David Foster Wallace 1962-2008

I never made it through Infinite Jest. David Foster Wallace's lengthy tome sits in a daunting pile next to my bed, kept company by War and Peace, Underworld, Finnegan's Wake, and Gravity's Rainbow. These are all books that are on any English major's required life reading list, but are books that I  have never quite mustered the courage nor the Ritalin prescription to delve into. My friend Kandee loves Infinite Jest so much, that she bought two copies (that's more than two thousand pages); one to keep in it's pristine form, and one that she could separate in half so that she could easily carry around, read and re-read the two parts without having to lift weights in preparation. Last fall I got a tattoo that took three hours to finish; Kandee showed up and sat with me the entire three hours, reading from Infinite Jest to take my mind off the pain (it worked).

The world has lost one of the good ones. My dear friend Vanessa, who had at least a half a decade of correspondence with D.F.W, pays her respects beautifully and sublimely on her blog. 

I think I will get to reading Infinite Jest now, although I dread feeling when I get to the end what so many others have felt over the last few days....that there will be no more. 

Sex, Lies, and Candleabrum

So apparently Steven Soderbergh will be directing a new Liberace biopic.

The icing on the piano shaped cake? Michael Douglas will be cast as the wildly flamboyant performer. 

Liberace, who maintained throughout his entire career that he was not gay ,had his start as a classical musician. His act quickly evolved into what he called "classical music with the boring parts left out". He appeared in movies, television, and even wrote a cookbook. I remember watching the Liberace Show with my parents, and I especially remember his appearance on the Muppet Show. There is a Liberace Museum in Las Vegas which I have never been to, but I hear is totally worth a visit, if not just to see his collection of glorious man rings. I love that Steven Soderbergh will be directing this film, because it is sure to have a twisted focus to it, with a lot of Liberace's famous self deprecating humor. Get your purple sequined movie watching capes ready, because this is going to be a good one.

Sugar Blues

I have this problem. I am a total sucker for packaging. I get drawn in by an image or a look, and before you know it I find myself in the downward spiral of disappointment and self berating, for what kind of a person buys a CD because the cover is awesome, people? It's no good, I tell you. Someone once asked me how I pick out my wine and I responded with "i'll buy it if it is under twelve bucks and if there is any kind of creature on the label".

So, I love cupcakes. I always have. I love cake in general, I even love the word. Cupcakes are the perfect, single serve, sublimely sized cake. So much better than a piece of cake, because a cupcake isn't a part of a bigger thing. You are getting your own little personal cake, all to yourself, and you don't have to share it with anyone or swap with them because yours is bigger and you got the bigger piece last time, and "you don't want to be a little piggy, DO you?" Oh....

Today, while I was out working in a nearby town, I saw a huge banner for a brand new cupcake shop. I did a sharp, wheel squealing u-turn, my eyes practically pin-wheeling in anticipation, and I found myself at said cupcake shop which was just as cute as a button. I have noticed that the trend in cupcake shops are that they are all super super cute with a modern touch, and it all reminds me a lot of the candy you find at Asian grocery stores, or come to think of it, the 70's version of the game "Candyland". So of course, now that you know of my problem with shiny packaging and cupcakes, you can see how I was lured in easier than a Japanese man to a hot dog eating contest.

Guess what happened next? Uh, I was totally disappointed. My cupcake was okay (if you like fresh frosting on two day old cake), but here's the thing. I can't have a cupcake without a cup of coffee or tea, it's just how I am. It's like if someone were to say, "Hey, let's listen to that Sonny album" or, "How about lets see what Roper has to say about the movie?" I just feel like something is missing without the hot beverage. I just wish that "hot" beverage hadn't been sitting there for the last eight hours and also, that maybe the fine ladies at the spanking new cupcake place could invest in some nicer lids that don't actually funnel more coffee into your lap than your mouth, although I think the lid might have just done my mouth a favor. Oh, and also, the Dave Matthews on the radio pretty much ruined any chance of me liking the place anyways. If I hear soprano saxophone too close to  eating I tend to come down with a serious case of the rollovers.

Which brings me to my story. This is the story of the WORST DATE in the HISTORY of the WORLD. Gather round, children, gather round. You won't be sorry...

So about a year ago, a man whom I met at a local establishment pestered me into going on a date with him. I was almost instantly galled by his...well, "healthy dose of self esteem", but my friends reminded me that if I didn't start "getting out there" I was in danger of becoming a weirdo shut-in. Which is actually my goal, but to placate them, I decided to go on this date, because who knows, right? I mean, tons of people have wormed their way into my heart after I got to know them, even though I hated them initially.

