Ain't Misbehavin'

Make me laugh.

Why Not Slide?

Thanks to my bro for pointing me to this Guardian article about Carsten Höller's slides that are currently being enjoyed by folks of all ages in Tate Modern's Turbine Hall. While museum visitors may view these slides as a novelty, Höller sees them as a "serious architectural proposition." And why not? Slides would make office jobs more exciting and fun-filled; who doesn't want to see the boss in a 3-piece suit sliding on his ass to meet the Board? And what mall wouldn't benefit from the installation of slides? They'd be more efficient than escalators or elevators, that's for sure. And quite attractive, as Höller's Tate Modern example shows. So, how about it? Who wants to join the newly established Minnesotans for a Swifter Society?

Have You Pooped Yet?

That was one of the more interesting signs I encountered on my 26.2 mile journey through Minneapolis and St. Paul during yesterday's Twin Cities Marathon. Thankfully, I hadn't yet pooped, nor did I have to throughout my entire 5 hour, 23 minute, 29 second run. (Thank you, bowels.) The whole experience was simultaneously wonderful and hellish and I couldn't write a coherent or complete post about it if I tried. But, here are the most important anecdotes and observations from my first (and perhaps last) marathon:

• Waiting for the bus at 6:40 a.m. with my white marathon sweats bag, I was confronted by an eager beaver of a young lad who asked if the 4 bus was due soon. I saw his identifying sweats bag and responded that it should be arriving in a few minutes. We then bonded over being first timers and not getting much sleep the night before. While he's regaling me with tales of a silly dream he had (something about a friend damaging his parents' car, which is an Acura in the dream, but they have a mini-van in real life, so it was like, so ridiculous), a nice couple pulled up to the curb and offered us a ride to the Metrodome. We accepted. Shout out to the nice couple.
• The view of downtown Minneapolis from the starting gate in the early morning hour was quite astounding.
• There were so many spectators and volunteers along the way to help the runners along. From cheering to handing out water and lube (now what was that for?) to awarding medals and finisher shirts to blasting music on their front lawns, they all rocked. Truly awesome.
  
• I missed seeing Mark (and he missed seeing me) all three times that it was possible: at Lake of the Isles, Minnehaha Falls, and when I crossed the finish line. Them's the breaks. But I'll have you know he was a great post-marathon help once we did meet up at the State Capitol, supplying tissues, water, energy bars, bus fare, and a much needed hug. And what a sport to traipse all around the city on public transportation for a 5 second glimpse of little old me gasping for breath.
• While some runners write their names on their shirts so spectators can yell out, "Go Stan!," my identifying characteristic turned out to be my trusty Red Sox hat. Especially during Twins playoff fever it was a risky fashion decision, but I appreciated all the personalized cheers -- even the nasty ones: Go Boston! Yay Red Sox! Yankees Rule! Wait Till Next Year! Red Sox Suck! The "Wait Till Next Year" guy will forever be in my debt for making me laugh when I felt like crying.
• I heard that this course was supposed to be flat, but no one tells you that the last 5.5 miles are graded inclines! Seriously, most of the course in St. Paul was like one long hill. All along Summit Ave. spectators would yell, "Just wait till you get to the top of the hill," but not one of them informed me that the top of the hill was the 26th mile.
• By the 16th mile, I was getting doubtful of my ability to finish. This was also about the time that I decided it would be my last marathon. Finally, though, I reached the 21st mile and realized I could walk the rest of the race and still finish within the 6 hour time limit. I felt much better after that realization and did walk quite a bit of the last 5 miles. And reconsidered my anti-marathon stance.
  
• And then I reached the top of the hill! The view was spectacular and I could see the finish line and was inspired by my accomplishment to start running again so I could cross it on a strong note. (OK, like many of the runners out there, I didn't want any of the spectators at the finish line to know that I had been walking the last 5 miles. That's really why I ran to the finish.)
• Like the dork that I am, I made an ass of myself when I saw Sven Sundgaard (of KARE 11 Weather fame) in the finish area. I was so giddy about having made it the whole way that I sauntered up to him with a goofy grin and said, "Thanks for the great weather!" Hyuck, hyuck. He gracefully chuckled and said, "You're welcome." Then I made my exit. Let me tell you, that little Sven is built. You would never guess he had all those muscles under those drab suits. Or that he was only 25! Check out Mr. Sundgaard's results here.
• And then it was over. I gathered up my medal, finisher shirt, and sweats bag and met Mark under the 'D' sign in the family waiting area. We boarded the bus home and I hobbled around the rest of the day like an old woman. Actually, I'm still hobbling around. But it was worth it. And maybe I'll do it again -- once I forget how much Mile 17 sucked.
  

