A Philadelphia Weekend Part 2 of 2

A Philadelphia weekend continued…

Item No. 002 – The Walkmen Live @ Johnny Brenda’s 12/16/2006

Last month I was severely disappointed when I missed The Walkmen playing down at NYU’s Skirball Center. So since then I’d been looking forward to catching them play their last show of the year in Philadelphia. There was no disappointment. In fact, the performance surpassed all expectation and truly illustrated what Steph called “the brilliance of The Walkmen.”

After waiting a brief eternity for some action on the stage (doors at 8, show at 9 more like doors at 8, show at half-past 10), the opener, Brother JT from West Easton, PA, did not make the time go by much faster. Their first song was quite a rampage after the mild volume of the house mix for the previous 2+ hours. The singer mumbled something about starting loud to draw the crowd in and not to scare us away that didn’t make any sense. The rest of their “fairly psychedelic funk/rock” set was much easier to take in, however the group offered little in terms of visual entertainment besides noticing that the drummer resembled the actor, Chris Cooper. The guitarist and bassist seemed to be cautious of knocking into The Walkman’s piano and organ set up, which limited them to standing in a crowd beside the lead singer, who “repulsed” Steph. The phrases “pig of a man” and “eyes rolling back into head” would bounce around later that night regarding him.

So after a painful wait, The Walkmen arrived, and things got going. They eased into the set with a couple of new songs, including one with Mazarin’s Quentin Stoltzfus jangling a super-sized tambourine. (There was also some speculation that Stoltzfus, dawning a red baseball cap, was playing cook downstairs in the bar earlier that evening. Can anyone offer some confirmation on this fact?) He would appear again during the holiday portion of the show wearing the coolest Santa hat I’ve ever seen, reading dialogue off paper plates as The Walkmen played their “Christmas Party” single, which preceded a rendition of “White Christmas.”

The set was a pretty decent spread of The Walkmen’s repertoire. They played plenty of tracks from A Hundred Miles Off including “Danny’s At the Wedding,” “All Hands and the Cook,” and “Louisiana,” during which three fancy ladies accompanied the guys on horns. (Another new track called for more horns – nice.) A chunk of songs came off their first two releases: “Wake Up,” “Thinking of a Dream I Had,” “Little House of Savages,” plus favorites “The Rat” and “That’s the Punchline.” Nothing came off the Pussycats record, though everyone was in the perfect party mood for a round of “Loop De Loop,” and some were let down not to hear popular selections “Lost in Boston,” and of course, “We’ve Been Had.”

All in all, I thought the show was well worth the wait. The Walkmen put on a spectacular show and Johnny Brenda’s was a great, cozy space to see them. Everyone was up and about, and the guys closed out their year with two encore sets. Superb.

Here is a clip of “Wake Up” from the show:


Hear/watch some of the new songs they played & more: http://www.myspace.com/thewalkmen

Dear Johnny Brenda's

Dear Johnny Brenda’s,

I have had the opportunity to visit your establishment twice, once for a WXPN free concert of Gran Bel Fisher and more recently, for a performance of The Walkmen. It is the latter of these two visits that prompted me to write you this letter.

Before I get too far into this letter, I want to commend you for the friendly ambience of your dining area. The décor is unassuming and though the tables were few, those present found ample space at the bar for mingling. I arrived about an hour before the concert’s scheduled start (a rarity in my case) and so I had some time to kill. After perusing your lengthy and rather impressive beer list, I selected a stout which was just dry enough for my liking. My friends drank the Woodchuck cider, which was perfect for their palates. Meanwhile, we watched as your chefs prepared dish after dish of seafood and sandwiches, all of which looked utterly delectable. I unfortunately wasn’t hungry at the time and did not order any food, but I promise to return in the near future to dine at your tavern.

Now, it’s important to make note of the time as my visit progressed. I arrived at 8pm. Though this was presumably when doors opened for the concert upstairs, they weren’t. This, however, was forgivable as it afforded me an opportunity to lounge in the aforementioned dining area. When we finished our drinks, the doors had opened and people were filing upstairs. The second floor was sparsely filled when we got up there, which meant we could stake out our spot by the pole with a perfect view of the stage.

This is when the night got a bit frustrating. The reason for my writing is to express my disapproval of how long we waited before the opening band, Brother JT, climbed the stage.

8pm: Arrive at Johnny Brenda’s. Get drinks.
8:45pm: Go upstairs. Stake out a spot by the pole.
10:00pm: Opening band Brother JT begins playing.
11:00pm: Brother JT leaves stage.
11:20pm: The Walkmen enter. We have a blast.

As my recap indicates, we waited for quite a long time for the opening band. Now, I see how preparing for a concert may take some time, especially with all the equipment to set up and drinks to be downed backstage. But over an hour? Especially when my ticket promised that the concert would start at 9pm? Perhaps I am being petty, but that’s a long time to be on my feet waiting for something, anything, to happen. Luckily, The Walkmen was good enough to justify such patience. Brother JT, however, is another story. I don’t want to talk about them.

My advice to you is that the next time you anticipate such a delay (which I hope won’t be too soon), please inform the audience. A nice little update every 15 minutes would be quite gracious, thank you.

Sincerely yours,
Guest #252

PS – Please pass the following message along to the couple that was making out in front of me during the concert: “Stop it. I can see you. And you’re not even that attractive.” Thank you.

