Humus, or hummus, or hoummous, is a passion among Israelis. Falafel may get more press Stateside, but it doesn't inspire the same kind of arguments and allegiances here in the Holy Land that humus does. Two weeks ago, Tel Aviv hosted a giant humus-off, wherein restaurants and stands from all over the country competed for top honors. I heard about it too late, at a meeting of the "Momo Humus Club," my uncle Momo’s half-serious, unscheduled, invitation-only, Friday afternoon snacking event. While I missed the Tel Aviv fandango, I have to say with some pride that my uncle’s product is better than almost any chick-pea paste I've ever had, in terms of flavor, texture, spices, and presentation.
The humus fanaticism here is very chowhound, very like the kind of aimless yet earnest discussions my friends in L.A. have about pizza or Manhattans. And it's the only fanaticism in Israel I can support. Best of all, it crosses the major divide: My center-rightist uncle finds some of his favorite humus in Arab restaurants.
Last week, my cousin Zadok, who’s visiting from the US, went to a hotly tipped humus spot in Jerusalem. Hotly tipped by Momo, the family expert. Zadok shared a table with a British ex-pat who's lived here for 2 or 3 years and says he knows where to find the best humus and falafel all over Israel. Later, Momo visibly bristled when Zadok said he had a list of the ex-pat’s favorite spots. “Yes? What are they?,” Momo challenged. He had to agree that most of the guy's choices were sound. I'm trying to get Zadok to set up a dinner or lunch meeting so I can interview the guy for an article about humus. Apparently he says the best in Jerusalem is on the Via Dolorosa in the Old City. Yes, that Via Dolorosa, right on the way to the holiest of holy places in Christianity, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
Yet humus is not a recent trend. My dad and his brother have been debating the merits of different humus spots for decades now. Maybe they were just ahead of the curve. Whenever I came here in my 20s and 30s they couldn’t wait to take me to the newest humus place. Just like nightclubs, the humus hotspots change every few months. I’d be unpacking, still unshowered after 25 hours in transit, and my father would lope into the room. “Let’s go for some humus!”
“Now? I just got here. Well … I am kind of hungry,” I’d say, listening keenly for a growl in the vicinity of my stomach. “What about dinner?”
“Dinner’s later,” dad would say. “It’s just humus.”
Just humus. Anybody who’s had humus knows it’s as close to cement as food gets. For me, an afternoon humus dalliance is like a mob hit on my dinner appetite. But given the quality of much of the other food here, I’m always happy for a humus sit-down. Play your cards right and you can get "other salads" in the mix: four kinds of eggplant, tomatoes and cucumbers, beets, etc. But a serious humus place doesn’t waste time on such fripperies. Get in, get your fix, get out. Come back tomorrow.
So typically I’d rinse my face, change my shirt, and sleepily join my dad for the newest in the humus arts. And we’d get to the humus mecca, and it would be closed. The humus artisan is a delicate flower who may close up at a moment’s notice. Our confection of hunger and excitement would deflate, and we’d stand before the shut eatery moping and willing it to reopen. Or thinking up alternatives. But mine were always out of date.
“What about the Elvis place?” I’d say, remembering fondly the hole in the wall whose interior was plastered with Elvis posters and photos.
“Eh, he’s no good any more,” my father would say. Then, brightening, “But come. We have a new one in Makhne Yehuda that’s even better.”
“What about Ta’ami?” I’d ask, already salivating. “It’s just up the street and we won’t have to drive.”
“Weeeell, he’s OK,” my father would allow, searching for a reason not to have to settle for passe humus. “But I think he’s putting too much soda in the humus these days. Come, we’ll go to, to ... em, what’s his name? I don’t know, he doesn’t have a sign, but the humus is the best in Jerusalem!”
“Wait. I thought this place was the best in Jerusalem.”
“They both are, but I've been hearing very good things about the Arab in Makhne Yehuda. He makes the humus fresh every two hours. And the pitot are right off the fire. Nu, let’s go. Yalla!” (Yalla is what people say to donkeys and children and anybody else whom they wish to motivate into action. It’s an Arabic word that’s been fully absorbed into the Hebrew vocabulary.)
And we’d get to the gifted Arab’s fluorescent alcove in Makhne Yehuda, and we’d stand in line with the other devotees, impatient for our portion and pointedly ignoring the clock’s inevitable ticking to the dinner hour. And when we would finally sit down, we would get our steaming pitot and humus within minutes and we would apply the one to the other and eat it warm and creamy and seasoned perfectly and we would sit back chewing happily and it would be very very good. It would be amazing.
How is humus served? Many, many ways. The classic style is spread out on a six-inch circular plate, with the edges spackled up to almost an inch in height and then tapered down to almost flat but raised again a little in the very center, the circular trough or moat drizzled with olive oil and perhaps a few bits of parsley and/or dashes of paprika. Popular variations on this theme include:
All of the above with a small lagoon of tahina in the center moat
All of the above with a few dozen stewed chick peas in the moat
The humus, as described above, with stewed mushrooms in the moat
The humus, as described above, with stewed ful or fava beans, either mashed or intact, in the moat
The humus, as described above, with any of the preceding adornments surmounted by a hard-boiled egg.
And let’s not forget the must-have humus accessory: the pita. Shall I compare thee, Israeli pita, to your American namesake? No. Hoss ve halleela, which translates roughly from Arabic to “heaven forbid.” The pitot here are light and fluffy and chewy and have an incredible fresh bread flavor. Only old or store-bought pitot are leathery and dull like the falafel gloves we’ve gotten used to in the States.
And the slightly less de rigueur humus accessory is the skhug, a fiery chimichurri-like mix of chili peppers, garlic, cilantro, salt, and olive oil. This element is key for me. There's a story in skhug too. Next time.
Why is humus a major topic now? That’s a good question. Perhaps people are just happy to focus on something trivial that spans racial and political divides at a time when larger, more dangerous and intractable issues are inescapable.
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Sunday, July 31, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
The Holy Land in Words and Images
Lord Zim's been unfaithful to his own blog. Witness the perfidy and thrill to the exotic sights over at another website.
Why aren't these images here? Blogger software. That's why.
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Why aren't these images here? Blogger software. That's why.
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Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Dear Luke Fans
Thank you for visiting my humble blog. I regret to inform you that no, you will not find any photos of my beautiful blonde girlfriend here. Yes, she is beautiful, but no, she is not available for your inspection. You might try Luke's other website for that kind of thing. You still won't find her.
What you will find here: many diversions of a non-blonde nature, among them strange little anecdotes, rants, mini-reviews, and the occasional really weird thing. Best of all, it's free!
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What you will find here: many diversions of a non-blonde nature, among them strange little anecdotes, rants, mini-reviews, and the occasional really weird thing. Best of all, it's free!
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Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Like Other Bloggers (and Why I Hate Best Buy, Part 2)
Ok, so, like, I had a really hard day? Like, Best Buy kept on treating me like dirt after weeks, no, months of bullshit? So, like I went and just bought my new Mac elsewhere without waiting for that worst of all possible corporations to return my money? After they lost my Mac in the mail, refused to send another for a week, then claimed to have sent a new one and then called back a day later to say oops, our bad -- we're out of stock! Surprise -- we didn't actually send it after all! You'll just have to keep waiting, even though you've made it clear that you'll be out of the country as of Monday. What? No, of course we don't ship overseas. No, you can't have your money back. No, we won't make an exception even though we've provided exceptionally bad service for almost a year. No. No. No. No.
I've told the story so many times, stretching back to Best Buy's first PC repair errors way back in November, that I just can't talk about it any more. The series of blunders defies credulity. I get wild-eyed and logorrheic, furious and foamy-mouthed and finally just ... just ... hateful. I have had some bad retail experiences, but this undercuts them all. In fact, I switched back to a Mac this week partly to get away from Best Buy's so-called "Geek Squad," just the useless collection of losers and misfits you'd expect to try to sell you software and services you don't need. They exaggerate PC dangers to get ignorant people worried, then they foist gobs of remedial products on the unsuspecting. And everything takes two weeks to fix.
(I know this is boring. But it beats taking out my aggression in other ways.)
Want to buy my $1000 Best Buy store credit at a discount? Email me.
