A Few Items

Item number one.

Confession. Since it's friday, why not just make it Confessional Friday, eh? (And feel free to chime in in the 'comments' box, as I'm sure that one of you, while reading this, is listening to Kelly Clarkson).

Okay. Deep breath. I have a deep and irrational love of Panic! At the Disco's "The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage."

Who or What is Panic! At the Disco, you ask? Well, they are just one in a cesspool-like onslaught of bands that have embraced the exclamation point--Godspeed You! Black Emperor, The Go! Team, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!, and, of course, the eponymous !!!--and are two parts Southern California brat pop-punk, one part Mark Delonge (without the drawling and painfully strung out notes), and one part snotty, self-aware Children of The Media Revolution. I know. I'd be revolted, too, if their song wasn't so d-bomb enjoyable.*

Okay, so that's out of the way.

On to item number two, which is the insane toe-tappability of the Reconteurs' "Steady As She Goes." Upon hearing the ubiquitous thump-thump-thumping of the kick drum in the first measure, I thought, "Well, as far as departures go, you can't really kick this one to the curb just yet, as it seems content to sit pretty riding the Stripe's coattails." But then...wait, is that a bass I hear? And guitar? Guitar and bass? Bass and guitar? And drums?

Okay. They got me. The BGV's swell around Jack White's furious unleashing of all things R & R (Rock and Roll), and I'm steadily loving this song more and more for every turn it takes on my iTunes.

Item number three. So you know that indie music has sailed well past its' prime and into the murky waters of commercialism (Arctic Monkeys, anyone? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't hear anything over the uproarious din of angry kids shouting, "Overrated!") when some of the best singles I catch wind of are on commercials ("I Like the Way," Bodyrockers, Diet Coke. "Bom Bom Bom," Living Things, Motorola's ROKR. And so on). So in obedient consumer fashion (again, it's Confessional Friday, so you can't lynch me yet, angry mob...not yet), upon hearing the crunchy, screamy song on the iTunes commercial, I downloaded the single.

The song in question is "Cubicle" by << Rinoçérose>>, and after a few listens, I have to take a moment to appreciate the electro-techno blips and pops as well as the terrifically drawn out howls that make this song purely enjoyable if not slightly abrasive.

Last item. I was given the opportunity to review (in twelve words or less) a handful of albums for a friend who is starting up a magazine. So here's my blip for Calexico's Garden Ruin: The sound and the fury of ten years together breeds Southwestern perfection.

And that's all I've got for today, kiddies. I just picked up my "Legalize LA" tshirt from my employer in preparation for the demonstration on monday. You'll see me sporting it and showing support on May 1st.


*Knowing my own personal history with lauding certain songs in one year (say, 2001) and then realizing the immense error in my ways in another year (say, 2004), I'll probably hate myself in the morning. I only ask for grace, my friends, as that is likely to be a very difficult time for me.

missing in action

This entry isn't shaping up the way I wanted it to. I want to talk about the blissful perfection of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy". I want to draw comparisons to Moby (circa Play) and Stevie Wonder (circa "Living for the City," or, let's face it, Stevie Wonder circa anything). I want to laud Danger Mouse for his pitch-perfect ability to produce club-ready, car-ready, summer-ready dance traxx (xx's intentional, and one need only to listen to Gorillaz' Demon Days to know what I'm talking about). I want to admit that since its birth on my iTunes, I've given "Crazy" nearly 100% of my earttention and will probably continue to let it spin me into a honeyed whorl of vaguely disco-tinged perfection for the duration of the week.

I want to. I really, really do.

But I can't focus. My fingers aren't tap-tap-tapping the keys because I've never been good with multi-tasking and, truth be told, my feet are doing the tap-tapping enough for both of them. See, the problem is, I can't share my thoughts because I'm lost in the vortex of James Brown, Marvin Gaye, and Wonder boy himself, woven into the roller disco beats of 1970-meets-2006.

I can't see the screen because my head keeps bobbing back and forth. I can't focus on the words because my brain has turned to an orchestral amalgam of diet soda, cotton candy, thumping bass and every-summer-of-my-effing-life-thusfar. I've fallen victim to Cee-Lo's silver-tongued spell, that driving beat is holding me captive--and I ain't fighting back.

Perhaps when I emerge from his dizzy, drunken circus of danceable, grooveable Philly soul, I'll write a proper review.

But don't hold your breath.

and I kick puppies, too

Here we have an example of a normal conversation (quote, unquote):

Coworker X sends me a link on Craig's List about a cat up for adoption.

I am not the biggest fan of cats. I reply, "If I liked cats..."

