Thursday, December 29, 2005

Witches be pancaked

Of course Cannibal Ox reps L. Frank Baum and makes it sound nasty.

"Seen the Wizard of Oz?/I'll house you."

Boom. Best line from the bangin' first single from the sure-to-be-ridiculous Can Ox album, "From the Planet of..." which you can find here.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

You know what I hate?

I hate the "What, me worry?" routine that highly partisan Republicans affect when it becomes painfully clear their elected politicians have behaved shadily. Like: "I'm not even really clear on what laws Bush broke in spying on Americans without warrants." I mean, seriously guys. Heavy conservative hitters like Barron's and Bruce Fein are breaking lockstep and using the I-word in response to the revelations about the Bush administration's wiretaps, and you're not at all concerned?

Last night, at an otherwise lovely gathering with Neotokyo and other UCSD homies, one of their friends was contorting himself into that particular rhetorical pretzel. He also made an argument I find much more dangerous. "So what if the president made a few unwarranted wiretaps," he said. "I have nothing to hide." This bleating is enabled by privilige, as it's the casual complacency of people who are used to operating at great perceived liberty. More and more, contemporary Republicans seem to be taking the line that the War on Terrorism - which has not, as yet, necessitated any financial sacrifices on the part of our profligate culture - will of course necessitate a limit on the liberties we can hope for from our own government. This is the argument hinted at by Neotokyo's friend, and advanced by Senator John Cornyn when he said on the Sunday shows that, "None of your civil liberties matter much after you're dead." I know that I'm not the only person who found Russ Feingold's allusive riposte - "Give me liberty or give me death" - note-perfect. Out of rhetorical curiosity, which of those sentiments is the more Un-American?

I got to vote in Pazz & Jop

I'm still on the Village Voice's list of voters for the annual Pazz & Jop critics poll, which is pretty exciting. The deadline is a few days from now, so I finally sat down and sussed out my year-end lists for music. At least the singles list will be pretty close to the Magical Mix, once I get around to doing it. With no further ado:

Albums:
1. The New Pornographers - Twin Cinema
2. Various Artists - Kompakt Total 6
3. Bright Eyes - I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning
4. LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem
5. Bloc Party - Silent Alarm
6. Vitalic - OK Cowboy
7. Art Brut - Bang Bang Rock N Roll
8. Various Artists - Run the Road
9. Isolee - Wearemonster
10. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

Singles
1. Vitalic - My Friend Dario
2. The MFA - The Difference it Makes
3. Rachel Stevens - I Said Never Again (But Here We Are)
4. Art Brut - Emily Kane
5. Morningwood - Nth Degree
6. LCD Soundsystem - Daft Punk is Playing at My House
7. Lindstrom - I Feel Space
8. Kelly Clarkson - Since U Been Gone
9. Three 6 Mafia - Stay Fly
10. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - The Skin of My Yellow Country Teeth

Once I finish up my comments, I'll post those here too.

Thursday, December 22, 2005

Greetings from San Diego

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

My tired, desiccated gay soul

I think Brokeback Mountain suffered in my perception from ridiculously high expectations. Before I saw it, I heard from numerous trusted sources that it was basically the best movie ever, and while I tried to downplay such critical influences, I guess I failed.

It's not that it's a bad movie, or that I wasn't interested in it. I admired a lot about it, especially Michelle Williams' moving performance as one of the gay cowboys' wives and the twangin-heartstrings score. I guess I just don't understand what everyone finds so moving about it. I failed to buy fully into Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist's purported big gay love, partly because they kept being so goddamn stoic and manly about the whole thing and partly because I want to believe that love finds a way, which they don't.

I hesitate to agree fully with Nathan Lane's sentiments on the subject, if only because I don't think he gives enough credit to how difficult being gay in the American West can be, to this day, but he approached my feelings when interviewed by Katie Couric on "Today":
It's really when [Ledger] said, 'This thing gets hold of us the wrong time, the wrong place, we're dead.' I thought, 'What do you mean, like the A&P? You're in the middle of nowhere! Get a ranch with the guy! Stop torturing these two poor women and get a room! What's the problem?


