I just finished the summer finale of Battlestar Galactica. I just returned from a week-long trip back to New York.
[spoilers and livejournal-style self reflection after jump]
Continue reading "Finding Earth [Battlestar Galactica Finale Review]" »
Going bird hunting? Tired of fishing out pieces of metal from your (slain) bird, and then having to do all of that seasoning before you can roast it? Shoot it with a seasoning bullet instead!
Season Shot is made of tightly packed seasoning bound by a fully biodegradable food product. The seasoning is actually injected into the bird on impact seasoning the meat from the inside out. When the bird is cooked the seasoning pellets melt into the meat spreading the flavor to the entire bird. Forget worrying about shot breaking your teeth and start wondering about which flavor shot to use!
Its tagline is Shoots. Kills. Seasons. I love too how it's being marketed to the green-minded hunters among us: Watch as your bird is seasoned on impact leaving no harmful waste behind in the environment. It's sort of majestically brilliant and fucked up, all at once. God help us all. God help those poor, unsuspecting wild turkeys.
[Thanks to AT for the link.]
MD's got a doppleganger in every town he's ever lived in. It's weird, especially since the doubles really are dead ringers for him, and because he's actually friends with them. He once told me, ages ago, when he lived in NYC and I was still in Ithaca, that he saw my doppleganger on a Manhattan street. I told him that I didn't believe him, that in his drunken haze he was mistaken; until I actually saw my doppleganger for myself, I wouldn't believe that I had one. It just seemed too improbable that an HT lookalike could be roaming the streets of New York, or any town.
Well, my friends, I've now seen my double, and let me tell you: it's fucking weird. This is totally not me:
Even with the striped shirt and the whiskey glass, it's totally not me. I am sufficiently creeped out.
Coldplay soon, I promise.
[Thanks to AFN for emailing me the album pic and asking if I had painted my nails recently. He was pretty creeped out too. I don't know how MD surrounds himself with ... himselves.]
I am a huge fan of Wilco's 2002 masterwork Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Huge. I remember being at an undergrad house party in Ithaca that year, hiding out in one of the bedrooms with my pal RL, who couldn't stop raving about how good the album was. I hadn't heard it yet -- and in fact, I wouldn't get around to hearing it for another year or so -- but I have a distinct memory of how completely enraptured RL was just talking about it. And so when I finally got around to listening to it, I recall thinking that RL's raves didn't do it justice. It was that good. It's one of the few times I think Pitchfork has been spot on in their high-minded, completely laudatory reviews. (And they do a much better job than I ever could, waxing poetic about the tracks -- there's not a single bad song on there, and I'm notorious for generally hating at least 3 songs off any given record.)
Sam Jones' documentary of the making of the album, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart, was also pretty spectacular in its depiction of the band's trials, tribulations, and just general insanity during the recording process. The movie shares a title with my favourite track off YHF, a song I love on so many levels: the slightly loopy, but subdued, instrumentation that serves as backdrop to a crazy-quilt-lyrical foreground; Jeff Tweedy's vocal delivery (I love that man's voice, seriously); the wailing at the song's end. Tweedy does a beautiful acoustic rendition of it during the gorgeous opening credits of the film, which you can see above, but I figured I'd also throw in a fuller live version from a couple of years ago, too. Enjoy!
I mean, I just really, really love the image of a bible-black pre-dawn. [Sigh.] Happy Friday, everyone. Part two of the Death Cab / Coldplay / Celine extravaganza tomorrow.
I’ve been trying to write this post for weeks now. Dozens of drafts have been born, and have died, in my head, and this is seriously going to be my last go at it. I can’t pinpoint why it’s been so difficult getting the words out here, but I suspect it’s because I’m about to admit that I might not be entirely immune from Celine Dion’s charms. Sort of. In a manner of speaking. Or maybe in a parallel universe. Well, maybe Celine and Coldplay. Or. Er….
Here’s the thing:
A little while back, MRP gave me a copy of music writer Carl Wilson’s excellent contribution to Continuum’s 33 1/3 series, Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste. The book chronicles Wilson’s attempts to understand the phenomenon that is, and continues to be, Celine Dion – how she got to be so huge, and how it’s possible for so many people to get swept up by her sentimental, schmaltzy shtick. Wilson delves deep into Dionosphere, swims around an entire chapter or two on aesthetic theory -- what is this thing we call taste, anyway? -- and emerges from the entire experience not much more a fan of Dion's music, but at least a more acutely aware critic of his own musical preferences and prejudices.
The book is a great read, and at under 200 pages, it's perfect to read on the subway (though people did look at me funny -- there's a picture of Celine on the front -- and one guy on the LIRR actually asked me, "Are you really reading a book on Celine Dion?!"). The day MRP gave it to me, we had decided to meet up at the local on a sunny Saturday evening. When we walked in, there was a Death Cab for Cutie song playing on the soundsystem, one I hadn't heard before -- which doesn't say a whole lot, since I don't listen to much DCFC anyway. We had a lovely evening of whiskey -- lots of the good stuff, as well as a peek into MRP's journal and a lengthy discussion of the Wire. Not much more you could ask for, really.