Any good news? Why, sure. K is busy with lots of jobs lately, even if she's so busy she isn't sleeping much. She's sleeping now though. And my pal S is organizing a goodbye dinner for me. And I have my health. And Borat. And we went to a classic LA party at Geisha House tonight, where we met old friends and new, as the gossips might write. Except they'd name names.
At the party, a MediaBistro event to celebrate a new book, K and I ran into a striking number of friends and then met semi-famous "porn blogger" Luke Ford, who impressed me by having our names and even my aggrieved mini-report on the accident (see below) live on his blog before I'd even turned on my new computer. This post, shapeless and pointless though it is, was inspired by his swiftness and completeness.
And then, en route to a post-party snack, as we waited on Sunset for a red light to change, an absolute imbecile named LaToya (honest!) in a rented car and a tacky/(divine) brown spandex outfit rear-ended the Alfa. She was too dumb for words. She lied about whose car it was, named a fake insurance company for which she had no proof, laughed at K's neck pain, failed to apologize for wrecking my bumper, scoffed at the clear evidence that she had in fact wrecked the bumper, and even used her camera-phone to shoot the damage she'd caused. Hooray for Hollywood.
OK, back to a cheerier note. So what's all this about a Mac? Yep, driven in part by my desire never to set foot in Best Buy again, I've switched back to a Mac after seven years as a reluctant Friend of Bill. I hear they don't crash as much as they used to. But why is there no forward delete button? And why does Blogger function so very differently on a Mac? Where are all the helpful controls?
Re the title of tonight's post. Mr. Ford directed me to the blog of his ex, Tiffany, who delves in excruciating detail into such areas as waxing, breakfast fare (Hello, Bridget?), and neurotic fantasies. When I started this blog, such as it is, I promised to avoid the neverending stream of details about my personal life. But maybe I was wrong! I've been wrong so many times. From now on, you can look forward to a daily list of what I use for shampoo, what I've eaten, whom I've seen, what I've seen, whom I've -- uh, how I've felt, where I've been, and who's run into my car. Etc. I mean, isn't that -- and Valerie Plame -- what blogs are really all about?
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I've told the story so many times, stretching back to Best Buy's first PC repair errors way back in November, that I just can't talk about it any more. The series of blunders defies credulity. I get wild-eyed and logorrheic, furious and foamy-mouthed and finally just ... just ... hateful. I have had some bad retail experiences, but this undercuts them all. In fact, I switched back to a Mac this week partly to get away from Best Buy's so-called "Geek Squad," just the useless collection of losers and misfits you'd expect to try to sell you software and services you don't need. They exaggerate PC dangers to get ignorant people worried, then they foist gobs of remedial products on the unsuspecting. And everything takes two weeks to fix.
(I know this is boring. But it beats taking out my aggression in other ways.)
Want to buy my $1000 Best Buy store credit at a discount? Email me.
Any good news? Why, sure. K is busy with lots of jobs lately, even if she's so busy she isn't sleeping much. She's sleeping now though. And my pal S is organizing a goodbye dinner for me. And I have my health. And Borat. And we went to a classic LA party at Geisha House tonight, where we met old friends and new, as the gossips might write. Except they'd name names.
At the party, a MediaBistro event to celebrate a new book, K and I ran into a striking number of friends and then met semi-famous "porn blogger" Luke Ford, who impressed me by having our names and even my aggrieved mini-report on the accident (see below) live on his blog before I'd even turned on my new computer. This post, shapeless and pointless though it is, was inspired by his swiftness and completeness.
And then, en route to a post-party snack, as we waited on Sunset for a red light to change, an absolute imbecile named LaToya (honest!) in a rented car and a tacky/(divine) brown spandex outfit rear-ended the Alfa. She was too dumb for words. She lied about whose car it was, named a fake insurance company for which she had no proof, laughed at K's neck pain, failed to apologize for wrecking my bumper, scoffed at the clear evidence that she had in fact wrecked the bumper, and even used her camera-phone to shoot the damage she'd caused. Hooray for Hollywood.
OK, back to a cheerier note. So what's all this about a Mac? Yep, driven in part by my desire never to set foot in Best Buy again, I've switched back to a Mac after seven years as a reluctant Friend of Bill. I hear they don't crash as much as they used to. But why is there no forward delete button? And why does Blogger function so very differently on a Mac? Where are all the helpful controls?
Re the title of tonight's post. Mr. Ford directed me to the blog of his ex, Tiffany, who delves in excruciating detail into such areas as waxing, breakfast fare (Hello, Bridget?), and neurotic fantasies. When I started this blog, such as it is, I promised to avoid the neverending stream of details about my personal life. But maybe I was wrong! I've been wrong so many times. From now on, you can look forward to a daily list of what I use for shampoo, what I've eaten, whom I've seen, what I've seen, whom I've -- uh, how I've felt, where I've been, and who's run into my car. Etc. I mean, isn't that -- and Valerie Plame -- what blogs are really all about?
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Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Kentucky Fried Customer
Lord Zim regrets that he is about to launch into an aggrieved customer tirade against a major corporation. He knows this is a tired subgenre of bloggery, but he is unable to resist.
I will not bore you with all the reasons I hate Best Buy. My story is much too sad to be told. And it takes about 20 minutes when I do tell it. No, I'll just say that the nightmare of bad products and apathetic, inflexible customer service I have received from Best Buy has plumbed new depths in my life as a consumer. If you must buy anything electronic, go anywhere but Best Buy. Don't become one of the countless disappointed people I've watched walk away from the "Customer Service" desk seething and cursing.
The prices are high, the selection is limited, the service is slow and slapdash, and the policies are written to take advantage of you. In fact, the CEO announced last year that the new corporate mission is to superserve the Top 10% of customers -- and let the rest rot. So unless you plan to drop ten large on a new car stereo, they don't want your business. Buy at Fry's, buy at Amazon, buy at Buy.com ... just don't buy at Best Buy.
But that's not the point of this post. This is: I was writing to a friend about the Kafka-esque experience I had on the phone yesterday with Best Buy (I spent at least two hours trying to find out where they lost my new laptop and why they won't send me a new one).
When I clicked "send" on my email client, the spellchecker offered to substitute "KFC" for Kafka.
Now ain't that America? Land of the chains.
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I will not bore you with all the reasons I hate Best Buy. My story is much too sad to be told. And it takes about 20 minutes when I do tell it. No, I'll just say that the nightmare of bad products and apathetic, inflexible customer service I have received from Best Buy has plumbed new depths in my life as a consumer. If you must buy anything electronic, go anywhere but Best Buy. Don't become one of the countless disappointed people I've watched walk away from the "Customer Service" desk seething and cursing.
The prices are high, the selection is limited, the service is slow and slapdash, and the policies are written to take advantage of you. In fact, the CEO announced last year that the new corporate mission is to superserve the Top 10% of customers -- and let the rest rot. So unless you plan to drop ten large on a new car stereo, they don't want your business. Buy at Fry's, buy at Amazon, buy at Buy.com ... just don't buy at Best Buy.
But that's not the point of this post. This is: I was writing to a friend about the Kafka-esque experience I had on the phone yesterday with Best Buy (I spent at least two hours trying to find out where they lost my new laptop and why they won't send me a new one).
When I clicked "send" on my email client, the spellchecker offered to substitute "KFC" for Kafka.
Now ain't that America? Land of the chains.
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Thursday, June 30, 2005
The Weak in Science
In the spirit of self-improvement, I subscribed a few months ago to Science Magazine's weekly roundup of scientific developments. Having jousted with several of those emails now, I can safely assert that they are not to be trifled with. Not only is "This Week in Science" responsible for some of the strangest verbiage to cross my screen, its seemingly random collections of words generally do, unlike the spam-borne gibberish they resemble, reveal meaning after sufficient examination. Just not always to me.
Until lately, those emails had started off gently, with a text block touting a resume enhancement service. Today, that accessible little ad gave way to something a touch more challenging:
And just as I start to dwell on the notion that there are people painfully, infinitely smarter and way, way more educated than I, as suggested by this particularly dense nugget ....
I'd be lying if I said I read the entire email every week. One of the reasons I don't is that these paragraph-long abstracts are all you get without paying a hefty monthly sum for full access to the Science website. (Like full access would do me much good.) So on the rare occasion that I do slog through the jargon to arrive at some thin understanding, that's where it stops. Nanocomprehension.