It's strange to find oneself in the minority on phenomena like Brokeback, especially when questions of politics are involved. All I can say is that I really, really wanted to love it, and I can't say that I did. I would have loved to have left the theater in tears. I would have loved to have been so moved that I felt compelled to send an email to 300 of my closest friends urging them to see it, like a friend of mine did. Unfortunately, my first response was: "Well, at least no-one died of AIDS." And that, friends, is why I am a bad homosexual.

Monday, December 19, 2005

My trophy wife

In this holiday season, if you plan to give or receive a cellular telephone, allow me to recommend that you neither give nor request a Motorola RAZR.

Yes, it does look really cool. And yes, people will be envious of you. But that's only because your pride won't allow you to reveal how much you're suffering inside.

You see, the Motorola RAZR is the telephonic equivalent of a trophy wife: slim, pretty, and retarded.

I never used to have difficulty getting reception at work or in my apartment , but now there are big areas of both locations where the RAZR refuses to do the network dance. What's more, the text recognition software it comes with doesn't even put spaces after completed words, making texting a total nightmare. If my old, crappy, half-destroyed old phone hadn't been unsubscribed from the network entirely, I'd be tempted to go back to it.

At least the RAZR still makes me look cool. I think I'll go pretend to talk on it ostentatiously in front of my old phone.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

If you make requests, DJs hate you

Stupid Bitch: "Hey, could you play some Kanye West?"
Me: [shocked that she didn't request Bon Jovi]"Uh, yeah, definitely."
Stupid Bitch: "Like, soon?"
Me: "Yeah, just give me a few minutes."

[I play "Get 'Em High," maybe my favorite Kanye party track, featuring Talib Kweli and Common. That last part will be important later. Half an hour passes.]

Stupid Bitch: "So are you going to play Kanye?"
Me: "I did play Kanye."
Stupid Bitch: "Could you play a good Kanye song?"
Me: [shocked silence]. "Uh. That's kind of lame."
Stupid Bitch's Stupid Bitch Friend: "Can you play Common?"
Me: "The bad Kanye song I played for your friend also featured Common. Go away now please."

Anyone know how I can get a job at Air America?

My obsession with Air America Radio is now beginning to threaten my social life. Friday night I was supposed to go out tomcatting with my friend Joey, but I felt my sickness rearing back up again so I decided to go home, where I took in Left of the Dial, the HBO documentary that tells the story of the network's frightening first few weeks.

Like any Drudge reader, I knew that AAR had some financial difficulties while getting off the ground. In fact, the film shows staffers at the network learning of said difficulties by reading the Drudge Report. Apparently, the company's first CEO lied to everyone about how much financial backing he'd lined up for their launch - he said he had $20 million when in fact he had only about $6 million - and when checks started bouncing he got the fuck out of dodge, leaving everyone in the lurch. The movie is pretty despairing for a while on this point, since for a while it looked like the company was going to be stillborn. But the outcome is ultimately inspiring, since the quality of their programming earned them outstanding ratings in their initial quarter and a new management team came in and secured them financial stability. The documentarians milk a lot of pathos out of Election Night 2004, off of which time has not taken much of the sting. This may mark me as crazy or sentimental or both, but must admit that I found myself tearing up in recollection of how awful the day after the election was, as well as in admiration of the steely resolve evident in the way all the hosts pulled it together in those disheartening hours and kept fighting the good fight.

As an addendum to my previous post, I should note that Mark Maron doesn't come off particularly well. He's shown as ornery, refusing to practice to the extent that his producers want him to, and generally being an asshole to everyone around him. His work on-the-air notwithstanding, based on his behavior as demonstrated by the film I can definitely understand why the suits would want him gone.

As the title of this post suggests, I'm starting to wonder if it would be possible to get a job as a writer or a junior producer at Air America now that I have a shiny new degree to put on my resume. I may begin beating down doors over there, but if anyone who reads this blog has any contacts with them it would be most appreciated.

