Re-Launch of the Waterlogged

Ah, to be logged. To log or not to log. Lunchtime is an hour for logging, but not a time for logging hours. Loggingly, he logged his memories to his log-term memory whilst dreaming of… I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to blog on all day about logs. I wanted to be… a Lumberjack! A Logger, if you will. Wait, wait, wait… that’s the same thing I was doing. And if you liked that… It’s better than bad, it’s good. All kids love Log. It’s…

Speaking of logs, it’s… the Stüphaus Weblog Re-launch (redux, reload, rewhatnot, rewhathaveyou). Commence dance of joy now. Dance it, you… <with fist shaking>

It was time for a rebirth, given that it’s nigh the second anniversary of the inception and about one year of more or less death. Like Jebus. Rising up on the Third, yo. It’s what the Jesi do.

What would Jesus do? I dunno, turn water into wine. Go into business with the excess? That’d require some serious marketing skills (apart from the whole “Son of God Wine” thing which would probably sell favorably) as he’d have no vineyard. It’d be a bit sketchy proposition to have wines produced without vines. What vintage is this Christus? they would ask, to which the answer would be “It was a tap after filtration at the local water treatment plant, and then a 8/10/2010 10:18 PM Blessing.” Mmm, they would respond, this may be the best wine we’ve ever had. Oh, it’s quite simply divine!

(or de-vine, ha!) Oh you poor sick bastard.

The Stüphaus took some time out from this earth on account of my no longer living in San Francisco, not having trusty Interweb access at all times, and working on some projects with long hours. It was then forgotten for convenience’s sake in 2010. More recently, during discussion with a seemingly cool girl (who like most all other cool girls wanted no Stüpefaction) with a cool blog, the thought came to re-launch with something more of a purpose.

And so, what was the purpose? The question under the microscope and in subsequent conversations with cooler people (not necessarily with cooler blogs) was such, what should be the purpose of a nicerer, newerer Stüphaus?

Focus

The general focus of re-launch was to be writing. Categories of free, poetrisms and storyllogicals. The poetrism, being not quite poetry as I am not quite poetic — like a parallelogram, but not quite a square. The illogic of stories being the general suspension of disbelief. The freewrites, well, that’s just a mess/mass mishmash of consciousness that needs to be tidied up for general distribution and consumption. Water, wine, anyone? Writing from a design, creation, musing and reflective standpoint. The what-is-it-about and why-is-it-about-what-it’s-about and the does-it-really-express-what-I-think-what-and-why-it’s-about and does-it-help-the-reader-understand-or-explore-the-what-and-why? That’s what it’s all about in the mix.

“Ism’s in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself.” I’m not as worried about isms as is Ferris Bueller. And of course, the next line in the film refers to John as the walrus, when a better reference for Lennon believing in himself would be from his song, God. “I don’t believe in Beatles/I just believe in me/Yoko and me.” And so I propose the following edit to the film, perhaps in a Director’s Cut with some new CGI effects, “Ism’s in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an -ism, he should believe in himself. And Yoko.” Well, I had a chuckle over it.

Whoops, got off on a tangent there. Plus, the original line in the film about the walrus and bumming rides still works. And Yoko.

Of course, watching the conception, re-visioning, editing and culmination of an eventual completion of a poem or story could take years. But add to that the occasionally interesting freewrite, aside or commentary and perhaps a Lego update and… and… crap. That’s almost exactly what the old Stüphaus was + the published product. So here we have it, the new Stüp, the old Stüp. The real change? A revitalization of intention to post to it.

Let us begin modestly. I’m not about to share something that’s been in the works, in fact I would hope to mostly demonstrate new material here. Sondern, a story behind a poem. Two stories behind it, at that.

Story 1: Last weekend a crew and I went out on the town for The Arabian Canadian’s brief appearance back in the Emerald City. There was joviality and singing and drinking. At one bar, named Kings, there was a chance meeting. I was sitting down when a man leaned over and tapped me, and asked me if I went where I had gone to school. Oddly enough, I had. And lo and behold, there was a girl I recognized, sitting on the other side of him, saying hello. Although our names weren’t immediately on the tips of each other’s tongues, we had a hello and brief re-introduction. The two of them are getting married in a couple of weeks now. Congratulations! What I then began to think of was, ah, yes, so it is her. And still quite lovely. Anyway, let’s call her Caitlin as that’s her name. (Note: The Stüphaus rarely acknowledges actual people’s names because those are private (hence The Arabian Canadian – who’s not Arabian, but we know who he is. But as we’ll most likely never see her again we can call her by name.) The other thought that I had was that I had written a poem about her. Not for her, mind you, but about her. And therein lies a distinct and tremendous difference which is not about to be discussed in this post.

