Short films worth watching on busy days. As listed on the snail-mail flyer I received from the 46th Chicago International Film Festival. No matter where I move, they always find me.
Skhizein - Directed by Jérémy Clapin (Silver Hugo - Best Animated Short Film)
Photograph of Jesus - Directed by Laurie Hill (Gold Plaque, Best Experimental Short Film)
Here she is, comedy pioneer Joan Rivers. She's in her 70s. She's a workaholic. She has a library-sized card catalog of jokes in a built-in at her house. What's not to love?
Kathy Griffin loves Joan Rivers.
Joan Rivers is completely inappropriate most of the time and has been for more than 40 years.
Joan shares the spotlight with her co-star.
The very first guest on The Joan Rivers Show, 1986.
Joan spins her magic in 1982.
Joan Rivers - A Piece of Work is currently screening at festivals and will be the closing-night film at the SF International Film Festival on May 6 at the Castro Theatre (of course!). She's scheduled to be at the closing night party at 1015 Folsom (of course!) after the film.
I almost forgot--I made a video this week. I didn't forget the making of the video, but I forgot I could put it here for all of humanity to gape upon it. And so here it is. The Uptones are the premiere East Bay ska band par excellence. They and their label, Fun Fun Fun Recordings, will be putting out a digital EP any moment now, containing "Laws n Sausage" and more. That's right. Uptones.
Footage is from the Prelinger and Internet Archives. Hail to them. I might have mentioned The Uptones here once or twice.
I have to give a shout-out to Seth Aaron Henderson for winning a very tough reality show (I've never watched a season of Project Runway before--yikes, uptiiiight). All the critiques and cattiness of the fashion industry, multiplied ten-fold during a 7-week shoot in New York City. Some have complained that this season wasn't catty enough, what with all the hard-working contestants and their supportive models, but no doubt, the pressure of competing week after week with challenges like "Make a high-fashion outfit out of burlap (or hardware)," would take a toll on lesser mortals.
I was excited for this season because four people hailed from cities I've lived in or nearby: San Francisco (Jay--lose the scarfs, Jay), Oakland (Amy--love her), Portland (can't remember her--I just lived near Portland), and Seth Aaron from, I'm not kidding, Vancouver, WA. That's a suburb of Portland, across the Columbia River. True fact: Portlanders tend to hate Vancouverites.
I don't know if it's the differing tax laws (Vancouver residents cross the bridge to shop in Portland's sales-tax-free stores--wouldn't you?), or the perception that Vancouver is a conservative hellhole of epic boredom and SUVs. Although Vancouver majority-voted for Obama, recycles prodigiously, and has built an ongoing series of bike lanes and parks citywide--Portland remains smug in its eco-friendliness, dismissing Vancouver as a emissions-spewing, redneck enclave.
Well, no more! Seth Aaron is as whimsical and wacky as any Portlander could hope for. And even if you don't like his clothes (I do), you have to admit--he's extremely creative, talented and FAST at tailoring. His jackets are amazing. I hope he gets to design big theatrical productions of some sort. I would pay to see that.
Bonus: he seems incredibly nice and his family is adorable too. Hats off to you, Seth Aaron! I no longer live in Vancouver, but I was rooting for him the whole way. If only because: that's so strange. And I always root for that, especially if it's affable strange.
Let's visit Vancouver with Seth Aaron and his family.
Jezebel has a clip (#3) of the delightful and Internetedly famous scene where Seth Aaron gets Tim Gunn on the backyard trampoline for a brief cardio workout. Seth Aaron is now known for the phrase, "Papa Gunn's on the tramp!" Also: the whole family and Gunn play Pictionary (clip #2). VERY Vancouver in scope! Final Bryant Park fashion show video is here. Images are here.
Dude, I totally forgot it was 420 Day yesterday. I should have put it in my calendar, man. I always check my calendar for dentist appointments and school meetings and such. 420 should have been circled in red, man. Next time. Next time for sure.
The Internet thinks it's so cool, but there's one thing it's sorely lacking: images of Greg's groovy home-office-turned-den-of-iniquity from the second-season Brady Bunch episode, "Our Son The Man." Why I think it's so important that this ridiculous set design be featured for all of posterity, I can't say. I never said I was logical in my thinking patterns.
I only know there's been times when I needed these images as reference for some project, and they didn't exist seemingly anywhere. So here they are with commentary. I don't know what else the Internet needs from me. I've done all I can for today.
And now...