But that's OK, because part of me thinks all this talk of nanoscience and computer chips is pure hokum, that we're laboring under an all-pervasive cloud of disinformation, that everything we call silicon is actually powered by well-trained fleas. But whenever I try to talk about this theory, broaching, say, the notion that quarks and space travel are fictions, people look at me like I'm even more of an imbecile than they had suspected. So I keep it to myself. I'll trust you to do the same. Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be Liberal Arts majors.
In any case, every once in a while the newsletter shows me something interesting that even This Old Brain can grasp, like that stuff about wildlife corridors. Yet another reason not to mow the lawn or trim the hedges. Proof positive: It may appear a little stand-offish in its emails, but Science really does exist for the betterment of men.
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P.S. "Soil-dwelling myxobacteria move by a process termed gliding motility, which requires the surface expression of cellular protrusions, the type IV pili. More than 25 years ago, Myxococcus xanthus motility mutants lacking pili were shown to be phenotypically complemented by direct contact with motile neighbors. (p. 125) now identify the mechanism of the contact-mediated, nongenetic complementation of this type of motility. Complementation appears to be effected by the transfer from one cell membrane to another of the TGL protein, which is required for the construction of secretin pores, which in turn allow for the synthesis and retraction of the pili required for motility."
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Until lately, those emails had started off gently, with a text block touting a resume enhancement service. Today, that accessible little ad gave way to something a touch more challenging:
WESTERN BLOTTING with Blot-EXLet me just say that if I am leaving money in my Western blot gel, I want it back. All of it. And make sure someone dries it off first. Wait, there's more. Here's a URL:
Are you leaving money in your Western blot gel?
Drastically enhance your performance in protein recovery
up to 90% and get all your proteins back.
Elchrom Scientific's Blot-EX offers you
500% transfer efficiency in less time compared to leading competitors
Blot-EX is NON acrylamide and non-toxic!
For more information visit:If that's not challenging enough, check out this abstract on a study of Greenland's ... um, of Greenland's ... uh, ice? Mind you, I read the New Yorker's terrifying "The Climate of Man" series (all three parts!), so this stuff isn't wholly alien to me, but, uh ....
http://www.elchrom.com/sciencemagazine
---------------------------------------------------------------------------My own orbital obliquity is better now, thanks. I think it's because I'm going to the gym more often.
The Value of Excess
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The surface air temperature record of Greenland has been reconstructed mostly from analyses of the isotopic composition of H and O of the water in ice cores. A number of other factors besides average temperature can influence those proxies, however, such as the seasonality and origin of precipitation. (p. 118) measured the deuterium excess of ice from Greenland Ice Core Project (GRIP) samples in order to constrain the source and seasonality of the precipitation for the last full glacial cycle. Earth's orbital obliquity is an important control on the latitudinal temperature gradient between the source and site of precipitation, and moisture sources shifted to the south during cold periods.
And just as I start to dwell on the notion that there are people painfully, infinitely smarter and way, way more educated than I, as suggested by this particularly dense nugget ....
---------------------------------------------------------------------------(hello? is this mike on?) ... something entirely comprehensible and interesting pops up, reminding me why I subscribed to this crazy email in the first place. May I present the lovely, the talented ...
Phosphorylation Rheostat
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The modulation of the activity of proteins by phosphorylation has often been described as a binary switch, but (p. 142) show that finer rheostat-like control can also be achieved. The transcription factor Ets-1 exhibits a graded DNA binding affinity that depends on the number of sites that are phosphorylated. Ets-1 exists in conformational equilibrium between a dynamic conformation that binds DNA and a well-folded inhibited state. Increasing phosphorylation progressively shifts the equilibrium toward the inhibited state and thus fine-tunes the level of activity. The phosphorylated region, which serves as the allosteric effector, is predominantly unstructured and flexible, and probably acts through transient interactions.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Habitat Corridors Promote Conservation
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
As wildlife habitats become more fragmented by human land use, wild plants and animals encounter increasing difficulties in dispersal between patches of suitable habitat. If the patches are small, then local extinctions may ensue. To mitigate this problem, conservationists favor networks of corridors to provide links between patches, but how effective is this approach? In a replicated, landscape-scale study of the role of habitat corridors in the southern United States, (p. 146; see the news story by) followed Eastern Bluebirds as they carried native wax myrtle seeds from bushes in a central source patch to one of four surrounding receiver patches in a matrix of mature pine forest. The birds carried substantially more seeds to the corridor-connected patches than they did to the others. The authors were able to build a predictive seed-dispersal model at the landscape scale from individual-based observations on the movements of birds.
I'd be lying if I said I read the entire email every week. One of the reasons I don't is that these paragraph-long abstracts are all you get without paying a hefty monthly sum for full access to the Science website. (Like full access would do me much good.) So on the rare occasion that I do slog through the jargon to arrive at some thin understanding, that's where it stops. Nanocomprehension.
But that's OK, because part of me thinks all this talk of nanoscience and computer chips is pure hokum, that we're laboring under an all-pervasive cloud of disinformation, that everything we call silicon is actually powered by well-trained fleas. But whenever I try to talk about this theory, broaching, say, the notion that quarks and space travel are fictions, people look at me like I'm even more of an imbecile than they had suspected. So I keep it to myself. I'll trust you to do the same. Mama, don't let your babies grow up to be Liberal Arts majors.
In any case, every once in a while the newsletter shows me something interesting that even This Old Brain can grasp, like that stuff about wildlife corridors. Yet another reason not to mow the lawn or trim the hedges. Proof positive: It may appear a little stand-offish in its emails, but Science really does exist for the betterment of men.
*
P.S. "Soil-dwelling myxobacteria move by a process termed gliding motility, which requires the surface expression of cellular protrusions, the type IV pili. More than 25 years ago, Myxococcus xanthus motility mutants lacking pili were shown to be phenotypically complemented by direct contact with motile neighbors. (p. 125) now identify the mechanism of the contact-mediated, nongenetic complementation of this type of motility. Complementation appears to be effected by the transfer from one cell membrane to another of the TGL protein, which is required for the construction of secretin pores, which in turn allow for the synthesis and retraction of the pili required for motility."
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Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Stick Shift
Dear Reader,
How are you? I am fine. Los Angeles is beautiful this time of year, and I wish you were here.
I'm just writing to suggest you visit my highly focused new blog, PaCarazzi! See it over there on the left, topping the list of links?
PaCarazzi! is a summery sort of fun blog, just the thing when you're looking for a light read of little consequence. So unlike LordZim. PaCarazzi! is all about that weird L.A. confluence of stars and cars -- overpaid showoffs and their expensive toys and the precious moments we too can share when they parade around in public. Don't take my word for it -- go take it for a test drive.
See you soon, and don't forget to write!
Love,
Lord Zim
How are you? I am fine. Los Angeles is beautiful this time of year, and I wish you were here.
I'm just writing to suggest you visit my highly focused new blog, PaCarazzi! See it over there on the left, topping the list of links?
PaCarazzi! is a summery sort of fun blog, just the thing when you're looking for a light read of little consequence. So unlike LordZim. PaCarazzi! is all about that weird L.A. confluence of stars and cars -- overpaid showoffs and their expensive toys and the precious moments we too can share when they parade around in public. Don't take my word for it -- go take it for a test drive.
See you soon, and don't forget to write!
Love,
Lord Zim
Saturday, June 25, 2005
The Hubbard MBA
Now that Scientology is in the news again thanks to that impending celeb nuptial you read about in other blogs, K writes that a friend of hers has
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been trying to do some sub-contracting laser etching work for a Portland-based company for months now. They've been playing phone tag and canceling meetings etc. They finally connected on the phone yesterday and the guy said that if Scott wanted to work with them, he needed to take a course at the L. Ron Hubbard school of management! Scott apparently stifled a laugh and asked if that was really a requirement. The guy sounded offended and ended the call. Hmmm, no $5 mil either!Wow. The illustrated Cruise vs. Lauer. It's just too good not to share with the LordZim regulars.
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Friday, June 24, 2005
Vest-Pocket Movie Review: 'Penguins'
Just saw a screening of "March of the Penguins," thanks to film buff extraordinaire Karie Bible and her Filmradar free passes.
