February 27, 2005

Parade of Homes 'Dream Home' #0416
The Parade of Homes has started in the Twin Cities and yesterday the misses had a strange premonition that we were going to win the Powerball - it being a Saturday and all. Based on the fortified strength of this premonition, it was quickly decided that if we were just a few happy hours away from winning huge burlap sacks full of cash, then really, in looking at the parade of some homes, we should really narrow our focus and not consider anything less then two million dollar dwellings in our attempt to glean any kind of design inspirado from them. Anything less would probably jinx our chances with the Lotto.

In fact, we should probably just skip the riff raff domiciles altogether and go directly to the best home in the parade. Come to think of it, I don't think I'm really a parade kinda guy. So let's just cut to the chase or whatever the grand finale of a parade is and go home. Good. Yes. Let's do that.

Thus the first stop, well really the only stop on our nouveau rich victory lap cum home parade was the appropriately named 'Dream Home' at 1 Windy Ridge Place in Mendota. And at an asking price of $2,175,000 it seemed like a good place for us to both begin and end this parade.

I have to admit, I came expecting greatness from a house that had the honor of carrying the singular in its address. You can't be slacking if you hold first rank on a Windy Ridge. Maybe '3 Windy Ridge Place' could get by with a lawn ornament grossly out of place or some other substandard housing misstep but '1 Windy Ridge Place'? No way. She had better come to the red carpet in a full gesture of simplicity and classic beauty - with not one hair on her head out of place.

From the moment we removed our shoes in the mud room and stepped onto the Jarrah wood floors, I knew that 1 Windy Ridge Place was deserving of its street level rank and was not here to kid around. The architect and builder have done a terrific job of presenting a beautiful progressive space for any design hungry home buyer. The harmony of natural materials, open floor plans and exterior light complimented the Scandinavian styled furniture and textiles in a mixture of contemporary and classic modern design.

The furniture for this dream house was provided by Xylos, Finnstyle, Danish Teak Classics, and Design Within Reach making every room an exhibition in modern furniture pornography. I took a few more snaps: (main floor, lower level, bedroom, bathroom, loft). And no we did not win the Powerball.

February 25, 2005

Garbage Can Wars
Seems the neighbors across the alley have developed a very special fondness for my steely hard, black plastic dreck drum. Yesterday was trash day and while the misses was leaving for work she discovered our can to be overflowing with debris that clearly wasn't the waste product of our own weekly detritus. Serious foul play was suspected, but the trash men came before I had a chance to inspect our proprietary slop bucket. Who fucks with another man's garbage can? Haven't you seen that one episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm? My can is not for your scrap. Period.

I don't know what's going on in this lawless house behind us. I never see the same people twice coming in or going out. But over the last month their garbage pile has been monumental in scope and epic in sprawl. Kitchen sinks, mattresses, cabinetry, iron work and a thousand boxes that bore some kind of Toys R' Us hieroglyphics which clearly identified these people as hardcore consumers. The perfect capitalistic system in one household. Buy as much dumb shit as you can just so you can throw it in the garbage next week. Repeat cycle until you're swimming in the shark tank with loan officers and happy debt collectors.

Which is all fine. Live and let (the other dumb people) live, I say. Even if it means I have to perform three extra maneuvers to get my car out of the garage and set on its course down the alley. But damn, once your shit starts encroaching in on my can...well, you best be ready to throw down back alley style my friend.

Woops. Let's realign these tangential lines tho, and get back to the story...So today being the day after garbage pick up day, a day when normally the can should be an empty waiting receptacle for the coming weeks waste, we find as we pull the car out of the garage that our can is already erupting with a huge spilling pile of scrap. And some scary freaking dude who looks exactly like Klaus Kinski in Nosferatu, is in the process of bringing out more rubble to throw on the already galactic heap he's got going on his side of the alley!

Drastic measures. A roll-a-decks worth of booby-trap ideas begin to collate in my brain. I curse myself for not owning a megaphone. WTF? I need to buy a megaphone today. Returning to the home this morning, I immediately wheel my can over to their drive-way, which is no small task because this Nosferatu wannabe fuck-stick has filled it with about 500 square feet of the ugliest ripped up linoleum ever designed. It takes me several minutes to scatter the large bits all over their driveway. Then I affix a polite sign to the can, in the hopes that this will end this silliness before things escalate and get seriously weird.

February 23, 2005

Fernand Legros
Today's stenciled creation is of eccentric bad ass Fernand Legros, who during the beginning of the 1960's sold and distributed over 400 forged pieces of art. Most of the pieces were done by his friend and master forger Elmyr De Hory, who is credited with being one of the greatest art forgers of our time. Legros was a high speed operator with a pot in every oven of Hells Kitchen.

"...When asked by US customs what was in his luggage, he claimed that the paintings were copies. US customs would then call upon art experts to determine if Largos was trying to cheat them, and driven by such suspicions, these specialists concluded that these paintings were genuine. Legros would pay the fine and then was able to show his customers an official customs document proving the authenticity of the works he was selling!"

In these crazy times, while we debate and rethink copyright controls, sometimes it's important to highlight the distributor as much as it is to celebrate the copycat.

Many believe that Largos was also the inspiration for Akass, one of Hergé Moulinsart's Tintin characters. You be the judge.

February 22, 2005

Remembering Hunter S. Thompson
Went and saw Willie Murphy last night at the Viking Bar. Drank Whiskey. Poured some on the ground. Paid tribute to a mighty legend, a teacher and, a beast of a writer. Willie dedicated Ray Charles' "Unchain My Heart" to Hunter, whom Willie explained, "Told it like he saw it."

What follows is a story that came through over the fax machine last night from a mysterious phone number, the country code says it's from somewhere in Argentina! Judging from the insane scribbling and the dark smudge marks all over the paper, it could have come from only one person I know. It seems that the "El Profe" (aka The Good Doctor) was up drinking late last night - reminiscing about his good friend Dr. Gonzo...

--- Begin Translation ---

During my freshman year in college in Colorado I dressed on many, many occasions in the uniform of my hero - white Chuck Taylor low-tops, loud Hawaiian shirt, black cigarette holder with a Dunhill permanently locked and loaded, and yellow aviator shooting glasses. I am prematurely bald and at times when we are ripping into a crazed Friday night in the dorm the effect is eerily similar -through the haze of exhaled bong hits I really look like him. I blast the Apocalypse Now soundtrack, The Doors, and The Cowboy Junkies into the cold concrete hallways as my peers get dressed up to brave the snow and hunt down the best frat parties.

There are many rich and connected East coast kids at the school and one of them, who is an heir to a chemical fortune and has a "III" after his name, has a little black address book that is magic. On one occasion we prank call Tori Spelling and in a desperate late night and drug-addled effort to connect to things bigger than us, we make a late night call to Hunter S. Thompson but quickly hang up when he answers.

In October of 1991, my girlfriend's parents take us to Aspen for a weekend of fine dining and a glimpse into the ski vacations of the ridiculously rich. I know that just 15 minutes down the road is the Woody Creek Tavern and I commandeer the minivan after everyone else declines the invitation to come with me. There are not many signs for Woody Creek and as I pull in I am imagining the best case scenario to be a photo of me grinning like an idiot in front of the place.

I walk in and wander over to check the walls for famous photos or signatures or some evidence that this is in fact the oft-referenced home court watering hole of Lono - the head truth teller and chief bullshit-caller of the second half of this century. The Doctor is also the only writer to make me laugh out loud and permanently twist my brain to look at the world correctly. There are six or eight tables, a pool table, and a six-seat bar. I spot the famous Rolling Stone photo where HST is reclining on a parked motorcycle and confirm I am in the right place.

I wander around the outside edge of the bar, checking out more photos and end up standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My voice cracks a little as I ask a mustached guy in cooks' whites if Dr. Thompson has been in recently. He points at the end of the bar with his knife.

"You mean Hunter?"

My first impression is that Hunter S. Thompson is larger than life. Really. He is a thick, fleshy man who does not represent the face I have seen peering out from the black and white photographs. Airman Thompson is long gone and a growling Marlon Brando as Colonel Kurtz coughs from the far left barstool. He is wearing blue Levis, $400 Mephisto walking shoes, a white polo type shirt, and a thick plaid flannel jacket. He is smoking one cigarette after another. There are quartered grapefruits, bowls of chili, and a bottle of Chivas Regal on the bar. He sits next to a tough-looking blonde woman who is at least ten years younger.