Story 2: See, back in the year 2003 Caitlin and I were in a writing class together. As it’s pertinent to the story, yes, she was absolutely gorgeous. One day I was walking to our class and the light was right and the wind was right and the girl was right. You know how you have people in your class who aren’t really friends but you’ve worked together a bit on writing and you’re going to see each other again in about three minutes when class starts so you give the nod/acknowledgement/smile/yo whatever your greeting is? She was talking to a couple of folks but we did the acknowledgement of some sort around them. And that moment was one of those moments where you realize how stunning someone or something can be.

An “ahh” moment of beauty. The moment of clarity that all those writers and artists refer to in all manners of terms and languages and media, but with the same meaning. Voila, poetrism!

Although it’s trite, I’ve always liked this poem. And how often do you find an excuse to use the word susurrous?

Without further ado… Caitlin, wherever you may be, here’s the poem I wrote about you. I hope you have a fine wedding and life.

girl, in zen

the wind thru the pines
drops from susurrous to a drone.

some roar of nature,
a waterfall, only varying,
two lovers joined.

and your hair is flying to the side
of your head, and a few strands of silk
traverse your lips.

Inherently Useless Things

Welcome back to the Stüphaus! One inherently useless thing.

I’ve not updated the blog with any material for a very long time. Judging from the page’s hits, no one seemed to notice or mind. Unlike the number of visitors the reasons for the lack of blog posts are numerous. For starters, I moved out of my San Francisco apartment and no longer had a constant internet connection. Second, I went on an extended vacation. During the vacation I tried desperately to unplug. With the exception of e-mail and sports updates, I did a fair job. Not enough, but fair. Third, I had plenty of new films (see below), music (re-Beatles & plans for a new band), books (about 6) and Legos (blogs and photos coming) to keep me interested during my free time.

So where did I go and what did I do on vacation? That’s really none of your business. Boston was nice. A friend’s wedding was amazing. And Acadia National Park was pleasant, but not really on a par with Glacier, Mt. Rainier, Olympic, the Grand Canyon, Sequoia, Yosemite… you get the idea.

Other than that, I barely wrote a thing (including no blog) and gained a newfound appreciation for smooth jazz (especially when it has a dirty/funky bass line). Fourplay, baby. Guess how many guys are in the band, go ahead. Commence new appreciation now! I mean, it’s still smooth jazz. But newfound. Have you noticed that that one entire disc of Prince’s Emancipation is essentially smooth jazz (with good bass lines)? I did. I don’t listen to that album very often.

I did not, however, gain any new love for “lite” rock. This morning on the shuttle the DJ played a blasé song and at the end tried to sell it half-heartedly. As though he cared about the rock of lite. “And that was Jennifer Page with Crush, from her album… blah, blah, blah.” He didn’t care. Nor did I.

As I fly I sometimes grab the airline magazine for a crossword or the SkyMall for a quick larf. Last night I took up the SkyMall and while perusing the catalogue of inherently useless things, I tried to think of the most inherently useless item (without insulting anyone) that we could produce. How about the 1:1 scale map of the world? When you boil it right down, there’s very little value add for a 1:1 representation of the Earth.

I think it’d go a little something like this:

 

• “How far is it to Boise?”
• –”Let’s look at the map. Well, here is where we are.”
• (unfolding)
• –”What the hell?”
• (unfolding)
• “So, how far is it?”
• –”You know what, how about you just keep driving. That’s how far it is to Boise.”
• (re-folding)

Speaking of inherently useless things, now for a review of the film: Gymkata.

Gymkata Reviewed

Gymkata, from MGM/UA. 1985, filmed in Yugoslavia, music recorded in Zagreb (also in the former Yugoslavia). The foley artist (uncredited! unless I missed it) was out of control!