I suppose I should have seen the first red flag when he decided he wanted to take me to one of the worst and most overrated restaurants in town....which will remain nameless, but if you would like a hint, it rhymes with "Shmasta Shmay's". The following events are in order, and are completely and totally UN-exaggerated. Which for me, is huge, since I exaggerate everything ("I saw that movie like, ten times" = I saw most of it once and may or may not have fallen asleep).

First, after we were seated, my date said to me, "Baby, I am so glad you agreed to come out with me, even though I could have had both of your girlfriends, I chose you".

Second, he insisted on keeping his brand new $600 phone on the table ( I know the price because he told me), and answered it THREE times before the crappy salad even arrived...plus, he was so rude to the people that called him. He would loudly proclaim "listen, fool, I told you where I'll be so you can come or not, idiot!" Charming.

Third, he liked to talk himself up, a LOT. All that being "talked at" made me so hungry...and at the exact moment the food comes, he decides to go to the bathroom, leaving me staring at my plate of mediocre "I could have made this at home" lasagna.

Fourth, when he finally got back from the bathroom, he grabbed my hands and MADE ME PRAY WITH HIM before we ate. That's right, he made me say grace, right there, at shmasta shay's. I don't pray, my friends, unless I am  at my parent's house. I pray at my parent's dinner table because i love and respect them, but really I am just holding their hands and mumbling the words to "It Wasn't God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels" while they say their thing. I figure if they hear the word God in there somewhere at least they will think I tried.

Fifth, after this interminable meal was finally over, he berated the server for putting the check down in front of "the man" then insisted that we go dutch. I'm sorry, didn't you say you wanted to "take me" to dinner"? Asshole.

Then here's what happened. We were walking down the street (quite briskly, since we were walking towards my car...my getaway car, that is), when he stopped. He stopped, and gazed longingly into an empty storefront, and proclaimed, "Here it is". "Here is what?" , I asked. "Here is the spot I want to open up my cupcake shop", he announced.

This was before I knew that cupcake shops existed, or that they were about to become a bigger trend than Kabbalah or Indie Rock. My heart melted, and it melted fast. I gazed at him with new eyes, and thought, "I was wrong, I was wrong about this guy", and I took his hand and said, "Cupcake shop? Really?"

He turned to me and said, "Shit, yeah. I would totally bank, and imagine all the tight little bitches I could get to work for me. Damn..."

And that, kids, is the story of the Worst Date in the Histroy of the World. That date was so bad, I threw out the clothes I was wearing so that I wouldn't have to remember it. It is a good thing we went to that crappy restaurant since I don't care if I have a bad memory of that place. Luckily, my view of cupcakes was left unsullied, and you know, being a shut-in is not so bad. My new imaginary friends keep me company just fine, and they sure don't ever pester me to go out on any dates.

Feeling blue? Have a look at this.

Make sure to watch up to :59, you won't be sorry.

Bel C*nto

Today as I sat with my morning coffee, perusing the usual music blogs and websites, I found myself looking at the NPR music website. Lots and lots of  great stuff on this website. "1,000 essential recordings you must hear", blogs by interesting people, music reviews for every genre, and all kinds of music news. Best of all, I have actually heard of most of the artists that are discussed or described, unlike the music and bands on a certain other website even though it is my homepage. 

This post is not about music, though. No, this post is about the Beavis or Butthead-like feeling that washes over a person when they find a sublimely perfect typo. 

So as I was saying, I was browsing the NPR music website when to my surprise I saw this headline:

I thought maybe the word was cut off, you know, maybe it was supposed to say...twotone? Twotimes? Twotentwo?

So I opened up the article to find out. No...nothing was cut off. It's really just supposed to say "two":

Maybe someone had a grudge against the sopranos on the different recordings, or maybe the author just has sex on the brain in general.In any case, the seventh grader in me knew it was going to be a good day. Now if you will excuse me, I am off to the pubic library.

Bumber....well, shoot.

What with the advent of modern tech-mology, music has been easier to come by than an STD on Colfax avenue. What? Since musicians have to make a living, a direct result of all the downloadin' that the kids do these days is all these crazy festivals with all their space age names.....Bonnaroo, Coachella, Monolith, some crazy thing called Lollapalooza, and then there is Bumbershoot.