1971 World Series, Game 3

Pirates vs. Orioles, bottom of the seventh, the Orioles' Mike Cuellar blushing on the mound after Roberto Clemente forced an errant throw to first with his high comebacker and trademark sprint down to first:

Cuellar, flustered, now walked Willie Stargell on four pitches, bringing up first baseman Bob Robertson with runners on first and second. Robertson to that point was hitless in the series and had lined out and struck out twice in three previous at-bats against Cuellar. He took the first pitch for a ball, then fouled off the next. From the Pirates dugout, Danny Murtaugh noticed that Brooks Robinson was cheating by two or three steps, as he had said he would against the big right-handed pull hitter, playing deep and close to the line. Murtaugh gestured to third-base coach Frank Oceak, who flashed a sign down to the plate. Robertson gave no recognition that he received the sign, so Oceak went through the motions again. From second base, Clemente sensed the confusion and raised his hands over his head, attempting to call time. But it was too late; Cuellar was in his windup. In came a screwball, a few inches outside, and out it went, soaring into the seats in right center. Only as Robertson touched home plate and Stargell congratulated him with the words "That's the way to bunt the ball!" did he realize what he had done. "Guess I missed a sign," he said sheepishly when he reached the dugout. "Possibly," responded Murtaugh, smiling.

Excerpt from David Maraniss' excellent biography of Clemente, Clemente, which is really more a book of baseball and social history than a strict bio. After reading this book, I now understand why my R.I. born and bred uncle is such a huge Pirates fan.

Mama Bird

I hate Danceteria. Due to First Ave.'s unfortunate 'rhea curfew, Thursday night's Erase Errata / The Gossip show felt hurried and unnecessarily abbreviated. While openers Mika Miko would have benefited from a shorter set, Erase Errata and The Gossip were forced off the stage to please the nicely dressed Danceteria masses after all-too-brief sets.

I've definitely heard Erase Errata sound better – on their first two studio albums. Their performance certainly exhibited what happens when a pivotal band member (whose guitar pretty much defined their sound for me) leaves to pursue other opportunities. Still, I enjoyed the original band's remnants and the resulting sound enough to want to seek out their new album. Plus, I dug their style – were they going for '80s trailer park?

Now, on to Beth Ditto. Having eaten only a half hour before strutting her stuff for the eager crowd, Ditto suffered from recurring regurgitation throughout the set ("I've vomited three times already") – but dutifully re-swallowed so she could keep on singing for us. The other two band members (Brace Paine and Hannah Blilie) were also energetic and entertaining. And, Mark's right, Hannah's probably the hottest drummer around.

Dicks for Dames

A recent Christian Science Monitor article picks up on a trend that has me excited, but also a little worried. It notes the remarkable increase in the number of women mystery writers (good thing), but especially focuses on those whose detectives are "not-so-hardboiled" (bad thing). The article's overall message is that women don't want to read that nasty, crude hardboiled stuff (the genius of Hammett, Chandler, and Cain be damned). Instead, most new mystery series written for women are known, for real, as "cozies" or "Malice Domestic" and feature accidental sleuths: hotel owners, cooks, carpenters, knitters, etc., who repeatedly find themselves in situations just begging for their amateur detective skills.

I agree with a former mystery store owner who "criticizes some female authors for their 'trivialization' of women. This includes talking down to them and having them deal with less-serious problems." Sure, some women will enjoy the Jessica Fletcher style mystery, but many more will appreciate a complex, serious mystery -- though perhaps with a little less misogyny than is found in your classic hardboiled detective story.

According to the article, women crime writers are better at developing characters, featuring relationships, and capturing "real life problems" than men writers. Says author Elaine Viets,

The hard-boiled male is often the critical darling. But I believe that the hard-boiled thriller is old-fashioned now. The really difficult books are the books about everyday relationships, about maintaining a job, maintaining a family. It's easy to make a thriller interesting. It's much harder to keep people interested in ordinary life, yet women have that skill to keep people reading for 300 pages. Women don't always write grand books, big thrillers. But they do the Jane Austen kind of book - the book about society.

I'm all for character development, but if that entails touchy-feely details about why a character must visit her great-aunt every Sunday, I'd rather it be left out. And relationships? Please. Just set up the mystery and solve it -- no need for extended forays into the character's lovelife (though an occasional mention is acceptable: Cara Black, Dana Stabenow, and Sara Paretsky, for example, all do it well). Plus, is there really anything worse than comparing contemporary women mystery writers to Jane Austen?