Situation A: Coworker responds with something like, "Oh, I forgot, you are a dog person. Well, in case you were interested." To which I'd probably say something like, "Thanks for the offer." And resume working.

Now we have Situation B. I'll let you guess which one actually happened.

Me: "If I liked cats..."

Him: You are a stern human being, you are.

Me: Wow, not much else to say to that.

Him: How can you not be an animal person? That's just sad.

Me: If you didn't look so pathetically congested I'd be tempted to say, "what? What? WHAT?" I'm an animal person. I'm not a cat person. There is a difference. But okay, if you want to go there with the entire animal kingdom, be my guest.

Him: You don't love animals. Cats are animals.

Pause.

Him: I'm also a plant person, too. I'm not so much an archaea kingdom lover, but everything else I'm okay with.

Me: Wow. You are a peculiar specimen, you know that?

Him: I'm peculiar? You go to Disneyland on a week day. I'm just saying.

Me: You asserted your love of animals but felt the need to qualify that love with the exception of the archaea kingdom.

Him: I want to be specific when possible.

Me: Right. And I want to be specific. I love animals. Except cats.

Him: It's splitting hairs at this point. I apologize for my candor and type-a personality.

Me: Apology accepted. You should give that cat a home.

Him: I don't like cats.

Me: You don't like animals.


And there you have it.

Oui

This blog has been a long time coming, and I am formally recognizing right now the Elephant in the Room, being that commenting on the Montreal music scene is like running around frantically, screaming, "Guys, I just heard the COOLEST new album...Suff-jan. Suff-jan something. It's sooooo good!"

Nevertheless. Montreal's been exporting some pretty good tunes lately (and not so lately), so while our border-mate Frenchies are still on the proverbially shifting Music Map, I'll snap up the opportunity to offer my two cents.

For what it's worth, Winn and the Funereal Party Animals aren't the only ones able to spin some quality jams. Some of these are new, some of them are old. But they all speak French as a first language.

Stars (Heart): If you've read my previous blog, you know how I feel about this band.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor (Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antenna to Heaven): Get a bottle of wine. Go ahead. Probably something complex and heady like a good pinot noir or a cab sauv. Now grab your ipod. Dial up "Storm: Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antenna to Heaven..." and walk. Doesn't matter where you walk. Swig that wine from a paper bag if you have to. See where it takes you. Even if it's slumped over against a wall in the disquieting lull of predawn disappointment, it won't leave you wanting for anything. Least of all another swig from the vino.

The Stills (Logic Will Break Your Heart): This band seems like old hat, but I've never been one to be on top of the newest and best (who has the time, anyway?). So here they are, two years later. The music is still pulsing, moving, never still, always engaging. Sway and sing along.

Wolf Parade (Apologies to the Queen Mary): Jarring. But in a good way. Especially the stuck-in-traffic-on-a-rainy-day "Modern World."

A Silver Mt. Zion (He Has Left Us Alone But Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corner of Our Rooms): An offshoot of GYBE. A little more focused--more concise at the very least. Nuanced guitar noise and brooding, building, pent up orchestral swells woven with disturbingly familiar (and vaguely apocalyptic) squalls of distant, disjointed radio broadcast preaching. A collision of the sonic fuzz at the end of Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot with, say, the soundtrack from Schindler's List.

Mogwai (Young Team): You'll wonder where this band is going. Turns out, the destination isn't important. So kick back and enjoy the journey. (Oh, and they aren't from Montreal...that was a tactical error on my part. Many thanks to Ryan for the heads up)

store-bought Tevas and the perfect storm

The first time I went white water rafting, I became reminiscent fodder for my friends for the next, oh, five years or so.

Drifting along the Santiam River in Oregon, wearing my store-brand Tevas and feeling pretty fantastic about it all, I couldn't have seen this coming. The water was calm, slow, deep. We were bobbing along the top of a placid surface, cutting into our own reflections with the precision and grace of a well-oiled machine.

Never mind that we had been trying to master the whole rowing thing for the past hour and a half. The point is, we'd gotten it down to an art: Slice deep into the river, press against the current, expel the oar with a defiant flip of water droplets. The sun singed our skin with a sort of apathetic viciousness. It was ferociously hot, but the sun showed no favor; it was as hot hiding in the shade as it was basking in plain sight.

The day had been uneventful thusfar; a smearish memory of discarded boulders, highways drifting in and out of view, and a barcode of pine trees, smashed together, reaching upwards. The turmoil had been light; a slight lumbar adjustment as the raft slid expectedly over surface tension on the water. But like most tragic stories, the climax was fast approaching.