It's moving and predictably adorable (awww -- baby penguins!) and impressive in many ways. A seal gets to stretch his instrument and play against type. They make great noises, those birds. Speaking of noises, the music and Morgan Freeman's narration are a little mawkish and manipulative, but the cinematography and pacing are spectacular. And the costumes, of course, are impeccable.
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It's moving and predictably adorable (awww -- baby penguins!) and impressive in many ways. A seal gets to stretch his instrument and play against type. They make great noises, those birds. Speaking of noises, the music and Morgan Freeman's narration are a little mawkish and manipulative, but the cinematography and pacing are spectacular. And the costumes, of course, are impeccable.
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Friday, June 17, 2005
Welcome to the New Weekly Format
All the brevity of a daily post, none of the challenges of a weekly roundup. It's LordZim Lite!
Well, that famous West Coast toy company finally paid me -- four months after the first time I invoiced them. Finally saw "Gattaca" this week. I see why it got mediocre reviews but has become a near-cult movie. Speaking of mediocre reviews, I tried to watch "Lemony Snicket" last night but just couldn't stand more than about 20 minutes (and I used to like the books). The art direction was all that kept me hanging on, but even that was unequal to the star's powers of repellency.
Uh, allergies? Yes. And how. *sniffle* *honk*
Reading New Yorker doyenne Lillian Ross's "Reporting Back: Notes on Journalism." The art of letting interviewees hang themselves without any narrative assistance.
In the drinks dept., Willie Nelson's small-batch bourbon, Old Whiskey River, seems to be winding down. It's a closeout item at Studio City's Flask Liquors. Across town, Jorge, formerly the best bartender in L.A., is no longer tending bar. He has left the Edendale Grill and is now managing Taix, that antique French restaurant on Sunset in Echo Park. When I voiced consternation at the loss of his mixological powers, he referred me to Luis, the white-haired, steel-eyed fixture behind the bar, who assembled a perfect perfect Manhattan. While the restaurant is a taxidermied relic, replete with silk flowers and dozens of eerie oil paintings, the bar room itself is in the cave-like vein of the Dresden, though less spacious. Part of Jorge's mission is to attract more of those free-spending 20-somethings, which shouldn't be too hard, given that the Echo (Spaceland's little sister) is just across the street.
See? This is why I've stopped blogging. Ho-fucking-hum. To blog, perchance to scream.
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Well, that famous West Coast toy company finally paid me -- four months after the first time I invoiced them. Finally saw "Gattaca" this week. I see why it got mediocre reviews but has become a near-cult movie. Speaking of mediocre reviews, I tried to watch "Lemony Snicket" last night but just couldn't stand more than about 20 minutes (and I used to like the books). The art direction was all that kept me hanging on, but even that was unequal to the star's powers of repellency.
Uh, allergies? Yes. And how. *sniffle* *honk*
Reading New Yorker doyenne Lillian Ross's "Reporting Back: Notes on Journalism." The art of letting interviewees hang themselves without any narrative assistance.
In the drinks dept., Willie Nelson's small-batch bourbon, Old Whiskey River, seems to be winding down. It's a closeout item at Studio City's Flask Liquors. Across town, Jorge, formerly the best bartender in L.A., is no longer tending bar. He has left the Edendale Grill and is now managing Taix, that antique French restaurant on Sunset in Echo Park. When I voiced consternation at the loss of his mixological powers, he referred me to Luis, the white-haired, steel-eyed fixture behind the bar, who assembled a perfect perfect Manhattan. While the restaurant is a taxidermied relic, replete with silk flowers and dozens of eerie oil paintings, the bar room itself is in the cave-like vein of the Dresden, though less spacious. Part of Jorge's mission is to attract more of those free-spending 20-somethings, which shouldn't be too hard, given that the Echo (Spaceland's little sister) is just across the street.
See? This is why I've stopped blogging. Ho-fucking-hum. To blog, perchance to scream.
*
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Substantial Dinner
O frabjous day! I just came back from a dinner where seven of us talked about ideas all night. No gossip, no sports, not even music. The word "blog" never came up.
The term "blowjob" came up a lot though. We spent a long time on the extent to which mass media affects kids and their attitudes toward sex, and the political climates that first fostered and then resulted from the oversexing of the juvenile population. C. posited that TV is our collective Id. If that's the case, then the FCC is a poorly matched superego, considering what that Id is up to. We get what we pay for, and we get what we came for. Here's a little-known fact: NBC's Dateline is no longer doing any stories on sex in any shape or form. Like all the networks, NBC is just too scared of FCC fines to risk anything in that sphere.
And I'm still trying to find the current percentage of the US population that identifies itself as "born-again." The current political climate is much more easily explained when you consider the enormous base the Right has to work with. OK, a 2003 Gallup poll puts that number at 43%, but it fluctuates every year. I'm not saying all born-again Christians or Evangelicals vote Republican -- no, let the gloriously frank Gov. Howard Dean taste that foot -- but they do generally support anti-choice candidates.
And leaving the off-limits topic of politics aside again, I'll just note that Johnny Tutorseed here had to wax rhapsodic on the joys of tutoring, in the vain hope that one of the intelligent beings in the room would leap to the bait and show up at St. Agatha's (Adams and Mansfield, 2-4pm) this afternoon. I'm very disappointed in all of you who profess an interest in the future yet eschew an opportunity to affect it. It's just two stinkin' hours on Saturday! Crikey! I'll buy you an exotic beverage down the street if you show up. I'll draw stripes on my face again. I will stand upon my head to beat all deals. Don't make me beg. It's so unseemly.
It's also unseemly to be up this late. I'm typing all kinds of nonsense I'll regret in the morning.
*
The term "blowjob" came up a lot though. We spent a long time on the extent to which mass media affects kids and their attitudes toward sex, and the political climates that first fostered and then resulted from the oversexing of the juvenile population. C. posited that TV is our collective Id. If that's the case, then the FCC is a poorly matched superego, considering what that Id is up to. We get what we pay for, and we get what we came for. Here's a little-known fact: NBC's Dateline is no longer doing any stories on sex in any shape or form. Like all the networks, NBC is just too scared of FCC fines to risk anything in that sphere.
And I'm still trying to find the current percentage of the US population that identifies itself as "born-again." The current political climate is much more easily explained when you consider the enormous base the Right has to work with. OK, a 2003 Gallup poll puts that number at 43%, but it fluctuates every year. I'm not saying all born-again Christians or Evangelicals vote Republican -- no, let the gloriously frank Gov. Howard Dean taste that foot -- but they do generally support anti-choice candidates.
And leaving the off-limits topic of politics aside again, I'll just note that Johnny Tutorseed here had to wax rhapsodic on the joys of tutoring, in the vain hope that one of the intelligent beings in the room would leap to the bait and show up at St. Agatha's (Adams and Mansfield, 2-4pm) this afternoon. I'm very disappointed in all of you who profess an interest in the future yet eschew an opportunity to affect it. It's just two stinkin' hours on Saturday! Crikey! I'll buy you an exotic beverage down the street if you show up. I'll draw stripes on my face again. I will stand upon my head to beat all deals. Don't make me beg. It's so unseemly.
It's also unseemly to be up this late. I'm typing all kinds of nonsense I'll regret in the morning.
*
Friday, June 10, 2005
Sabbatical
Sabbatical. Seven days of no LordZim updates. Has the world suffered or changed? Well, of course, but not because I haven't been writing here.
A word of clarification on the last post: When I went to Ben's house in Topanga for sleepovers, my mom was under the impression that his parents would be as watchful as she with regard to transgressions of a drug and alcohol nature. Of course, who really thought about eight-year-olds getting drunk or high (apart from eight-year-olds)? So my sainted mother, who first learned of my pre-teen escapades here in the pixels of Lordzim, was just as surprised as all you strangers out there may have been, though she was substantially more disturbed by the revelation.
On the bright side, this shows I can keep a secret.
*
A word of clarification on the last post: When I went to Ben's house in Topanga for sleepovers, my mom was under the impression that his parents would be as watchful as she with regard to transgressions of a drug and alcohol nature. Of course, who really thought about eight-year-olds getting drunk or high (apart from eight-year-olds)? So my sainted mother, who first learned of my pre-teen escapades here in the pixels of Lordzim, was just as surprised as all you strangers out there may have been, though she was substantially more disturbed by the revelation.