Trailer transcribed: “His name: Kurt Thomas. GYMKATA! His title: Three-time World Gymnastics Champion GYMKATA! His assignment: A secret mission for the United States government. His only weapon: himself. And that’s all he needs. Combine the discipline, the timing, and the power of gymnastics… with the explosive force of karate… and a new, all-powerful martial art is born: Gym-Kata. Kurt Thomas becomes Jonathan Cabot. He must penetrate a mountain fortress to compete in an ancient savage ritual. They call it: The Game. But nobody wins. And nobody lives. Until… now. When gymnastics and karate are fused, the combustion becomes an explosion. And a new kind of martial arts superhero is born: GYMKATA!“

End of film (before a parallel bars dismount and the end credits…naturally) the following caption displays “In 1985 The First Early Warning Earth Station Was Placed In Parmistan For The U.S. Star Wars Defense Program” (yes, that’s all initial caps and extra spaces between Wars and Defense).

World Champion Kurt Thomas The Master Of GYMKATA!

I remembered this movie from earlier years. Saw it on TBS or something late at night. Perfect for late-night early 90s TBS. Bad movies that are semi-cult favorites, like The Beastmaster or Red Dawn, Red Sonja, etc. Those movies sucked, but how could you doubt that 11:05 PM CST start time? (For the record, The Warriors most assuredly does not suck, although it was aired in the same timeslot.)

Gymkata is in that spirited class of films where there’s some romance early on and you’re thinking, “OK, OK… I understand. This film was scripted so that the lead actress will show some nudity as the film’s only saving grace.” And then throughout there will be enough skin to keep the boys interested. But no. Your thinking is wrong. It doesn’t happen. The film doesn’t even have the (in)decency to go down that road.

And of course, “Gymkata” was often shouted by the crew at MST3K when someone did a nice karate chop and/or flip. (It’s really the film’s most redeeming quality apart from the trailer.)

The Netflix sleeve synopsis closes with this sentiment: “Based on the novel (The Terrible Game) by Dan Tyler Moore and directed by Robert Clouse, this intrigue-soaked martial arts melee favors action over plausibility.” Hehe. Let’s just clarify one part of the preceding synopsis… there’s no intrigue.

So yes, I watched a most ridiculous film. Not horrid, just ridiculous. I’m saying “not horrid” mainly because the King or Khan or whatever of the fictitious Chicken Parmistan was clearly having a lot of fun with his role. Some of the other actors were taking the Gymkata seriously (including the Master of said ‘kata himself). And the foley artist was entirely too serious. But, anyway, I watched it start to finish. I’m glad I did so. And I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.

However, I’m going to push this film on everyone I meet!

You might sit next to me on a plane and ask (for cheap conversation), “See any good films lately?”
I’ll respond, “Oh yeah! What was it called? Gymkata! You’ve got to see it. The plot… well, it’s hard to explain. It’s soaked in intrigue. Not just drenched, soaked. It’s also an aural/visual feast. And it’s a non-stop martial arts melee; all action. And it’s entirely plausible.”

Too bad. I couldn’t say the above to anyone and maintain a straight face.

For a good time, go to youtube and search yourself some “gymkata movie trailer.” You’ll be glad you did.

Likes Opera Seeking an Opera

Ah this morning when I woke up it was 4 AM for no reason. There are no reasons at 4 AM. (“Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?” – Rents) But, fool that I am, I said to myself, “I’ll be back asleep in a jiffy, I will.” Then, I did the famous in-bed foot-stamp. “I’m going to be asleep in no time.” Finally, the shrieking screaming two-year-old-throwing-self-to-floor tantrum erupted, “I’m going to sleep!”

I did fall asleep three hours later. I slept for about six minutes before my Snooze alarm sounded for the fourth time. At 7:10 AM, I’m pretty much relegated to immediately get out of bed to make it to work at 8:00.

I also shaved this morning for the final time with the current cartridge. Having showered the night before, I didn’t wash up, I just went straight from bed to blades. Normally I’d wash my face with hot water. Why? I don’t use shaving cream.

It all ‘minds me of my favorite misheard lyric. From Jay-Z’s song Allure the actual line is “Stop shaving coke / stay away from hoes” I like to sing as “Stop shaving cold / stay away from hoes” (as in gardening/farming-related tools). Why? Because I’ve never sold nor used the cocaine. The last thing I need is something to speed up my system. And my inserted lyric makes perfect sense, because shaving cold is bad. Very bad.

The first pass of full-on below-nose contact was a tug-and-drag. I don’t think I shaved a single whisker. My technique this morning could be described as a three-bladed non-electric lift-and-keep-lifting system. Seriously, I believe I pulled out each hair rather than slicing them. That first swipe was badass. That’ll wake you up in the morning! I almost did one of my Dad’s profanity-laden-gibberish-toe-stub-tirades. (for example, “god-ooble-aaable-yayahomina-f&$#in’-scurv-dog!”)