We were positioning to drop into a class III squall, ominously called Spencer's Hole. The water foamed and spit, molecules at war with one another. It was thrilling, feeling the forward slide into Doomsday, the inevitable pull down the spiral. The boat pitched sharply to the left, slamming against the face of a boulder.

Smack. I don't remember having my eyes open, but I can recall the flurry of bubbles, the crystalline algae-green color of the water, and slow motion effect of thrashing against the current. It was as if the entire day--and certain parts of my entire life--had come to a dizzying finale, a cymbal-crash of instinct and terror.

Surface. Surface. Surface. Gasp. I sucked at the air, devoured all that was in front of me--both water and oxygen and life and pure exhilaration and utter fear and that hot, hot sun and the gently sloping highway, all of it screeching into view and then receding again, replaced by a curtain of pissed-off water.

Thrash. Kick. Gasp. Again, breath in. Take it all in, every last sound and smell and color. Suck the earth dry for all its crops and merits and offerings. Take it inside, take it hard, take it fast. Submerged again, and this time my mind cleared enough to wonder if the last thing I might see were air bubbles--sure poison if ingested, but containing life, submerged in a river at war with itself.

"Swim toward the raft!" I could hear the guide shouting. I could see my friends staring, some oddly calm for the chaos I was surrounded by. Was I imagining the imminent danger? "Swim toward the raft!" He shouted again.

Inhaling sharply, my voice squeezed out, pale, thin, threatened within an inch of it's life: "I can't!"

But even as I said it, the rapids were subsiding, my arms were fighting and pushing against the current and the boat was coming closer. Again I wailed, "I CAN'T!" And even as I clamored over the bulbous side of the boat, I muttered, again and again: "I can't, I can't."

This seemed to tickle my nearest and dearest to death, as I couldn't escape a social function for the next two years without hearing the vulnerable, exploited, raspy declaration as filtered through impersonation by my friends: "I Caaaan't!" (Dissolving into giggles).

I'll take one for the team. If only for the very reason that when I listen to Godspeed You! Black Emperor's piéce de résistance, "Storm: Lift Yr. Skinny Fists Like Antennas to Heaven / Gathering Storm / "Welcome to Barco Am/Pm..." / Cancer Towers on Holy Road Hi-Way," I am reminded of the devastating, swelling, swirling feeling of being totally submerged in a maelstrom of water. In the same way, the slow, brooding build--layer upon layer of orchestral gasps and moans, driving, pulsating percussion, squalling, screeching guitar--sweeps you along with it.

If you allow yourself to be utterly digested by this giant, you'll find yourself beseeching that carefully constructed chaos, "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

And just like the Santiam River forgets its troubles just yards after the turmoil, Storm turns back on itself yet again, and becomes an ode to all things peaceful; a scorching day, the rhythm of rowing, the repetitive hum of crickets along the surface.

Survive the powerful tempest of Godspeed You! Black Emperor's uproarious sonic blitzkrieg?

Yes, I can.

evolutionary theory

I doubt that I'll ever feel at home in Los Angeles.

Everything in LA, to me, (me being more or less an outsider in the sense that I grew up elsewhere) reflects the desert that's around it.

The desert is the anti-landscape. It doesn't screech and moan the way the skyscrapers do, nor does it pour flurries of incoherent babble into the atmosphere like the low-lying Lego-cities around it. When the desert speaks, it is in a murmur, barely audible, an aural whisper both passive and menacing.

It's a tremendous void containing much, but offering little. When I push my feet through the dusty terrain I feel distinctly alien, like a man on the moon, a conquistador stomping over the spoils of ingenuity. The desertscape would seek to expel all inhabitants that aren't naturally cultivated within the grasp of its arid biosphere. That's why Los Angeles is buckling under the effect of the evolutionary sprawl.

The farther our top floors shoot from the ground from whence they sprouted, the more we are reminded that our roots can only penetrate so far as our rickety aqueducts will allow. In some ways it's a constant gaze upward, LA figuring out how it can mimic a real city and fool everything into believing that we're somehow self-sustaining.

In the end, though, it's a city cultivated in a desert whose only obligation for sustaining life lies in the pithy thirst of the indestructible shrubbery. So LA grasps at resources along a longitudinal plain, seeking to build on and conquer the sea so we're somehow linked to a body of water and not the eastern equivalent of shrubbery and sand.

From the dirty window on the 5th floor of the 1920's factory I can see the 10 freeway, the olive branch extending its forced friendship from the desert to the sea. Cars creep along, even though it is early afternoon. Below me are layers upon layers of concrete, piled on one another like blankets in a living room fort. Beneath the concrete, though, beneath the carefully carved layers of sediment and human industrialization, lies the desert floor. It's there, breathing, living underneath us all, squirming against the burden of civilization.

