California Desert Tour - The trip of a lifetime in four days

Ever since I got back from my April road trip, I've had writer's block of sorts. Not full-on, "I can't write" writer's block. Just laziness and ill-focus writer's block. Which is probably more lethal because it can drag on and on and turn into something called "life." At least with the I-can't-write variety, you know you can't do it. