I am so cool.
Lately, I have occasionally been going off cape to do things -y’know, culture stuff, bands and plays and stuff -in other areas that aren’t here. I have even, on more than one occasion, gone Over the Bridge. Four times I did it, I think, wait, one, two, threeeee... No! Three! Three times. Three times I went OveR the BridgE (see how when you type it like that, even the words look like little bridges! I love that!!) On my own, without anyone dying or falling ill, for no other reason than that it was my whim.
Also, though, and more importantly, it was da whim of da wife, the ever coltish, devilishly cunning, blazingly speedy Mrs. K (AKA the girl who put the “u” in Thurston), who got the urge for goin’, giving me full license to whisk her away for five fun-filled nights at the Copa in fabulous Buenos Aires, Havah Nagilah! Or, actually, not there, but somewhere else; and, we stayed with my cousin for one night and drove home the next -but otherwise, that’s just how it was! Crazy man, crazy!
I’m probably making it sound like more fun than you had to be there, but didn’t you know it? we had such a cool time! going wherever we must’ve went.
One of the big things I wanted to brag about here is that I have learned to be able to do many different things while I am driving, through a fantastic new process, and I’d like to tell you about it. I have found that I can not only listen to the radio and drink and eat and talk on the phone, I can also clean up the front seat (make sure all the trash is in one bag and the nickels, dimes, and quarters are in their corresponding compartments in the change dispenser), put the maps in alphabetical order in the glove compartment, trim my cuticles, and jeer at passersby. Early on I found myself slowly becoming able to perform these and many other basic tasks, once I discovered that I could basically DRIVE WITH MY KNEES!
Yes, sir, you heard me right: now, through the revolutionary new process of just trying to do it and what the hell, I have learned to drive my car almost entirely with my knees, leaving my hands free to catch up on important chores, like: making lists! paying those pesky bills! catching up with that new bestseller! vacuuming! playing the accordion! pottery! -even typing this article! Why, I can hardly remember the last time I used my hands for driving! I’m getting way more done, and -best of all -no one’s been killed so far!
Sure, there’s been a good deal of swerving around -even the occasional close miss -but joggers wouldn’t jog if they didn’t like to move around fast in the first place, would they? Anyway, I highly recommend the process to all and everyone here in the golden age of multi-tasking; after all, who has the time nowadays to just drive?
For instance, this week, when everyone had plenty to do getting ready for the big day with their families on Thanksgiving (and by the way, hope you had a great one, and that you and your family ate like pigs until you all passed out; happy Thanksgiving, one and all, from all of us here at Kelp on Kape!); what if on all those trips back and forth to the store, you could have used that time also peeling potatoes, shucking oysters, and making a lovely flaky pie crust? Wouldn’t that put you that far ahead of the game?
Driving with your knees is a terrific time saver, and I’m sure you’ll all think of all sorts of things to do with all the extra time you’ll have on your hands, once your knees take over!
Anyway, I was going to tell you all about our trips Over the Bridge, which started with a trip to Boston to see Beck and the Flaming Lips at the Orpheum, which was a swell show whose feature performers worked in sharp contrast to each other; and damn, I’d still like to tell you about it, but I just got a flat, and it’s almost impossible to write bumping along like this, so I will now conclude with a simple reminder to think about taking some of the care you’d normally put in to your driving and put it into something almost equally important, like doing a crossword puzzle; knitting; or picking ticks off a despised family member. Sure, it’s nice to get there safe; but isn’t it even nicer to get caught up on things for once?
Sure it is! On your knees!
Friday, November 29, 2002
Friday, November 22, 2002
All the News In Fits We Print
No music today; let's take a look at sports!
I have decided that the Patriots -the Superbowl Champion New England Football Patriots- will definitely not make it to the Super Bowl this year. No way. You guys are dreaming. And why? One simple reason: our kicker is doing product testimonials.
This is a crime against nature. Commercial appearances should only be awarded to players that actually handle the ball. Handle; as in, they touch it with their hands. Athletes who make their money with their feet, but not by running, are like children -they should be seen and not heard. More accurately, they're like really ugly children -they should neither be seen, nor heard. They should make their little kicks and go back to their rooms.
Field goal kickers and punters are embarrassing anyway, as they always signal failure -teams only kick as a last resort, when they've tried everything else and they're stuck. When the field goal guy comes on, the rest of the team is mortified.
Now, I know, Adam Vinatieri, the Pats kicker, is one of the best. He rarely misses, and he's made a lot of clutch kicks and won some games and so forth. Still, the fact that he is appearing on ads for such outfits as Papa Gino's and Tweeter can only be a harbinger of evil. Until they get one of the real players to do these ads, one of the actual football players who gets to touch the ball with his hands, they are doomed. Just thought you should know.
And that about wraps it up for sports; let's see what's happening in the world of business and high finance!
Like many people, I have margarine brand names I prefer and ones I don't. For instance, one margarine brand I never buy is "Lard-O"; to me, it sends the wrong message. On the other hand, my favorite product name of all time is still "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter", and recently I was reflecting on how the world might have changed had it become really popular. For one thing, I believe it might have spawned imitators, cheap knock-offs with names like "I Can't Believe It's Not "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"", "Why, That's Damn Near Margarine!" and "Phew! At Least It Doesn't Seem To Be Lard-O!" For another thing... well, I can't really remember the other thing, but I'll bet it would've had quite an effect on the economy.
Now let's bid a fond adieu to the hustle and bustle of Wall St. and return to some follow-up reports on some of the people we got to know in recent issues. Michael Jackson, whose last album was panned here in the Codder, was recently seen dangling an infant from the balcony of his German hotel room by its ankles; though this was no doubt meant as some sort of appeal to the review, I must say that I think it's a little pathetic that he'd take it that seriously, and I still stand by my original opinion that the songwriting lacked direction.
I also finally hooked up with that crafty Bill Staines, the well-known folksinger and contemporary of Michael Jackson whom you may remember eluded me for a couple of weeks there. He said he got my calls and emails, and that he thought he did remember me from the old days, and that he hoped he could continue to avoid me throughout the new millennium. We laughed, or at least one of us did, and then I looked away for an instant and he was gone.
I did catch part of his show at the First Encounter (actually, the part that you could see through the crack in the door, as the place was sold out), and it was state-of-the-art folksinger stuff, friendly, unassuming, and pretty much baloney-free. He did a nice rap about the onset of senility, and ended all his songs a little quicker and with a bit less fuss than expected, which is rare and delightful.
I've always associated that sort of thing with Randy Newman, who often seems to catch his songs up short -before you can object, he's gone. It's a very necessary antidote to the Bruce Springsteen ending, which is grand, thunderous, and frequently infinite; really, an ending is the last thing you want to go on forever. In my opinion, the rare musician that actually ends things faster than you expect he will deserves some sort of special dispensation from the chancellery or 20% discount or something.
Report from Tinseltown: I finally saw "Punch Drunk Love", and it's pretty good, though not as good as Paul Thomas Michael What's-is-name's previous masterpieces, "Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia", and I'm disgusted to admit that Adam Sandler actually has some very fine moments in it, and hardly does any of that dreadful baby-talk thing he does so often; still, I wish it had been someone else, and I'll bet What's-is-name will make a better movie next time and that it won't have Adam Sandler.
NEXT WEEK -Frisky New Socks You Can Wear To The Doctor!
I have decided that the Patriots -the Superbowl Champion New England Football Patriots- will definitely not make it to the Super Bowl this year. No way. You guys are dreaming. And why? One simple reason: our kicker is doing product testimonials.
This is a crime against nature. Commercial appearances should only be awarded to players that actually handle the ball. Handle; as in, they touch it with their hands. Athletes who make their money with their feet, but not by running, are like children -they should be seen and not heard. More accurately, they're like really ugly children -they should neither be seen, nor heard. They should make their little kicks and go back to their rooms.
Field goal kickers and punters are embarrassing anyway, as they always signal failure -teams only kick as a last resort, when they've tried everything else and they're stuck. When the field goal guy comes on, the rest of the team is mortified.
Now, I know, Adam Vinatieri, the Pats kicker, is one of the best. He rarely misses, and he's made a lot of clutch kicks and won some games and so forth. Still, the fact that he is appearing on ads for such outfits as Papa Gino's and Tweeter can only be a harbinger of evil. Until they get one of the real players to do these ads, one of the actual football players who gets to touch the ball with his hands, they are doomed. Just thought you should know.
And that about wraps it up for sports; let's see what's happening in the world of business and high finance!
Like many people, I have margarine brand names I prefer and ones I don't. For instance, one margarine brand I never buy is "Lard-O"; to me, it sends the wrong message. On the other hand, my favorite product name of all time is still "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter", and recently I was reflecting on how the world might have changed had it become really popular. For one thing, I believe it might have spawned imitators, cheap knock-offs with names like "I Can't Believe It's Not "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter"", "Why, That's Damn Near Margarine!" and "Phew! At Least It Doesn't Seem To Be Lard-O!" For another thing... well, I can't really remember the other thing, but I'll bet it would've had quite an effect on the economy.
Now let's bid a fond adieu to the hustle and bustle of Wall St. and return to some follow-up reports on some of the people we got to know in recent issues. Michael Jackson, whose last album was panned here in the Codder, was recently seen dangling an infant from the balcony of his German hotel room by its ankles; though this was no doubt meant as some sort of appeal to the review, I must say that I think it's a little pathetic that he'd take it that seriously, and I still stand by my original opinion that the songwriting lacked direction.
I also finally hooked up with that crafty Bill Staines, the well-known folksinger and contemporary of Michael Jackson whom you may remember eluded me for a couple of weeks there. He said he got my calls and emails, and that he thought he did remember me from the old days, and that he hoped he could continue to avoid me throughout the new millennium. We laughed, or at least one of us did, and then I looked away for an instant and he was gone.
I did catch part of his show at the First Encounter (actually, the part that you could see through the crack in the door, as the place was sold out), and it was state-of-the-art folksinger stuff, friendly, unassuming, and pretty much baloney-free. He did a nice rap about the onset of senility, and ended all his songs a little quicker and with a bit less fuss than expected, which is rare and delightful.
I've always associated that sort of thing with Randy Newman, who often seems to catch his songs up short -before you can object, he's gone. It's a very necessary antidote to the Bruce Springsteen ending, which is grand, thunderous, and frequently infinite; really, an ending is the last thing you want to go on forever. In my opinion, the rare musician that actually ends things faster than you expect he will deserves some sort of special dispensation from the chancellery or 20% discount or something.
Report from Tinseltown: I finally saw "Punch Drunk Love", and it's pretty good, though not as good as Paul Thomas Michael What's-is-name's previous masterpieces, "Boogie Nights" and "Magnolia", and I'm disgusted to admit that Adam Sandler actually has some very fine moments in it, and hardly does any of that dreadful baby-talk thing he does so often; still, I wish it had been someone else, and I'll bet What's-is-name will make a better movie next time and that it won't have Adam Sandler.
NEXT WEEK -Frisky New Socks You Can Wear To The Doctor!
Friday, November 15, 2002
Jennifer Kimball
A funny thing happened to me on my way to the Jennifer Kimball article: I found out I had really sold her debut CD, “Veering From the Wave” (Imaginary Road/Polygram) short. Originally, I confessed some disappointment; I had been a big fan of her duo with Jonatha Brooks, the Story, and probably felt those records had set the bar pretty high, as they had been remarkably original. In retrospect, they were quite influential as well -you can see a little school popping up there a decade or so ago, founded by the Story, Suzanne Vega, Shawn Colvin, and Patty Larkin, who were basically taking some roots out of acoustic music and substituting a little mystery and some production values. Thank you, lawd!
Anyway, hard act to follow. And me being a butthead, I neglected to notice that there were more than a few great songs on there, as I had originally reported; in fact, there was a whole stretch of great stuff! I still maintain that she saved all the best stuff for the second half, but, jeese, there’s some great stuff on here I missed completely, like “The Revelations”, which is one of those blasts of pop I’m always talking about, complete with Beatles-like piccolo trumpet and vaguely Arabian-sounding tape loops or something. Delightful! And the lovely ballads “World Without End” and “Lullaby” -wonderful.
And here’s the kicker: two of the cuts are just Kimball playing solo, sans backing and overdubs, and, despite the fact that the other players are impeccable throughout (especially guitarist Duke Levine, who also played with the Story, and who definitely knows a nice, lonely, dreamy landscape when he hears one), these solo tracks are both definite high points.
Which is lucky for us, because for her upcoming appearance at the Stand Up for Choice concert for Mass NARAL, the state-wide pro-choice organization, on Thursday, November 21st, at First Parish Universalist Church in Brewster, she’ll be performing solo. (Spunky local poetry slammer Kristin Knowles will no doubt be appropriately dazzling in the opening slot.)
You’d think Ms. Kimball would be nervous, but when I spoke with her last weekend, she seemed OK. We chatted for about an hour when I declared all the Important Questions asked and answered, only to realize shortly after I got off the phone that I had completely neglected to ask her about her remarkable career as a background vocalist -she’s sung on about sixty albums in the past decade or so. A high amount like that would imply that she not only sings good, but she’s not obnoxious. I think that’s what gives her the edge over the other background singers; but I forgot to ask her about that, too. I had to email back -very embarrassing.
She says that she once did a (paid) audition for the “Folger’s in your cup” jingle, and that it was humiliating. She also cut some tracks for a Christian singer named Paul Beloche, but only on the condition that she not have to “sing I love God sort of stuff” (Jennifer is a Presbyterian, not a zealot.)
Her most thrilling background singing moment? “Singing with Jackson Browne on a tour with him, with the Story opening as a duo, for two weeks in the fall of '93. There were these cool parts on a tune from his '93 record, and one show was kind of unplugged -he didn't have his whole band -and we jumped up on stage and recreated those parts so beautifully he brought us out every night after that to do the same. Tooting my horn, I'm afraid; but it was fun.”