On the bright side, this shows I can keep a secret.
*
Thursday, June 02, 2005
I Smoked Pot When I Was Eight
Brace yourself -- it's yet another violation of the Lordzim rules! Yes, you've stumbled upon a new collection of exceptionally sordid personal details.
I smoked pot when I was eight.
All I got was a ferocious hangover and a shocking anecdote. And this lousy t-shirt.
How does an eight-year-old find a joint? Through his cool best friend who lives in Topanga, the most hippiest of all hippy places. Ben, my cool best friend, had moved to Topanga with his cool hippy parents. Lucky him! Their neighbors were hippies, and everybody they knew were hippies -- which seemed to me like the very best thing on Earth, because I so desperately wanted to be a long-haired, bellbottom-wearing, pot-smoking, draft-card-burning, authority-questioning hippy too.
But I was only eight. So when Ben said he'd found a joint and we were going next door to his neighbor's house to smoke it after dinner, I was overjoyed -- excited beyond belief. The key to the kingdom. Sophistication. What it's like to be groovy and grown-up, I thought. I will be groovy when I have smoked pot, went my impeccable pre-teen logic. After a long dinner with Ben's pot-smoking parents and his mean older sister, he and I sauntered across the dusty sideyard to the low shack where Harry lived. Harry was 40.
Why would a 40-year-old smoke pot with two eight-year-olds? Ask Michael Jackson. But it wasn't like that. Yes, he brought out a beer, and we all shared a joint and that single can of Budweiser, but apart from the gross lapse -- vaccuum? -- of judgment that led him to get high with little kids, the guy didn't do anything else I'd like to have him locked up for. Or killed for. Besides, when we sat down on the mismatched furniture in his dim filthy living room, he did his due diligence. He looked at me and said, "You've done this before, right?"
I nodded, and Ben vouched for me. Of course I had. You could tell from my long hippy hair. On the other hand, I had an almost perfectly circular face and wore clothes my mom and I found in the "Husky" section. (Oh, the shame of the Husky section.) But sure, I had smoked pot and drunk beer. I was an old hand at smoking and drinking. I bore all the marks of a hardened druggie. I was eight, but a sophisticated eight! Yep. Crafty, too -- look how easily I'd just fooled a wise old grown-up.
I have no idea what we talked about as we slowly smoked and drank. I don't think I even got high. Bad weed, not enough weed, nerves, the beer -- who knows. What I do know is that I woke up early the next morning with the worst hangover of my young life. Well, it was the only hangover I'd ever had, which just made it worse. I was face-down on a dirty sheetless waterbed outside by a swimming pool filled with thick green water. And no, my ass didn't hurt, but my head did. A cat in heat was pacing and meowing right next to it. Over and over and over. I tried meowing back to quiet him, to no avail. To this day I can reproduce that sound, a plaintive, pained eruption full of sexual frustration. He'd dropped the "me" part of "meow" and was just saying "Owwwww" over and over again. Twice a minute or more. It was relentless, and it struck like a dagger deep into my own throbbing skull. I tried putting a pillow over my head, I tried shooing him away, I tried falling back asleep, but the cat, who was probably my conscience in a fuzzy corporeal form, would not shut up.
Years later -- decades later -- after Ben died rock-climbing and his dad became a crackhead and his parents split up and moved out of Topanga, I ran into his older sister at a party. I asked her how, why, what kind of adult would smoke pot with eight-year-olds? She looked pained and patient and far away, and then she said, "It was a different time. People saw the world very differently then."
So it's all a matter of perspective. Harry, that 40-year-old stoner loser, saw the world differently. Those were the years when "art photographer" David Hamilton was selling soft-focus images of naked little girls. Back when being a priest had its benefits. Before Just Say No and MADD and Amber Alerts and the Internet and our modern awareness of how easily children can be seduced into doing adult things.
So I lost my marijuana cherry at age eight. Ben assured me that the first time is always weird. As bad as the experience was, I wanted to smoke it again. But a whole year would pass before pot would cross my lips again, and I didn't get high that time either. A few more years passed. My hair was still long and my face was still round, but my complexion was going to hell and I had started wearing little round John Lennon glasses. I was 12. And somehow I lucked into a pot-smoking crowd at my junior high. Lucky, lucky me. I bought my first "lid" of Mexican for $40. It was lousy, but it was mine.
Hijinks ensued.
*
I smoked pot when I was eight.
All I got was a ferocious hangover and a shocking anecdote. And this lousy t-shirt.
How does an eight-year-old find a joint? Through his cool best friend who lives in Topanga, the most hippiest of all hippy places. Ben, my cool best friend, had moved to Topanga with his cool hippy parents. Lucky him! Their neighbors were hippies, and everybody they knew were hippies -- which seemed to me like the very best thing on Earth, because I so desperately wanted to be a long-haired, bellbottom-wearing, pot-smoking, draft-card-burning, authority-questioning hippy too.
But I was only eight. So when Ben said he'd found a joint and we were going next door to his neighbor's house to smoke it after dinner, I was overjoyed -- excited beyond belief. The key to the kingdom. Sophistication. What it's like to be groovy and grown-up, I thought. I will be groovy when I have smoked pot, went my impeccable pre-teen logic. After a long dinner with Ben's pot-smoking parents and his mean older sister, he and I sauntered across the dusty sideyard to the low shack where Harry lived. Harry was 40.
Why would a 40-year-old smoke pot with two eight-year-olds? Ask Michael Jackson. But it wasn't like that. Yes, he brought out a beer, and we all shared a joint and that single can of Budweiser, but apart from the gross lapse -- vaccuum? -- of judgment that led him to get high with little kids, the guy didn't do anything else I'd like to have him locked up for. Or killed for. Besides, when we sat down on the mismatched furniture in his dim filthy living room, he did his due diligence. He looked at me and said, "You've done this before, right?"
I nodded, and Ben vouched for me. Of course I had. You could tell from my long hippy hair. On the other hand, I had an almost perfectly circular face and wore clothes my mom and I found in the "Husky" section. (Oh, the shame of the Husky section.) But sure, I had smoked pot and drunk beer. I was an old hand at smoking and drinking. I bore all the marks of a hardened druggie. I was eight, but a sophisticated eight! Yep. Crafty, too -- look how easily I'd just fooled a wise old grown-up.
I have no idea what we talked about as we slowly smoked and drank. I don't think I even got high. Bad weed, not enough weed, nerves, the beer -- who knows. What I do know is that I woke up early the next morning with the worst hangover of my young life. Well, it was the only hangover I'd ever had, which just made it worse. I was face-down on a dirty sheetless waterbed outside by a swimming pool filled with thick green water. And no, my ass didn't hurt, but my head did. A cat in heat was pacing and meowing right next to it. Over and over and over. I tried meowing back to quiet him, to no avail. To this day I can reproduce that sound, a plaintive, pained eruption full of sexual frustration. He'd dropped the "me" part of "meow" and was just saying "Owwwww" over and over again. Twice a minute or more. It was relentless, and it struck like a dagger deep into my own throbbing skull. I tried putting a pillow over my head, I tried shooing him away, I tried falling back asleep, but the cat, who was probably my conscience in a fuzzy corporeal form, would not shut up.
Years later -- decades later -- after Ben died rock-climbing and his dad became a crackhead and his parents split up and moved out of Topanga, I ran into his older sister at a party. I asked her how, why, what kind of adult would smoke pot with eight-year-olds? She looked pained and patient and far away, and then she said, "It was a different time. People saw the world very differently then."
So it's all a matter of perspective. Harry, that 40-year-old stoner loser, saw the world differently. Those were the years when "art photographer" David Hamilton was selling soft-focus images of naked little girls. Back when being a priest had its benefits. Before Just Say No and MADD and Amber Alerts and the Internet and our modern awareness of how easily children can be seduced into doing adult things.