Sucking it up, I then finished the rest and all was good. But I am always washing with hot water first to soften the whiskers. And that cartridge is gone, because those three blades be dull. Real dull.

Now, to the actual matter of discussion for the day:

Do you ever listen to an opera (let’s say Mozart’s Zauberflöte because I’ve just been thinking about Jay-Z’s Allure) and then find yourself wishing for the ability to go back in time? Why, you ask? I would bring Mozart to our current day and take him to an evening at the opera to show him his own production: big event, black-tie, still-in-vogue and über-popular, what 250ish years later. 300 years? 600 years? Thirteen hundred? Whenever. Anyway, we’ve established the time travel, composer-napping in order to show him his opera today. Let him bask in how people adore his genius all these many years later.

Then, after the opera, I’d take him out dancing!

No, no, no. This is not a Mozart-date, this is a Mozart-napping.

After the opera, I’d take him to a movie theater and throw on the original version of The Empire Strikes Back with premium sound system and a 90′ screen. Why this social/time experiment? I’d like to know what the opera composers of old would think of a modern film, complete with excellent musical score (Empire’s score is so choice; if you ever get the chance I highly recommend you pick one up).

Prior to the film, “Now, Herr Mozart, this is what we call a space opera… bitch.” Here’s how we do things down in Toontown. Roll film. And as wild as any opera he wrote Empire Strikes Back would be. Shock and awe.

That, or slip Mozart some 3D glasses and show him some Captain Eo. What with the singing and dancing, likesay. Eee-hee.

Failing the time travel and kidnapping aspect, I’d like to take a girl to an opera. Know anyone?

Voices Around the Corner & The Science Beyond

Sunday morning I went hunting for coffee. Sunday mornings I hunt coffee at the same local coffeeing hole. So it’s not so much hunt as… a walk to and from. Hunt!

I approached a blind street corner. The corner is made blind by an apartment building on my left embracing the sidewalk all the way to the intersection. As I approached the corner, I heard voices coming from the adjacent sidewalk. Fast approaching voices. So I slow as reach to allow this couple or group to pass. But it’s just one hatted, bearded guy. My initial thought, this day and age, is that he’s got some Bluetooth or earpiece thing.

He stops as well when he sees me waiting for him to pass.

Bluetooth, right? Negative. Just talking to himself.

Then he cries out, “Hiyaaa-awaa-yaaa” and does some shifty-judochoppery arm moves in my general direction. We were about four feet from each other, so there really wasn’t any aggressive act. Just some frenetic wax-on, paint-the-house combinations. Left Right AB Left, right? A bit surprising, but nothing to worry about. I mean, who hasn’t air-kicked their older sister to show off those honed mad karate skillz? Exactly. I’m guessing I got my payback on the streets of San Francisco.

Then, the guy dropped his arms and smiled and gave me a pleasant, “Good morning.”

I said, “Good morning.”

We both moved on. I headed down the hill for that coffee thinking that it’s too early for this. Onward to coffee! Behind me, the karate master began rummaging through the trash bin on the corner. The conversation of voices started up again. So — somewhat erratic behavior.

All in all it was a lovely start to the day. Lovely day, Sunday. I went to the California Academy of the Sciences with the Mistress of ROD. Awesome place. So awesome that we missed our scheduled planetarium visit because we were too busy checking out the fantastic rain forest. The macaw, butterflies, vegetation and colorful froggies were really magnificent. And you know, searching for the various spiders, lizards and critters in their little boxes takes time. No chameleons in their exhibit, although they were supposed to be back that day according to the placard reminiscent of a “Back in 5 minutes” sign except it said “July 5th.” For the record, the 3D Bug show was apparently not awesome enough to keep the Mistress of ROD awake for its entirety. “The chairs were so comfy and it was dark and…zzz…” Ha. I agree, the 3D show was the weakest part of the day.

Independence Day

Independent Thoughts:

 

• “Mage Against the Ravine.” It’s a fantasy role-playing game about magical/theological/astrological bridge-building (depending on the latest gamer-accepted definition of the word: mage (or magus). Plus, the soundtrack possibilities are endless.
• “That about floats my goat.” — or — “Your goat can be used as a flotation device.”
• Remember when using your camera used to be like handling a gun? Snap! Shotgun reload sound to advance the film. (I’m talking pre-winding advance wheel, I mean the little pump-action slide bar). Snap! Reload film. Snap! Then, oh no, we’re out of flashes! Pull out the flash cube clip, flip it, ram home the other end of the flashbulb clip. (Like two magazines taped together in any popular action movie). Glorious! Sadly, it’s all gone digital. Now anyone can take a photograph, not just us strong hulk Rambos. Next thing you know, they’ll let girls become photographers. Yay! A chauvinist joke. Wooo!

On the 4th I watched Letters from Iwo Jima as my Netflix movie of timely queue delivery. What did you do before fireworks? I watched a film that celebrated independence and the fight for it. Just… not American independence. Still, an excellent film. And I feel a perfect film for the day. I did take a break for fireworks, just after General Kuribayashi said “things come in threes” prior to a little Saito-General heart-to-heart. Boom goes the dynamite.

San Francisco’s Pier-some-number-fireworks-extravaganza was a bit blasé. Nothing amazing. Nothing like the spectacle of the transport chopper and the 3 bajillion square foot flag ala Seattle’s Lake Union blowout. There were some super loud cubes, smiley faces and your usual planets with rings and plenty of sparkle sparkle. The best shells of the night were the toadstools. They had a blue hemisphere shell blast of glowing motes on one end to provide the cap. The stem consisted of five to six sparkling tracer shells fired the other direction from the original burst. Those were pretty nice. The best part of the evening was the barrier of fog overhead. The highest shells went up, exploded, and their uppermost flares expanding up into the bank to be lost from view. The colors radiated across the fog’s face below. That was nice.

Welcome to the Stone Age

There was only the bright sun in the sky. No clouds, no vapor trails; even Apollo was still centuries from fruition. Just myself on a wicker patio lounger, cold glass of ice water and a good book or two at the ready (Flaubert’s Parrot being one, the ninth in the series to re-read in time for November being the other).

Welcome to the Stone Age. That’s right. Our television signals have gone wholly digital. Analog is dead except in the Stone Age. There, my phonograph is still alive and well. My television shows DVDs and … you know, Beta Max, at will. And the books help. Safely shuttered away from the outside world. And my feet are gettin’ hairier.

My seven year itch television apparently is analog. Sure, it’s got numerous red-white-yellow combo jacks for inputting XBoxes and DVD players and such forth and so on und so weiter und so weiter. You’re thinking I should have noticed sooner? Well, I’ve not been home for a time.

Ach! But no telly.

And then I came to the realization. Did I miss television? What would I have watched? Likely it would have been to see Team USA shite away a quality chance to A) beat the two best national teams on the planet in back-to-back games, B) hoist some sort of meaningless cup. (For the record, there is only one Cup worth winning, and it is made of silver rings etched in the victors’ personal sigils.)

If I’d have watched that I’d have just been disappointed at a sure victory — blown.

When will I regret the lack of television? Sunday morning, the football season begun, and a Packers home game begins on the west coast at 10 AM and I don’t want to brave a walk to…. What kind of place is open at 10 AM on a Sunday? (Churches don’t count — you can’t watch the Packers game in church unless you’re in Wisconsin). So I have a couple months to figure out a solution.

Note, upon rearrival in TVLand (San Francisco corporate apartment) I watched the replay of the first half of the soccer match on ESPN. It was already getting late in the night and I knew the outcome, so I did not stick around for the second half. Even as a non-soccerer I believe I could see a few things. The Americans scored two beautiful transition goals based on Johnny Hustle! Donovan kept a ball inbounds with a sliding kick, “you win the hustle award!” which led to a rush and a perfect deflection goal. Later, the Americans blocked a shot and countered with what amounts to a 2-1 break. Pass, pass, settle it and shoot. In hockey terms, it was tic, tac, wait for the goalie to commit, toe. He shoots, he scores! Goooooooooooal. And all the rest. Foghorns. All that being said, the Americans did not control the first half. If not for a bunch of blocked shots and plenty of good goaltending, they’d not have been in that game by halftime. Still, it’s a start. But it looked like Brazil and their beautiful game had ball control and it was only a matter of time until they scored a couple and secured their victory. It just took a lot longer than expected. The Americans capitalized on a couple chances.

It reminded me much of the late 1990s Buffalo Sabres. Hasek would stymie the enemies and keep the Sabres in the game. Then, on a rush after a fantastic save, or a turnover, the Sabres score! Yay! Foghorns! The world rejoices. God bless us, everyone.

Ahhh, but also remember, the Sabres never did win that Stanley Cup.

Look! It's NBC!

The Second Seal

Did you know that people can be allergic to peaches? Neither did I. Now, I’ve come to a certain realization that I’m one of these pitiable people. This is a very recent development — and perhaps related to only the specific peach species (organic, no less) that they happen to carry at my local market. I’ve never before encountered anything like this peach-allergy (well, discounting pine pollen and my eyes). And if I had a prior peach encounter, it was so mild an allergic reaction that it went unnoticed as such. Or the chemicals used to grow the peach to incredible size destroyed the allergens. Is organic produce a(n expensive) curse?

This time around, I noticed. Nothing threatening, thankfully. But a definite full-on allergic reaction. My tongue and throat were burning and scratchy and a bit swollen/tight, my eyes itched as badly as sleeping beneath a stand of Douglas Firs dropping pounds of pollen directly on my face, my skin yearned for a good metal rake. It was the most discomfort I’ve been in in a long, long, long time. The itching mellowed out after about half an hour. But my mouth still felt the lingering effects hours later.

How could I blame one of my favorite fruits? How do I blame the sweet, innocent peach? Ha, the infernal peach! The false, wicked peach! This wretched peach!

Last weekend, I went shopping and bought my “Minnesota Twins @ Chicago Cubs on TV” lunch. A big bottle of beer, a sandwich, a jar of spicy pickles, some mustard pretzels, and a couple peaches. After lunch — I thought I had touched my eyes with the spicy pickle brine still fresh on my fingers. And having burned my tongue on something the night before (Thai food, if I recall correctly), I sort of discounted that symptom. Also, the hoppy, drowsy-inducing IPA made everything OK. For the record, Stone IPA makes everything feel OK. The pickles also made me feel better — I ate the entire jar during the course of a few innings. So, somewhere in the combination of barbituates and brine I significantly reduced the ill-effects of the foul fruit of Prunus persica.

All that said, after lunch I was itchy-eyed, tongue-clicking and not up to snuff. To compound matters, the Twins lost that game.

This morning I sliced up the second peach in my granola and yogurt.

I got to the second slice before I was dumping the whole mess in the trash.

A doom was pressed upon me. Thou shalt not eat a third peach.

This whole event hurts me because a ripe peach is among the most delicious of all edible things. Well above a pudding made of Cheetos and Robitussin. I am devastated that I now need to think about what I eat. Does this fruit cocktail contain peaches? What about cobblers? What about a juice blend? A girl drink? Will this affliction worsen with time? Have I released a decidedly un-peachy-keen floodgate?

I pray that this is just one species of peach. And what about nectarines? Other peach hybrids? Will I ever be able to visit Georgia again in good faith?

I love peaches and must now be wary of them. Allergic reactions are awful. Imagining being allergic to bee stings, or peanuts, or something actually dangerous. It is terrifying. But I feel such remorse at this newfound affliction. And I wonder how it took me 28 years of fine peach-eating to encounter it. Shock. And awe. Peaches.

Dinner & a Movie

I watched the film Kandahar this past weekend. As I recall, the person who recommended it to me was my creative writing professor in college and he distinctly told me, “It’s not a date movie.” All the same, I had this sick whimsical desire it would be something like the Hope/Crosby (Bob and Bing, yo) “Road to…” franchise: full of hijinks, laughs, songs, slapstick, guffaws, and one stunning leading lady. It was not, how to say, to be confused for a “Road to Kandahar” type film in any way.

Prior to watching the film, I went to dinner at a fish restaurant of just-slightly-longer-than-absolutely-necessary-name: The Hyde Street Fish House & Raw Bar. I think it’s the “the” that leads off the title. It’s one step beyond the actual name. Like when football players say “The Ohio State University” when they introduce themselves on NFL night-time broadcasts. And since when do they need to introduce themselves — what, the announcers aren’t capable of introducing lineups anymore? And who gives a flying fuck what school you attended? (cynic says “As if you studied anyway.”) I digress. Perhaps if I was 200# of muscle (91 kilograms) and ran a 4.4 forty I could tell people about my Creative Writing major and where I got it and they’d care. But I doubt it. So… NBC, ESPN, stop letting players talk and stop letting them tell us where they played college ball. It’s lame.

At one table was a quartet of ladies, appearing to be a mother, her two daughters, and her mother. Or a grandmother, daughter, granddaughter and granddaughter’s friend. Anyway — one of the granddaughters was very cute. And was served wine — so it wasn’t like I’m talking about robbin’ the cradle, pedophile cute. I mean sexy cute.