Still, I guess I'm happy that so many women crime writers are doing well. I just wish more of them featured strong, serious women who solve real mysteries on purpose, not because a dead body happens to fall into their cozy domestic laps. I also wish their ranks didn't include those who write "chick-lit mysteries," in which "Prada-type girls who happen to solve mysteries when they're not working in their wonderful Manhattan jobs." Ugh.

[For local T.C. folks, an added bonus: the article includes a few quotes from a co-owner of my favorite mystery shop, Once Upon a Crime.]

Five Weird Opinions

Inspired by Mark's Five Weird Opinions, which were inspired by Nate's Five Weird Opinions, here are my very own:

1. The Beatles < Herman's Hermits. Yeah, I went there. If we're using Nate's gut feeling of "whose records would you rather listen to," there's no contest for me. Of course I understand the Beatles' "importance" to rock history, but their albums just don't appeal to me. Their early pop records rate higher than the Beach Boys, sure, but it's still pop. Maybe I've heard the songs too many times to enjoy them, I don't know. Regardless, the humor ("Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "I'm Henry the VIII, I Am,") and potential creepiness ("Leaning on a Lamp Post") of Peter Noone and his pals gets me every time and has sealed their number 1 slot in my list of favorite British Invasion groups.


2. The Spaghetti Incident? is my favorite Guns N' Roses album. Maybe that's not saying much about the band, seeing as how it's an album of covers and all, but I find myself holding up this album as a highlight of their career more than any other when I find myself embroiled in Def Leppard vs. GN'R debates. (I mean, really, is there any contest?) There's no doubt in my mind that their only non-punk cover on the album -- the Skyliners' "Since I Don't Have You" -- is one of the top three cover songs ever. Other highlights are The Damned's "New Rose," the UK Subs' "Down on the Farm," and their ever-so-sad version of Johnny Thunders' "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory." I'm not so obsessive a GN'R fan that I believe every one of their songs is brilliant -- every one of their original albums has its own flaws. Which is perhaps why The Spaghetti Incident? is so incredible - each song is worth multiple listens.


3. Lush were perfectly average. I stumbled across Lush in the mid-90s, thanks to WBRU over-playing their single "Ladykillers" and then sponsoring a free concert at Waterplace Park in Providence. I own all of their studio albums (plus a single or two), but I'll be damned if I can tell one from the other (with the notable exception of Lovelife, which I played until it shattered during my sophomore and junior years of high school). It's straight-up shoegazer music that makes for more than adequate mellow background noise, but rarely does a single track grab you and force you to listen. Miki Berenyi and Emma Anderson prove that beautiful, harmonizing vocals can be too much of a good thing.


4. Empire Burlesque is one of Bob Dylan's three best albums (and album covers). After a number of recording sessions that saw musicians entering and exiting multiple studios, Dylan ended up with a classic album, critics and Billboard charts be damned. "Tight Connection to My Heart" (featuring Sly & Robbie) is as sing-able as any song from Blood on the Tracks. "Seeing the Real You At Last" and "I'll Remember You" are two more classics and the closing track "Dark Eyes" is pure Dylan genius. Most of you probably have never heard this album - I encourage you to do so right now. The '80s cover art is sooo hot.
   


5. Radiohead's OK Computer is brilliant. No, you haven't taken a time machine back to 1997, a year when this wasn't so weird an opinion. But lately it seems like no one's a fan of Radiohead anymore and people are repulsed by the very idea of listening to OK Computer. When did this about-face happen? I'll leave that question to the pop culture professionals. All I know is that OK Computer is one of the most brilliant albums I own. (It also spawned at least one of the best music videos ever created, Paranoid Android.) Honestly, it's easier for me to pick out tracks that are low-lights rather than highlights (I'm talking to you, "Fitter Happier"). I don't expect people with anti-Radiohead biases to shift their opinions anytime soon. I'm perfectly content with the knowledge that I'm right on this one.
   

Three Places My Wandering Spirit Will Be In Attendance This Summer (Be Sure to Say Hello)

1. Sure, it's the NOW Conference and all, but I'm in full support of honoring Ani DiFranco with a "Woman of Courage" award. Along with my Mom, Ani's probably responsible for my earliest feminist tingles.
2. Either of the two Throwing Muses shows in August -- in Boston on the 11th and New York on the 12th. 50 Foot Wave is opening, so you know what that means: a double dose of Kristin Hersh. My wandering spirit's especially excited about that prospect.
3. The Bastille Day Celebration in Paris. I've always wanted to attend, and what better occasion than the 217th anniversary.
   