A few days later I was back at the local, and that Death Cab song came on again. This time I paid more attention. It was sort of ... good. Not that Death Cab is otherwise not good; what I've heard I rather quite enjoy. But this song grabbed me in a peculiarly heartfelt way. I couldn't put my finger on it, nor did I get around to asking the barkeep what song it was. But the song stayed stuck in my head, until a few days later, when I finally got around to asking MRP what the title of the song was. "Marching Bands of Manhattan," he wrote back. "It's so Gibbard."
I immediately got a copy off iTunes. And proceeded to listen to it 15 times in a row.
Death Cab for Cutie | Marching Bands of Manhattan
[more after the jump]
Continue reading "Confessional / Delusional: Celine Dion and Me (Part 1)" »
This -- ranting incoherently -- is what happens when you:
1. Barely survive a terrible job interview for an assistant professorship, during which you tell the search committee about your dissertation and ongoing work on exploring the relationship between ruins and the search for national identity and historicity in the face of a constantly changing conception and experience of modernity, and then
2. Not get the job (nor even get a polite rejection letter), and so then
3. Quit academia, and decide to continue working on ruins-related ideas, even though without institutional backing you know it will be hard to get your foot in the academic publishing world, but then
4. Find out that the head of the search committee for the job that you applied to, and for which you had that terrible interview, has, out of nowhere, and three years after said interview during which she seemed to scoff at the idea of thinking through ruins as a way to examine 21st century narratives of the present, become the guest editor of the latest issue of Cultural Anthropology:
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY: "Imperial Debris: Reflections on Ruins and Ruination", Ann Laura Stoler
The May 2008 issue of Cultural Anthropology is a special issue edited by Ann Laura Stoler focused on "imperial debris." "This is not a turn to ruins as memorialized and large-scale monumental 'leftovers' or relics," Stoler writes in her introductory essay, "but rather to what people are 'left with': to what remains, to the aftershocks of empire, to the material and social afterlife of structures, sensibilities, and things. Such effects reside in the corroded hollows of landscapes, in the gutted infrastructures of segregated cityscapes and in the microecologies of matter and mind."
In expanding conceptions of ruins and eschewing any romanticization of them or their empires, Stoler hopes to interlink postcolonial studies with analyses and concerns about urban decay, environmental degradation, industrial pollution, and "racialized unemployment." She also hopes to highlight how some people and places are more susceptible to ruin than others. "Modernity and capitalism can account for the left aside, but not where people are left, what they are left with, and what means they have to deal with what remains," writes Stoler.
It's Memorial Day here in the States. Methinks it's a perfectly reasonable time -- 1pm -- to get my drink on.
Who'd have thought in May 2007 that a year later, I'd wake up one Sunday morning and crave a sandwich filled with lobster chunks drowning in mayonnaise? Or that I'd refer to such desires -- and the subsequent consumption of my first lobster roll at Brooklyn Fish Camp, complete with toasted bun and shoestring fries -- as progress?
Or that I'd wash it down with ... wait for it ... a pint of beer? Or that I can't stop thinking about when I'm going to have another one?
Man, what a different a year makes: happier, fatter, probably awkwarder. And beerier. Good times!
Probably Awkward turned one yesterday. No joke!
Some posts musing on our First Year On the Internets forthcoming.
Out of perhaps a strange (but probably predictable) combination of duty, pride, and masochism, I feel it's necessary here to let readers know that tonight, the NYC -- maybe US? -- premiere of Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead is happening over at Village East Cinemas. I don't know how to adequately or appropriately describe the film to you, so I'll let the rather stellar NY Times review do it for me here.
Having dated one of the producers of the film (ahem) and thus having seen a fair chunk of it prior to its European and Asian premieres, I can say that it's a fun time if you're in the mood for ... let's see, how did the Times describe it? ... ah, yes: a satirical sexploitation zombie chicken gross-out musical extravaganza. No, seriously -- I'm not kidding: it's raucous, irreverent, smart, and funny. Check it out!
[Er. Having just written all of that, could someone please give me a drink now?]
I'm not going to lie to you: the main reason why I've not been blogging is because I've finally figured out what all the fuss was about: The Wire is/was quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to television. And to crime procedurals. And to my life. Every waking moment that doesn't involve me getting ready for work, going to work, being at work, and/or partaking in Pizza Night at the local pretty much involves me putting on my noise-canceling headphones, throwing the next DVD of The Wire into my laptop, and entering into a reverie from which I'd like to never awaken. I'd like to write a meaningful post about The Wire, except that I'm too busy watching more episodes, or reading stories about the filming process, or whatever, that at the end of the day all I want to do is KEEP GOING.
More from Probably Awkward when I either exhaust my supply of the best writing/acting/directing on television, or you all figure out where I live and come to my door and convince me to put down the headphones and laptop. Otherwise .... er, yeah. Go Netflix yourselves some copies of season one and discover what the fuss is all about. Oh Good God it's good.
Addendum: As my pal GA puts it: "There are two kinds of people -- Those who love The Wire, and those who haven't seen it yet." Indeed.