Anyhoo – this blog is really about charity. My dinner’s bill was covered by the couple at the next table. Why? No one will ever know. Here is my complete interaction with the couple at the table over:

My oysters arrive. Two each of Quilcene, WA; __ Point, WA; and Fanny Bay, BC. Lady says “we got the oysters, too.” “Yes, I love Quilcene oysters.” “Oh yes, those are some of our favorites. We’re from Washington.” “Oh. I live in Seattle. (sort of).” “We’re from Bellingham.” We then tried to remember where exactly Quilcene is. I said, “I think it’s own the tip of Olympic Peninsula.” They agreed, because there’s an Indian Reservation there. They didn’t agree long though, because after they conferred as a couple-committee, they said, “Quilcene is the casino, not the reservation.” At least, not that reservation on the tip of the peninsula. They then told me, “Quilcene Creek Casino is closer to Lake Townshend. On the coast is Quinalt.” Ah yes, I had been thinking Quinalt, not Quilcene. C’est la vie. I got the first three letters right. Besides, I don’t even really live there.

I then began eating my oysters. Fanny Bay, meh. _ Point, delicious. Quilcene, very delicious.

That was the extent our conversation. And then they paid for my dinner.

But why, why, why? I hope it wasn’t pity — oh, there’s a guy eating on his own on Mother’s Day. Let’s pity him! Perhaps they felt guilty about something. Or I looked like their long-dead son. Or they were simply rolling in cash. Perhaps they were hoping to work out some sexual rendezvous. To them, I’d have politely declined. Perhaps they wanted fifteen minutes of fame in my ever-popular blog. OK, right, that’s delusional.

I doubt the cutie was impressed by this stunning show of charity. But — hell — who am I to complain (I may resent any form of pity upon me) but since my wine, oysters and dinner were free, I splurged and got full-on dessert. I paid for the banana bread pudding and a glass of port. And that’s alright by me, especially since it was a weekend and I was actually paying for it (as opposed to billing a client). So, hey, can’t turn down a free meal at a quality dining establishment.

The H1N1 Viral Infection

I’m glad the current influenza strain is no longer simply called Swine Flu. That was giving pigs (and yummy pork products) a bad name. In fact, Egypt’s government (FDA equivalent?) had actually authorized the slaughter of the current pork crop.
article here

That’s 300,000 oinkers who’d have been needlessly extinguished. You don’t get this from pigs. It’s not just a swine flu. It’s a swine/avian/homo sapiens hybrid.

I wonder if he’s the cause of it.

Wow What a lineup

But I doubt it, because he only brings joy to life’s many line-ups.

Save a Deer’s Soul

Rolin Stone Reviews Swamp Pop’s Dead Deer Anthology

Driving along CA 24 it’s hard not to notice the many black-tailed (mule) deer on that hillside north of the highway between… I dunno… Lafayette and Orinda. What I notice about the deer is that they don’t seem to notice the ten-lane expressway or BART line. Those deer are practically domesticated. Some would say they’ve lost their souls.

When I think of deer, I think of two things. The first is hunting. The second is slowing down the car lest said deer decide to chance their way in front of that pair lights. In either case, deer die by the thousands. The bodies of many deer lie strewn about the Wisconsin roadways.

And who shall liberate the souls of these fallen deer?

This is the underlying question behind the Swamppop album Dead Deer Anthology. http://www.swamppop.org/

Thankfully, a flash game exists to help you be the answer, the solution, rather than just another problem with a .30-06 or a big rig and no time to hit the brakes or swerve.

This final solution to the souls of a potentially endless string of deer is the great mystery that our world required solving. Again, who shall redeem the souls of so many deceased, forsaken deer? The answer to this question lies wrapped deep within the aural textures and blues guitar work, the layers of undulating vocals and the energetic drums of Dead Deer Anthology. And when you look inside, especially if you play the online game at the website… the answer is you. You are the salvation. Open the gate to guide them on the next stage of their spiritual journey. This is the soundtrack of a journey to deer heaven.

No Carrion Here: The DDA tracks at a glance:

Flatland – The Deer are shaken from their brutal slaughter-slumber on the flatland. This song is solid and consistent, with a nice quick introduction. It serves as a very good little hook for the rest of album and prepares our venison for its way to the feast. It’s not an aggressive or rollicking opener, but the album isn’t too aggressive or rollicking, and so it’s a very balanced or well-centered opening. Zen-like, right. No misleading the listener or pretension. The cymbals are little tinny, and that seaside wash of the Lo-Fi Mummy album remains, which makes it the Swamppop sound; it then becomes natural, and natural is very popular these days.