"Hunter needs some water."

One of the waitresses yells through the smoke and wet coughing. I stand rooted at the other end of the bar and imagine that he might, in fact, expire right then and there from the ferocity of the hacking and wheezing. Another younger waitress wants her photo taken and HST obliges but the camera doesn't work.

I see my opening as I sit down a couple of stools away. "I have a camera in the car. I could take your photo and send you the picture."

"No," she replies, looking sideways, "he probably wouldn't like that."

Hunter then viciously chops some colored drink straws in half and jams a thick wood-handled steak knife into the top of the bar. He staggers up, coughing, and marches off to the bathroom, brushing against my arm along the way. He is gone for a solid ten minutes.

A sandwich arrives when he returns and he eats a single french fry before passing the plate to his blond companion. They seem to be going over a manuscript of some type as he smokes, growls, yells, and waves his hands. He flashes me a glare twice.

I order a Coke and realize that I am not ballsy enough or suave enough to plan much less execute my next move. I am completely in the hands of the two hard-faced waitresses. Things seem to be happening in slow motion as I am stunned at the sight of Lono in full stride and at full volume.

The older waitress returns and smiles at me.

"Are you here to see Hunter?"

"Yes."

"Where are you from?"

"Seattle" (Technically this is true).

"Well, stay right here. He's got a full drink."

The bartender looks up from the beer he is pulling. "And he's in a pretty good mood."

After the younger waitress and I decide that a book signing might be the best approach, I realize that I have left my copy of Curse of Lono back on the bedside table at The Molly Gibson lodge in Aspen. Idiot. I rip back in the maroon minivan and as I pull up to the Woody Creek Tavern the second time I see HST pointing himself towards his blue, wood-sided Jeep Cherokee. The Dr. smells a trick, or an interview request, or a feeble autograph attempt and he jumps in his car and sprays gravel out of the parking lot as soon as I get close to the door. There is an NRA sticker as big as a manhole in the back window that I see very closely as he almost backs over me in his haste to depart.

I go back in and the waitress smiles and offers me his lunch bar tab with the familiar three letter autograph as a consolation. HST tips an admirable 33% on the ticket.

I later drive up to see the entrance to Owl Farm, imagining that I might get shot at or at least stopped. The Pitkin County Sheriff stickers from the traumatic 1990 "lifestyle bust" are still on the gate. I realize that the day was not a failure and I got to see the real main event in its full glory. The end of my time at the Woody Creek Tavern seems the right way to finish the day. I could never hope to sit down for a beer or shoot guns with HST because I am nowhere near the same league of fire-breathing champion that he is.

It also seems that things should end the way no one would expect them to. As we stop to realize what is suddenly gone it doesn't really matter why what happened on Sunday went down. The train is off the rails and there will be no more calling bullshit the way bullshit is meant to be called. The Kingdom of Fear is in a in a double-handed fascist death grip and the sane will have to go elsewhere for their shot of comic relief.

Res ipsa loquitur, Lono.

--- End Translation ---

February 21, 2005

HST RIP
The self inflicted passing of Hunter S. Thompson leaves me in a horrible funk. This sucks.
Update: A nice post and comments. Hunter's last article for ESPN: Shotgun golf with Bill Murray.

The Doorman's Double Life
There is a great little serial over at Mr. Beller's Neighborhood by Mr. Murphy, an ex-doorman from New York City. Read episode #1 and episode #2 of the Doorman's Double Life.

"Although I am counting on the tenants' sense of Yuletide noblesse oblige, this in no way changes what I know to be the fundamental truth of tenant-staff relations: THEY HATE US. Sure, things are cordial and even friendly on the surface, but if you doubt their enmity I suggest you take a look at the uniforms—nay, costumes they parade the doormen around in. The sartorial manifestation of their animus can be seen in the ungodly brown and green polyester suits with bright yellow piping; the ridiculous looking hats and bow ties and gloves; and, worst of all, the item that most emphatically expresses their contempt, the epaulets. Epaulets! What reason can they have to dress the help in the accoutrements of warriors, except to mock us? I can hear them snickering, 'Hey, Admiral Nelson. Throw my clubs in the Beemer for me. I tee off at Winged Foot in an hour.'"