So I lost my marijuana cherry at age eight. Ben assured me that the first time is always weird. As bad as the experience was, I wanted to smoke it again. But a whole year would pass before pot would cross my lips again, and I didn't get high that time either. A few more years passed. My hair was still long and my face was still round, but my complexion was going to hell and I had started wearing little round John Lennon glasses. I was 12. And somehow I lucked into a pot-smoking crowd at my junior high. Lucky, lucky me. I bought my first "lid" of Mexican for $40. It was lousy, but it was mine.
Hijinks ensued.
*
Sunday, May 29, 2005
What's So Funny 'Bout Reading, Writing, and Lordzim?
Tutoring. Sometimes it's the highlight of my week -- and that's not always a reflection on the week. Today, for example, I spent the first hour teaching vocabulary to two unusually smart little brothers named Chris (sixth grade) and Victor (eighth grade). Their dad is a plumber and their mom is a babysitter. Some words Chris and Victor learned today: nonchalant and apathetic (perfect words to teach middle school kids), appraise and apprise (and how they differ), circumspect, palatable, audacity, surreptitious, and reverberate. Charged with using them in sentences, Chris wrote "It reverberated in the bathroom when I flushed the toilet." Meanwhile, another kid who comes in every week just won a spelling bee.
Helping above-average kids optimize their minds is among the best things I've ever done. Chris and Victor's superior intellects might have gone unattended in crowded inner-city classrooms, but they've been benefiting from A.'s tutoring sessions for years. Working with them, I have a very clear sense of changing their lives, however minutely. Even if they are nonchalant and try to appear apathetic, I'm sure the work reverberates. It has to -- we help them one-on-one, instead of letting them moulder in classes of 30 or more.
We were having so much fun today (well, I was, and they played along), that another kid at the same table seemed to want to join in. He'd look up forlornly from his half-dozen addition problems and just watch us. After an hour on vocabulary, Chris and Victor and I agreed we were done -- too much of a good thing -- and once they'd rousted a board game I started working with the other Chris.
The change of pace was startling. He's in fourth grade and way behind in language arts and math. We painstakingly read a very short story -- he needs help with pronunciation and basic reading -- and while the work wasn't as much fun, it was just as challenging and rewarding, if not more.
I've mentioned tutoring a few times here, but never in such detail. I've also told most of my friends how rewarding and easy it is. But none of them -- save K., who tried it a few times but didn't cotton to it -- has shown up. Yet it's conveniently scheduled and located, requires just two hours a week, and provides the invaluable feeling that we're changing the world, one underprivileged kid at a time. It sure beats a beer high.
If you live in LA, you can come to St. Agatha's at Mansfield and Adams, just off the 10 Freeway, any Saturday from 2-4pm or any Thursday from 7-9pm. If you don't live in L.A., improvise or find something online. Most any inner-city kid could use your help.
*
Helping above-average kids optimize their minds is among the best things I've ever done. Chris and Victor's superior intellects might have gone unattended in crowded inner-city classrooms, but they've been benefiting from A.'s tutoring sessions for years. Working with them, I have a very clear sense of changing their lives, however minutely. Even if they are nonchalant and try to appear apathetic, I'm sure the work reverberates. It has to -- we help them one-on-one, instead of letting them moulder in classes of 30 or more.
We were having so much fun today (well, I was, and they played along), that another kid at the same table seemed to want to join in. He'd look up forlornly from his half-dozen addition problems and just watch us. After an hour on vocabulary, Chris and Victor and I agreed we were done -- too much of a good thing -- and once they'd rousted a board game I started working with the other Chris.
The change of pace was startling. He's in fourth grade and way behind in language arts and math. We painstakingly read a very short story -- he needs help with pronunciation and basic reading -- and while the work wasn't as much fun, it was just as challenging and rewarding, if not more.
I've mentioned tutoring a few times here, but never in such detail. I've also told most of my friends how rewarding and easy it is. But none of them -- save K., who tried it a few times but didn't cotton to it -- has shown up. Yet it's conveniently scheduled and located, requires just two hours a week, and provides the invaluable feeling that we're changing the world, one underprivileged kid at a time. It sure beats a beer high.
If you live in LA, you can come to St. Agatha's at Mansfield and Adams, just off the 10 Freeway, any Saturday from 2-4pm or any Thursday from 7-9pm. If you don't live in L.A., improvise or find something online. Most any inner-city kid could use your help.
*
Friday, May 27, 2005
Encore Encore
Longtime readers may recall a reference to Sonny Rollins (3/18) at Disney Hall, one of many performances negligently described in the annals of Lordzim.
Expanding on the theme of encores and demanding audiences, K. writes,
OK, here's the audience participation moment: Send me your best encore stories and I'll post them.
*
Expanding on the theme of encores and demanding audiences, K. writes,
When we saw Sonny Rollins the crowd was clapping so hard several palms were bleeding, but he came out the side door and made a perfectly expressive gesture. A gesture that said: "I'm just glad I made it through the evening. Please go home so I can take my teeth out and go to bed!"And they did. Let the record show he'd already served up at least one encore, maybe two. When a guy that old tells you he's done, he's done. Especially after he's played like a man half his age for as many minutes as years he's been alive.
OK, here's the audience participation moment: Send me your best encore stories and I'll post them.
*
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Kultur Week in Review: Early Edition
Traffic is in freefall, so it's about time I logged the week's cultural activities. Since that's what you come here for, after all. The Lord Zim Culture Report. And you are in luck. Not one not two but three count 'em three fancypants nights out.
Monday: Following a breezy, chatty little pre-show reception for season ticket holders, we attended the last Green Umbrella event of the season: "Conductor's Choice" with Peter Lieberson. No notes on this one. Why not? Because I can do whatever I want here, that's why not. A minor observation: As Lieberson led the 25-piece ensemble through his own Horn Concerto, the French horn star by his side, I watched the other French horn player, stuck at the back of the stage, in a funk and a row all his own. Or so I imagined. I couldn't stop wondering how the workaday horn player was feeling about playing second -- fiddle? -- to a horn star. A horn star playing the shiniest brass instrument ever.
Tuesday: dark.
Wednesday: Rush tix for a high-concept dance piece called "Play Without Words." Amazing. Funny, erotic, graceful, violent -- all the best adjectives. Plus the cliché adjectives: smoky, jazzy, cool. The story, based on Joseph Losey's 1963 film "The Servant," is fairly straightforward, as K observed, but the treatment is extraordinary for a few reasons. At any given time, each of the five main characters may be represented by up to three dancers at once. Three guys wearing the same suit and three women wearing the same dress trade partners and enact different attitudes, specific moments, and even possible outcomes, underscoring how complex life can be despite our need -- thanks, laws of physics! -- to wrap results up neatly. I usually like to say that there's no control group on a life, but in this piece, there sort of is.
A wizardly two-story structure on the stage combines two very different styles of staircases, two doors, and a variety of pipes and open areas that serve as apartment vestibule, subway car, peep show gallery, hiding place, and so on. And it revolves. Watching the sultry dancers strut down a revolving staircase is just one of the many pleasures of the piece. And no, there is no dialogue at all.
I'd go on, but I'm boring myself. I might as well just hold up a card that says "9.8," reiterate my endorsement, and move on to tonight's diversion. It's closing Sunday, so hurry if you're interested.
Speaking of interest, I had no interest in watching classical pianist Christopher O'Riley play his solo piano transcriptions of songs by Elliott Smith and Radiohead at UCLA's Royce Hall, but a friend did and her boyfriend didn't, so she called me. She knows I'm a goer. A good egg. A sport. And she was paying.
A few remarkable things:
1. I'm not the world's most punctual guy, but I've never seen so many people show up late. The audience -- 20s and 30s, wearing frowns and current hair -- kept flooding in between songs, long after the point at which people are usually all there. I figured they were unaccustomed to a hard start time; A. surmised they'd expected an opening act. Comical. The worst of it was that just as the lights dimmed we had scuttled about six rows forward from our mediocre $32 seats (!), so with every new influx of legitimate ticket-holders we wondered if our subterfuge would be laid bare. It wasn't, but the rustling of tardy passers-by was no picnic.
And what about all that yelling? I know, I'm a curmudgeon, but if you want to whoop at a show, go see System of a Down.
2. But Yogi, what about the music? O'Riley is very good technically -- occasionally amazing -- and a genuine fan of both acts, but I found the actual music to be overdone and often dull, even verging on smooth jazz at times in the Elliott Smith half of the show. Radiohead offered richer and more challenging source material, so I was able to stop thinking how easily he might break into "Piano Man."