She’s also involved at present in at least a couple of other side projects: Wayfaring Strangers, with violinist Matt Glazer, Andy Statman on clarinet and mandolin, banjo maverick Tony Trischka, and a host of guest vocalists (the album, called “Shifting Sands of Time”, came out last year on Rounder); and Maybe Baby, a band she formed with her boyfriend Ry Cavanaugh that will soon release its debut album, “What Matters.”
Both these bands lean heavier on roots music than Jennifer does on her own. The Maybe Baby album features a lovely Appalachian-flavored song called “Coal Machine” and a nice little pop song called “Little Live Things”, both written by Kimball.
The Story occasionally used unusual, sometimes even dissonant harmonies, and had a sense of adventurousness that was rare in acoustic music (it’s fitting she hooked up with Trischka, a Thelonious Monk disciple who similarly brought an edge to bluegrass banjo about twenty years ago.) The quirkiness occasionally carried over into the lyrics, and Jennifer acknowledges that she and Jonatha are still big Roches fans; so that’s just one more reason to like her.
I’m going.
Anyway, hard act to follow. And me being a butthead, I neglected to notice that there were more than a few great songs on there, as I had originally reported; in fact, there was a whole stretch of great stuff! I still maintain that she saved all the best stuff for the second half, but, jeese, there’s some great stuff on here I missed completely, like “The Revelations”, which is one of those blasts of pop I’m always talking about, complete with Beatles-like piccolo trumpet and vaguely Arabian-sounding tape loops or something. Delightful! And the lovely ballads “World Without End” and “Lullaby” -wonderful.
And here’s the kicker: two of the cuts are just Kimball playing solo, sans backing and overdubs, and, despite the fact that the other players are impeccable throughout (especially guitarist Duke Levine, who also played with the Story, and who definitely knows a nice, lonely, dreamy landscape when he hears one), these solo tracks are both definite high points.
Which is lucky for us, because for her upcoming appearance at the Stand Up for Choice concert for Mass NARAL, the state-wide pro-choice organization, on Thursday, November 21st, at First Parish Universalist Church in Brewster, she’ll be performing solo. (Spunky local poetry slammer Kristin Knowles will no doubt be appropriately dazzling in the opening slot.)
You’d think Ms. Kimball would be nervous, but when I spoke with her last weekend, she seemed OK. We chatted for about an hour when I declared all the Important Questions asked and answered, only to realize shortly after I got off the phone that I had completely neglected to ask her about her remarkable career as a background vocalist -she’s sung on about sixty albums in the past decade or so. A high amount like that would imply that she not only sings good, but she’s not obnoxious. I think that’s what gives her the edge over the other background singers; but I forgot to ask her about that, too. I had to email back -very embarrassing.
She says that she once did a (paid) audition for the “Folger’s in your cup” jingle, and that it was humiliating. She also cut some tracks for a Christian singer named Paul Beloche, but only on the condition that she not have to “sing I love God sort of stuff” (Jennifer is a Presbyterian, not a zealot.)
Her most thrilling background singing moment? “Singing with Jackson Browne on a tour with him, with the Story opening as a duo, for two weeks in the fall of '93. There were these cool parts on a tune from his '93 record, and one show was kind of unplugged -he didn't have his whole band -and we jumped up on stage and recreated those parts so beautifully he brought us out every night after that to do the same. Tooting my horn, I'm afraid; but it was fun.”
She’s also involved at present in at least a couple of other side projects: Wayfaring Strangers, with violinist Matt Glazer, Andy Statman on clarinet and mandolin, banjo maverick Tony Trischka, and a host of guest vocalists (the album, called “Shifting Sands of Time”, came out last year on Rounder); and Maybe Baby, a band she formed with her boyfriend Ry Cavanaugh that will soon release its debut album, “What Matters.”
Both these bands lean heavier on roots music than Jennifer does on her own. The Maybe Baby album features a lovely Appalachian-flavored song called “Coal Machine” and a nice little pop song called “Little Live Things”, both written by Kimball.
The Story occasionally used unusual, sometimes even dissonant harmonies, and had a sense of adventurousness that was rare in acoustic music (it’s fitting she hooked up with Trischka, a Thelonious Monk disciple who similarly brought an edge to bluegrass banjo about twenty years ago.) The quirkiness occasionally carried over into the lyrics, and Jennifer acknowledges that she and Jonatha are still big Roches fans; so that’s just one more reason to like her.
I’m going.
Experiments With Food & Napkins
Hi! I’m having old Chinese food -want some?