So it's 1971 and Greg's in high school. He's outgrown his shared bedroom with its bunk beds, other brothers, wood paneling, and terrifying clown illustration. He needs his own space. Mike Brady isn't so sure. He's still trying to figure out how to get plaids and stripes to go together.
It's up to Carol to talk dad into letting Greg take over his home-office den so that their eldest son can have a little individualistic privacy. Where will Mike work on his architecture plans? Perhaps in the Brady carport. I always liked the screen above their bed. Almost Asian-inspired except it has a turquoise frame. Everything was framed in turquoise back then.
Mike reluctantly gives up his man cave for the greater good. Greg relishes the bong-hit possibilities.
Bunk beds are for losers.
Note: Mike is such an architectural genius, he was able to design a house with an upstairs (and attic--for another Greg episode) with no actual upstairs. And he created a housing plan that included a maid's quarters but had only two bedrooms, and a shared bathroom (with no toilet) for six kids. This geographical impossibility set up a built-in surreal factor as soon as the Bradys stepped into their new home and combined lives together.
Check out the Brady art collection throughout the house. It ranges from small-town crafts-fair landscapes to this completely insane abstract by the stairs. Perhaps this was painted by Mike's late wife, who is never mentioned throughout the entire series.
Here we go. Greg's apparently used his life's savings for a shopping trip to Urban Outfitters...oop, I mean Spencer's Gifts and now everything's outta sight.
Kind of...
I can't figure out what's up with all the wooden crates. I grew during the time of The Brady Bunch and none of us had wooden crates in our rooms. Is Greg planning on hosting a lot of cocktail parties and is in need of places to set drinks down? Where's the bean bag chair? Where's the Bruce Lee poster? There's no portable turntable although swingin' music plays throughout this scene.
The Brady Bunch always went for the broadest of comedy even if it made their characters look mentally challenged. I mean, Mike and Carol live in Southern California throughout the 60s. They've never seen a mobile or hippie decor? In this episode, they're strictly from squaresville.
Greg can't wait to try smoking nutmeg in his new room.
Crates.
To go with his new image, Greg hits his dad up for more money for some smashing threads.
But his counter-culture vision doesn't jive with the atomic-tangerine and avocado Formica ways of his parents.
And most crushingly of all, nobody wants to hang out with a guy wearing a headband, fringed vest and flowered shirt, despite his hip lighting scheme.
The light dims as Greg realizes the ugly truth. In Sherwood Schwartz' world, it's hip to be square.
Mike and Carol, in their powder-blue polyester and safety-orange acrylic comfort zone, couldn't agree more.
I'm as susceptible to advertising as anyone. Just because I make fun of it all the time doesn't mean I want sale items any less than the average consumer. It's my legacy as a modern American.
On clearance, but still pricey. Almost completely worth it anyway. Golden Age of Country.
It's time to GET DOWN with Sweet 70s Soul. Pure audio ecstasy.
It's a giant cupcake pan--like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
We already have this. It's one of Jackson's favorite "toys." Next time you're buying a gift for a mechanically minded kid--consider the Gopher. I really do use it to retrieve socks that fall between the washer and dryer. Billy Mays had my number.
No, you don't have to buy Happy Record Store Day! Hallmark cards for your favorite record-store employee, although I'm sure the greeting-card companies are working on that for next year. But do stop in to your local record store (do you have any of those around any more? I hope so) for a fabulous day of celebration of all things flat, grooved and vinyl. (I've been writing a lot of marketing articles lately--can you tell?)
There will be special releases, t-shirts and other fun-filled promotional items--like (gasp!) CDs at the 1400 participating record stores this year. Because I'm over 40, I'm a member of the record-store tribe from way back. The San Francisco Bay Area has always been a mother lode of great record stores and I get really sad when they go out of business. They were akin to libraries for me when I was growing up. They helped make me who I am. And the owners were always another breed entirely, especially the used-store owners. They tended to have a dusty, musty, "I've got some good ganja in the back" kind of vibe. Solid citizens--all of them.
And good news! According to NPR this morning, teenagers are buying records in...record numbers. Apparently they're grossed out by their parents co-opting their ear buds and MP3 players and they want something a little rougher around the edges to musically call their own. It's about time, kids. Welcome to the world of scratches, pops and getting up to play side 2! Enjoy the warmer ambiance that only a needle in a hardened petroleum product can make. And please, please, please, may this record-buying trend bring back record-sleeve creativity of yore. CD packaging is a scourge and a disappointment nearly always.
