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‘.

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.

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.

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!

Shattered Glass

Saw the terrifying movie Shattered Glass last night at the Uptown. Don’t let this baby slip under the radar. Hayden Christensen’s performance as pathological lair and freelance writer Stephen Glass, is so convincing that you have to watch it between your fingers. The intelligent direction allows the film to unfold like a tense chess game. Peter Sarsgaard’s performance as Stephen’s Editor at The New Republic is completely understated and reserved in the face of Christensen’s frantic and impetuous character. At times, the exchanges between the two were distressing to the point that I found myself twisting uncontrollably in my seat. Man, you just want to punch Christensen in the face but Sarsgaard takes it in the totally opposite direction. Graceful.

I think it was better going into the movie knowing very little about the Stephen Glass story. If you’re planning on seeing the film and don’t want anything spoiled, stop reading this post and do not click on any of the following links.

Stephen Glass wrote many (approx 27) completely or partially fabricated stories for The New Republic. Here is a link to an index of those stories. The guy is so pathetic that one reporter has him quoted as saying, “I could have been Dave Eggers,”. Ha. In attempting to cover up his tracks on a story called ‘Hack Heaven’. Stephen Glass actually builds a website for a software company he completely made up. It’s a sweet website. Check it out here.

gutters

Maximum Throwing Power

In what was being billed as the Storm of the Century (StarTribune Photo Gallery), and perhaps one of Minnesota’s 10 worst storms of all time, the snow was coming and I had to make a mad dash Saturday morning to finally clean out the gutters. It was a nasty job I had been putting off for a long time. But I had these nightmare visions of ice packed gutters crashing down come Sunday. So to get my gutter cleaning engine all revved up, and so I could practice some Eddie Van Halen’s on my roof top, I bought a few songs off the new Blink-182 and threw ’em on ye olde iPod. I was ready for action.

Turns out the gutters of this house haven’t been cleaned since Shrinky Dinks were big. The job turned quickly into an archeological dig. There was at least a solid inch and a half of sediment in my gutters. Fortunately my passion for procrastination payed off. The freezing temperatures had turned what would have been a terribly messy job into a rather easy job of breaking off large junks of gutter sludge and then removing them one log at a time. The photo above shows just some of the logs pulled out of the gutters from the garage.

I have this gigantic foot deep hole in the backyard, a product of what, I’m not sure. But it’s just dumb luck that no one has wretched an ankle by falling in this hole yet. Through my own genius I decided to use all the gutter logs to fill the hole. Hopefully something strange and wonderful will grow out of it now come springtime.

I finished up the gutters just as the snow was starting to fall. And by Sunday, just after the Packers polished off the 49ers, I’d say we had about five to six inches of snow on the ground. Certainly not the ‘Storm of the Century’. When it comes to a midwestern-snowstorm-throwdown SIZE DOES MATTER! I mean five to six inches just ain’t going to cut it. You have to bring a solid 10 to 12 inches for anyone around here to really stand up and take notice. But it was enough snow for the first decent shoveling – another chore I haven’t had to do in a long time. And let me tell you folks, I wasn’t even halfway done with the driveway when I came down with a wicked case of Snowthrower envy. As it stands, I’m probably the only one on my block still wallowing in the evolutionary cesspool of snow wrangling. Bent over with my little green plastic shovel, slowly developing a massive kink in my lower back, I looked like neanderthal man next to my heathy neighbors (aka Mr. & Mrs. Jones), who stood fully erect pushing gently on their high powered snow throwers. To hell with a new G5 or some slick iPod accessories, what I really need is a ‘Two Stage Power Shift Snowthrower‘, with Serrated Drum Augers, and Independent Traction Systems. A memory upgrade got nothing on standard electric start action. Let the shopping begin.

After all the log tossing and snow maneuvering it was time for some good old fashion hibernating and DVD viewing. I got the new remake of The Italian Job, which I enjoyed quite a bit. Not nearly as good as the original Italian Job (one of my personal all-time favorites) but decent hollywood fare. Mos Def has a nice role in the movie, and the mini-cooper action was top notch.

The Global Garb of the Disenfranchised
From Alternet; reporting in Miami on the use of undercover cops posing as ‘anarchists’:

“MIAMI – Protestors seemed to skirmish with heavily armored Miami police outside the Riande Hotel Thursday morning, but nothing is at it seems this week. These “anarchists” were undercover police officers whose mission was to provoke a confrontation.

The crowd predictably panicked, television cameras moved in, the police lines parted, and I watched through a nearby hotel window as two undercover officers disguised as “anarchists,” thinking they were invisible, hugged each other. They excitedly pulled tasers and other weapons out of their camouflage cargo pants, and slipped away in an unmarked police van.

On the other side of the impenetrable police barricade, a young woman with a video camera was bent over, vomiting from pepper spray. The nonviolent revolutionary Starhawk stood blinded for 10 minutes as friends washed her eyes. Others knelt paralyzed on the street.”

Here is a photo from yesterday’s FTAA protest of the undercover cops in action. Check out the taser in the hand of the undercover officer on the left. Ouch. Also note the FTAA SUCKS stencil on the backpack of the undercover officer on the right. Highly original. I really would like to see the federally funded training videos that these guys watch. They probably all have cool titles like, “Six Easy Steps to Dress Like an Anarchist”.