My wife, the impossibly delightful, improbably de-lovely Mrs. Kelp, says that I never eat leftovers, so once again I have set out to prove her wrong. Actually, for much of this year I have been experimenting with the idea that many foods keep a lot longer than you’d think, in many cases going well beyond the usual one-week rule. It is also my contention that just because a food is no longer its original color, that’s no reason to abandon it; these changes in hue are natural and beautiful, and we New Englanders who so laud the changing colors of the seasons should learn to better appreciate these cycles of nature (so often referred to as “going south”, or, more commonly, “rotting”) instead of running away at the first hint of toxicity.
Tonight, for instance, I have been feasting on some Chinese carry-out from about ten days ago. Sometimes, it’s better not to scrutinize things too closely -even I drew the line at the boneless spareribs and chicken wings, not so much because of the greenish tinge so much as some rather odd changes in texture (I even went down the hall to get my glasses for more accurate identification.) The rice looked fine, though, and the beef (which was just a little green) and the broccoli (which is green anyway, so who knows?) were in some kind of sauce that I chose to assume must have contained many preservatives.
On closer inspection, I was amused to find that the beef and broccoli seemed to be in the process of trading colors, which I’m hopeful will be OK in the long run, as long as there’s still the same amounts of green and brown overall. I figure as long as I don’t die in my sleep tonight, I can consider the meal a success. If nothing else, there’s more room in the refrigerator.
I must say that I found it a little upsetting when the first words I heard following this sumptuous repast were those of the Napkins’ Eben Portnoy on their new, self-burnt CD, “I’ve Been Wading”, which begins:
“I don’t care who you are - you’ve done something wrong
I don’t care how nice you seem -you’ve done some evil things
I don’t know your motivations - I don’t care how well you kiss
I don’t know who you are - but I believe in justice.”
Man! It’s like he’s seen my kitchen!
Actually, I’ve followed Eben on and off ever since he was in Nauset High and gave me a tape by his band No Siento that still ranks as one of my favorite local tapes ever. At the time, he was playing noisy amplified stuff, veering a bit towards Replacements-style pop; more recently, his stuff is quieter and more acoustic, though equally alternative-sounding (i.e. lots of strumming and bad singing, a la the Mountain Goats or Jonathan Richman.)
On “Wading”, the vocals are right up front, and the lyrics, which were always interesting and a little quirky, are more meticulous; these are both welcome developments. The Napkins’ instrumentation is also a bit more varied, encompassing not only piano and violin but a zombie choir featuring one Meghan Patrick, who is the official girlfriend of my friend and neighbor Denzel O’Sullivan (that’s right, folks, the fix is in.)
The CD has its ups and downs, and perhaps works better as an encouraging sign of things to come than as a fully realized whole; but it’s never terrible, rarely less than interesting, and the good stuff is kind of a blast. “Haunted House Party” employs some fairly eccentric intermittent drumming, both backwards and forwards, in a reflective, personal two-minute rumination on the nature of love. The closer, “Retribution”, is gleefully and quietly screwy, as Eben asks “Will you punish me? Will you be my pilgrim?” over pump organ chords and occasional dissonant guitar noodling. I’ve got to admit, it has been ages since anyone asked me to be their pilgrim.
You can catch the Napkins in action this Friday, November 15th, at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis, along with Jonathan Guardia (who, according to this here press release, “plays the soundtrack for blood running down mountain riverbeds!”); they’ll apparently both be accompanied by the abstract projections (???) of Boston filmmaker Brittany Gravely. What the hell!
My wife, the impossibly delightful, improbably de-lovely Mrs. Kelp, says that I never eat leftovers, so once again I have set out to prove her wrong. Actually, for much of this year I have been experimenting with the idea that many foods keep a lot longer than you’d think, in many cases going well beyond the usual one-week rule. It is also my contention that just because a food is no longer its original color, that’s no reason to abandon it; these changes in hue are natural and beautiful, and we New Englanders who so laud the changing colors of the seasons should learn to better appreciate these cycles of nature (so often referred to as “going south”, or, more commonly, “rotting”) instead of running away at the first hint of toxicity.
Tonight, for instance, I have been feasting on some Chinese carry-out from about ten days ago. Sometimes, it’s better not to scrutinize things too closely -even I drew the line at the boneless spareribs and chicken wings, not so much because of the greenish tinge so much as some rather odd changes in texture (I even went down the hall to get my glasses for more accurate identification.) The rice looked fine, though, and the beef (which was just a little green) and the broccoli (which is green anyway, so who knows?) were in some kind of sauce that I chose to assume must have contained many preservatives.
On closer inspection, I was amused to find that the beef and broccoli seemed to be in the process of trading colors, which I’m hopeful will be OK in the long run, as long as there’s still the same amounts of green and brown overall. I figure as long as I don’t die in my sleep tonight, I can consider the meal a success. If nothing else, there’s more room in the refrigerator.