Chris Frantz talks about how record stores save us from a homogeneous existence. And sadly, how the Talking Heads couldn't make it if they were starting out today.
"High Fidelity" attempts to capture the essence of record store culture. Not an easy thing to do. 'A' for effort.
Here's Robyn Hitchock:
Records used to mean vinyl, then cassettes, then cd's, and now downloads. Like currency, they got smaller and are now almost invisible. The record stores were a great network where music fans could listen to what was out there without necessarily having to buy it. But if they did, they came away with a black disc* embedded with grooves, mostly enshrined in a cardboard sleeve that contained vital additions to the music inside. These sacred objects (and their slightly less sacred descendants, the tape and the compact disc) were the closest you could get to the act itself: like portable shrines with holy relics.
Keith the tax man says: You don't have to file today if you don't owe any money. If you do owe and you're not finished with your taxes, you can send a check for an estimated amount along with a request for an extension.
Meanwhile, here's some Iron Maiden. What are they going on about? Mostly humankind's doom and destruction. They have a way with melodic anger, which, when lyrically deciphered, always comes across as somewhat ridiculous in its overblown qualities. Kind of like soap opera for metal heads. The world would be a more mellow and boring place without Iron Maiden.
I like how these titles make a sort of tax-day haiku. Bear with me during this heavy metal moment. Plus April is National Poetry Month. Iron Maiden and federal tax law are inspiring.
Iron Maiden Tax Haiku
Run to the hills
The number of the beast
Wasted years
2 minutes to midnight
Cancer. And my name is Larry. And I like a woman that loves everything and everybody. And you know what ladies? If you feel that this is you. Then this is what I want you to do...
...Take my hand. Let me take you to Love Land. Let me show you how sweet it could be, sharing your love with Lar-eeee.
Larry Cunningham wasn't the smoothest, but he was definitely the most memorable. My life is complete thanks to embedding from YouTube.
I was in bed, reading an intellectual highbrow novel, when I felt the urge to turn on the TV, just in time to catch this. That's network-TV jackpot, especially given the lack of laughs from SNL in the past few years. Sorry, SNL--you don't do it for me any more. But Tina Fey has my heart. Always.
Forget garden gnomes. Today's outdoor spaces require a contemporary touch when it comes to lawn ornamentation. Add pizazz, wow-factor, and a bit of zowie to your yard with these fabulous lawn ornaments. Available exclusively (once permissions and trademarks are cleared) from CWW Decor.
What's Lady Gaga doing amongst your dahlia border? Perhaps hiding from the paparazzi? Or spending time in quiet contemplation after a bad romance? Whatever she's up to, she adds some serious avant-garde cred to your borders and beds. Made from quality resin and high-impact plastic, the Lady Gaga Lawn Ornament is here to entertain you for years to come.
Has your Zen garden got you a little too centered with the universe? For a dose of true earthiness, consider placing "The Boss" lawn ornament within. Next time you meditate, he'll be there to keep you in line. This plywood and fiberboard cut-out is coated with a clear acrylic lacquer so it won't warp, fade or harbor carpenter ants. The perfect boss!
Can I take your order sir? (or ma'am). This fast-food worker never asks for a raise and he serves as a reminder that you're never too far from a quick meal at the drive-through. Humorous lawn ornament fits in any large shrub, hollow tree, or wood shed. A modern tribute to our modern world.
This was playing in Safeway the other day while I was gathering supplies for my household of illness. So dramatic was Ms. Gibson's delivery that I could barely focus on the task of choosing calming, soothing herbal teas. I kept wanting the full-on "Morning is Upon Us" caffeinated beverages and "Choco-Chi-Spice-Ginseng" blends. One of pop's more operatic moments, with electric drums.
Keith wrote down some baseball wisdom from Jackson tonight. Jackson got an Easter egg hunt (indoors, due to constant rain), a Red Sox win, and Spring Break, all at the same time, so he was feeling gregarious this evening. I really want him to start his own baseball commentary show. Since he's eight years old, does that make me a stage mother?
Keith's wrote it down:
We were sitting on the couch watching the 9th inning of the game, and Jackson said, "Isn't baseball a wonderful sport? It's my favorite. I like it a little better than Wii baseball because it's more sophisticated."
Then, lying down in bed with the lights out, he said, "I'm really proud of the Red Sox."
