tyson L. then, in a daring move, offered a shocking rebuttal. "Yeah, well you hardly ever write any!" Chilling, absolutely chilling.
So I says to him, I says, "Why yous gotta bust beans alls the time?" You can imagine where the conversation went from there. I allow you a second or two...
.....Okay.....So, ready yet? To make a long story as long as I damn well feel it should be, Tyson L. challenged me to write more blogs. So here I am. Booyah! In yo mouf!
....I'm sorry, that last part was uncalled for.
Actually, it was my first time being called out on the internet. I didn't know how to feel when I first read it. Bemused? Besmirched? Bespectacled? I mean, I had my contacts in, but it still counts, right? As I continued to ponder the myriad meanings of the post by that little man, I slipped deeper and deeper inside my head, my countenance grew slack, and my eyes--O my eyes--deadened to the world.
This is what some call a vision quest, but what I call a really horrible movie about wrestling.
Speaking of movies, I'm totally devoted to netflix. Wholly. I am a netflixian. Or netflixer. Or nubian. Something like that anyway. There are 500 movies in my queue as of this writing. I wasn't even aware that I knew of 500 movies I wanted to see. The beauty of the Netflix set-up is that you put a movie in the queue and they recommend another 20 you might enjoy.
Why yes, I'd love to get that and that and--Oh!--I haven't seen that in ages, and before you know it you're wearing a cardigan, eating a granola bar, sweaty, frantically clicking on little pictures of movies. It doesn't matter how many movies are in your queue, you'll still only pay $15. It's like shopping, but better.
"Oh, I see you want to watch 500 movies. Is that right?"
"Why yes, yes it is."
"Do you have room for 500 movies in your house right now?"
"Uhm, no. Not really. Well, I mean, Sally wants a dog, so we've got space, but I don't think she'd be happy if I fashioned a dog statue from DVD cases or anything."
"Well, then, howabout we just send you a couple at a time then?"
"Can you do that?"
"Can we! We'd be happy to, and then later, once you're done watching them, you can just send them back to us and we'll hold on to them for you."
"That's right neighborly of you."
"It's what we do."
Whomever invented Netflix deserves a medal, or money, or a big sloppy hug from a stripper. The kind where somebody's finger slips and you both smile. You know what I'm talking about. Anyway, lately, I've seen The Squid & The Whale and Strings.
Written and directed by Noah Baumbach, The Squid & The Whale provides a semi-autobiographical account of divorce in the '80s. The script is honest and understated, yet somehow manages to be both slyly hilarious and almost embarrassingly visceral. I liked it, but will probably only grow to love it once I become comfortable with the fact that ugliness is a great part of beauty.
The soundtrack, however, is amazing. If you love Wes Anderson's tastes, I can recommend it to you without hesitation; if downtempo songs done acoustically don't move you, you might do better elsewhere.
Strings is a whole 'nother ball of wax. Here's the synopsis:
Did I mention that the whole thing is done with marionettes? It's like Team America: World Police, but done seriously and better. The war allegory is a bit ham-fisted, but the whole thing is worth watching if only because the script actually bothers to figure out the implications of a marionette world.
The Emperor of Hebalon dies a dramatic death, taking a terrible legacy with him to the grave; for it is widely feared that the Zeriths, the Hebalonians arch-enemies, have fanned new heat into the embers of the murderous enmity that has existed between the two nations from time immemorial.Martial Law is declared, and the heavy gates in the city of Hebalon are locked firm. No outsider can gain entrance.The Emperors young and untried son, Hal Tara, who is now the heir apparent to the throne, is charged with avenging his fathers death. Disguised as a common slave, he leaves the protective confines of the palace, and, armed with his fathers sword, fares forth to seek out the implacable Zeriths. A warrior is about to come of age.
But Hal is unaware that his kingdom is threatened from within, where traitorous and malevolent elements are planning to overthrow him; nor is he aware that he has abandoned his court and his beloved sister to a cruel and perilous fate behind the citys iron-clad gates.
Hal manages to gain access to the Zerith camp, but he is no longer so sure who is friend, and who is foe. As Hal gradually starts to come of age as a warrior, he falls deeply and passionately in love a love which proves to be as blind and unreasoning as hatred itself. It will take a moment of revelation before he is finally able to distinguish between his true friends and his true enemies.
How are babies made? Well, you'd have to carve it first, wouldn't you? What if you lose a hand? Just take a captured slave, knock out the hinge pin, take his hand and attach it to you. Simple. Hell, the gates are nothing more than a bar across the top of the wall, because it stops the strings. It's ridiculously well thought out, and frequently captivating.
Captivating is a phrase often used with Chan Marshall, also known as Cat Power. Other descriptors commonly associated with the mighty feline are eccentric, flaky, and crazy. Shows consisting of her breaking down and storming off-stage are so commonplace that you run even odds on not actually seeing her when you buy a ticket.
So I bought a ticket. Two, actually, for Ms. Marshall's late show at Neumos. Doors at 9:30. An hour and forty-five minutes later a solo Chan finally hit the stage. If you've never been to Neumos, you have no idea how hot it can get. You could bake things in there, if you were so inclined.
The people behind us are making bread when Chan asks us all to sit. "You're going to have to squeeze in. Make room for everyone," says she.
We do, but it's about as comfortable as a rape kit given by Capt. Hook. Some dude's feet are wedged beneath my ass, another man is leaning against my knees, I'm sweating like a midget stuck in a dryer on tumble dry, and all the while Chan is singing what I guess you'd call medleys--infrequently modified strumming accompanied by Marshall's voice, nice and pure, singing as many songs as she can remember in the same key.
When I went to see Bob Dylan last year, I had trouble figuring out the songs he was singing. Why? Well, first (and most obviously) Dylan was never a singer and his age hasn't improved his abilities much. Second, he was doing all of his songs in this ridiculously grating bar-band honky-tonk style that cooked the personality straight out. They all sounded the same.
Cat Power is the same way. The songs are often built on a I/IV change that repeats ad nauseum until the song is over. Don't get me wrong. Chan can sing. Lordy, can she, but it often feels like you could randomly pick any song, any key, and she would muscle through. Half the time it feels like that's what she's actually doing.
And that's why I'm glad Bumbershoot is this weekend. You know why? Feist. Feist will be there, and I'm so excited I could break a branch with my O-ring. That's probably too much information, but it's true. Last time I saw her, she had someone come up on stage and do a tap solo. A TAP SOLO. And it worked.
By the way, if you'll be at Bumbershoot this weekend, give me a shout. I've got press credentials and a photo pass; I'm going to be EVERYWHERE.
XO,
- Tyson
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