I must say that I found it a little upsetting when the first words I heard following this sumptuous repast were those of the Napkins’ Eben Portnoy on their new, self-burnt CD, “I’ve Been Wading”, which begins:
“I don’t care who you are - you’ve done something wrong
I don’t care how nice you seem -you’ve done some evil things
I don’t know your motivations - I don’t care how well you kiss
I don’t know who you are - but I believe in justice.”
Man! It’s like he’s seen my kitchen!
Actually, I’ve followed Eben on and off ever since he was in Nauset High and gave me a tape by his band No Siento that still ranks as one of my favorite local tapes ever. At the time, he was playing noisy amplified stuff, veering a bit towards Replacements-style pop; more recently, his stuff is quieter and more acoustic, though equally alternative-sounding (i.e. lots of strumming and bad singing, a la the Mountain Goats or Jonathan Richman.)
On “Wading”, the vocals are right up front, and the lyrics, which were always interesting and a little quirky, are more meticulous; these are both welcome developments. The Napkins’ instrumentation is also a bit more varied, encompassing not only piano and violin but a zombie choir featuring one Meghan Patrick, who is the official girlfriend of my friend and neighbor Denzel O’Sullivan (that’s right, folks, the fix is in.)
The CD has its ups and downs, and perhaps works better as an encouraging sign of things to come than as a fully realized whole; but it’s never terrible, rarely less than interesting, and the good stuff is kind of a blast. “Haunted House Party” employs some fairly eccentric intermittent drumming, both backwards and forwards, in a reflective, personal two-minute rumination on the nature of love. The closer, “Retribution”, is gleefully and quietly screwy, as Eben asks “Will you punish me? Will you be my pilgrim?” over pump organ chords and occasional dissonant guitar noodling. I’ve got to admit, it has been ages since anyone asked me to be their pilgrim.
You can catch the Napkins in action this Friday, November 15th, at the Prodigal Son in Hyannis, along with Jonathan Guardia (who, according to this here press release, “plays the soundtrack for blood running down mountain riverbeds!”); they’ll apparently both be accompanied by the abstract projections (???) of Boston filmmaker Brittany Gravely. What the hell!
Friday, November 8, 2002
Further Remembrances
Well, OK, I’m very upset about this whole Bill Staines thing. which really has not occurred. Some of you (or, to be precise, probably about two of you) may remember from last week that I had hoped to interview Bill sometime prior to his appearance at the First Encounter in Eastham this Saturday; you may recall me mentioning that he was an old friend, who I remembered as a great guy, and whom I hadn’t seen in years, and how I was looking forward to getting re-acquainted and all.
Well, he hasn’t answered any of my phone calls, so I emailed, and he also hasn’t answered any of my emails, and I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. There’s always the chance that he may remember me less fondly than I do him, if he’s even the guy I’m thinking of in the first place. I think he is, though. I wonder if I did something awful I’ve forgotten about back then, maybe he hates my guts or something. I don’t know! I’m irritated, and I’ve been drinking.
Now I am finding (and eating) every single nut in the house. I’m finding that the drinking is not enough (although it’s fine as far as it goes -I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong) and so I’ve also assembled an eating disorder. Pass anything.
It’s just, he seemed like such a nice guy, eight billion thousand years ago (assuming it was him.) I thought we were getting along great, and here it turns out he hates my guts.
I hear he’s a really good folksinger. Actually, I remember him being quite good, back in the old days -or, at least, I remember someone being quite good. To tell the truth, when I really think about what I was into thirty years ago, I mean... it could’ve been almost anyone. And besides, this guy just won’t call me back, which I think pretty much proves he remembers me! It must be the same guy!
I can’t believe he doesn’t like me anymore. I’m almost positive I wouldn’t have done anything all that horrible. Maybe he’s just stuck up, because of being so famous and all and the fast life and the groupies and what-not. Who needs him, anyway? What a jerk.
If you see him this Saturday, don’t say anything about me- I just don’t think I’m ready yet. Still, go, check out his show; in fact, what the hell, let’s let bygones be bygones and make him the pick of the week -the Kelp Pick of the Week, yeah, that sounds good. I give this show my highest recommendation, because I think I almost kind of pretty much remember this guy, and, if it’s the guy I think it is, he actually wasn’t very objectionable and kind of knew what he was doing (if I remember correctly.)
I just don’t know why he hasn’t called. God, I hope he’s OK! Karie Miller (the guiding light of the First Encounter coffeehouse and also my neighbor, and let me tell you that’s not always a bed of roses) said at one point that she thought Bill might not be a big computer person, might not be keeping up real good with his email, etc., and that makes sense. Maybe that means he doesn’t have a cell phone, either. I mean, he’s a folksinger, for god’s sake; he probably rides a bike and smokes clove cigarettes. Why would he have a phone?
