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Ah-Choo!: Part 2
November 3rd, 2009I’m still sick. I know, it’s annoying. Really annoying. I’m all for lazing about the house in one’s pajamas, but even that gets old after a few days. And let me tell you something–two seconds after Halloween is over all of the delicious horror movies disappear and are replaced by Christmas crap, so it’s not even fun to watch TV.
By the way, don’t even get me started on the ghastliness that is QVC and the Home Shopping Network, which you should never watch after loading up on Tylenol PM. What the hell am I going to do with three Advent calendars?
Anyway, I haven’t gotten much done in the way of work. Or, really, in the way of anything. Mostly I’ve just been lying around complaining about how hot it is and sucking on Otter Pops, the last box of which Patrick found hidden at the back of the freezer at Safeway.
But I have managed a couple of things in the past few days, so here we go.
1. I voted.
I wasn’t going to, but Patrick made me. He also made me a handy list of how to vote. I mostly followed it, although one of the propositions was worded oddly and it was difficult to read what with the Robitussin flowing through my veins and I might have inadvertently voted to allow Gavin Newsom to be declared King of San Francisco.
Our polling station is at a house a few blocks away. The woman has dogs, and they were barking because they were annoyed at being locked up for the day. In case you’re interested, they’re cattle dogs ( I asked). Oh, and on the way home we met two enormous bloodhounds, one of which is having surgery on her back this week to repair a ruptured disk. That’s not something you run into every day.
By the way, I know I look like crap in this picture. Did I mention that I’m sick?
2. I listened to the new Tegan and Sara album
I downloaded Sainthood last week when it came out, but didn’t listen to the whole thing until this weekend. I love it. My favorite tracks are “The Cure,” “On Directing,” “Hell,” and “Paperback Head,” but honestly there’s not a bad song on here.
I want Tegan and Sara to be my best friends. We would sit around watching B-movies and eating SweeTarts and saying absolutely hysterical things. Also, when they’re on the road we would call each other on the phone every Thursday and critique the Project Runway outfits. And of course they would let me sing backup on their next album.
3. I watched Sauna.
I’ve been waiting for this t
o come out on DVD ever since my friend Douglas Clegg told me about it earlier this year. And it was worth the wait.
Marketed as a horror movie, this beautiful film is much more than that. Set in 1585 at the end of the 25-year war between Russia and Sweden/Finland, the story centers on two brothers who are part of a delegation sent to map the new boundary lines between Finland and Russia. One brother has spent years as a soldier, while the other has been sheltered at university.
I won’t reveal too much of the story except to say that the delegation stumbles upon a strange village and are forced to confront the decisions they’ve made and the deeds they’ve done during the war. Ultimately the film asks whether or not those choices are inevitable, what is right and wrong (particularly during war), and if there is really any way to atone for these choices. I found it a moving and visually stunning exploration of the way in which the effects of our decisions extend far beyond our own lives.
One word of caution: The subtitles suck. (My favorite line is along the lines of, “This food is not even good enough for a butt.”) Thankfully, the acting is excellent and you’ll figure out what’s happening despite the obviously inadequate translation.
Okay, so I haven’t done much in the past four days. I’m sure there was other stuff I just can’t remember right now. Did I mention that I’m sick? And the day isn’t over yet. I could still accomplish a thing or two.
But first I’m going to take a nap.
Watch It!
October 30th, 2009
As you know, I’m ill. Never one to let an opportunity for sloth pass me by, I used my sore throat and sniffles as a reason to stay in bed this morning and watch Tarantula, which as you may recall from one of my earlier posts is only the greatest movie ever made in the history of film.
In case you need further convincing of this fact, I offer the following as evidence.
1. Tarantula has memorable dialogue, including:
“I knew it would happen–give women the vote and what do you get–lady scientists.”– Dr. Matt Hastings to Stephanie Clayton, upon learning that she has come to town to do graduate work in biology
“Science is science, but a girl must get her hair done.”
– Stephanie Clayton to her employer, Professor Gerald Deemer
“Freaks of any kind give me the willies.”
– Dr. Matt Hastings
2. Tarantula star
s John Agar, a handsome leading man who starred in such classic B movies as Revenge of the Creature, The Mole People, The Brain from Planet Arous, Attack of the Puppet People, Zontar: The Thing from Venus, and Women of the Prehistoric Planet.
That’s him on the left. No, not in the middle. That’s well-known character actor Leo G. Carroll, whose Professor Deemer has been injected with the “super nutrient” that causes the whole mess. (But he makes his own fantastic addition to this list. See #6 below.)