3. Encores. No, not three encores. More like four or even five. I don't know; we left after three. It's not as though another encore was likely to add anything by then. Though it did break my record for number of encores witnessed. More on that below.
Interesting gimmick, good job thinking of it, great job monetizing it. But I've had my fill. You, however, can buy the beautifully assembled book of his Radiohead transcriptions for piano online. A mere three-score simoleons.
Regarding my broken record: Until tonight, I'd never seen anyone return to burn more times than John Cale did 20-some years ago after an exhausting, exorcistic show he played at the World Famous Whisky-a-Go-Go on the Sunset Strip. He and his band had rocked for well over two hours, sweat was dripping off the ceiling, the floor was shaking, and the crowd would not let him stop. These days, people barely clap long enough to let the performers escape the hot lights with some dignity (and maybe that's because I'm going to all these senior citizen venues and skipping the Fugazi shows), but back then, on that Hollywood night, John Cale's fans were adamant.
The band willingly played an encore or two and then, five minutes of clapping and stomping and hooting later, they came out grudgingly for another. And that still wasn't enough. We felt history was being made -- his great rock record "Honi Soit" was just out, the venue was historic, and the show was lasting longer than anybody had imagined it might. The clapping and stomping continued. Finally, several minutes later, Cale returned to the stage alone -- grateful, resentful, and worn out. He summoned a ghostly, wracked version of "Heartbreak Hotel" on the piano. It was a crushing performance, and he walked off, victorious and complete. It was over. We were done. Even I was satisfied.
But ... the crowd was not. The crowd had become The Crowd, that thing you read about in Shirley Jackson's story and Comparative Government class, and The Crowd still wanted more. I was flabbergasted. The man had gone beyond every standard of generosity and emotion, and he had nothing left.
So? So what?
"MORE! MORE!! WE LOVE YOU JOHN!"
Eventually he slouched back onstage (alone or with the band, I don't remember), tossed off a half-strength tune and told us all to go home or get fucked or something. Then the people knew it was done. I think the bouncers moved in to clear the floor, the lights came back on very bright, and the PA blasted some awful room-clearing music.
I knew even then that I should have left after the spellbinding "Heartbreak Hotel," but car-crash fascination held me rooted. After that display, I lost all respect for my fellow audience members, and I'd like to think it taught me a lesson about artists and their audiences. Or audiences and their artists. Feed me!
To wrap up this longest of all possible blog posts, I'll just note the maxim, new to me though probably old hat to you, "Serve the classes, live with the masses. Serve the masses, live with the classes." That's what's so brilliant about the O'Riley act: Dressing up popular alternative music in an egghead costume lets him reach a free-spending new audience quite apart from the stodgy classical buyer. I wonder if his career as a serious musician has suffered.
Hmmm. How might I apply that lesson to Lordzim? Maybe I should fill my blog with celebrities, TV, and gossip, after all. How 'bout those Hilton girls, huh? And what about that pip Lindsey Lohan? She's a singer too!
Let me sleep on that.
*
Monday: Following a breezy, chatty little pre-show reception for season ticket holders, we attended the last Green Umbrella event of the season: "Conductor's Choice" with Peter Lieberson. No notes on this one. Why not? Because I can do whatever I want here, that's why not. A minor observation: As Lieberson led the 25-piece ensemble through his own Horn Concerto, the French horn star by his side, I watched the other French horn player, stuck at the back of the stage, in a funk and a row all his own. Or so I imagined. I couldn't stop wondering how the workaday horn player was feeling about playing second -- fiddle? -- to a horn star. A horn star playing the shiniest brass instrument ever.
Tuesday: dark.
Wednesday: Rush tix for a high-concept dance piece called "Play Without Words." Amazing. Funny, erotic, graceful, violent -- all the best adjectives. Plus the cliché adjectives: smoky, jazzy, cool. The story, based on Joseph Losey's 1963 film "The Servant," is fairly straightforward, as K observed, but the treatment is extraordinary for a few reasons. At any given time, each of the five main characters may be represented by up to three dancers at once. Three guys wearing the same suit and three women wearing the same dress trade partners and enact different attitudes, specific moments, and even possible outcomes, underscoring how complex life can be despite our need -- thanks, laws of physics! -- to wrap results up neatly. I usually like to say that there's no control group on a life, but in this piece, there sort of is.
A wizardly two-story structure on the stage combines two very different styles of staircases, two doors, and a variety of pipes and open areas that serve as apartment vestibule, subway car, peep show gallery, hiding place, and so on. And it revolves. Watching the sultry dancers strut down a revolving staircase is just one of the many pleasures of the piece. And no, there is no dialogue at all.
I'd go on, but I'm boring myself. I might as well just hold up a card that says "9.8," reiterate my endorsement, and move on to tonight's diversion. It's closing Sunday, so hurry if you're interested.
Speaking of interest, I had no interest in watching classical pianist Christopher O'Riley play his solo piano transcriptions of songs by Elliott Smith and Radiohead at UCLA's Royce Hall, but a friend did and her boyfriend didn't, so she called me. She knows I'm a goer. A good egg. A sport. And she was paying.
A few remarkable things:
1. I'm not the world's most punctual guy, but I've never seen so many people show up late. The audience -- 20s and 30s, wearing frowns and current hair -- kept flooding in between songs, long after the point at which people are usually all there. I figured they were unaccustomed to a hard start time; A. surmised they'd expected an opening act. Comical. The worst of it was that just as the lights dimmed we had scuttled about six rows forward from our mediocre $32 seats (!), so with every new influx of legitimate ticket-holders we wondered if our subterfuge would be laid bare. It wasn't, but the rustling of tardy passers-by was no picnic.
And what about all that yelling? I know, I'm a curmudgeon, but if you want to whoop at a show, go see System of a Down.
2. But Yogi, what about the music? O'Riley is very good technically -- occasionally amazing -- and a genuine fan of both acts, but I found the actual music to be overdone and often dull, even verging on smooth jazz at times in the Elliott Smith half of the show. Radiohead offered richer and more challenging source material, so I was able to stop thinking how easily he might break into "Piano Man."
3. Encores. No, not three encores. More like four or even five. I don't know; we left after three. It's not as though another encore was likely to add anything by then. Though it did break my record for number of encores witnessed. More on that below.
Interesting gimmick, good job thinking of it, great job monetizing it. But I've had my fill. You, however, can buy the beautifully assembled book of his Radiohead transcriptions for piano online. A mere three-score simoleons.
Regarding my broken record: Until tonight, I'd never seen anyone return to burn more times than John Cale did 20-some years ago after an exhausting, exorcistic show he played at the World Famous Whisky-a-Go-Go on the Sunset Strip. He and his band had rocked for well over two hours, sweat was dripping off the ceiling, the floor was shaking, and the crowd would not let him stop. These days, people barely clap long enough to let the performers escape the hot lights with some dignity (and maybe that's because I'm going to all these senior citizen venues and skipping the Fugazi shows), but back then, on that Hollywood night, John Cale's fans were adamant.
The band willingly played an encore or two and then, five minutes of clapping and stomping and hooting later, they came out grudgingly for another. And that still wasn't enough. We felt history was being made -- his great rock record "Honi Soit" was just out, the venue was historic, and the show was lasting longer than anybody had imagined it might. The clapping and stomping continued. Finally, several minutes later, Cale returned to the stage alone -- grateful, resentful, and worn out. He summoned a ghostly, wracked version of "Heartbreak Hotel" on the piano. It was a crushing performance, and he walked off, victorious and complete. It was over. We were done. Even I was satisfied.
But ... the crowd was not. The crowd had become The Crowd, that thing you read about in Shirley Jackson's story and Comparative Government class, and The Crowd still wanted more. I was flabbergasted. The man had gone beyond every standard of generosity and emotion, and he had nothing left.
So? So what?
"MORE! MORE!! WE LOVE YOU JOHN!"
Eventually he slouched back onstage (alone or with the band, I don't remember), tossed off a half-strength tune and told us all to go home or get fucked or something. Then the people knew it was done. I think the bouncers moved in to clear the floor, the lights came back on very bright, and the PA blasted some awful room-clearing music.
