December 6, 2003

Big Bad Movie Day
I don't know what's wrong with me. This winter, my usually aseptic immune system, has fallen on hard times. Only one month into this whole winter thing and I am battling something like my fifth cold already. Aachoo!! This is very puzzling to me as my home office has but one employee which affords me less contact with the feeble and feverish. I haven't set foot on a Hot-Germ-Tube (aka The Bus) in years and my personal hygiene habits are deluxe. This should be an equation for a clean bill but sadly it has produced negative effects. Unfortunately, I'm not one to give into a cold, but yesterday my head felt like a heavy Zeppelin balloon with Led Zeppelin IV blasting from the onboard speakers. Work became futile as did anything else that involved coherency or diction. So I left the house to park myself in front of various cinemas.

First up was Bubba Ho-Tep at the Uptown. I went to the movie with Ben-Chavez, Mass Distraction and Urth, who was celebrating his 30th birthday somewhat ambivalently. All were in agreement that this movie kicks much ass. The story of Bubba Ho-Tep comes from author Joe R. Lansdale. The screenplay adaptation pulls no punches. It will rip out your funny bone and gnaw on its marrow. Besides serving up a plate of smart comedy, The film plays effortlessly with issues of mortality, placing larger than life characters in the small depressing confines of your worst nursing home nightmare.

After Bubba Ho-Tep, I met up with the misses and we went down to the Walker for the 2003 British Television Advertising Awards. More good laughter all around. However, I didn't think this years crop was as innovative as last years selections. Overall though, American commercials pale when it comes to the dry wit and the risks british directors and their audiences appreciate. The whole thing made me want to run out immediately and rent 'The Office'.

December 4, 2003

Turn the Page
I rounded out my expanding 'New Civilized' program last night with a high-class tweed jacket event at the Ordway. The occasion was the celebration of Joel Wainwright's rising ascent amongst the ivy of academe. The man is now a full doctor. Please, when you see him, address him as such.

The performance was my first as a disguised guest of The Schubert Club. Its membership is an exclusive one, reserving their benefits for only the fine horsey set of the carriage trade. The rooms are dense with history. The music is accompanied by melodious, full-flavored Cuban rums which are served on a lattice work of Gustav Stickley originals. The gentle intermissions are enjoyed with smooth aged cigars.

Peter Serkin performed a daring set from Schubert's library last night. And while my language of appreciation for this civilized tone of music is still somewhat limited, I was impressed with the dynamics of mood and the strong virtuosity which Peter brought to the material. My favorite piece, a heavy tune called "flower-muscle", was a germanic testament to heaven's loud polyphony. Orpheus would be proud.

I was puzzled however by the role of the "page-turner", that person who sits off to the pianists left whose job it is to turn the pages of music, as the master, sitting to his right, rips through the score. A humble job to be sure. For the entire first half of the performance last night I watched with curiosity a man who looked not unlike Moby turn pages for Peter Serkin. Both Joel and I wondered if perhaps this Moby look alike belonged to some kind of weird fraternity of page-turners. Do they travel with the band so to speak, or is there a society of local folks who gleefully volunteer their skills when the masters come to town? I think perhaps someone needs to do a short documentary on the quiet life of the piano page-turner. For some reason I picture them all gathering at page-turner conferences, only to retire to the hotel bar to swap gossip and talk shit about all these great pianists, whose side they sit quietly by, and like Bob Seger, must turn the page.

December 2, 2003

Baghdad Express
I have so many literary weaknesses. Probably too many to list. From the top of that list however, I can tell you the top two. First would be, anything written about Mount Everest and the silly people who spend the month of May playing king of the big hill. It's intoxicating. A close second would be the war memoir. The later literary obsession started in high school, around the time of the first Gulf War, with The Things They Carried. After that it was a short journey to all things Hemmingway, and then on to Catch-22, Dispatches, etc, etc.

The latest war memoir I'm enjoying is Baghdad Express (site | amazon) by Joel Turnipseed. Turnipseed, like Tim O'Brian (author of The Things They Carried) is from Minnesota. That means two of the better war memoirs to come out in the last 15 years have been by Minnesota authors. Now if only Gabe Hudson was from Minnesota, then we would have ourselves a literary trifecta. More on Turnipseed from Neal Pollack and the Dallas Observer.

December 1, 2003

My Patriotism is Softer and More Cuddly Then Your Patriotism
A fine relaxing holiday weekend. Excellent brandy, fine cuban cigars, multiple feastings and fine woodworking rounded out the menu of my 'New Civilized' mantra. It's no Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, but I am always thankful for the simplest of pleasures and the company of good people.

I spent a healthy part of the weekend building a high-class workbench in the basement. Equipped with a new saw from the Depot and other necessary hardware, I was able to fashion a modest stage from which a great Winston Churchill type desk will be created out of imported endangered mohagany wood. It will be a thick thing of beauty, with a removable top and built in humidor. Maybe even a leather-covered panel. Whoa. The work bench still needs a few vices and grips before it will be ready for that task. Oh and I still need to outline all my tools on the 'tool wall'. That shit will be more organized than a Montessori school.

I don't have my Churchill Desk designs complete yet so this weekend I fashioned some oak radiator covers. Ok they're really just radiator tops, but it's a start. Baby steps.

The misses got all excited about recovering the Ottoman, which meant that a trip to the fabric store was necessary. Basically, I loath fabric stores. Am I missing something? Are there hidden fabric stores around town that are actually cool (aka contemporary and modern) or are they all just miserable places that sell 100,000 different patterns, all of which look like they were stolen off the beds of a Motel 6? Honestly, does the world need four aisles devoted to patriotic themed 'American Pride' textiles? Can't there be one fabric that you would actually be excited to have in your home. Note: whoever is decorating their pillows and quilts with screaming American eagles, you need to just stop. Put away your sewing machine and go hire a decorator. Is this a Minnesota thing? The Fabric Store depresses me. Based on what I saw at the fabric store this weekend, everyone will be receiving some kinda ugly-ass patriotic fleece stocking from their grandmother this Christmas. So get ready!