Twelve Highlanders and a Bagpipe Make a Rebellion
Went to something called a Scottish Ramble this weekend at the Landmark Center. I got some pretty definitive answers about my quest for dual-citizenship. Basically the answer was something like "yew'd have more luck trying to stuff a bagpipe into a pillbox then yew'd have getting yer citizenship lad". So my dreams of backing into the EU on some kind of ancestral accounting error ain't looking too good. On the bright side there were many styles of dope kilts, two handed swords, celtic knot t-shirts, and other Braveheart inspired Scottish kitsch to be bought. Kinda reminded me of the Renaissance Fair only indoors and without all the cool jousting.

Did find the Oliver Family Tartan at the Ramble. Pictured above you can see the Oliver Family Hunting Tartan, and the Oliver Family Dress Tartan which we would wear for more formal gatherings. I'm sure the enemies or the potential enemies of the Oliver Klan really appreciated the style distinction between the Family Dress and the Family Hunting Tartan. The different colors were certainly a dead giveaway as to whether we wanted to dine with you and feast on your game hen or if we wanted to eradicate your persons and bleed your livestock. I don't think the Scotts were ever known for their subtly.

February 17, 2005

That Subliminal Kid
Went out last night and got my brains scrambled by Dj Spooky. He was giving a lecture at the University as part of his book tour for Rhythm Science. The lecture was the a keynote of sorts for an electronic music festival going on at the U of M called the Spark Festival. I think I'm really out of practice when it comes to this whole 'being lectured to' business. To his acclaim Dj Spooky really knows some nice big words and has memorized some fine quotes by a lot of obscure French philosophers, mathematicians, and 20th Century architects. His presentation style at the podium and on laptops and turntables was cut-paste-remix to the point where it felt like somebody was reading Mad Libs with the Encyclopedia Britannic.

Dj Spooky remixed the lecture. I'm so used to the lecture style of; 1) welcome everyone, 2) here is my sweet hypothesis, 3) Here's my research and arguments, 4) Here comes the conclusion, 5) Applause, 6) Q&A. Which seems rather quaint in this day and age. It's like getting a tidy package all wrapped up in a bow and everybody leaves the lecture hall with pretty much the same package. Fast Forward to Dj Spooky who presents his materials and arguments in such a cut up manner that it becomes the work of each audience member to pull from the assault of Spooky's material those few nodes that reference work, relationships, current attitudes and historical backgrounds that are mixing around in their head at the time when they enter the lecture hall. In the end it's their job then to use those nodes to construct custom made hypotheses and conclusions. Probably each person walks away with their own.

I'm still not sure what I walked away with last night except for that I'm out of practice in the category of sitting through lectures. On the musical side he did play a selection from his upcoming project with Chuck D and Dave Lombardo from Slayer. It's called 'Drums of Death' and sounds like some classic old school Public Enemy stuff. Dj Spooky even convinced Chuck D to rhyme in his olde style. Also, the one metaphor that's still resonating with me this morning is that of Googling as a new form of 'Crate Diggin' or 'Diggin in the Crates'. Crate Digging of course being what a DJ does when they are in a record store searching for dusty rare records. Obviously, most blogs, including this one, are the result of crate digging via google in order to get samples that can be remixed to make your own contribution. For example here are my mostrecentfinds.

I would also like to note that after the lecture, cigars and drinks were had at Rossi's Jazz Club where it turned out that Cynthia Johnson from Lipps Inc., the one who sang, "won't you take me to...Funkytown", was singing with her own Jazz Quartet. They sounded great and she rocked a nice rendition of Killing Me Softly.

February 14, 2005

Dual-Citizenship
This weekend, while going through some family history research, my mom brought up the possibility that I might be able to apply for dual-citizenship in Scotland based on the fact that my great great grandfather was a Scottish citizen. I got pretty excited about the possibility of getting a Scottish passport and being able to travel around europe with a Scottish disguise. But from the little research I've done it looks like the farthest back relative you can claim is a grandparent and my mother would have had to have claimed Scottish citizenship before I was born. I will keep researching though and see if I can find a loop hole.