I knew even then that I should have left after the spellbinding "Heartbreak Hotel," but car-crash fascination held me rooted. After that display, I lost all respect for my fellow audience members, and I'd like to think it taught me a lesson about artists and their audiences. Or audiences and their artists. Feed me!
To wrap up this longest of all possible blog posts, I'll just note the maxim, new to me though probably old hat to you, "Serve the classes, live with the masses. Serve the masses, live with the classes." That's what's so brilliant about the O'Riley act: Dressing up popular alternative music in an egghead costume lets him reach a free-spending new audience quite apart from the stodgy classical buyer. I wonder if his career as a serious musician has suffered.
Hmmm. How might I apply that lesson to Lordzim? Maybe I should fill my blog with celebrities, TV, and gossip, after all. How 'bout those Hilton girls, huh? And what about that pip Lindsey Lohan? She's a singer too!
Let me sleep on that.
*
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Prop Chips
I was at "The Lot" today, which used to be known as the Warner Hollywood lot until it wasn't, and as I was heading for the exit I saw a pal emerging from a building. I applied the brakes and hailed her. She was surprised, of course, torn from her work reverie, but appeared chipper at the unexpected distraction.
She's doing prop work on a big poker-related movie (these will be showing up in cineplexes at a dizzying volume all too soon). Having finished the location shooting in Las Vegas, the film has now taken over a few L.A. soundstages and built faithful replicas of two actual casinos. Happily enough, the Bellagio was about to renovate anyway, so the production was able to buy big chunks of actual Bellagio furniture and fixtures. Phew, is that stuff ugly. I've never seen the place, but it's high time they redecorated. Maybe gamblers just feel at home there. [Insert hate mail here.]
So what does a prop master do on such a production? Watches the chips, in large part. Thousands of Bellagio chips were manufactured for this production, and they're not fake. That's right -- take the movie chips to the Bellagio and you can exchange them for real money. According to my propster pal, the chips, like the money, just had to be real. It wouldn't work otherwise. Who knows. Cinéma vérité, circa 2005. A real guard watches over every table in the fake casino. Real chips, real greed.
They've also hired several professional poker players to keep the action authentic. Poor guys -- they come to Hollywood and spend the whole day knowing just how much they'll be up at the end of the day.
After every scene, people count the chips, some of which are worth $1,000.00 each. The other day, the count turned up four chips short. The whole production stopped. Counting, recounting, everybody was on edge. And then they discovered the missing chips. One of the pro gamblers was idly playing with them, running them through his fingers like a magician, oblivious to the havoc he'd caused.
In other fascinating news of wretched excess: The Lot is infested with 500 extras for this movie. That's about $50,000 a day. I nearly hit two while driving to my own appointment. They mill about in the middle of the one-lane thoroughfare, chatting, waving, as self-absorbed and oblivious as a professional gambler fussing nervously over a set of chips.
*
She's doing prop work on a big poker-related movie (these will be showing up in cineplexes at a dizzying volume all too soon). Having finished the location shooting in Las Vegas, the film has now taken over a few L.A. soundstages and built faithful replicas of two actual casinos. Happily enough, the Bellagio was about to renovate anyway, so the production was able to buy big chunks of actual Bellagio furniture and fixtures. Phew, is that stuff ugly. I've never seen the place, but it's high time they redecorated. Maybe gamblers just feel at home there. [Insert hate mail here.]
So what does a prop master do on such a production? Watches the chips, in large part. Thousands of Bellagio chips were manufactured for this production, and they're not fake. That's right -- take the movie chips to the Bellagio and you can exchange them for real money. According to my propster pal, the chips, like the money, just had to be real. It wouldn't work otherwise. Who knows. Cinéma vérité, circa 2005. A real guard watches over every table in the fake casino. Real chips, real greed.
They've also hired several professional poker players to keep the action authentic. Poor guys -- they come to Hollywood and spend the whole day knowing just how much they'll be up at the end of the day.
After every scene, people count the chips, some of which are worth $1,000.00 each. The other day, the count turned up four chips short. The whole production stopped. Counting, recounting, everybody was on edge. And then they discovered the missing chips. One of the pro gamblers was idly playing with them, running them through his fingers like a magician, oblivious to the havoc he'd caused.
In other fascinating news of wretched excess: The Lot is infested with 500 extras for this movie. That's about $50,000 a day. I nearly hit two while driving to my own appointment. They mill about in the middle of the one-lane thoroughfare, chatting, waving, as self-absorbed and oblivious as a professional gambler fussing nervously over a set of chips.
*
Breaking All the Rules
OK, two of you have called me out on the latest breach of the Lordzim articles of faithlessness. Thanks to my laxity, this slo-mo blogsquall and its credo aren't worth the pixels they're printed on.
Wrote the anonymous me@me.com at 9:30pm Monday:
What's a self-appointed profiler of the condition human and its discontents to do? Retreat. Retreat into the known verities, the things that make me laugh. Those things, kids, include a photo of Bill Clinton (Oops! Damn! Said his name again. Fuck!) about to lick a grandma's head, and a duck preening before a massive waterspout. Aflac your own damn self.
Ultimately, it shows that even a curmudgeon will succumb to the charms of powerful leaders and little old ladies. And ducks.
OK, here's something almost important: It's about freedom of expression in this brave new post-9/11 world. Let me just set this up, as the people on TV say. (Oops! Damn!) When viruses killed my hard drive two weeks ago, I lost a few hundred digital images, almost all of them from my last trip to NYC. The only images I still have are the ones I posted here, including the bleak subway platform scenes and one eerily illuminated MTA tunnel vision.
Last week, back in NYC, I was walking past a certain signage-heavy garage and thought to recapture the Parking for Dummies image. Yet as I stood in the driveway framing the shot, a crewcut suit goon marched up and said I wasn't allowed to photograph the garage. Soon thereafter, I heard cops do the same if you try to take photographs in the subway. Or not. But the shutterbugs are fighting back via this manifesto. Where will this end?
OK, maybe I can't say where exactly, but in the spirit of linking, here's a grim, exhaustively researched series of articles on how it will end. Yep, it's that scary New Yorker series on global warming entitled "The Climate of Man."
*
Wrote the anonymous me@me.com at 9:30pm Monday:
I thought your blog was different. no politics. no gossip. no celebrities.. and there, right there.. all together... bill clinton, sex, grandmothers, esses, and paparazzi-like activity.Well, Me, you've got me dead to rights. You and my mom, Me. I'd drop a mea culpa and give you 40, but it's been a rough week for This Old Blog, what with a glut of memories, more PC difficulties, a creeping summer malaise that saps the very whip and thrust from the heart of the blog itself, and -- on top of all that -- serious backchannel backchat from some of you out there in TV Land on just how much Lordzim.blogspot.com sucks these days. Hey, it's not like there's a cover charge here.
What's a self-appointed profiler of the condition human and its discontents to do? Retreat. Retreat into the known verities, the things that make me laugh. Those things, kids, include a photo of Bill Clinton (Oops! Damn! Said his name again. Fuck!) about to lick a grandma's head, and a duck preening before a massive waterspout. Aflac your own damn self.
Ultimately, it shows that even a curmudgeon will succumb to the charms of powerful leaders and little old ladies. And ducks.
OK, here's something almost important: It's about freedom of expression in this brave new post-9/11 world. Let me just set this up, as the people on TV say. (Oops! Damn!) When viruses killed my hard drive two weeks ago, I lost a few hundred digital images, almost all of them from my last trip to NYC. The only images I still have are the ones I posted here, including the bleak subway platform scenes and one eerily illuminated MTA tunnel vision.
Last week, back in NYC, I was walking past a certain signage-heavy garage and thought to recapture the Parking for Dummies image. Yet as I stood in the driveway framing the shot, a crewcut suit goon marched up and said I wasn't allowed to photograph the garage. Soon thereafter, I heard cops do the same if you try to take photographs in the subway. Or not. But the shutterbugs are fighting back via this manifesto. Where will this end?
OK, maybe I can't say where exactly, but in the spirit of linking, here's a grim, exhaustively researched series of articles on how it will end. Yep, it's that scary New Yorker series on global warming entitled "The Climate of Man."
*
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