Friday, December 16, 2005

RIP Morning Sedition

Despite my justly earned reputation for being absolutely fascist about my aural environment, I've been listening to all the radio options offered through iTunes at work lately. I'm totally addicted to WOXY, which is basically the best alternative rock radio station in the universe (even better than KEXP!) and which broadcasts, improbably, from Cincinatti. It streams at pretty decent quality through the Radio tab in iTunes and is definitely worth a listen. They're very receptive about playing requests, too.

I've also gotten pretty obsessed with a few of the Air America shows. For those of you who don't know - and my friend who goes to UC Berkeley's graduate school of government had no idea what it was, so don't laugh - Air America is the liberal response to the right-wing talk radio echo chamber. It got off to a pretty bumpy start, and there's definitely some crap - I'm looking at you, Jerry Springer - on there. But the stuff they have on during early mornings, particularly my lesbian girlfriend Rachel Maddow, is pretty great. It's nice that they're available for podcast, because God only knows the last time I was up at 5 am AND capable of digesting intelligent liberal talking points. Actually, it's probably never happened.

In addition to the totally tasty Maddow, in the last few weeks I got into Morning Sedition, a pretty strangely formatted show (with perhaps the best name ever) consisting of news digests, listener calls, sporadic interviews, and comedy bits reminiscent of the Firesign Theater.

Conveniently enough, I got into it just in time for it to be canceled. Today was the last day of co-host Mark Maron's tenure on the show - as far as I can tell, he got fired because one of the Air America suits didn't like his style - and the other co-host Mark Riley is getting his own solo show.

I quite liked Morning Sedition during the brief period I was able to listen to it. From the rather weepy, reminiscent tone of the final few shows it appears that lots of other people - including luminaries such as Susan Sarandon and Ted Leo - did too. Maron has an acerbic sense of humor that resonates well with my own - his default method for referring to the current administration was "The Neo-Con Death Cult" - and although it may have just been a function of the fact that he was leaving, it seemed like his was the show's dominant personality. I'm undecided as to whether Riley will be effective on his own. In any case, goodbye Morning Sedition - your name alone should have kept you alive.

Party's Over

A solid week of repeat listening has led me to the conclusion that, in Youngbloodz's "I Smoke, I Drank," party rap has achieved the most succinct encapsulation of its worldview possible and everyone should pack up their do-rags and go home:

"I smoke, I drank
I'm supposed to stop but I cain't,
I'm a dog, I love ho's
And I'm addicted to money, cars, and clothes."

Nothing to see here, move along.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

I was really sick

Bronchitis is very, very fired.

Not like there's ever a right time to feel like you're dying, but this was an especially poorly-timed illness for a variety of reasons. I got really sick on Wednesday and didn't go to the doctor on Friday. The doctor gave me miracle drugs that got me back into fighting shape, but not before I'd started freaking out all of the people who were helping me to organize the fundraiser I and the New York boys of Leather had planned for Saturday night. As it turned out I was able to make it to the party and we ended up raising $550 for the Ali Forney Center, a queer youth homeless shelter. But it was touch and go there for a moment.

Also, I turned in my last college essay ever on Tuesday, but lingering bronchial evil meant that I was in absolutely no condition to celebrate properly. I'm thinking of putting something together for next Tuesday night, if anyone is interested in knocking a few back with me in celebration of my newfound freedom, or the onset of terrifying responsibilities, or the extinction of lung-based sleeper cells.

COUGH COUGH COUGH. Sigh.

Gigantic head-eating insectile penis-fish

King Kong is pretty much the most thrilling spectacle I've seen in a theater since Indiana Jones. I would have paid at least $20 to see it. The fact that Drudge is currently trumpeting its supposed box-office failure makes my inner conspiracy theorist wonder whether the Internet's premier Developing... gay Republican isn't in Hollywood's pocket. I know if I was a studio head I wouldn't be particularly enthusiastic about the fact that Peter Jackson has has developed his own blockbuster-production apparatus that exists entirely outside the major studios.