I did learn some interesting facts about the old family. My great great grandfather, David Oliver, was known as "David the sweet singer of Israel". One of his sons, James Oliver, was a traveller for the 'Singer Sewing Machine Co.' Unfortunately, James died 'suddenly while curling in Saskatoon'. Bummer way to go, eh?

David Oliver was from Roxboroughshire, Scotland. I might have to dial up a Neighborhoodie sweatshirt to fully represent the motherland.

February 11, 2005

Hell House
My new GreenCine account has been hooking me up with some sweet documentaries lately. Last night I watched the horrifying Hell House. Forget all these 'The Grudge style hollywood horror films, this is the real thing. The film follows the Pentecostal congregation at Trinity Church in Ceder Hills Texas, as they gear up for their annual Halloween haunted house. Only this church sponsored scared-straight style haunted house is on a mission from god. Each room of the house depicts a scene where sinners slide down the slippery slope of the occult. In each room somebody gets killed (usually shot with a gun) cause they were a homosexual, had an abortion, or engaged in online dating (~shudder~). And while the production of the haunted house is hilarious in a 'Waiting for Guffman' meets 'Spinal Tap' community theater kind of way, the leaders of the church and the power they have over the slack-jawed congregation of Trinity Church are entirely frightening in a not so funny Jim Jones kinda way. In the last room of the haunted house each tour is confronted by this military-drill-sergeant-reject-cum-high-school-football-coach who puts the fear in 'em and then gives each group six seconds to choose to go to hell or heaven. Heaven in this case is a ghetto-ass broken door that leads into a cramped fluorescent lit room with bad furniture. Here attendants of the church wait to pray with you and then have you sign a document showing you've converted to the church. Hell on the other hand is the door that leads out of the damn house. It's a simple choice - purple Kool-Aid or no purple Kool-aid?

NPR has some good clips from the film.

Also, band of the day, show poster of the day, photo of the day, and stencil of the day.

R.I.P. the original man to kick it 'Root Down' - Jimmy Smith.

February 09, 2005

Some Kind of Monster
Finally, after way too long, I got around to seeing the Metallica documentary, Some Kind of Monster. Metal Thrashing Mad is this a brilliant and satisfying film. The DVD spread over two disks took me two nights of viewing. I wouldn't let myself go to bed last night until I had watched every deleted scene, out-take, Sundance Film Festival Q&A - everything! I don't think I've ever gone that hog wild with the DVD format before. Honestly tho, if they had included fourteen more discs of unused footage then I would still be happily sitting in front of my television.

For anybody on the fence on this film, even if you are not a fan of the METAL, get off it and go rent this. It's an amazing window into the complex human drama of the creative process itself. Make sure you watch the bonus disk as you get to see the scene where Lars Ulrich goes back to his home town in Denmark. His childhood house, where his father would hang out with Coltrane and Miles Davis, is a site to see. The film is made by the makers of Brothers Keeper, which I had rented last week and is a great movie as well. I hadn't made the connection they were also involved in Some Kind of Monster until I rented it.

Also, hats off to Metallica for picking up totemic bass giant Rob Trujillo from Suicidal Tendencies to round out their new team. That kind of musical trade makes the A-Rod Yankees deal seem like childs play.

As a side note, when Metallica's last record St. Anger came out, I remembered that, much to the chagrin of the band I'm sure, I downloaded some of the songs off it. And I was pretty disappointed. But after watching the documentary, I realized that most of the songs I had downloaded were not even Metallica songs at all but some kind of impostor mp3's that Metallica had used to throw people off their scent. Very tricky you guys. Me thinks you might want to rethink this strategy as I'm sure there were other fans out there who simply wanted to hear what the album sounded like before they dropped the cash on the whole package. Unfortunately what they heard did not convince them to do so.

February 07, 2005

Yao-zahhh
Brother Ben got the hook-ups on some nice T-wolves tickets Friday night. Houston was in town to crush the spirits of a very mediocre Wolves team. Ugly stuff. But damn, seeing the Rockets Yao Ming up close and personal for the first time was almost mystical. In between sips of my large Pepsi spiked with a generous portion of Wild Turkey, I couldn't help but continue to shake my head with disbelief and mutter things like, he's a a monster, a superhero, a genetic backfire from a Darwin V8. He made Kevin Garnett look like small child. Ask yourself, what would Yao Ming's life be like if there was no NBA, no basketball? Only basketball makes it possible for Ming to go from social outcast - at best, a part-time circus clown - to hero of a nation. What a crusher that Ming. I'm a fan.