I’m sure he still likes me. Actually, if you do see him this Saturday, just tell him Thurston says hi. No, tell him I was going to stop by, but my chauffeur had the night off, but that I still remember him fondly. No, “warmly.” No, just say “Thurston asked after you” and “he was warm.” Wait, do you think that sounds too needy?
The nuts are gone now, and I’m all by myself. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve gone too far; if, in my rush to be accepted and admired, I’ve forgotten all that was decent and fine about myself, and instead plunged into a maelstrom of despair and decay. Sure hope not!
Next week: my special weekend with Bradford Dillman. Ta!
Well, he hasn’t answered any of my phone calls, so I emailed, and he also hasn’t answered any of my emails, and I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me. There’s always the chance that he may remember me less fondly than I do him, if he’s even the guy I’m thinking of in the first place. I think he is, though. I wonder if I did something awful I’ve forgotten about back then, maybe he hates my guts or something. I don’t know! I’m irritated, and I’ve been drinking.
Now I am finding (and eating) every single nut in the house. I’m finding that the drinking is not enough (although it’s fine as far as it goes -I’m not complaining, don’t get me wrong) and so I’ve also assembled an eating disorder. Pass anything.
It’s just, he seemed like such a nice guy, eight billion thousand years ago (assuming it was him.) I thought we were getting along great, and here it turns out he hates my guts.
I hear he’s a really good folksinger. Actually, I remember him being quite good, back in the old days -or, at least, I remember someone being quite good. To tell the truth, when I really think about what I was into thirty years ago, I mean... it could’ve been almost anyone. And besides, this guy just won’t call me back, which I think pretty much proves he remembers me! It must be the same guy!
I can’t believe he doesn’t like me anymore. I’m almost positive I wouldn’t have done anything all that horrible. Maybe he’s just stuck up, because of being so famous and all and the fast life and the groupies and what-not. Who needs him, anyway? What a jerk.
If you see him this Saturday, don’t say anything about me- I just don’t think I’m ready yet. Still, go, check out his show; in fact, what the hell, let’s let bygones be bygones and make him the pick of the week -the Kelp Pick of the Week, yeah, that sounds good. I give this show my highest recommendation, because I think I almost kind of pretty much remember this guy, and, if it’s the guy I think it is, he actually wasn’t very objectionable and kind of knew what he was doing (if I remember correctly.)
I just don’t know why he hasn’t called. God, I hope he’s OK! Karie Miller (the guiding light of the First Encounter coffeehouse and also my neighbor, and let me tell you that’s not always a bed of roses) said at one point that she thought Bill might not be a big computer person, might not be keeping up real good with his email, etc., and that makes sense. Maybe that means he doesn’t have a cell phone, either. I mean, he’s a folksinger, for god’s sake; he probably rides a bike and smokes clove cigarettes. Why would he have a phone?
I’m sure he still likes me. Actually, if you do see him this Saturday, just tell him Thurston says hi. No, tell him I was going to stop by, but my chauffeur had the night off, but that I still remember him fondly. No, “warmly.” No, just say “Thurston asked after you” and “he was warm.” Wait, do you think that sounds too needy?
The nuts are gone now, and I’m all by myself. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve gone too far; if, in my rush to be accepted and admired, I’ve forgotten all that was decent and fine about myself, and instead plunged into a maelstrom of despair and decay. Sure hope not!
Next week: my special weekend with Bradford Dillman. Ta!
Friday, November 1, 2002
Bill Staines Profile, Probably
Hi! It’s me again. Again with very little exciting news, as expected.
I saw a picture of a box last week. It was pretty.
My aunt had a boat.
See, in the journalism business, you’ve got to be open-minded, because you never know where your next hot lead is coming from. It could be something that sounds totally stupid at first, and then, voila! -it morphs into something that’s almost better than nothing! Well, sometimes it does; not always. (That’s why it’s called, “journalism!”)
Lobsters are stupid. When was the last time a lobster hosted a symposium? -hell of a long time ago.
See, I’m hoping eventually I’ll say something that’ll somehow lead to some other thing, and then that’ll lead to something else; and then in no time the page will be full of words and the column will be done!
Good world series so far, huh?
I certainly like young, good-looking women! Let’s think of one together... I know, Jayne Mansfield!
That reminds me, I have I a very old friend named Bill Staines who’s performing at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this weekend, probably on either Friday or Saturday. Unless it’s next weekend, in which case it’s still Friday or Saturday. Or Sunday, maybe. I think it’s this weekend. Pretty soon anyway.
I knew Bill briefly about thirty years ago, and he was a hell of a guy, and put on a swell folksinging show; and I’ll bet he still does, if it’s the same guy.