Out of the Woods

I hate computers.

• And I hate that Sleater-Kinney has posted this message on their website.
• But at least the web is home to this list of problems solved by MacGyver and this article by Barbara Ehrenreich.
• And Herman's Hermits are coming to A Taste of Minnesota and Peter Noone has the bluest eyes.
• And the Red Sox have won 11 in a row and are 3.5 games ahead of the Yankees.
• But then again I was just asked for $4 by two women from Dallas trying to get to St. Paul and I didn't give it to them because they seemed drunk and the bus fare is only $3 and why didn't they know that and plus they took a really long time getting around to asking for the $4. All I could muster was a smile and a "Have a nice night."

I hate computers. (This had another ending.)

I Can Hear the Bones Creak

Honestly, I wasn't sure what to expect going into The Fall's show at the Varsity Theater Monday night. Having only started listening to them a couple years ago, and having been alternately regaled and warned about their live shows, I was prepared to be any of the following: underwhelmed, turned off, smitten by Mark E. Smith's seemingly irresistable sex appeal, or smushed by overly aggressive dancers. As it turned out, none of those four possibilities unfolded -- instead, I was amused, entertained, energized, and more than a little dance-happy, as my Fall-lovin' roommate Mark points out in his review.

Backed by his wife and three adorable young'uns, Smith ambled out on stage for the first song looking like a cross between a mini-Lurch and an 80-year-old man attending his wife's funeral. But let me tell you, he designed a perfect set list for a new (albeit well-informed) listener. The trio of "Theme from Sparta FC," "Mountain Energei," and "Wrong Place, Right Time" had me exercising my vocal chords and Achilles tendons. When the official set ended with "I Can Hear the Grass Grow," it felt like the certain high point of the night -- until the band launched into "Mr. Pharmacist" during the first encore. Yipes. The red shiver of excitement that coursed through the crowd was nearly visible. Sure, I didn't know either of the two songs in the second encore, but by that point it didn't matter since I was, well, not smitten, but certainly charmed by Mr. Smith. He and the kids managed to pull off a damn fine performance with no discernible arse-like behavior. One of my all-time favorite gigs. (And not just cause it was so fun watching Mark's excitement grow as the concert approached...though that was pretty happy-making too.)

P.S. Despite Mark's assertion, M.E.S. most definitely was not sporting a soul patch.

Return of Arkanoid

Let's play catch-up:

• While the recent Drive-By Truckers show was pretty entertaining (particularly that humble lyrical genius Mike Cooley), the most exciting thing that happened all night was discovering that First Ave has Arkanoid! I played two disappointing games before walking off wistfully, remembering my brick-conquering days of yore.


• As Mark reported earlier, I am extremely pleased that the interior of the new Central Libe does not take after the rather underwhelming exterior of the building. The pseudo-industrial look manages to be both utilitarian and homey, what with the cool niches and all: a fireplace, Teen Central, piano rooms and a kids section that welcomes you with mechanical fireflies (or were they dragonflies?). Not to mention the overwhelmingly magnificent mystery section, situated conveniently next to the DVDs -- where I spotted The Umbrellas of Cherbourg only to have it snatched from under my nose (sort of). Anyway, big thumbs up for the opening event and the building itself.


• Thanks to the above library trip, I've been scarfing down books like they were chocolate covered pretzels. Especially graphic novels: Persepolis and Persepolis 2 were eloquent, touching memoirs of Marjane Satrapi's youth and adolescence in Iran and as an Iranian in Austria; Box Office Poison is pure addictive soap operatic trash, but I love it. Next on my list: Cara Black's second Aimée Leduc mystery, Murder in Belleville.


• My Mom has a blog! She's so cool.

She Is Still Woman

Helen Reddy was giving an interview this morning as part of publicity for her new autobiography. Asked during the interview about the current state of feminism in America, Reddy stated she was a little concerned with how "everything" was going right now. Code for: Bush and his cronies suck.

Demain, dès l'aube

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et, quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

--Victor Hugo

Go with the Flow

Notoriously eco-friendly company Seventh Generation will send a pack of their tampons or pads to a women's shelter in your state for every virtual donation made at their website, TamPontification. Since menstrual products can cost women an estimated $40-$70 annually (by my rough calculations), this campaign could help out a lot of poor women who don't have that kind of cash to spare each month. [Thanks to the Women's Press for publicizing it.]

[Cross-posted at New Patriot.]