And so I feel displaced. It's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind that we're able to inhabit so hostile a world and still fool ourselves into believing that we are the native ones. And for this reason, I'll never feel at home in Los Angeles, because at the heart of it all, Los Angeles isn't even at home in her own skin.


"The desert is everywhere, preserving insignificance. A desert where the miracle of the car, of ice and whisky is daily re-enacted: a marvel of easy living mixed with the fatality of the desert. A miracle of obscenity that is genuinely American: a miracle of total availability."
- Jean Baudrillard, French sociologist

The Peace Treaty

Let it be known that this blog will from this point forward take a turn--a slight detour, if you will. I'm opting to take the scenic route, if we're going to go there with the travel-speak.

Today I have begun chronicling the continued efforts to keep The Peace Treaty intact.

What is The Peace Treaty, you ask?

The Peace Treaty, quite simply, is the agreement I have made with my coworker (who shall remain nameless for now, but I'll probably slip up in the near future, so stay tuned) that we will not fight. Fight? You may be asking yourself, What could there possibly be to fight about?

Oh, there's plenty. Believe me. If there is a point of dissension to be had in any of all possible 'real-life situations' I can guarantee you that he and I will have it. And we will have it out until the cows come home. Or the sun comes up. Or as long as it takes until we abandon that argument for something bigger and better (to argue about).

This is the best way I can think to describe the State of Affairs shortly before The Peace Treaty was enacted is with this conversation between myself and another coworker:

"How would you describe it, from an outsider's perspective?" I asked.

"Snippy. Very snippy. You both would feed off each others' aggravations. One would instigate and then it would just blow up. Back and forth, back and forth."

I responded, "Very much like tennis, but without the love all."

"YES!"

So there you have it. Back and forth, back and forth. All day long. Every day. Basically I could explain it by saying that he and I agree on absolutely nothing. At all. Ever.

But all that soon changed on Tuesday, March 21, 2006. While trying to enjoy a peaceful lunch out (we were trying the 'new place' in the row of 'old places' we frequent), we were embroiled in a an embittered battle over who was meaner: me or him. The conversation is a little fuzzy in my mind, but I can recall a few snippets and it went something like this:

Me, taking an indignant sip of my water: "Well, maybe it would have been easier if you weren't so mean all the time! (This was my carefully crafted steel-wall of an argument: That "It" would be easier if not for his meanness. And 'It' could stand for anything, mind you--anything in this phsyical, or metaphysical world.)

He, eyebrows raised, voice level following quickly after--a Jack and Jill of visual cues: "ME? Mean? I'm not the one who is mean. You are meaner than I am."

And so on. However, we formed a tentative alliance when one of us hypothesized that we couldn't be peaceful for a full 24 hours. Hence, The Peace Treaty was born. The conditions are simple: We aren't allowed to instigate each other, and if one of us infringes upon the Peaceful Agreement, the other has the right to cry, "Instigating!" Upon this accusation, the guilty party must reflect upon their actions, and, accepting the charge, must say, "Accepted." Both parties agree to move on. Both parties also agree not to bring up the past.

However, like even our best laid plans, the Peace Treaty continues to be threatened by our volatile worklationship. What will follow are examples where the Peace Treaty has been on the edge of collapse. Keep in mind that these conversations mostly take place in the exquisitely impersonal realm of iChat while we sit back to back at our desks (in true world leader fashion).

03.22.06
All you need to know about this one is that I organize for a living. It's what I do. And Coworker takes that organization and throws it on our website. The following is regarding a few folders he perceived to be disorganized.

him: Are you sure you named them in order? Hmmm?

me: Yes, you told me to go through and name them alphabetically, I went through and re-did every single folder and named them in the order they are on the store locations page. Just like you said. [occasionally it's good to retrace your steps aloud. It prevents misunderstanding. MOST people would take me for my word and agree. Like I said, MOST people.]

him: Hmmm....okay, we'll see. We'll see.

me: 'We'll see'? Are you implying I did it wrong? Because I did not.

him: Look in the SC folder, there are only 8 pics and there are 10 online. All's I'm saying.

me: Because you told me to only do 8.

him: If you say so. [And this is where we spiral quickly out of control. Are you following? Good.]

me: Okay I'm not accusing you of instigating, but I am going to make you aware of the fact that you are doing 'it' again. And by 'it' I mean, you tell me to do something, and then a week or a month later, you question what I did and make it seem like I made a mistake when I did not, and then refuse to believe me when I tell you that I was only doing what you told me to do. [Pause. Deep breath.] I'm just SAYING, you're doing it again. You might want to watch that.

him: Or what? You'll run to the UN and tattle?