Since moving to Seattle, I've found it increasingly difficult to write. When I first got here I had lofty aspirations of creating a narrative of my experiences and observations, comparing the East Coast to the West Coast and blah, blah, blah, decided that it's all been done before and that any sort of generalization of my experiences to a broader truth was probably an exercise in futility, doomed to create resentment among my new Seattle friends and boredom back in the East.
I was happy to just enjoy nature, chill out and not "overanalyze everything" until I got up this morning and read the piece What I Can Tell You About Seattle Based on the People I've Met Who Are From There (I Live in Brooklyn) by wunderkind Tao Lin, bff of Miranda July in this week's Stranger, Seattle's free paper. The piece is contradictory, frustrating and poorly written (Tao informs readers of his blog "they added commas to my prose"), and commenters on the Stranger's blog are alternately up-in-arms, hating on New Yorkers or praising this as "a great piece-- irreverent, non-sensical. Most of what he writes is completely off-the-mark, but that's what makes it great."
Honestly, it reads like a bad Zagat's review with random quote marks scattered across the page separating words from one another with no rhyme or reason, much like Tao makes points and contradicts them soon after: There is no logic, consistency or beauty to what he writes... and people adore it.
I don't think this says anything about Seattle but a lot about what we're heading as a society as a whole. The recent move away from the Kneejerk Irony that marked the early '00s seems to be veering from The New Sincerity and into the territory of Dada. This a world that loves Little Miss Sunshine for its heart-warming quirkiness despite its lack of believable or consistent, nuanced characterization. It's the bastard child of Hello Kitty and James Joyce -- a super kawaii Finnegan's Wake. Who cares if it means anything -- it warms our hearts and makes us feel smart for appreciating it.
Either that or Seattleites are just a bunch of milquetoast hippies who are unwilling to judge anyone or anything too harshly for fear of hurting someone's feelings.
There is a time in every lady's life where she has to ask herself: just how hungry am I? Am I hungry enough to finish off a huge plate of buffalo wings at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon? Is there a chance I might succumb to food coma afterwards? Is it worth it?
If the answer to the first question is 'moderately hungry', but the buffalo wings involved are 20 cents a piece, with a 20-wing minimum (and optional 10-wing increments to follow), then the answers to the rest of the questions = oh yes. Yes indeed.
I didn't intend to put myself into mild food coma this past Saturday, but I also didn't see the impromptu Croxley Ales challenge coming either. After a mid-afternoon mini-spa treat, JC, NM, and I traipsed over to the east village, in search of an outdoor garden where we might consume some drinks; it was, after all, a beautiful day. Heading further and further into the neighborhood, with nothing palatable in sight, JC mentioned that she might be hungry. And that she might want buffalo wings. I had been in the mood for wings for weeks now; without thinking beyond the sheer fact of wings, I agreed. NM reeled back, slightly aghast. To Croxley Ales we went.
So, long story short: we ordered 20 wings, spicy, with extra sauce. They gave us closer to 30. JC and I dug in, gamely and with aplomb. The quality of the wings helped considerably: meaty and crunchy, with a liberal dose of sauce. An hour later, my mouth on fire, JC and I finished off the last two wings on the place. We'd eaten about 15 wings apiece. I couldn't move; I was too full to finish my pint of Belhaven. I had to meet some pals at another bar imminently. I couldn't move. Groggily I made it to the 11th street bar (home to Liverpool supporters, I discovered), where I managed to stay awake and functional enough to drink and carry a conversation. Barely.
Epilogue: I didn't eat again for nearly 24 hours. Would I do it again? You bet.
It's been a long, hellish week here. Thank god for whiskey, chilled Beaujolais, and the five-week old lion cubs about to make their debut at the Fuji Safari Park in Shizuoka, Japan. Seriously, the cutest thing I've seen in a while. I recommend watching it with the sound on; it's really, really adorable.
Yes, yes, I know that when these kiddies grow up they're probably going to look upon us all as potential dinner, but let's enjoy their youth (and the fact that they're still too little to chew meat) while we can.
Today is the big fat Pennsylvania Democratic primary. It's reportedly the most expensive presidential primary campaign in state history, and is expected to see record voter turnout. And, of course, it might potential decide Hillary Clinton's future in the race to the White House. We here at PA aren't going to show our political leanings till it matters (read: you're a sorry excuse for a candidate, McCain), so until then we're going to be spending our time watching the Democratic Party potentially implode under the weight of their misdirected ire.
I don't know about you, but I don't particularly like the media fkfest and eyeroll-inducing punditry surrounding all of this, so tonight instead of watching live coverage of the primary returns, I'm going to be at the local, drinking some whiskey and eating some pizza with KS. JS the barkeep will be hitting 'refresh' regularly on the bar computer, set to the NY Times homepage, so that the regulars can keep track of things without getting the usual barrage of talking heads and funny graphs. Everyone in the metro-NY area is welcome to join us -- and need I remind anyone that the local's got a lovely little patio out back?
See you tonight, maybe. Otherwise, have a lovely evening. Stay away from CNN!
[photo from NY Times]
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