Vena Cava

• I finally can listen to 50 Foot Wave's "Free Music" EP -- though I paid $5 to do it. (Very worthwhile, mind you.) If you have the computer means, you too can have the pleasure of listening to it here -- for free, as intended.


• A fellow Carl is having a fundraiser through which you can decide his next hairstyle. Krusty the Clown? Gallagher? Bald? You decide. Believe me, this guy can pull any of 'em off. He's already raised over $3000 for various charities. You have about an hour left to cast your vote at the Hair Project.
  

4-1:1-4; ?:Damon

Yes, the correct answer is Crisp. May 1st here we come.

For a more entertaining recap of the Sox's first few games, check out Soxaholix.

P.S. I recently had a birthday, along with all these fine folks. Manuel!

"She kinda reminds me of Kristin Hersh..."

"...You know...from Throwing Muses?"

So declared the 20-something music nerd standing next to me at the Martha Wainwright / Neko Case show at First Ave. last night to his musically ignorant friends. His comparison piqued my interest -- mainly because I've never made the connection myself and they're two of my favorite artists. Sure, they both know their way around the ol' guitar strings, have simultaneously sultry and snarling voices, and are, well, goddam hot women. But to me the comparison ends there. Their songwriting styles are pretty dissimilar, as are their vibes on stage. Oh well, it was an interesting comment to kick off a semi-interesting musical night.

Poor Martha. Starting off her career playing second fiddle to her family, and now playing second fiddle to Neko Case. Martha even admitted as much: "These are not my fans; these are Neko's fans. These are who I want my fans to be." While I can confirm that the audience last night was mostly comprised of Nekophiles, I did notice a few other Martha diehards (and many instant converts). Of course, opening with "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole" is an easy way to win over a crowd, but they did stick with her through the entire set of searing vocals, stridant dance moves, and witty asides. (Apparently she pulled her cousin Sylvain out of college to pawn her merch. Her aunt is not happy.)

Yes, I'm a fan. But seeing her for the second time in a larger venue further convinced me of her brilliance. I had to bite my bottom lip repeatedly to keep my smile from leaping off my face. She has talent and charisma and thank god I could expend my post-set energy buying a t-shirt and EP and talking to her cousin.

Oh yeah. And then Neko played. She was good. Her cover of "Buckets of Rain" was fantastic. Hearing "I Wish I Was the Moon" and "Deep Red Bells" live was worth a good portion of the ticket price. The rest of the set I could have enjoyed as happily simply hearing the notes come out of my stereo speakers. Martha Wainwright she ain't.

Splish Splash, I Was Designing A Structure

Thanks to Ivars Peterson's The Mathematical Tourist, I have another mad scientist to lift up to one of my architectural pedestals: Frei Otto. The man uses the properties of soap bubbles to help him design mathematically beautiful structures, including the roofs of several Olympic buildings in Munich and the new train station in Stuttgart (soap model above). Almost as cool is soap film's simple solution to Steiner's four-cities problem.

No Whammy, No Whammy

Just last night I was remembering my childhood obsession with cheesey game shows and their hosts: Chuck Woolery on Scrabble and Love Connection, Wink Martindale on Bumper Stumpers and Tic Tac Dough, and the recently departed Peter Tomarken on Press Your Luck. Tomarken was never my favorite host -- I think Woolery's smarmy good looks and fashionable dress won me over at an impressionable age -- but he was certainly adequate and definitely better than that sad-sack Ray Combs. Plus, Tomarken and his wife died doing charitable work for Angel Flight, a non-profit that provides air transportation to needy medical patients. Not quite on par with Roberto Clemente, but Tomarken'll be remembered fondly.

As my exploration of the game show tragedy chain continued, I also ran across Michael Larson, the most successful Press Your Luck contestant of all time. Larson studied the patterns of lights on the PYL board and ended up winning over $100,000. While Larson managed to stay Whammy-free for an incredibly long time, his luck ended on that soundstage. In the years following his appearance, he lost $50,000 to an unknown thief, got a divorce, and died of throat cancer while running from the S.E.C.

Now I'm just biding my time until Ken Jennings gets busted for soliciting a prostitute and then dies in jail from dehydration.

Ordered

I was born too late in the game to have seen this show at Club Babyhead in Providence in 1992. Babyhead closed in 1997, and to this day it remains a mystical venue that was always just out of my reach. Now pretty girls and boys grind on each other in the same space -- aptly called Club Hell -- where the likes of Throwing Muses, Husker Du, Lush, and The Breeders once graced the stage. What hath Cianci wrought?