I have always said that it would be a great thing if the world map was like an Excel spreadsheet, and we could just hide states and countries the way you can columns and rows. That way we could jump around and see friends and loved ones when we wanted, go to H & M whenever we felt the need (like, three times a day), and travel around in general without having to worry about airfare, lodging, a dogsitter, and taking time off of work. I realize that this fantasy is flawed, of course, because half the world would want to be in the same place at the same time and it would cause complete chaos....but one can dream.

I am conflicted, though, because anyone that knows me knows that anything that ends in "fest" gives me the heebee jeebies, number one because of the crowds, number two (heh heh) because of the porta-potties, and number three, because of the way that you always end up a mile away from the band that you want to see with some drunk and super high frat boy douchebag next to you pumping his arm to the music and going "WOOOOOO!", WOOOOOOOH!" so loud, and for so long, that you walk away wondering why you paid for a ticket and hating all of humanity with a serious passion.

Still, Bumbershoot is coming up and I want to go. To be honest, I could see most of the bands that are playing at Bumbershoot right in my own backyard at Monolith in mid-September..and I probably will. I don't know why I am so drawn to Seattle this year to see this particular festival out of all the festivals that have happened this summer. I think it has something to do with the location, just the right amount of bands I like, and the fact that there are a crap ton of great musicians that are in Seattle right now that I would love to see. 

In any case, here are the highlights. You can click on the names to hear the artist's music:

Neko Case:

I mean, holy crap. If you don't know Neko Case, I envy you. I envy you because you are about to hear her for the first time. If you do know her, then you know the sound of honey dripping on a 1956 Ford F-100 pickup truck with a bloodhound in the passengers seat holding tiger lilies, cupcakes and a loaded gun.  

Lucinda Williams:

If my world were a Harry Potter book, Lucinda Williams would be Dumbledore. (Except she is totally hot, and she is almost sixty years old...sorry Dumbledore). Lucinda Williams is the daughter of Miller Williams, a literature professor and poet. Her voice is creaky and sad, even when she is belting out a loud song with a fast tempo; her songs are unbelievable. Someday, when I learn how to upload MP3s onto this bastard, I will share with you the magic that is "Side of the road", or "Something about what happens when we talk".  You will then see. Stay tuned.

M. Ward:

A singer-songwriter from Portland slash New Hampshire slash Portland. Most recently he recorded an album with Zoey Deschanel called She and Him. It's a great album, although I feel like I have heard every single song before, somewhere. That's not a bad thing, because they are both adorable and I love everything they do as separate artists.. I wasn't expecting my world to be turned upside down by their collaboration, but they came through with something awesome, albeit a bit predictable. 

M. Ward's solo records, on the other hand, are like something I would put in my little space pod for the future in case everything else in the world went away. There is something uniquely comforting and timeless about his voice and music that I just want to hear no matter what mood I am in. 

Dale Watson:

OMG...Dale Watson. I haven't even begun to get started on The Country Music in this little blog. Dale Watson is not a bad place to start. He invokes the spirit and sound of the Outlaw Country men like Waylon and Willie. I may know what you are thinking. Willie is still alive but why does he have to keep doing things like reggae albums and collaborations with Wynton Marsalis? It just doesn't feel right. It's like if Santa Claus started wearing Crocs and a Hawaiian Shirt all the time, or sporting tassle shoes with his costume instead of boots. 

Anyways, Dale Watson has had a hard life and word has it that he did try to off himself some years back after the love of his life got in a car accident and died. Although I am loathe to know that anyone is in that kind of pain, I am glad he failed in that endeavor, because he is one of the last of the real country music singers. I am going to see him this Monday at the Laporte Swing Station in Fort Collins, so you can bet your ass I am going to write about that on this here blog.

Mark Pickerel and his Praying Hands:

Mark Pickerel was the original drummer for the Screaming Trees, which means he worked with my beloved Mark Lanegan. I recently re-discovered Mark Pickerel's music while trawling around myspace for something good. I think a friend and I had talked about him some months back but it never "took" for either of us. For some reason this time around he really got me, maybe because I have been watching a lot of film noir lately. His music is sexy and sad, a touch creepy and faraway. It feels like music that would be in modern film noir, and it is good.

Long story short, there is no way I am able to go to Bumbershoot this year, because I have other obligations. I can read all about it and remember that it will probably rain anyway, and there is nothing worse than waiting in a line for the blue toilets when it is pouring down and you are standing in muck. Dang, I wish I could go.

I got a new song for us, Ricky....

Johnny Cash : "I think I just died a little"

Rick Rubin: " Does that mean you can't play?"

Classic. Some people think it's disrespectful, but I have the feeling old Johnny would have had a laugh at it himself. 

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