[Later, he comes back, tail between his legs, ready to announce that, once again, to the victor goes the spoils.]

him: I told you 8 pics only because I forgot how many pics went into a page.

me: Well okay, so can we agree that it was your fault then, and move on?

him: Maybe I assumed that you would see the page, ask me if I was sure that I only wanted 8 and I would have caught it there.

me: You know, it's not up to me to catch your mistakes. You said 8. I did 8.

him: You can question. I'm just saying.

me: No, I really can't, because you get defensive when I do or you make it my fault, somehow.

him: Well, I'd like to think that you don't just blindly work here, it's not that mechanical.

me: I don't just blindly work, but when you say "8 pics only'' I'm not really leaving that open to interpretation.

him: I mean you question every other thing I do, I'm actually quite surprised that you don't ask me, "Why am I doing this?"

me: Right, so you just said that I question what you do, so why are you telling me I can question you when I clearly already do? You're going in circles. ALL'S I'm saying is you've got that accusatory tone today.

him: Today? No, you question me on personal issues, never work. Tone? I don't have a tone. I woke up great and you're getting all defensive on me.

me: I'm not getting defensive, you tried to shove something off on me WAY too early in the morning. I'm just guarding my territory here and saying, don't push that on me.

him: Ok I'm over it.

me: Okay, fair enough. Is the peace treaty still intact?

him: Yes, this was just discourse.


3.29.06
In another instance of "I've already done the work but we seem to have 'lost' it, yet again, Episode 2: Where Laurel loses her mind," I am asked to fix a picture I've already fixed at least three times already.

me: I've never made one before? 'cause I'm pretty sure I already have.

him: Don't know. You probably have.

me: Can you check please? Before you make me do it AGAIN?


03.30.06
This literally came out of nowhere. I have to say this, because I wouldn't want you, dear reader, to stumble upon this post and think that you've entered the conversation at the punchline, if you will. This just came stark raving out of Nowhere (capital N).

I was taking orders for a midday Starbucks pilgrimage at work, when Coworker X walks in the office, looks at us, and, upon seeing that something was afoot, says,

(Pause. Wait for it.)

"Who are we punching? Are we planning to punch someone?"

And there you have it.


3.30.06
I was minding my own business at this very moment, I promise. I was tap-tap-tapping away on my slightly grimey keyboard when I was assaulted with--well, just read on.

Him: Well would you hear that.

Me: What?

Him; Ulices is suddenly all chatty cathy over there.

Me: Wow...

Him: I blame you.

Me: YOU WOULD.


3.31.06
This may put the Peace Treaty on hold forever, but I'm willing to take that risk.

This is the perk of being friends with the girl who is in charge of putting art up on the walls in our office. There is now a picture of Coworker hanging on the wall, dressed up as a bumble bee, striking a pose similar to that ubiquitous Karate Kid stance, and scowling. Complete with antennae.

Oh, and did I mention that it's twelve feet tall?

No, I don't think I did. It's twelve feet tall.


4.5.06
For some reason, (and since our world and worklationship seem to be 90% contained within the confines of iChat, so our lingo and vernacular reflect the SuperGeek culture in which we live) Coworker changes his iChat icon up quite a bit. That's understandable, you say. Of course it is, I prefer consistency myself, but if you wish to switch your picture every five minutes, by all means, do it. But Coworker doesn't just change his logo from, say, a guitar to a field of puppies. No, Coworker seems to have exhausted the supply of--are you ready for this?--human brain clipart available to iChatters. Every new icon he chooses is yet another tireless perspective or brushstroke of the grey matter. What this says about him, I don't know, except perhaps that I think he is secretly plotting to take over the planet.

me: Whoa, your icon keeps changing. But of course we find our way back to the proverbial brain clipart.

him: Yes. As opposed to your face. All the time. Thats all im saying. [Pause. waits for me to respond.] Speechless.

me: Instigator!

him: This is America, I get choices.

me: Have your choices. Don't criticize my face. ALL I'M SAYIN'.

him: I'm just saying I'm adventurous when it comes to my icons. As opposed to you over there, all Nancy McStagnant. Is all I'm sayin.

me: You might switch the look of your icon but the subject matter remains the same. Namely, brain matter. All the time. Like you're some soulless Wizard behind a curtain.

[and just like that we change the subject.]

him: I'm entertaining the thought of going out to lunch.