Kliegman and I were discussing what Jackson might do in the future over 2 AM latkes at Veselka (actual quote: "He's not going to be stopping") and concluded that a political move is not in the offing because political movies don't generally involve zombies, orcs, or gigantic head-eating insectile penis-fish. Jackson likes making audiences twitch a little too much to ever pull a Spielberg. Luckily his squirmy spectacles are so good that they still win him Oscars, so he won't be forced to posture as a do-gooder in order to get some gilt.

(Speaking of Spielberg: the only things that make me even slightly excited about Munich are Tony Kushner and Eric Bana. The idea that someone as obviously biased as Spielberg has the temerity to make a film on this topic and then grandstand in national newsmagazines to the effect that his work might be powerful enough to influence the Israeli-Palestinian "dialogue" makes me sincerely uncomfortable. Let's face it folks, moral ambiguity is not exactly Steven's bag - the dude can't even let aliens kill off Tom Cruise's kid.)

Anyway, I didn't realize that I was afraid of insects, or of heights, quite as viscerally as King Kong taught me that I am. It's so beautiful to look at and so undeniable that even its missteps - Jack Black, questionable racial politics, strange and widespread use of slow-motion - can't hamper it. Everyone should see it immediately.

Friday, December 09, 2005

Acute Bronchitis, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

1. ....

Oh, uh, actually, I totally hate you and wish that you would perish from my lungs immediately. Goddammit.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Booze boycott!

I'm not really sure how the new campaign for everyone's favorite free open-bar vodka Svedka is supposed to make me want to buy their insanity juice, but I am sure that it isn't working.

The taglines are that Svedka is "The Future of Adult Entertainment" and that the brand has been voted the "#1 Vodka of 2033."

Now, how the marketing geniuses behind this one didn't put it together that the main implication of this campaign is that Svedka is decidedly not the #1 Vodka of 2005, and that indeed it will take a seemingly random, incredibly long period of 28 years for it to attain such stature is beyond me.

Plus, the appallingly cheap futurism of the ads - which seem to be confined to bus shelters and phone booths, particularly in Chelsea - and one of the ad's equally cheap pander to the homo market ("Thank you for making the gay man's fashion gene available over the counter in 2033") make me want to refuse to drink the swill even if it's free, which seems to be most of the time.

In fact, I think I'll do just that from now on.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Attention lexicographers

"Carsonify" - (tr.v.) 1. to embody a trait attributed to an embattled minority group in such a way as to make members of said group understand or even share mainstream prejudice.

c.f. Kressley.

First snowfall

It's snowing outside. The forecast says that there might be 5 inches on the ground when I wake up tomorrow morning. I guess it's officially winter.

Even though I grew up in California, a childhood of vacations in skitowns guaranteed that I'd be more snow-savvy than most Golden Staters. That said, I remember the first time I experienced snow as a resident of a place where it snows like it was yesterday. I'd just moved to New York - I think I was on day five - and I was on one of my getting-to-know the city jaunts around town, getting myself lost to try to find my way home and learn my surroundings in the process. I was walking down Third Avenue, on the corner of 11th Street, when I noticed that flakes had begun falling. I was so excited that I called my parents, sacrificing a hand into the frigid air because I needed to express the beauty of living in a place where it snowed to people who might understand why it felt so amazing. I remember speaking excitedly to them, glancing around and marveling at how lucky I was.

Now that I'm bitter and jaded, and snowfall makes me grumble and huddle deeper into my coat, it's good to remember the purity of that moment. Maybe winter isn't so bad after all. Anyone for a snowball fight?

My new boyfriend



He doesn't know about it yet - he's married to a girl, and if he knew that perverts who yearn to seduce him existed, I have no doubt that his reaction would be something along the lines of "Hulk SMASH!" - but San Diego Chargers lineman Igor Olshansky is totally my new boyfriend.

Seriously. 23 years old, 6'6'', 305 pounds, tatts all over and an ESPN-reported tendency to be a "mama's boy"? It's enough to make a big boy-lovin' goy consider moving back to San Diego.