This weekend was unusually warm around here for this time of year. Ran across The City of Lakes Loppet cross-country ski race Saturday night in Uptown. Most of our snow has melted so everyone was skiing in puddles on the street. The finish line on Lyndale was filled with a foot of imported snow. Tried to go take a few photos of the ice sculptures that had been erected in Saint Paul but was told that they were knocking them all down as they had begun to melt and fall apart on peoples heads. A confusing and frustrating Minnesota winter. Saturday I shoveled the sidewalk but I was only shoveling water.

Also, two Flickr sets: Jellyfish & How to Build Modern Furniture.

February 03, 2005

Tidbits and Talismans
The only thing I don't like about Fatboy Slim's new video is that my own cats were not invited to audition.

I haven't learned this much from an Japanese online instructional video, I think, ever! Sad but true. It just looks like a magic trick to me. As a person who owns many many t-shirts this is something I will try and master today.

Skateboarders are getting all growd up and doing some amazing work. Check out Skaters for Public Skateparks. Nice job Miller.

Amazing Neutra House Numbers offered from DWR. Very cool. I must have them.

I'm very curious to try this out: Fontifier - make a font out of your own handwriting.

February 01, 2005

When in Rome
When I lived in Mexico, there was a somewhat daily routine kept by all the housemates that included a nice large breakfast and an itinerary exchange whereby everyone exclaimed like a preacher the one task they would attempt that day. Actually task is too simple a word. It was more an undertaking or a daily vocation. But it was always just one thing. One undertaking. Getting your visa renewed, going to the bank, buying groceries, giving a stool sample, getting the soles of your shoes replaced, all ordinary tasks, that, say if you lived in Minneapolis Minnesota, you could probably do all of before lunch. But in the tranquillo state of Mexico it was ambitious enough to try and do just one of these things. Like the time I did have to get my visa renewed and it actually ended up taking three days. I had to visit two different far off cities and endure three different seven hour bus rides. When I returned home, worried friends asked, "where you been?" And my reply of, "I had to renew my visa" was all I had to say to get the nod of understanding.

I was reminded of this rich latin tradition yesterday, when I had to run one small errand to the bank. GC and I had arranged to meet for some green curry lunch and then there was to be the aforementioned trip to the bank. The whole thing I calculated roughly taking two hours tops. Well the lunch turned into a nice relaxed siesta-style engagement. And then who wants to go to a bank when their belly is full of good food? Not I. But begrudgingly we finally made it to the bank. Now I should preface this part of the story by explaining that the bank I belong to isn't one of your name brand kinda banks. It's more a throwback to the kinda banks you might see in an old western on the AMC movie channel. I think I'm the only customer I've actually ever seen in the bank doing banking stuff.

Yesterday, I simply wanted some printouts of some older account statements that had inadvertently been ripped apart in one of my glorious point of no return paper shredding power binges. And if my bank was a normal bank, then I would have been able to do all this online, and there wouldn't have to be me standing in an actual physical bank. But there I was, making my little request in person. What I didn't expect was that the request would set off this latin styled black hole bureaucracy machine. Requests were denied. Multiple people had to be consulted, and different amounts were quoted (mostly made up on the spot methinks) to perform this request. Vasts amount of 'research' was said to be needed to answer the request. Etc. Etc. Finally, after much haggling, where I actually thought of making a little Tijuana bribe to grease the wheels of bureaucracy, a women declared she could produce the information but it would take 15 minutes. Fine. Great. See you in 15. Of course, this meant there was time for one beer at the bar around the corner. And since we were now playing on latin time the beer seemed quite an appropriate afternoon pit stop. Ever thus.

Back to the bank with beer breath after 15. But now - out of nowhere - the bank is suddenly closed! Fists beating on doors. And after much yelling a different women answers the door just a crack and throws the printouts our way. Exhausted, I contemplate another beer after this minor victory but the way the day has progressed it doesn't seem like a good idea.

With memories of sun drenched Mexico, hats off to the 'getting-one-thing-done-per-day' plan.