He’s put out a bunch of records over the years; unfortunately, I haven’t heard them, which is a pity, under the circumstances. I’l bet they’re pretty good, though. Normally, I’d try to get one, somehow, but I called, and he’s away. Alaska, actually, this week. So.
By the way, I just tuned into the Netscape News, and it said “Is Adam Sandler a genius?”, and I’d just like to, as soon as possible, go right on record with the answer, “no.” That guy Paul Michael Thomas Bobby or whatever his name is, the director (he’s got like twelve all-american first names), the one that did “Magnolia” and “Boogie Nights” (both of which I worship; ok, I’ll look it up dammitIhateyou; OK, it’s Paul Thomas Anderson, you happy?)(At least I was close), is possibly a genius of some kind; basically, if he can even get me to consider paying money to go out and see a movie starring Adam Sandler, he is either a genius or a spectacularly sneaky, evil wizard.
Anyway, his new movie “Punch Drunk Love” just came out, to rapturous reviews, and I know they’re probably right, but, damn -Adam Sandler? You mean, literally everyone else was busy? If this movie makes me like Adam Sandler, then, well, I don’t know; I’m just not all that comfortable with it. Do I have to?
If DVDs were really cool they’d have versions of movies where you could substitute actors. I admit it, I’m apprehensive. If Mr. Bobby can put this one over, then he truly is a genius.
I guess I could look up when Bill’s playing, too. What the hell, though, I don’t even know it it’s the same guy or not. This is stupid.
OK, fine, I looked it up, he’s not playing until next week anyway, on Saturday, November 9th; so never mind.
He might not be any good anyway -like I said, I’m not sure if it’s the same guy I think it is -but If you go, tell him ‘hey” for me, unless it turns out not to be him. Then feel free to kind of give him the cold shoulder.
I saw a picture of a box last week. It was pretty.
My aunt had a boat.
See, in the journalism business, you’ve got to be open-minded, because you never know where your next hot lead is coming from. It could be something that sounds totally stupid at first, and then, voila! -it morphs into something that’s almost better than nothing! Well, sometimes it does; not always. (That’s why it’s called, “journalism!”)
Lobsters are stupid. When was the last time a lobster hosted a symposium? -hell of a long time ago.
See, I’m hoping eventually I’ll say something that’ll somehow lead to some other thing, and then that’ll lead to something else; and then in no time the page will be full of words and the column will be done!
Good world series so far, huh?
I certainly like young, good-looking women! Let’s think of one together... I know, Jayne Mansfield!
That reminds me, I have I a very old friend named Bill Staines who’s performing at the First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham this weekend, probably on either Friday or Saturday. Unless it’s next weekend, in which case it’s still Friday or Saturday. Or Sunday, maybe. I think it’s this weekend. Pretty soon anyway.
I knew Bill briefly about thirty years ago, and he was a hell of a guy, and put on a swell folksinging show; and I’ll bet he still does, if it’s the same guy.
He’s put out a bunch of records over the years; unfortunately, I haven’t heard them, which is a pity, under the circumstances. I’l bet they’re pretty good, though. Normally, I’d try to get one, somehow, but I called, and he’s away. Alaska, actually, this week. So.
By the way, I just tuned into the Netscape News, and it said “Is Adam Sandler a genius?”, and I’d just like to, as soon as possible, go right on record with the answer, “no.” That guy Paul Michael Thomas Bobby or whatever his name is, the director (he’s got like twelve all-american first names), the one that did “Magnolia” and “Boogie Nights” (both of which I worship; ok, I’ll look it up dammitIhateyou; OK, it’s Paul Thomas Anderson, you happy?)(At least I was close), is possibly a genius of some kind; basically, if he can even get me to consider paying money to go out and see a movie starring Adam Sandler, he is either a genius or a spectacularly sneaky, evil wizard.
Anyway, his new movie “Punch Drunk Love” just came out, to rapturous reviews, and I know they’re probably right, but, damn -Adam Sandler? You mean, literally everyone else was busy? If this movie makes me like Adam Sandler, then, well, I don’t know; I’m just not all that comfortable with it. Do I have to?
If DVDs were really cool they’d have versions of movies where you could substitute actors. I admit it, I’m apprehensive. If Mr. Bobby can put this one over, then he truly is a genius.
I guess I could look up when Bill’s playing, too. What the hell, though, I don’t even know it it’s the same guy or not. This is stupid.
OK, fine, I looked it up, he’s not playing until next week anyway, on Saturday, November 9th; so never mind.
He might not be any good anyway -like I said, I’m not sure if it’s the same guy I think it is -but If you go, tell him ‘hey” for me, unless it turns out not to be him. Then feel free to kind of give him the cold shoulder.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)