As if this weren’t enough, Agar also happened to be Shirley Temple’s first husband, marrying her when she was just 17. It didn’t last long, due in part to the fact that Agar apparently disliked being referred to as “Mr. Shirley Temple.” Still, as Agar and Temple met when she was 15 (at a tea party at the home of ZaSu Pitts, no less), and as she was reportedly a virgin on her wedding night, when you watch Tarantula it’s entirely possible that you’re looking at the man who took America’s sweetheart for her first ride on the good ship lollipop. If you know what I mean.
Oh, I almost forgot this. Agar had a small part in the 1976 remake of King Kong. When a friend of his bought a run-down dinosaur-themed amusement park in Arkansas, Agar allowed him to change the name to John Agar’s Land of Kong. It was later changed to Dinosaur World, and is now sadly closed. Lots of fun pics of it can be found here.
3. Tarantula c
o-stars Mara Corday.
Like John Agar, Mara Corday became something of a fixture in B movies. In addition to her fine acting in Tarantula, she graced the screen in The Giant Claw, Undersea Girl, The Black Scorpion, and the girl gang spectacular Girls on the Loose.
Corday was a popular pin-up girl as well, and was Playboy magazine’s centerfold for the October 1958 issue.
4. Tarantula features the first film appearance (uncredited) of Clint Eastwood.
Eastwood plays a fighter pilot who, in the last seconds of the film, attacks the giant spider as it’s about to lay waste to the town of Desert Rock. He has one line: “The rockets didn’t work. Switch to napalm.”
The napalm, by the way, works beautifully.
In an interesting twist, Eastwood would later cast co-star Mara Corday in bit parts in his movies, including The Gauntlet, Sudden Impact, Pink Cadillac, and The Rookie.
5. Tarantula features spectacular special effects.
Like this giant guinea pig.
6. Tarantula inspired a line in the song “Science Fiction/Double Feature” from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
“I knew Leo G. Carroll
was over a barrel
when Tarantula took to the hills.”
To recap: snappy dialogue, Shirley Temple’s first husband, a Playboy centerfold, Clint Eastwood dropping napalm, a giant guinea pig, and an inspiration for The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
If these arguments still don’t persuade you to run out and see Tarantula then I don’t know what else I could possibly say to convince you. But I know that you will run out to see it, and that you will thank me for introducing you to this forgotten cinematic gem.
You’re welcome.
Ah-Choo!
October 29th, 2009I have a sore throat.
I know you think there are more important things to be worried about right now, like maybe the recession or the fact that any day now some power-mad lunatic is going to start World War III, but you’d be wrong. The most important thing in the entire universe is that I have a sore throat.
This is a picture of my throat.
I know, right? It’s bad. Thanks for noticing.
There is nothing–nothing–I hate more than having a sore throat. Well, I suppose I hate green peppers more than I hate sore throats. Also, hip hop music. And people who don’t use their turn signals. I hate them the most. Oh, and chimpanzees. They’re vile.
But as far as health-related stuff goes, a sore throat is at the top of my list. Yes, even more than throwing up. I can deal with that, and usually when you’re done you feel a lot better. Diarrhea is pretty irritating as well, but it’s really more of an inconvenience than anything else, and at least you can be entertained by the sounds your butt makes. Sore throats, though, they just suck.
This one is caused by a cold. They usually are. Did you know (I didn’t) that the sole purpose of a cold virus is to attack the cells that produce mucous in your throat? I had no idea they were so single-minded. I thought they just generally mucked things up. Now I hate them more than ever.
This is a cold virus. Well, one of them. Apparently there are over 100 different kinds. I don’t know which one this is. I think its name is Marcus, or possibly Janelle. Whatever it is, it’s evil and must be destroyed. But apparently that’s beyond the limits of modern medicine. And so I suffer.
Oh, here’s the best part. Do you know how you get a cold? Get this. Someone who already has it sneezes or coughs up mucous particles, which you then ingest. That’s right–you eat them.
Feel free to vomit (which is still not as bad as having a sore throat). From what I understand, these mucous droplets are easily suspended in air, which means someone could hack them up a hundred feet away from you and if there’s a stiff breeze you’ll be snacking on their snot bits. That old man wheezing at the back of the bus–you might be getting more intimate with him than you ever imagined.
Yeah, yeah. I know. We breathe all kinds of crap in all the time. It just freaks me out that my sore throat started out as someone else’s sore throat. At least in my case I pretty much know whose sore throat that was. Patrick has been sick for a week, so he’s the prime suspect. Although it could have been one of the people at the Mika concert on Saturday, or someone on the subway, or even the clown we saw Tuesday night. He did do a bit where he licked a length of chain (don’t ask) and then swung it around. Some of his mucous particles could have been flung out over our heads, only to dash down our throats while we were laughing.
Anyway, I’m not looking to point the finger of blame. And Patrick has been really good to me. Last night he made chicken soup. The real kind, not from a can. Also, it was his suggestion to drink a glass of warm water with honey in it. That seems to help. So did gargling with salt water.
But I still have 
a sore throat, and probably will for at least a few more days. I don’t intend to take it well. There will be lots of complaining, and moping, and sitting in bed with the dogs watching horrible Lifetime movies starring washed-up former TV stars. At some point I will likely become convinced that my throat is closing up completely and that I’ll be forced to perform a tracheotomy on myself with a ballpoint pen.
All because someone had to go spewing his mucous droplets around.
Clowning Around
October 28th, 2009
Last night Patrick and I went to see “Brick Circk” at The Marsh, a performance space here in San Francisco. “Brick Circk” is playing as part of the International Czech Theater Festival. It’s a one-man show by famed clown Stevo Capko.
That’s right, I said famed clown. And there’s more–I adore clowns. Especially clowns from the Eastern European clowning tradition, which is about as different from American clowning as borscht is from Jello. American clowning is all “Ha ha! That’s so cute!” European clowning is all “Ha ha! That’s so true!”
Stevo Capko is a clown’s clown. He studied at the Prague Art Academy and interned with Switzerland ’s Scuola Teatro Dimitri and the Centre National des arts du Cirque in France. Yes, they have actual schools for clowning. That’s one more thing that makes Europe better than the United States. That and the fact that they allow dogs in restaurants, which in my book is the hallmark of a great society.
“Brick Circk” is 60 minutes of clown perfection. Using only his body and a small number of props, Capko brings to life a character whose sole goal in life is to get a single gold brick balanced atop a 10-foot-long pole. On the surface it’s a lighthearted comedy routine, but beneath that is the palpable frustration his clown builder feels at being unable to complete his task.
This is what great clowning is. It takes a universal struggle and presents it to the audience as something we can all laugh at and sympathize with. Forget the clowns of the water-shooting daisy and overstuffed little car. Those buffoons are caricatures of what the clown was originally meant to be, a messenger sent to tell us that hey, life is hard sometimes but it’s okay too.
I’m a huge fan of clown shows. Not that there are a lot of them. In recent years Patrick and I have been fortunate to see three wonderful ones: Slava’s Snowshow by Russian clown Slava Polunin, Aga-Boom by Dimitri Bogatirev, and Cirque du Soleil’s Corteo. Unfortunately, only Corteo (which is a fantasy on the last dream of a dying clown) is available on Blu-Ray and DVD. You should totally watch it. And the other two shows are still touring, so you might be able to catch them at some point.
But you probably won’t. Hating c
lowns is a popular pastime. There’s even a term for it: coulrophobia. Numerous sites exist bemoaning the horror of clowns. My favorite is probably The No Clown Zone, which is the creation of one Rodney Blackwell, whose hatred of clowns stems from his traumatic seventh birthday party. Check out his brilliant “34 Reasons Why You Should Hate Clowns Too.”
Strangely, there’s no equivalent term for people who like clowns. The natural antonym to coulrophobia should be coulrophilia, but that term is used to describe someone with an erotic or sexual fixation on clowns. So is the t
erm clownophile. And apparently there are a number of people who indeed do find clowns . . . stimulating. Here in San Francisco we have our very own Ouchy the Clown, who brings his unique brand of S&M-flavored clowning to street fairs and community events.
This is all well and good, but what about those of us who just love clowns? You know, in a pure and wholesome way. Why are we (apparently) doomed to be perceived as perverts of some sort? At what point did embracing the whitefaced tellers of truth become crossing over to the dark side of the tent?
Frankly, I thin
k those of you who hate clowns are the ones with the problem. That’s right. I said it. You’re sick and wrong. And why? Because you’re afraid. You know that behind the greasepaint and red nose there’s someone who sees the world more clearly than you do, and that given half a chance he’ll show you what he sees. So you’d rather cast clowns as demons instead of the truth-tellers they are.
Well guess who’s going to have the last laugh? Clowns, that’s who. Unless they eat you first. Better check under the bed before you turn out the lights.
The Pursuit of Happiness
October 27th, 2009
A few nights ago I stumbled across a new show called Bored to Death. It’s on HBO, it stars Jason Schwartzman, Ted Danson, and Zach Galifianakis, and it is apparently one of those too-clever-by-half shows in which Schwartzman’s character (Jonathan Ames) is a stand-in for show creator Jonathan Ames. The fictional Ames is a young writer from Brooklyn who has one novel under his belt, can’t finish the second one, and drinks too much. I don’t know how closely this mirrors the life of the real JA, but from what I’ve read about him I suspect it’s fairly accurate.
Anyway. In the episode I saw, Jonathan has been contacted by real-life filmmaker Jim Jarmusch (who likes his first novel) to re-write a screenplay about the life of poet Frank O’Hara. Jonathan manages to lose the script when he hooks up with a girl, goes back to her place, then discovers that she’s in high school. When her father comes in, Jonathan runs away, leaving the script behind.
Still following me? Good, because I’m almost to the point of this entry. It turns out the girl’s father is a famous psychiatrist. In order to get his script back, Jonathan schedules an appointment with the shrink. To his surprise, the session is remarkably helpful. As he leaves the office (having retrieved the script) he thanks the doctor for his help and says that he thinks that because of the revelations he’s had during their session his life will change .
The shrink, in response, says, “Lives don’t change. We simply become more comfortable with our core misery, which is a form of happiness.”
I love this, mostly because it’s similar to something I said to my own shrink a few months ago. He asked me how things were going, to which I replied, “That depends. I’m not really sure what we’re going for here. Am I supposed to be wildly enthusiastic about getting up in the morning, or is it enough that I’m only kind of disappointed that I didn’t die in my sleep?”
He thought this was funny, which is probably why I like him as much as I do. But he didn’t answer the question. Shrinks never do. They just stare at you until you talk some more. The goal–I suspect–is to get you to answer it yourself, which I think is just mean. It’s like when you’re a kid and you ask your father how to spell a word and he says, “Look it up in the dictionary.” If I could look it up, I wouldn’t need to ask you how to . . .
And so on. But it’s a good question. The shrink one, not the spelling one. What are we going for when it comes to happiness? Is the most some of us can hope for just not feeling completely overwhelmed and doomed all the time? Or is there some gold standard, some definable state of being that everyone agrees is happiness?
I’ve long argued that the most hopeful people are those who are the most pessimistic. We’re pessimistic because we see what people–what life–could be if people didn’t insist on behaving stupidly almost all of the time. We’re not necessarily convinced that everything will go wrong, we’re just theorizing that based on past experience everything is likely to go wrong. If it doesn’t, we’re pleasantly surprised, which is a win-win situation all around. But usually it does (See: people behaving stupidly, above).
Today I am getting a bit of work done. Also, I have downloaded the new Tegan & Sara album, Sainthood, which I purchased with the iTunes gift card Patrick gave me for my birthday a few weeks ago. I am anticipating the arrival of a check, the copyedited manuscript for my next novel arrived and doesn’t need as much work as I expected, and tonight Patrick and I are going to a show I’m really looking forward to seeing. All things considered, I am . . . happy? Not unhappy? Content?
I don’t know how to answer that.
I Ate It Up, I Loved It So
October 26th, 2009
I didn’t expect a whole lot from the movie adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are. To be perfectly honest, I’m really tired of the whole supergenius-who-will-save-literature aura that surrounds Dave Eggers (who co-wrote the script), and it all felt just a little too hipper-than-thou what with Spike Jonze directing and Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs doing the soundtrack. I’m sure they’re all lovely people, and it’s not their fault that they’re currently pop culture icons, but it’s easy to be annoyed by them.
Oh, and then there’s the $460 Max’s wolf costume sweatshirt by Opening Ceremony. They also offer, among many other items, $50 T-shirts, an $805 jacket inspired by the look of Wild Thing Ira, and a $575 necklace apparently inspired by Wild Thing Douglas’s feathers. While these things are indeed lovely, the stench of marketing made the film slightly unappetizing to me.
Then, of course, there was the whole problem of whether or not the film would be true to the book. But honestly, I didn’t care so much about that. As long as Jonze didn’t turn the Wild Things into robots from outer space or anything, I was happy to see where he would go with it. Also, I love that when asked how he would respond to parents who say the film is too frightening for children, author Maurice Sendak said, “I would tell them to go to hell. If they can’t handle it, go home. Or wet your pants. Do whatever you like. But it’s not a question that can be answered.”
Heh heh heh.
And so yesterday afternoon Patrick and I went to see the film. I won’t say that I loved it loved it, but I loved it a lot as a friend. In my opinion there are some awkward story problems and a few too many wild rumpuses. Whatever. The important thing is that the film beautifully captures the hideousness of childhood. And yes, I mean that in a good way.
We all know the story of Where the Wild Things Are. Max acts up. Max gets sent to bed. Max dreams about a world where his wildness makes him king. Then he learns that wildness sometimes has to be tamed. The end.
But Sendak’s books are never that simple, and Jonze dives right into the inky heart of the story. Max is struggling with feeling powerless. His mother (his father is out of the picture) is dating someone new. His older sister doesn’t stand up for him when her friends destroy his snow fort. There’s a looming family financial crisis. No one listens to him.
And so he runs away and ends up on the island of the Wild Things. Where things are also in chaos. Something (we never learn what) has disrupted the formerly peaceful lives of the WT’s. There’s infighting. There’s the strained relationship between fatherly Carol and motherly KW. There’s a goat-like WT (Alexander) who is much smaller than the others and who bears a striking resemblance to Max and feels left out and unimportant. It’s not difficult to see the parallels.
Max takes charge of the situation (mostly by accident) and tries to control it. He puts the WT’s to work building the perfect fort for all of them to live in. But things quickly unravel, and soon the WT’s are not just mad at each other, they’re mad at Max. A dirt clod fight organized by Max between the “good guys” (the WT’s Max feels closest too) and the “bad guys” (the ones who represent what he fears) mirrors the film’s opening snowball fight. And like that one, the dirt clod battle ends in disaster when Max deliberately causes gentle, timid Alexander to be wounded. Having tried to reverse things as they were in real life and this time emerge victorious, Max instead finds that there’s no joy to be found in attacking those weaker than himself.
Things go downhill from there, with some of the WT’s questioning Max’s abilities as king and the relationship between Max and Carol disintegrating. When Max commands Carol to make him a secret room in the fort so that he can get away from the WT’s when he wants to, Carol explodes and threatens to destroy everything they’ve created. Max sees himself in Carol and knows that it’s time to leave. Fortunately, Carol sees himself in Max and realizes the same thing. Only he’ll be staying on the island of the Wild Things and using what he’s learned to repair the damage that’s been done.
Where the Wild Things Are is a dark book, and my suspicion is that people who react negatively to the film likely always thought the book was meant to be comforting. It isn’t. It’s about the darkness inside all of us. It’s about the realization that life can be terrifying, and that although we can do our best to minimize that terror, it’s still always there, lurking in the background. We just have to accept it and understand that the best we can do is try to be fearless in the face of it.
My favorite lines in the movie come during the climactic dirt clod battle. Having pinned the “bad guys” behind a fallen tree, Max attempts to trick them into coming out. Not coincidentally, his primary target is the sarcastic Judith, who throughout the movie is the one WT who doesn’t embrace Max warmly and who frequently lets him know that she’s on to him and won’t hesitate to eat him if he fails in his role as king. The two have the following exchange:
Max: Come out!
Judith: No!
Max: Why not?
Judith: Ahh, cuz you’re gonna hit us in the head with dirt!
Max: Come out!
Judith: Noooo!
Max: Why not?
Judith: Because when I said you were gonna hit us in the head with dirt, you didn’t say anything. That means you’re planning to hit us in the head with dirt!
Max: Man, they really have us figured out.
Indeed they do, Max. Indeed they do.
PS: Karen O’s soundtrack is actually really, really lovely. You should totally listen to it.
Tickets, Please
October 25th, 2009Here is a list of artists I have not seen live:
Shawn Colvin
Toni Childs
Angelique Kidjo
Rosanne Cash
k.d. lang
Jann Arden
Cyndi Lauper
Joan Jett
Ozzy Osbourne
The New York Dolls
I could have seen them. I had tickets. I just didn’t go.
This happens a lot, and not just for concerts. I have piles of unused tickets for operas, plays, and symphony performances. I even have unused airline tickets, the most recent being for a trip to New York I never took.
The ticket thing has become something of a joke amongst my friends, but I know they don’t understand it. Well, most of them don’t. A few sort of do, mostly because they do this themselves on occasion. But I don’t think any of them do it with quite the same regularity that I do. In fact, I know they don’t.
Here’s the thing–when I buy the tickets I have every intention of going. The problem is, generally you have to get them so far ahead of time that you can’t reasonably be expected to have the same level of enthusiasm for the whole thing when it actually comes time to leave the house. Going to a performance of La Traviata on a Sunday afternoon in June sounds enormously appealing when you buy the tickets in October. But when that Sunday in June rolls around, often it’s not such a thrilling proposition.
For one thing (and I’m fully aware that this ridiculous, so don’t bother telling me so), I resent having to be somewhere at a specific date and time. It’s all well and good if Shawn Colvin wants to perform at the Warfield on March 18 at 8:00 PM, but that doesn’t give her the right to dictate what I do that night. She’s not the boss of me.
The real issue is that I know it will probably be more hassle than it’s worth. The getting there. The parking. The $6 bottles of water. The crappy sound system. The unrecognizable versions of favorite songs the artist thinks will be a nice change of pace. The other people.
The other people are a big problem. They talk. They sing along. They take pictures with their cell phones and text everyone they know to let them know how absolutely amazing the show is. Also, the whole group experience thing freaks me out. Several thousand people dancing around or singing in unison is unnerving. I keep waiting for the flags to be carried out.
But I always think that I should like live music, and so I keep buying tickets. The last show I had tickets for but did not attend was Mika’s stop in San Francisco in February of 2008. Now, I love Mika. I think he’s interesting, and the clips of his live shows that I’ve seen online are great. Still, when February 12 rolled around, I thought about the subway, the $6 water, the crappy sound system, and the people, and I stayed home.
When Mika announced a stop in Oakland for his most recent tour, I immediately thought, “I should get tickets.” Then I reminded myself about last year’s no-show and that it would be even more difficult to get to Oakland than it would have been to simply go downtown. And I bought tickets anyway.
This time, I went. Patrick and
I went with our friend Troy (that’s us on the left). And it was easy to get there. And the theater was beautiful. And the water was only $3. The crowd was great, as was the sound system. Mika, despite having torn a tendon during the previous night’s show and being hobbled by a boot and (by his own admission) fistfuls of prescription painkillers, was wonderful.
Still, I spent the entire evening having severe back spasms. Partly this was due to standing on a hard floor the whole time, but I couldn’t help noticing that shortly after we got home the tension in my back went away. This probably had something to do with the Aleve and Aspercream Patrick made me use, but I don’t think they were entirely responsible. I think was just happy to have the ordeal over.
A month or so ago I commented on my Facebook page that I couldn’t think of a single musical act I would pay more than $40 to see. A couple people agreed with me, but most thought I was insane. A number of them reported paying well into triple digits for tickets, and many declared that you can’t put a price on live music. It’s fine that they think I’m insane, because I think they’re 110% moonbat crazy to pay upward of $300 to watch Madonna lip-sync.
The Mika tickets were $29.50. Even with Ticketmaster’s $8.70 per ticket “convenience” charge and $1.48 per ticket “processing fee” they were still only $39.68, leaving me with 32 cents to play with. Of course, it cost us $10.20 apiece for the MUNI and BART rides to get there, and then there were two bottles of water at $3 each, but whatever. I didn’t pay $40 for the actual ticket, so I feel I have stuck to my word.
(A small side note here. Tickets for the show were $29.50. The Mika T-shirts were $35. What’s wrong with this picture?)
Like I said, the Fox Theater in Oakland is gorgeous. If you have to go to a concert, this is the place to go. Tegan & Sara will be there in March, and I’d kind of like to see them. Those tickets are $35 though, so it’s a dilemma. Also, there’s the whole concert-induced back spasms thing. So I don’t know. Besides, I think I’m going to the opera that night.
Things I Want: Part 2
October 24th, 2009
Earlier this week I wrote about what I would buy if one of my books sold spectacularly well and I found myself with some cash to throw away on things other than the mortgage, taxes, and the dogs’ vet bills. At the time the only thing I could think of to get myself was this crazy wonderful monkey lamp.
But the monkey lamp–fabulous as it is–costs only $995. Also, as my friend Robert pointed out, it’s boringly practical. It was suggested by several people that I should try to think of something completely useless but nevertheless absolutely essential to my happiness.
Well, I have. Two things, in fact, although really they’re variations on the same theme. Behold the Tarantula movie one-sheet. What? You don’t know about Tarantula? You poor thing. It’s only the greatest movie ever, is all. Although I might be the teensiest bit biased, seeing as how I have seven tarantulas living with me and they insist on watching it as often as possible.
Still, it really is a must-see. Sadly, the only place you can find it is on the Classic Sci-Fi Ultimate Collection Volumes 1 & 2 CD box set. That will set you back $41.99, but keep in mind that you get not only Tarantula but also The Mole People, The Incredible Shrinking Man, The Monolith Monsters, Monster on the Campus, Dr. Cyclops, Cult of the Cobra, The Land Unknown, The Deadly Mantis and The Leech Woman. Seriously, does it get any better than that?
You can get a print of the Tarantula poster for under $20. But I don’t want a print. I want the real thing–one of the posters that hung in a lobby in 1955. And those ain’t cheap. The good folks at CineMasterpieces movie collectibles have one right now listed for $3295. No, I didn’t misplace the decimal point. It’s $3295. But it’s already linen backed and ready for framing, so it’s practically a steal. Add that to my tab along with the monkey lamp and we’re up to $4290 for everything I want so far.
The other poster I want is for Creature from the Black Lagoon. The Creature has always been my favorite movie monster. When I was a kid I waited all week for the Saturday afternoon monster movie show on Channel 9. It was called Eivom (it was years before I realized it was movie backwards), and it was my introduction to the world or horror.
Many of the movies I saw on Eivom have stuck with me. Not just the classics like Dracula and The Wolf Man, but lesser-known films like Gargoyles (which made me cry) and Baron Blood (which scared the wee out of me). Sure, they were often clumsy and the monsters sometimes looked like guys in gorilla costumes, but the stories were great.
For a long time Godzilla was my man, what with all the yelling and fire-breathing and Tokyo-stomping. But once I discovered the Creature, there was no one else. He was unlike any movie monster I’d seen before. I loved that he lived underwater. I loved his gills and webbed hands and fishlike mouth and watching him swim. I wanted him to get the girl, and was always mad when he didn’t, no matter how many times I watched the movie.
Apparently a lot of other people like the Creature too, because his movie poster is one of the most sought after in the collecting world. One in great shape, mounted on linen, sold for $21,995 at CineMasters. That’s a lot to spend on something to hang on your wall. But I would totally do it. You know, if I had the money.
And that’s the point of this exercise, right, to dream? Forget practical stuff like paying off the house, or opening an IRA, or even donating. This is about what I would do if I could do something totally and utterly for fun. So now I have the monkey lamp and two movie posters, for a grand total of $26285. That’s still way less than, say, a Jaguar, or even a motorcycle. Not terribly impressive, really.
Imagine me being interviewed by Barbara Walters.
Barbara: “What was the first thing you bought when your novel became a bestseller?”
Me: “That would be the monkey lamp.”
Barbara: “The monkey lamp?”
Me: “And the Tarantula and Creature from the Black Lagoon one-sheets.”
Barbara: “You’re joking.”
Me: “No, I’m not.”
Barbara: “I knew I should have interviewed Miley Cyrus.”
I’ll try to think of some more stuff.
Jane’s On Target!
October 23rd, 2009
I just found out that Jane Bites Back has been selected as a Target Breakout Book, which they describe as “Hot subjects and up-and-coming authors for readers looking for the next big thing.”
This means that not only will JBB be carried in every Target store, it will be shelved on endcaps. You know–those displays they have at the end of every aisle where they put the detergents, underpants, and lipsticks you must own or risk having an unfulfilling life.
I am so excited that people doing their weekly shopping will have a chance to pick up JBB. We go to Target every Sunday, and it’s clear that 99% of America does as well. If all of them pick up a copy of JBB I might finally be able to afford the monkey lamp I have my eye on.
Oh, I forgot the best part. They’re putting the book on sale on December 29, which means everyone looking for something to buy with the Target gift cards they get for the holidays will have something more amusing than socks to use them on. It’s the perfect gift to give yourself! And what better way to spend New Year’s Eve than rejoicing in Jane’s revenge? So much nicer than champagne and a kiss at midnight.
The promotion runs through February 14, so anyone dating a Jane fan or vampire fan has the perfect gift. Nothing says “I love you” like roses, chocolate, and Jane Bites Back.
KISS, KISS
October 22nd, 2009Here is what I’ve accomplished this week: I’ve listened to the entire KISS discography. In chronological order. Well, almost all of it–the 18 group albums and the four solo albums. I didn’t include the four live albums or the seven million best-of compilations.
This actually started two weeks ago, when Patrick asked me to accompany him to Walmart. Normally I wouldn’t do this, as the closest Walmart is about 45 minutes away and I can stand being in the car for only about five minutes before I start whining. But it just so happens that KISS released their most recent album, Sonic Boom, only through Walmart. So I said okay.
Why KISS? Blame it on childhood nostalgia. KISS is the first band I really got into. I bought the albums. I dressed up as Peter Criss for Halloween. I stayed up to watch KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park in 1978. And I liked it.
Truth be told, I haven’t bought a KISS album since Dynasty in 1979, but I never stopped liking them. And I still have my KISS Army membership card and wear my Hotter Than Hell album art T-shirt on occasion. (Just last week I was wearing it when someone stopped me on the street and said, “Cool shirt, man.”) So when I found out they had a new album out, I decided to see what it sounded like.
Unfortunately, this triggered my OCD. I’ve been pretty good about not giving in to it. The infamous Vintage Russian Christmas Ornament Fiasco of 2007-2008 is the last time it hit me hard. So maybe it was time for another episode.
Anyway, I decided that I absolutely had to have every KISS album in my iTunes library. I won’t go into the sordid details about how I acquired them, except to say that it involved a shady Eastern European download site with bargain basement prices. My apologies to Gene, Paul, and the boys, but in my defense I’ve purchased multiple copies of your albums over the years and paid you $50 a year for an admittedly useless KISS Army membership, so let’s call it even, okay?
Once I had the albums I
spent a glorious day organizing them chronologically within iTunes, which let me tell you is no easy feat. The diabolical iTunes software makes no sense–none at all–and insists on being contrary at every opportunity. It took me several hours of Googling to figure out how to trick it.
And then of course I had to reorganize all of my other music so that each artist’s albums appeared chronologically. Which then required that I search out missing album covers and add them. Oh, and then I had to decide which of each artist’s albums I wanted to represent them in the iTunes library. Should I use the first album cover? The prettiest? And did I have to be consistent?
You can see the problem. Or maybe you can’t. I understand that OCD behavior is often baffling to outsiders. But I’m sure some of you will understand. These were all Very Important Questions.
After two days I was able to actually start listening to the albums. As I said, I’m very familiar with everything up through Dynasty, so there were no surprises there, just a lot of reliving of fond memories and snickering over the lyrics. (“I thought about the back door”? Really, Gene?) Good times, people. Good times.
Things got interesting when I got into the albums from the 80’s and 90’s, none of which I’d ever listened to beyond the singles from them. Honestly, I didn’t expect to enjoy them. By that point the original band had broken up and a lot of the fun was gone for everyone. But I was surprised to find some good stuff in those albums: “Talk To Me” from Unmasked, “Keep Me Comin’” from Creatures of the Night, and particularly “Lonely Is the Hunter” from Animalize.
The biggest shock was the 1997 album Carnival of Souls. Recorded in 1995 during the reign of grunge rock, this was the band’s attempt to compete with groups like Soundgarden and Alice in Chains. But the album was shelved in place of a reunion tour. Only when bootlegs began to circulate amongst fans did it see the light of day. And I’m glad it did. It’s a great record, particularly Gene’s “In My Head” and “I Walk Alone,” the only song on a KISS album to be sung by (now former) guitarist Bruce Kulick.
Going through any artist’s complete body of work is an interesting experience. I did something similar a few years ago when I decided to read the complete works of some great American authors, also in chronological order. I went through everything by Faulkner, Carson McCullers, Flannery O’Connor, Capote, Steinbeck, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Eudora Welty, and James Baldwin. It took me two years. I won’t say it was always enjoyable (I just don’t get the fuss over Welty, and Faulkner’s early novels are dreary), but like with my KISS experience there were definitely some delightful surprises (Capote’s short stories, Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down). You get to see (or hear) the artist develop. In the case of KISS, it’s interesting to see how their sound has changed with the times while still remaining unmistakably KISS. I swear, if they don’t get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year, there will a lot of pissed off fans in kabuki makeup and dragon boots.
Where was this going? Oh, right. My wasted week. Well, it wasn’t wasted to me, but for those who don’t understand the beauty of a complete and perfectly-organized collection, be it of music or books or Pez dispensers, it probably seems like a lot of silliness at the expense of productivity. To those folks I can only say: I wanna rock and roll all nite, and party every day.