Then he got chattier: "I could say 'park' and you probably think I mean a park with a playground. But I'm talking about AT&T Park. I could say 'field' and you might think I'm talking about a field you run around in. But I really mean a baseball field, like Safeco Field. It might have fake grass or real grass. I could say 'roof' and you might think of a roof on a house, but I'm thinking about teams that play under a roof. Like Tampa."
Neil Diamond made a surprise visit to Fenway Park tonight to lead the traditional 8th inning sing-along to Sweet Caroline. Sox fans: They have baseball traditions that can only be compared to a Catholic Mass for reverence and emotional intensity.
I'm sure everyone and their mother posts this at one time or another for Easter celebration. I'm just following the legions. Enjoy the festivities or ignore them. But do not ignore the Reese's Peanut Butter Egg. That is too good to pass up.
The workshops, writer's groups, extra-long coffee breaks, overpriced seminars and the entire grad-school experience, have finally paid off. I got my screenplay adaptation optioned and now I can watch the hyper-efficient big-budget filmmaking process unfold before my eyes. Next: dream casting. What do you think? I hope all my dreams come true!
I've been rummaging through my fanzine stash, most of which is in a box under the stairs. Probably not the best storage solution since it's hot and, well, under some stairs, from an entry point in the garage. Even worse is that I've been keeping my old films and videos in there while living in a geographical area known for summer heat. I'm letting go of my past by letting it molder away slowly.
Anyway, let's revisit the golden era of zines, which was anytime before the Internet hit. Y'see, long ago, before computer communications, people with creative obsessions and a love of suffering would put all their thoughts and blossoming layout skills to good use in print format. If the zeitgeist was working its mojo, some of these fanzines caught on and were read by countless weirdos, musicians, and future and fallen celebrities. If not, they still make a fun read from under the stairs.
I don't have any permissions to post this stuff, so just a smattering will do. Click on the images to read them.
A very early example of a music zine: Greg Shaw's "Who Put The Bomp!", is from 1974. I found this issue at Saturn Records in Oakland, which is more of a mail-order house than a store now, but that's how it's going, isn't it? Saturn always had an interesting array of books and magazines on its front rack. The only reason I'm going into this detail is that I still marvel that I could pick up a 20-year-old zine for $2.95, and it's in good condition too. The 90s were affordable, I guess. I especially liked getting the whole Sky Saxon/Seeds article since my band She Mob had played with him once. The print throughout is so small, that I suspect this might be a reprint edition. I mean it's SMALL with my reading glasses on. The Bomp! label continues to soldier on...
Can you guess what band this ad was referring to? Hint: they're now a major motion picture starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart.
I found this ad so inspirational, I made it into a She Mob flier for one of our East Bay shows. I'm sure anyone who took the time to read the (slightly altered) copy had to wonder what the hell was going on here with this She Mob situation. Let 'em wonder. Fliers without in-jokes are only half finished, in my opinion.
Look at how cool Trouser Press's 10th anniversary issue is. There's Joey and cake and everything.
Then you open the cover and find this full-page ad for the BOSS hand clapper. Just not cool at all! The cowboy in white, and the berating tone ("Who taught you guys to clap--Lady Di?"), plus an offer to buy the poster of this really sad concept in advertising, is almost 3D-unfortunate. But at least TP got some advertising, which most small-sized zines could barely manage what with their sporadic publishing dates and irreverent tones.
Speaking of tones, I hope Andy and the Kools were able to put that hot, uptempo clap beat to good use.
An exploration of the 70s was rich, fanzine loam to writers in the 90s. Candi Strecker's "It's A Wonderful Lifestyle" was a multi-volumed look at the 70s which refrained from sneering by using a pleasant, archival tone throughout its pages.
Here's a helpful sidebar on how to make a bong with a Pringle's can. So 70s, yet practical even today.
Part Two (published three years after the first issue--nothing wrong with that) featured an article on terrible cars of the 70s. You know you want to read this.
Don and Erin of "Teenage Gang Debs" knew there was a certain TV viewer out there who felt that Eve Plumb's Jan of the Brady Bunch had it all going on. Her suffering with glasses, braces, and Marcia (did Jan ever get a real, not imaginary, boyfriend?--no, thanks to the sadistic Brady Bunch writers; meanwhile Marcia got dozens before she graduated from high school), made her the focus of all the other neglected suburban preteens. Ahem. So yes, I bought this issue.
I'm not going to post the Eve Plumb interview, even though it's swell (and she doesn't like talking about the Bunch at all). But here's a little segment on brushes with celebrities. The Ted Koppel supermarket conversation is notable.