Doubly Linked – I think it’d be better placed in the #4 slot. #2 needs to be setting the hook that Flatland got into the fish’s mouth. The bass has taken the bait, now you need to set the hook and reel it in. I believe… And why the fishing metaphor? Get back to odocoileinael resurrection.

Old Scurvy – With its strong poppiness (like heroin) would be better suited in the 2-hole. The savvy batter who can advance the runner bats here, as a baseball person would say. And here is a savvy pop song. Now you’re on a baseball metaphor. Didn’t ne’er done see a Bambi play ball. Unless you count the Bambino and you don’t dare.

Sinking In the Sea – The bucket-of-beer-at-the-beach feel from Lo-Fi Mummy returns in this track. Correctly placed behind Scurvy. A simple song on the A-side with a gentle country ramble.

Lively – The consistent close / or second-to-last song of the side-A. OK. So I still always believe in albums as having A-sides and B-sides. Why? Because it’s difficult to strictly hold 30 minutes of music together – especially with shorter songs. If it were an operatic arrangement, yes, but those have three acts, and often breaks for movement of the set pieces within each act, and that causes a similar break. Lively can hold its own in closing the first side – which leads to a very solid 6-song B-side.

Sharing a Room – The kickoff to a brilliant side-B, if I may say so.

Motives – This is the exact spot for a track like this on the album. Right after the rocker to open side-B. Well-played. I like the actual piano-sounding piano. And about 1:50 in, the guitar line over ¼ note chords on the piano was excellent. Seems pretty simple, but there’s a lot going on – and the motive behind it all to save some fawns seems right.

Bird Ego – Probably the strongest single track on the album. Maybe not the best – but the most powerful. And yes, the drums have a lot to do with that. I don’t know that they needed to open the song alone, but they do provide the gravitas for the rest of the track. As soon as the song proper kicks in, those drums are put right back into place where they belong. And I like a good title.

Sailing – Wow. Did this one mellow out to seaside music once again. Although I’m not a fan of the Beach Boys, this is quite possibly as solid as beach listening music as theirs. And more interesting lyrically (speaking here of early Beach Boys – they got better later, just before Wilson went nuts like a proverbial deer in the headlights). Like Carnival – I didn’t care for hearing this song over and over below my bed while I was writing back those years ago. But this version of it is excellent. The half-swung base/snare pattern is good for the track. Better than the original straight-up surfer song snare on the 2 and 4& or 2& and 4. This half-swing suits the softer version. It’s actually a pretty versatile track in that sense. The closing buildup is a little weak considering how harsh the original was and it could have gone back to those roots for the closing and really presented its potential for dynamics.

Zone – A bit of an anachronism on this album. In that sense, it could have been the close to side-A. Instead, it serves as the rocker prior to the final closing number that makes you contemplative and relaxed. It’s much like the end to DMB’s Crash album, where you have an old anachronism rocker standard (Tripping Billies) brought onto a later album before the mellow closer of Proudest Monkey. There’s this interesting organ underlay at about 2:00 in the “She’s my Below” verse that I really enjoyed. Nice quirk tucked away into a regular rock standard. The ending was good. Refreshing. And yes… the drums are better than when I played this track.

Fetch – I think this pushes the deer through the pearly gates, and at right about the edge of register the guys should be singing. But it’s a nice near-lullaby to close it out. More an aural experiment than a song, perhaps. As I said before, it’s the gentler close to the album like DMB’s Crash. Now, whether you see that as good criticism or bad criticism is up to you and your biases. I think it’s fine to compare to the Crash album. Fetch is a good close and doesn’t outlast its welcome. I also like the nice little semi-round for the final chorus and that draws it tidily into a fade.

My main gripes: I can’t understand 1/3 of the lyrics. But as I sometimes have trouble understanding The Beatles, who enunciate as well as anyone, this is nothing new. I’m sure the kids these days can understand everything. And just a minor structural correction in dropping Doubly Linked back in the lineup.

But my biggest gripe? What – no FANGZ? What the hell? Where are the Fangz? Honestly, an album this strong is exactly where you sneak in a Fangz and get away with it.

Rating: Dead Deer Anthology: 7/8