A Philadelphia Weekend Part 1 of 2

A Philadelphia weekend…

Item No. 001 – Punk Rock Flea Market

The Punk Rock Flea Market (or “swap meet” if you like, where goods are swapped for cold hard cash, or in rare cases, plastic) takes place bi-annually at the Starlight Ballroom to raise money to support all ages shows at the First Unitarian Church. I’d never heard of the event when my brother told me about it, so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. At first sight, while driving around in search of parking, the scene looked much like a typical rock show: kids in hooded sweatshirts arriving from all directions and smokers loitering outside. We were all surprised to see such a turnout before noon on a Saturday morning. Inside were about 100 vendors hawking hand-made, found, purchased and collected goods such as prints, collages, jewelry, CDs, vinyl records, vintage clothes, knitted items, dolls, handbags, etc… Stand-out pieces included an intricately crafted pair of chain mail-style earrings (which I purchased from a man wearing a vest of chain mail), a neon orange hunting-inspired knit hat featuring a ferocious bear appliqué, hand-embroidered t-shirts with various ironic statements and illustrations, a set of earrings made with Barbie™ accessories like tiny pumps and hotdogs, and a collection of prints by Kyle Schmidt of Fire Escape Press (K’na purchased one of these). Though the packed crowds made it extremely difficult to navigate and browse through all of the offerings, everyone came out satisfied and at least a little bit closer to broke.

Coming Soon: Part 2 - The Walkmen play Johnny Brenda's

Found: BlackBerry®

Mr. McDonough,

I have your BlackBerry®.

On Tuesday, the 17th, it seems that you were in some rush to catch your train. I watched you sprint through the doors, into the station and down the tunnel to Track 2. In your hustle, you failed to notice that your BlackBerry®—holster and all—unlatched from your belt and tumbled to the ground. I wanted to ensure that no one of questionable ethics would get his or her hands on the device—I can imagine the inconvenience of losing a tool upon which you probably depend very heavily, and also the headaches that come along with worrying that all of your personal information has fallen into the hands of a scoundrel—so I picked it up for safekeeping myself. I didn’t attempt to chase you or call after you because, you see, I’m slow and also shout at a below-average volume. Besides, with your haste and the pounding of footsteps in the train station at rush hour, I’m certain that any attempt to attract your attention would have been futile.

By the way, did you make your train that night?

So, anyhow, I am writing you now (I located your home address in your “Personal Contacts”) to inform you that I have your BlackBerry® and I would like to inquire as to whether or not you would like to retrieve it. If so, kindly send $100,000 to the P.O. Box included on the enclosed newspaper clipping. Once I receive payment, I will guarantee the return of your trusty handheld.

By the way, you received 6 missed calls, a voicemail, and a rather descriptive text message from Paula, who is apparently extremely eager to see you. And also, you received a message to pick up a gallon of nonfat milk from your wife.

-H.C.

THAT is the question!

interactive segment:

please submit a question, any question at all that could prompt the following answer/statement. and GO!

answer/statement: "seagulls massage the horizon."

*answer/statement provided by an undisclosed tall person.

Penelope's mother: a brief excerpt

From Cats are the worst. - a short story (title subject to change)

...Penelope’s mother was living on a villa in Tuscany with her seventh husband, Gianmarco Bruscoli, for whom she’d left the Indonesian cobbler, who was more trustworthy than the English stockbroker, who cooked more luxuriant meals than the Belgian pharmacist, who had stolen her away from the Canadian gymnast, who was more sensitive than the Portuguese sailor for whom she’d broken Penelope’s father’s heart. Her mother called Penelope too often and always managed to harass her about when she’d marry her boyfriend, Brody O’Henry, “the doctor.” She disapproved of their living together without marital vows, and she accused her daughter of having inexplicable issues with commitment. Her mother warned her that such a distinguished man as “the doctor” would not be willing to play games with her like “that writer” she used to date.

In fact, Penelope’s boyfriend wasn’t a doctor. He was actually “that writer” she used to date. Penelope’s mother paid more attention to what her boyfriends did for a living than who they actually were. This made her conveniently easy to fool...

R.I.P. Henry O.

[Just a rework of an old writing exercise...]

I decided,
before I fell asleep—
I’d be okay with it.

It bites to know he’s gone,
but was he ever even here?
Or
has he only been alive
in our own minds.

Your letter.
Don’t know if I agree.
Thought about what you wrote.
You made it seem so simple.
You made him seem too simple.
Like anybody else.

Like us.

I tried. I couldn’t
fall asleep.
The most consuming headache:

Boll weevils
infesting my brain.

(or so she said...)

i wanted pumpkin pie tonight
TONIGHT
but we were out of cloves
(or so she said...)

he told me to close my arm with a needle inside and it won’t stab me
but i’m scared to try
the last needle left a bruise
a large one
for weeks and weeks
(so much for professionals...)

this morning felt quite ideal
for parades
but there weren’t any
and there is still a large fly trapped between my window
and the blinds
and i’m not going to let it out

I am Pro-mix-tape-Life

When I was in elementary school, somewhere around third or fourth grade, I started recording my older brother’s CDs onto cassette tapes so that I could play them in my Walkman® and listen to them on the school bus. It wasn’t long before I started my own music collection and realized that instead of recording entire albums onto separate cassettes, I could choose and mix whichever songs I wanted to put together on a tape. I would dedicate hours to compiling songs onto cassettes, holding my finger over the pause and record buttons, focused on the time display of the small LCD screen on my Sony boom box (which I still have, unlike my Walkmans…Walkmen?), and carefully noting each track’s length so as not to run out of tape midway through a song. The whole process was rather messy—the tapes were really more projects based on convenience than music appreciation.

Sometime during middle school, I participated in my very first mix tape swap through a forum at the website of a music magazine I was reading at the time called 7ball. And it was good. It was great! I discovered a slew of music that I’d never heard before and the person whose tape I’d received had taken the time to write descriptive liner notes and everything! This is when I really started to get the mix tape bug...maybe…actually that’s really difficult to determine…I guess this is when I got the bug to make mix tapes for other people. Until then I’d been making them just for myself with themes and rosters that didn’t face the scrutiny of others. None of my friends were listening to music that I liked at the time, so I was encouraged to use the mix tape as a tool to share. Hopefully I could wean one or two of them off of MTV and mainstream radio and get them to come to some shows with me… =)

Then, burning CDs was born. Well that’s when I really started to go to town. The development has transformed the whole process, making it so much simpler, and allowing me to produce CDs that are qual-i-teee. No more rough bumps and cuts where I couldn’t get a button down in time on my boom box, now it’s all smooth transitions and digital recording mastery! I can even make a gapless, seamless disc if I wanted, though that doesn’t necessarily work that well with a mix. Sure the charm of a dinky old cassette tape with handwritten labels has gone, but there’s that entire disc surface to write on and color and I can use Sharpies!!! So now whenever it’s someone’s birthday he’ll likely get a mix from me, if music reminds me of someone I’ll make a mix for him, or if it’s just been a while I’ll compile a mix and give it to Steph. Steph probably has the largest collection of my mix CDs.

So as I’ve tried to explain, mix tapes and I go way back. We are good good friends. And as long as technology exists that supports some form of mix tape creation, I will never ever stop creating them. I didn’t want to go as far as to say that making mix tapes is an art form, but I just did. So I’ll also now add that I am a fan of this form of art. I am pro-mix tape-life.

List #V2N 0110233

Here’s a list:

In no particular order and of no particular consequence...

Carnegie Hall
Rainer Maria ending the year/ending the band
prognosticate ≠ pontificate
"Red wine = hope"
Ian Svenonius
macaroni + (Fontina) cheese – bad
“Save the cheerleader. Save the world.” – come on...
newly clipped fingernails making me feel so wonderful and beautiful (beautiful?) right now
BBQ Chicken burrito?
“BORAT is HERE”
Andrew Smith getting married – I am heartbroken, I’ll never be a Danielson (PS: “I have a crush on EVERY boy”)
ALWAYS popcorn on the train
movies featuring music by one band (primarily)  ex: Stranger Than Fiction – Brit Daniel (Spoon), Thumbsucker – Polyphonic Spree, Little Miss Sunshine – DeVotchka
“one of the fat campers goes, ‘I’m gonna go marry that hot diabetic over there’”
November 13th is Jasmin’s 22nd birthday
Carmina Burana
Which band(s) do you wish wish wish would get back together and put out some new music?
He’s a strong swimmer.
Austin City Limits fools me with its cityscape backdrop, but Sufjan looks quite charming with wings.
Corduroy Appreciation Club…vip vip vip
I have no use for a box full of Styrofoam peanuts


Now...feel free to share a list of your own.

Halloween Office-Style

Halloween is a hit or miss holiday. Some people love it. Others hate it. I hop the fence from year to year. This year, I think, was a hit.

I have never had a full-time job during Halloween until this year. In the past, I spent October 31 staying up with friends, subjecting ourselves to horror movies that none of us liked nor could we get enough of. One particular year, I spent Halloween at a train stop waiting in the freezing cold for a lone trolley to cart me back to Philadelphia at 3 in the morning. I was dressed as a gypsy-living-out-of-the-bottom-of-my-closet with very little creativity and even less insulation.

This year, like I said, was different. I spent Halloween in an office where I'm normally slotted away in my little cubicle, but for one day at the end of October, I'm allowed to dress however I want and work as little as possible without feeling guilty. Apparently, as I quickly found out, Halloween in my office is quite a big to-do:

First, the costumes. Each team in the office is required to dress up according to a theme. Because this was a contest, hushed discussions took place in corner cubicles, entire teams went to 'lunch' at the Halloween store down the street and conference room windows were papered over as secret costume construction took place inside. Oh, the intrigue. My team, of course, took the easy way out with the theme: "What Not To Do In The Office" or, in our words, "An excuse to wear t-shirts on Tuesday." My sweatpants came in real handy.

Second, the pumpkin pie eating contest. Gross. I just gagged just thinking about it.

Third, the mummy-wrapping contest. The senior-most member of each team was nominated to be our mummy and at the sound of a whistle, teams were to wrap him or her with toilet paper from head to toe. Not as easy as it sounds, I guarantee you. It took us a while to figure out whether it was more efficient for the mummy to spin around or for us to run in circles maypole-style while trailing toilet paper. We finished second, to which my manager quipped, "Second place is the first loser." Yay team.

Fourth, guess the weight of the pumpkin. 5, 10, 20 pounds? I have no idea. I don't lift weights often enough to have a reference for this type of thing. Oh wait. I don't lift weights. Ever. I saw one woman cradling the pumpkin and judging whether it was lighter or heavier than her 10-month-old child. The girl who won was off by one ounce. (And by the way, the accompanying picture is not of people in my office, but they look like people who would work in an office and they are indeed trying to guess the weight of the pumpkin.)

Add to all this some trick-or-treating throughout the cubes, decorating in the aisles, prolonged lunches, ooo-ing and ahh-ing over children who came to visit, general laziness and, of course, sweatpants and you can guess how much work I did. Zero. And to think I got paid for it. In candy.

"Pussy Cats starring The Walkmen" - Comments

When I hear Hamilton Leithauser sing with his gruff voice and drawn out style, I imagine a drunken, moody, arrogant jerk who won’t give up the mic. And I love it. In the slightly unsettling words of Project Runway contestant, Vincent Libretti: “It just turns me on.”

For The Walkmen’s newest release, a track by track remake of the 1974 “Pussy Cats” collaboration between Harry Nilsson and John Lennon, Leithauser seems to lose the chip on his shoulder and welcomes a number of friends to join him. As a final hurrah before the band’s Marcata recording studio in Harlem shut down, The Walkmen enlisted buddies including the likes of the infamous Ian Svenonius to record one last album, throwing a party to celebrate its end.

As any article or review about the album reiterates, there is a special parallel between The Walkmen’s recording and the original in that both are very much projects created in the celebratory and productive environment of friends. The DVD included with The Walkmen’s CD also highlights this subject. And listening to the record, you can certainly feel the fun and hanging out vibe, especially on the track, “Loop de Loop,” which I’ve been playing so loud and often that my mother keeps complaining that she has the song stuck in her head. Clips from the party where they recorded the choral segment of the song appears on the aforementioned DVD, starring various New York City hipsters (was that Sarah Silverman?).

Some standouts for me are the opener, “Many Rivers to Cross,” a passionate ditty originally written and performed by reggae artist Jimmy Cliff, Nilsson’s original “All My Life,” a version of “Save the Last Dance” that is full with strings and features genius/psycho Ian Svenonius brilliantly, and of course, the song that has been playing incessantly, “Loop de Loop.”

This album is unlike any previous Walkmen album, which makes it an exciting and essential piece to their collection. I won’t pretend that I grew up listening to Nilsson and Lennon’s album, which was definitely before my generation, so I make no comparison, but this remake certainly calls for a listen to its inspiration.

If I’ve peaked your interest at all, you may listen to the entire album streaming HERE.

Fancy mumbo jumbo...or just plain bullshit.

Everything had started out in the right pocket—she was sure of that.

She remembered the night before as she was stumbling into bed, through a slight haze of inebriation, instructing herself to hold on to each of the items’ places: the broken band of her leather belt in the left ass pocket of her jeans, her silver teardrop earrings in the coin pouch of her wallet, her orange plastic Casio watch looped around the handles of her handbag, the German’s number scrawled on an ATM receipt tucked into her left sock, which she was still wearing when she woke.

She lay still in bed, listening to the wind dumping rain against the windows of the dark room. Powerful gusts whirred through the bars of the fire escape outside.

A moment later the clock radio flashed alive and Beethoven’s 5th came blaring from its tinny speakers, ringing throughout the room. She shut off the radio and managed to find the floor with her feet. The old wood was cold even through her socks as she padded out of the room, through the kitchen to the toilet.

It was a fall morning: October 28th, a Saturday.

By the time she’d fixed herself a cup of tea and retrieved her watch from the handbag, which she’d finally located, slung in the corner of her kitchen against her wall of books, she’d forgotten that she’d found a slip of paper in her sock before she got in the shower.

At 4:30 that evening she was coloring in the illustrations in her copy of Breakfast of Champions with colored pencils when the phone rang.

It was Joachim, the German.

Bad Poetry Corner: "My Ne-mouse-is"

I’m certain that something has died,
The stench does not seem to subside,
I can’t find the mouse
That passed on in our house
Although I assure you I’ve tried!

brick.

Recently—as in two minutes ago—I finished watching "Brick," written and directed by Rian Johnson and starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt, on DVD. I’d read that it was a mystery set within the underbelly of a typical high school. The protagonist, Brendan (Levitt), is a loner out to uncover the details behind the death of his ex-girlfriend. Other than that, I wasn’t sure what to expect.

Oh boy. Having just gotten through the movie, I’ve not yet digested it completely, so I share only my initial reactions. Watching this movie, I had the feeling of watching a bunch of teenagers playing at, maybe mocking, classic film noir—the sleuth a romantic outsider, tough as nails and a step ahead of everyone; characters with names like The Pin, Tug, and Brain; a flurry of lingo that takes a couple of runs before you get it. Beyond that the characters, played by a bunch of fresh faces like Lukas Haas (maybe not so fresh), meathead Noah Fleiss, wingman Matt O’Leary, sultry Meagan Good, and Nora Zehetner, who has a small role as Eden, Mohinder Seresh’s neighbor, on the new NBC series “Heroes,” were interesting enough to keep me watching. The story is a mess of drug schemes and runaround among the heads of different cliques in school, not the most innovative content, but it’s got its twists and turns.

So the verdict? If you like detective stories and/or brooding leads with added drugs and violence, go for it! If you like J G-L, go for it! (It’s much easier to watch than "Mysterious Skin"…) If you like indie flicks—why not, go for it.

2.67/5

Dear rock band, Bishop Allen:

You are putting out an EP every month for the year 2006. Amazing! I am hooked.

When I heard about this innovative plan back in January, I was all for it – I jumped on the bandwagon and I ordered my January EP. It arrived in a chic and sophisticated, mail-friendly sleeve not a week later. I indulged and it was good…but not enough.

Despite my craving for more, more, more, as well as your regular e-mail updates with news of the latest month’s release, however…I fell away. Occasionally, I would download the one or two tracks you offered for free so generously at your website, bishopallen.com, but I failed to purchase the monthly EPs. There was the busyness of school, my general lack of funds, and then my impending change of address.

But then! Then I returned! About one month ago I made the time, I mustered up the funds, and I sent for all of the editions I’d missed: February through August (the 10+ track live EP!). And after a delay for pressing, they’ve finally arrived! And oh, what beauties they are. Based on physical appearance alone, this incomplete (still got September through December to go!) set is well worth the wait and delay. The tracks are delicious, each its own gem in the Queen’s most precious jewelry box.

So I just want to say: Thanks! Danke schön! Grazie! Doh Jeh! Obrigada! Arigato! Gracias! Merci beaucoup! I can’t wait for to receive September!

Regards,

A fan.

And the moral of that is…

Fall is hands down one of my favorite times of year. I look forward to the crispness in the air and the changing of the leaves, but most of all I anticipate the coming of my favorite seasonal ice cream flavor: PUMPKIN. The beguiling temptress did not disappoint me last night, and although our last encounter was almost an entire year earlier, Pumpkin was as familiar and succulent as ever.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I felt a mysteriously foreign object interrupting my delightful Pumpkin ice cream. It was long and thin, an estimated rectangular shape having the dimensions 5 cm x 0.5 cm. At first I assumed it to be a part of the wax-papery cup cradling dear Pumpkin but this foreign object was made of a much tougher, sharper material. Not wanting to disgust my company, I decided to try to disregard this inexplicable object by masking it with more delightfully Pumpkin ice cream and consuming it entirely.

This plan seemed like a good idea at the time. However, approximately five minutes after consumption of the bizarre and extremely sharp rectangle of plastic, I felt sharp shooting pains on the left side of my sternum that got progressively worse with laughter and each breath. Discomfort continued to such a degree that two hours later, I decided to call a doctor and ask advice. The doctor recommended a trip to the emergency room as this dangerous synthetic material could easily makes its way to my lungs and cause considerable damage. Amazingly, on the way to the hospital, the nasty plastic element seemed to dislodge and move along and I returned home.

The physical pain is gone, for the most part, but the mental anguish brought on by the betrayal of Thomas Sweet’s Ice Cream Parlor shall not easily be forgotten.

Concerning the problem with my socks...

Dear Dr. Foster:

I hope this letter finds you well. Thanks once again for your prompt responses.

I’ve thought about what you said in your last letter—about not letting Shelley get to me when she steals my socks, and therefore succeed in her attempt to cause me anguish. I appreciate your advice and don’t doubt its effectiveness, however I fear you’ve neglected to accept the gravity of the situation.

You suggest that “plain” white tube socks with red double stripes can “simply be paired with any other, regardless of previous partnership,” as if I’d just grab at them willy-nilly. Well, I’m afraid that there is a distinct union among each pair. Mother has sewn different colored threads through each pair of socks so that each may find its match more easily. And so you see, dozens of left socks (I know they’re lefts because Mother places the colored thread through the big-toe region of the sock) without their companion right socks are simply worthless to me.

To make things even more pressing, as you know it’s now autumn here in Manhattan, and the weather is gradually becoming more and more chilly, which makes socks a most necessary part of my attire. My feet won’t tolerate the lack of insulation that a loafer-sans-chaussette provides for much longer, and I’d just hate to lose a toe or two from frostbite over this.

In addition, Coach Grier is insistent about second graders getting their fifty minutes of daily exercise, and I’ve garnered an innumerable amount of demerits for failing to have adequate gym apparel. I’ll be gathering stray tennis balls around the court during the boys’ tennis team practice for the next month.

But, as I’ve mentioned, I have taken your advice into consideration and will indeed make the switch from socks in the bottom drawer-underpants up top to socks up top-underpants in the bottom drawer. This way my four-year-old sister will have too much trouble reaching them, to meddle with my poor socks! Very clever of you! I guess Mother’s not paying you for nothing. By the way, please thank Mrs. Foster for continuing to forward my letters to you while you’re on leave. Please do let me and Mother know when you decide to return from the Cayman Islands. Mother hasn’t yet been able to find another analyst willing to see an eight-year-old.

Sincerely,
Tommy Kerschner

Another true-life experience…

I was at the gym last Thursday morning observing a short, Hispanic trainer named Alejandro.

“Where are you going to school?” He asked.
“Actually I just graduated in May.” I replied.
“Did you go to school to be a trainer?” He asked.
“No, but I’ve always wanted to be one. I actually studied music.” I said.
“Music? You read music?”
“Yes.”
“You play piano?”
“Badly.”
“But if I give you something you could mess around with it?” He questioned.
“Sure.” I said.

After hearing my affirmative response, Alejandro took off for the filing cabinets behind the trainer’s station; I did my best to keep up with him.

He quickly rummaged through the numerous files and after a few seconds presented a two page piano piece whose title I cannot recall, however I noted the composer – Yanni. I glanced over the music…

“You think you can play it?” He asked.
“Yeah, definitely if I practiced, it doesn’t look too difficult.”
“This is going to be my wedding song.” He said.
“Oh really! Wow! When are you getting married?” I enquired with great enthusiasm.
“I don’t know. I haven’t found the girl yet.”
“Oh.”

imagine a new color

imagine a new color, i dare you.
i’ve been trying and trying
to imagine a new hue.
to say that i have would be lying.

the rainbow is made of blue
and violet and yellow and green
and all that mixed up
gets something in between.

if i blend yellow and red i get orange.
blue and red, i get purple.
damn it, i chose
two words i can’t rhyme.

okay, forget the rhyme.

it’s time to think of a color –
i choose sepia.
i can change it just a little.
but all i get is
taupe,
khaki,
tan,
sand,
russet,
amber,
ochre,
gold,
brown
and
gamboge.

They’re already thought up.

The same with aqua.
See, I get
turquoise,
cerulean,
cornflower,
periwinkle,
teal,
jade,
cyan,
azure
and
robin egg blue.

taken.

imagine a new color, i dare you
to do something that i couldn’t do.
imagine a new color, i dare you.
i bet, i bet you can’t do it too.

a poetry offering for this Sunday evening.

this
poet
by c.bukowski

this poet he'
d been drink
ing 2 or 3 da
ys and he wa
lked out on t
he stage and
looked at th
at audience
and he just k
new he was
going to do i
t. there was
a grand pian
o on stage a
nd he walke
d over and li
fted the lid a
nd vomited i
nside the pia
no. then he c
losed the lid
and gave his
reading.

they had to r
emove the st
rings from t
he piano and
wash out the
insides and r
estring it.

I can unders
tand why th
ey never invi
ted him bac
k. but to pas
s the word o
n to other un
versities tha
t he was a
poet who lik
ed to vomit i
nto grand pi
anos was un
fair.

they never c
onsidered th
e quality of
his reading.
I know this
poet: he's ju
st like the re
st of us: he'l
l vomit anyw
here for mon
ey.

Beautiful x 3

I recently (though none but the latter are really that recent in release) experienced three amazing pieces of work that I most humbly and most highly recommend. They are three gems that may well be missed, but most shamefully so. My special thanks go out to Mary Jacobs Library for carrying a multitude of foreign films including the first selection, some list creator on amazon.com for recommending the second selection, and Jimmy LaValle for sharing his beautiful craftsmanship on the third selection.

My first selection is a film available on DVD called “Turtles Can Fly” written and directed by Bahman Ghobadi, originally released in 2004. The film takes place at the dawn of the outbreak of war in Iraq, and is the story of a community of children in a Kurdish refugee camp near the border between Iraq and Turkey. A scrappy thirteen-year-old boy, known as “Satellite” for his installation of the large dishes in local villages, is the leader of the children of the camp, helping them find work disarming land mines to sell to local arms-dealers in order to earn money. While Ghobadi reveals the tragic reality of these innocent children, many of whom are missing arms and legs as casualties of their occupation, he does so with a humor and charm that lifts it beyond a Save The Children commercial.


The actors in this film, all of whom were actual refugees, are incredible. Shirkooh, a loyal follower of Satellite, is my personal favorite. After returning from a mission to reclaim Satellite’s bike, which a local village leader has taken to ensure Satellite’s return to translate the news for his town, Shirkooh reports the occurrences in his high-speed, top-of-his-lungs fashion, slapping himself in the face to reenact the leader’s actions, which have shocked him to tears.

Beautiful movie. Watch it.



Second pick is the novel, If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor, published in 2003 by Houghton Mifflin. Beautiful, lyrical, poetic, touching, heart-wrenching. The story of all the inhabitants of a street of flats in England on one tragic day when an accident will establish a moment that will forever be imprinted in all of their minds. McGregor writes with incredible rhythm and flow. Is it the British that makes it all so lovely? Possibly. My praise for this book will not do it justice. But of all the books I’m getting through courtesy of my 3+ hours of daily commuting, this one was the most pleasant surprise. I almost missed my stop one day trying to get to the end.

Outstanding book. Read it.

Third recommendation is the new album by The Album Leaf, Into the Blue Again, which I was lucky enough to find a promo copy of this summer at Princeton Record Exchange, but is out and about for everyone’s enjoyment as of September 12th.

This record is not a drastic transformation from previous releases from The Album Leaf, but it’s delightful. If you’ve been partial to his earlier stuff, you’ll be a fan. If you’ve never heard the stuff, talk to me, perhaps we can arrange something.

I find this record to be very uplifting and, to use the word yet again, beautiful. The songs on this record, mostly instrumental, are the ones that come on your iPod when you’re on shuffle mode and make you snap out of your outer space delirium to check out exactly what song and what record are playing. Like I did recently when the song “Wishful Thinking” came on and I was busy staring out a smudged NJTransit train window through the rain at growing puddles. I was suddenly awakened and immediately needed to know what heavenly tunes were flowing through my noggin. And it was good.

Lovely, lovely music. Absorb it.


Now...go in peace.

Bad Poetry Corner: "My experience with the RED TIDE"

It seemed to be a lovely day
the sky had not a hint of grey
the sun shown brightly on the bay
and on the beach I chose to lay.

The temperature began to climb
I thought it would be quite sublime
Swimming on vacation time,
To not, in fact, would be a crime.

But the water sure was brown
I noticed dead fish on the ground
I noticed dead fish all around
That fishy stench was quite profound.

I like to wear layers

The coming of autumn makes my heart skip. As most mourn the passing of summer, I’m eagerly fluffing out my sweatshirts and dusting off my boots. Meanwhile, others are figuring out class schedules and reuniting with schoolmates. Once Labor Day has come and gone, it seems as though the world is finally settling down after the whimsical whirlwind of summer.

Perhaps the summer went by too fast. It’s all relative anyway. Frankly, I can never get things done in the summer and when I do, it took twice as long. My lazy summer nights are usually accompanied by lazy summer mornings, lazy summer afternoons and lazy summer evenings.

And that’s when my impatience with summer sets in. Call me a creature of habit, but I like when the world becomes predictable - when rush hour is actually during rush hour, when people are no longer on vacation, when the temperature becomes consistently cooler. In other words, I like the fall. Only then can I go about my business without being distracted by such things as the humidity index, air conditioning bills and loitering adolescents at strip malls.

So this is my tribute to fall:
Hooray for back-to-school specials, puffy down vests, brown leather boots, apple-picking and corn-mazing, tomato soup, No. 2 pencils, early morning traffic, pumpkin-flavored ice cream, lecture halls and tweed jackets, after-school snacks, lower gas bills, the World Series, dead leaf piles, layered sweaters, harvested fields, early sunsets, flannel blankets, football talk, cider with cinnamon sticks, condensation on the windshield and yes, the re-telling of summer adventures.

HOORAY FOR IT ALL!
HOORAY FOR THE FALL!

Note: Take the dinky to campus

The Monrovia Character Assessment.

My professor won’t like that - naming it after myself.

I’ve been at it for a month. I still have another one before Christmas and one more in the spring. I have my calendar in the bathroom. I drew it on the wall across from my shower with a black magic marker. I just painted over the first month, but not before taking a picture first. The new month is up, but the days are blank. I look at it when I brush my teeth.

At first, I put post-it notes on my wall calendar but they fell off when I took a shower. Now I keep them like yellow feathers on a big pad on my dining room table. I memorize each day’s post-it over coffee so I don’t get lost. I unstick the one for today.

MCA: Sharing. Not a very technical term, but I’ll think of a better one when I write my report.

Schools: Princeton University, Mercer Community College. The same schools I went to exactly a month ago.

Trains - NJ Transit. The Northeast Corridor Line to Princeton Junction. I add: Take the dinky to campus.

The train out of Penn Station is full of reverse commuters and my ears pop as I look at my notes from last month. The characteristic I tested last time was helpfulness.

Subjects: 8 males, 15 females. Total: 23

Female #5: Sophomore, age 19. Morris Plains, NJ. Altruism Survey Score: 7/10. Notes: Hesitated before helping to pick up my dropped papers.

Female #8: Freshman, age 17. Palo Alto, CA. Altruism Survey Score: 9/10. Notes: Was walking behind me; started small talk.

Male #3: Junior, age 21. New York, NY. Altruism Survey Score: 6/10. Notes: Watched me drop folder; kept walking; apologized after taking the survey, saying he did not want to patronize me (?).

I step off the train and note my arrival time: 10:43am. On one corner is a convenience store. On the other, a dorm. I go to get some coffee before starting my research - my second cup of the morning. Before going back to the dinky stop, I turn my cell phone off.

Two students are on the platform when I return. I put my backpack on and loiter, close enough for them to notice me. Note: males. One in collar shirt and jeans, the other in pajama pants. I wait two minutes before approaching.

“Excuse me, may I borrow your phone to make a quick call? I’m supposed to meet someone here but I forgot my cell.”

They hear me, then look at each other. Note: stalling. Pajama Pants gets his phone out. “Yeah okay. Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I dial my number and press Send, planning what I’ll say to my own voicemail. But as the phone makes the connection, my own name shows up on the screen. I’m in the phonebook. I look at Pajama Pants again. He looks at me.

“Monrovia! Kevin Monrovia! Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“He-ey,” I stammer. Dammit, I don’t remember this kid.

“Oh wow, I haven’t seen you in ages! It’s funny you asked me for my phone. This may sound weird, but I’ve started a personal experiment after my internship with Amnesty International this summer. I told myself I would be nice to all strangers. All of them. But I guess you’re not a stranger. You won’t believe the kind of responses I’m getting.”

Flares and sirens are going off in my head. “Hey, er, do you want some coffee? Or maybe we can meet up later? I’ll be around all day. Yeah, um, I’ve got so many things to ask you, you have no idea.”

Band in a van

We were on our way to a show at some café in Jersey, opening for a five-piece “art rock” ensemble called Hungry Magic Station. None of us was all too excited about it, but it was a gig and we were getting paid two hundred and fifty bucks. We’d been on the road for all of twenty minutes before it occurred to any of us to ask Rodney, our drummer, if he knew where the hell he was going.

“Yo, Rodney, you know where we’re going?” I reached forward, opening the glove compartment. “Should I be looking at a map or something?”

“Naw man, I got it.” I looked over at him, not entirely convinced.

Jesse, our bassist, stuck his head between the two front seats. “Dude, seriously. Do you know where the hell we’re going? Did you talk to Duane at the club?” Even though the place we were playing was called the Davenport St. Café, Jesse refused to accept that we were playing at a café, and kept referring to it as “the club.”

“Yeh, man, I did. I talked to Duane. I even wrote down directions.” Rodney leaned forward against the steering wheel and pulled a yellow post-it note from his back pocket. He handed it backward to Jesse, shoving it in his face.

A mild degree of hostility had developed between the two of them since we’d made a collective decision to replace Jesse with Rodney as van driver—not a result of Jesse’s poor driving skills, but more related to Rodney’s inability to sit still. Sitting idle in the van for more than five minutes drove Rodney to crazy bouts of word game suggestions and drumming on the ceiling, which inevitably annoyed the hell out of the rest of us—Tug, our synth guy, Cross, our singer/guitarist, and me, the lead guitarist. We’d thought that seating him behind the wheel would remedy the situation, however we’d been late for two gigs and missed one completely in the week since Rodney’d been designated driver—but it was either that or tying him up and gagging him, which we worried would have a negative effect on his bass lines.

“Well were you planning on using those directions?” Jesse grabbed the note from in front of his face. “What the fuck is this?” He showed me the note. All that was written on it were three bullet points: - MCA, - schools, and - trains-NJ transit. “Fuck, man. What the hell does this shit mean? These aren’t directions.”

“Relax, guys, I told you, I got it. Man, Jesse, you’ve got to reexamine the excess of rage that you’ve got built up inside of your soul. It’s just not healthy. Why don’t you just sit back and smoke a bloody fag. I’ll get us there this time, trust me.” Rodney had an irritating habit of using British slang terms he’d picked up while we toured through the UK the year before. They always came out sounding ridiculously lame, but he’d already fallen in love with the quirk.

Jesse shot me a defeated look. “He better get us there,” he warned me sitting back in the mess of the back of the van between two amps and a crate with our auxiliary percussion equipment. He lit a cigarette and puffed grumpily.

“Rodney. Man, you sure you know where you’re going?”

“Look, dude, we’re almost there.” Rodney gestured out the windshield to a large sea-green water tower with the letters, MCA, fading away across the middle. He made a sharp right and Tug fell off the drum stool he was sitting on in back. “Get off my stool, you wanker,” Rodney scolded into the rearview mirror.

“Fucker,” muttered Tug.

Ten minutes later, Rodney whizzed by what looked like two schools, one on either side of the street, stopped at the next intersection, and leaned forward, searching left and right. Once he spotted whatever he’d been looking for, he brought the van down a street lined with gravel on both sides.

“Rodney—“ I began, but shut up after I noticed train tracks running along out the passenger side window. We followed it for a good seven minutes until we came to a large train yard filled with NJ-Transit cars, where Rodney proceeded to make a left turn, and before we knew it, he pulled in to a lot and found a parking spot in front of a sign which read, “Parking for café patrons only.”

“Guys, we’re here.” I announced to the back of the van.

no need to PANIC!!!

LATE SUNDAY NIGHT ANNOUNCEMENT:

In deference to the labor day holiday, and not at all a result of our own sloth or indolence, we are taking a night off.

Please visit us again in approximately twenty-four hours to find new and exciting articles here. In the meantime, please feel free to occupy yourself with the brand new monthly picks to the right or re-visit some of our previous offerings.

Thanks for stopping by and come again often!

- the management.

TED LEO and the PHARMACISTS / 2006 SEAPORT FESTIVAL

If I had to listen to only one musician for the rest of my life, Ted Leo would win hands down any day. I fell in love with this New Jersey native long ago, and his performance at the 2006 Seaport Music Festival was no exception. Although the crowd was initially lifeless, from either the heavy weather or the two opening groups which I happened to miss, it soon picked up its energy as Ted and his Pharmacists began their rockin’ set with one of my all time favorites: Little Dawn, quickly followed by another classic: Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone? Come to think of it, Dear Ted filled the night with all my favorites plus many new and exciting songs that I had never heard before. His excellent song writing ability was only surpassed by his witty banter. The night’s topics ranged from a serious promotion of the September 17th march “Number the Dead,” to commentary on the brilliance of the Schwarzenegger-DeVito collaboration for the movie TWINS. He even shouted out to the audience for requests, producing the following dialogue, of which only Ted’s part is recorded (yes I was taking notes): “so what do you want to hear? James Brown? You wanna hear James Brown? I’m not gonna stand up here and disrespect the memory of James Brown…wait I just caught that…” My favorite part of the evening occurred during “Timorous Me” as the audience broke out in powerfully unified clapping during Ted’s Irish jig-like guitar solo. That part gets me every time.

Oh Ted Leo, did you really think that you would get off the stage without an encore or two? I’ve never seen people pound their fists so forcefully into the air than when you rocked out on your Stiff Little Fingers cover of “Suspect Device”. I’m grateful the rain and tornadoes decided to hold out this year although I would have weathered the storm if it had been necessary. Thank you to Ted Leo and his Pharmacists. I’m still dancing.

Recommended listening: EVERYTHING
Recommended dosage: All the time

Duritz and Rzeznik Know What They're Doing

Friday marked the first time I attended a concert at the Tweeter Center in New Jersey. My friends and I crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge from Philadelphia in eager anticipation of the Counting Crows/Goo Goo Dolls concert that night. (On a side note, there is no toll to enter New Jersey, but a $3 one to get back into Philadelphia. Does anyone else think that’s a bit elitist?) Before I continue, however, I must note that I am a bigger fan of the Goo Goo Dolls than of the Counting Crows, so my info may be a bit spotty on the latter.

Anyway, we got to the concert early enough to catch Eliot Morris , an opener I considered worthy of sharing a billing with the Goo Goo Dolls. His performance was honest and heartfelt, with songs from his debut album entitled "What’s Mine is Yours". The most notable of these were 'Balancing the World' and 'The Infancy of Us'. His style is probably best described as a mix of the Counting Crows, the Goo Goo Dolls and Matt Wertz, so as you can guess, he was a hit with the early-comers.

After some waiting and many whiffs of *ahem* smoke from neighboring fans, the Goo Goo Dolls blasted onto the stage with 'Slide', a favorite from the late 90s. Other songs of course included 'Name' and 'Black Balloon' as well as the karaoke-fest 'Iris'. Much to my satisfaction, these tried-and-true songs are just as good now as they were at their first release. Interspersed with the classics were songs from their new album Let Love In including the currently ubiquitous 'Stay With You' and the boppy tune 'Give A Little Bit'. The band was clearly having fun onstage, a definite plus in my book when it comes to performances. As they left, the words LET LOVE IN appeared in bright neon lights - a bit preachy perhaps, but why not.

The Counting Crows came on afterwards and the crowd really came alive. Because i was on the lawn, I tended to watch the big screens instead of the stage and my friends and I cried “Whoa!” in unison when we saw Adam Duritz appear: his figure had altered considerably since the band’s last tour three years ago. This, however, had little impact on his amazing performance, so enough about that. My personal favorite, 'Omaha', came near the start of the set, after a dedication by Duritz to his friend Dan who recently found out he could play hockey again after suffering an injury that could have cut his career short. The entire night, Duritz was giving shoutouts to his buddies in the crowd as well as to community groups in the area; I didn’t know previously, but the Counting Crows are big advocates of local social work organizations, which explains the onslaught of pamphlets upon entering the concert grounds. They also had a food drive at the concert, but, being a poorly-publicized one, I can’t imagine that they received many canned goods.

But I’m losing myself. Back to the music. 'Round Here', 'Holiday in Spain' and 'Miami' were all perfectly delivered, but the set ended surprisingly soon. But the groans didn’t last long because the long encore was more than enough redemption. It included 'Mr. Jones' and 'Hanginaround' for which Durtiz shared the mic with his fellow performer Eliot Morris. Though 'Accidentally in Love' never made it into the set - a good song, yes, but not a favorite of any true Counting Crows fan - neither did 'Rain King', which was particularly upsetting to my concert-mate. Despite this shortcoming, the concert was definitely worth every one of my thirty-one dollars and thanks to that night, I have found a new infatuation with Eliot Morris. Not a bad deal at all.

I still love you, Pluto.

[09.03.06 edit: Listen to more about this news topic, including commentary by some distraught third-graders at NPR.]

Poor, poor Pluto.

A bad week for Pluto, formerly known as the ninth planet in our solar system. In case you’ve been too occupied with matters on Earth to have heard, this past Thursday the supposed “leading astronomers” of the International Astronomical Union gathered in Prague where they whipped up a new definition for what a “planet” is, subsequently demoting poor Pluto from “planet” status. Instead, Pluto, which received its name upon the suggestion of an eleven-year-old girl named Venetia Burney, finds itself downgraded to “dwarf planet.” Adding insult to injury, Pluto is not even the largest body in its new category. This honor goes to relative newby, UB313 (aka: Xena), a trans-Neptunian object discovered in 2005.

Wow. This leaves me unexpectedly disturbed. Who knew this modification of astronomical terminology would rock my world so hard? But thinking back to learning about the planets in elementary school…using mnemonic devices to memorize their order (My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets), learning about the mythological characters each was named after, holding back giggles when discussing Uranus, making mobiles or posters for presentations…Pluto was always such a great part of it all! The wee little planet hanging out in the far reaches of our galaxy – teeny, but still a planet, damnit! Think of all those kids who did their reports on Pluto (including me!) – that was all a waste! All that work for nothing – sorry, Jimmy, Pluto’s not even a planet anymore. You can’t pick Pluto – choose again. But Mrs. Thompson, all the other planets are taken! Sorry, Jimmy. I guess you FAIL.

I defy you, IAU! Pluto will always be a planet to me.

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