"Greed" lasted for three years and nine issues in the late 80s (pretty good run) and featured a lot of comic-book artists that I liked, such as the Hernandez Brothers and Chester Brown.
Here's an article on the horror of trying to locate underground music on that newfangled compact-disc format in 1986. We hipsters worked hard for our indie cred back in the day. You young'uns with your downloads and streaming content have NO IDEA.
Let me tell you something about making a zine: it gave me valuable PageMaker skills which were in demand until PageMaker was completely obliterated by QuarkXPress, which might be obliterated by InDesign, which will be obliterated by...? It also probably got me into grad school (I think) when I included my zines in my application. I met lots of writers, editors and comic-book artists through zines, and I interviewed such luminaries as Mojo Nixon, Eugene Chadbourne, Camper Van Beethoven, and other long-ago musical mayhem-makers. I rarely got dates though. I should have worked that angle more.
Kara Herold's documentary, "Grrlyshow," portrays the feminine side of zine-making. Here's a clip.
Wiki Zine is an Internet encyclopedia of zines that for some reason barely comes up in Google searches. I'll be adding to their list using my collection, no doubt.
I never get tired of them. Ramones biographies just keep coming in book and documentary form. The most dysfunctional-functional band seemingly of all time, how they managed to produce anything at all for more than a decade is a major miracle. The melding of all of their addictions, neuroses, mental illnesses and sociopathic tendencies, really created some beautiful rock and pop music.
The latest I've picked up (and can't put down) is Mickey Leigh's and Legs McNeil's "I Slept With Joey Ramone." Mickey is Joey's little brother and has been playing in bands for...ever. Bands even more hapless than the Ramones. Leigh is an intelligent, funny writer, (OK, OK, so is McNeil--contributing from his rock-historian storehouse brain).
All the classic Ramones biographical tales are here: their unlikely formation and prolific songwriting junkets, their early apocalyptic CBGB shows, the drugs, the booze, the girls, Joey getting third-degree burns on his face backstage while steaming his vocal cords, Johnny's admiration of Manson, Hitler and Reagan, Dee Dee's in-your-face nuttiness, Marky's missed concert and subsequent firing due to his impromptu drinking binge with baseball great, Roger Maris; being held hostage in the recording studio by gunpoint by manic Phil Spector--yes it's all here. The formation, duration and heartbreak of the Ramones.
Leigh adds much more about Joey's close-knit and tragic family life, his influences, his early struggles with OCD and fitting in with their peer group. And then eventually, the twisted family rifts caused by bickering, fame, money, credit-where-credit-was-due, all coming from a knowledgeable musician and composer who worked on quite a few Ramones songs and never got proper credit. And never got paid, except for the $50 a week he made as their first roadie. No one said the Ramones were fair. You'll laugh, you'll cringe, you'll definitely cry. I did (a lot).
Mickey Leigh & Stop - Questioningly / Ring of Fire
The Rattlers - Slug (a Ramones song given to The Rattlers)
On The Beach on the Uncle Floyd Show
Mickey was in a band with Lester Bands called Birdland. I can't find any Birdland on YouTube but here's Lester Bangs and the Delinquents doing his ode to agoraphobia, I'm In Love With My Walls. Birdland played this too.
Joey wrote I Wanna Be Sedated after he got third-degree burns on the lower half of his face and throat from a very unfortunate steam-kettle malfunction back stage. He went to the emergency room, returned, and sang a great show anyway, before swelling up like a balloon, which required more hospitalization. He was an artist.
Generally I'm not an advocate of violence. I'm sure we can talk this thing out, and all that. But once in a while, someone needs a good ol' fashioned ass kicking. I'm not naming names, but I'm convinced by this scene from the late, great, one-season-wonder satire, "Action," that Sandra Bullock is the woman for the job. I have faith in you Sandy. You're big enough to do this scene (and do it excellently) and you're big enough to get through life's crappy traumas. By kicking some. Serious. Ass.
I have to give a shout-out to Seth Aaron Henderson for winning a very tough reality show (I've never watched a season of Project Runway before--yikes, uptiiiight). All the critiques and cattiness of the fashion industry, multiplied ten-fold during a 7-week shoot in New York City. Some have complained that this season wasn't catty enough, what with all the hard-working contestants and their supportive models, but no doubt, the pressure of competing week after week with challenges like "Make a high-fashion outfit out of burlap (or hardware)," would take a toll on lesser mortals.
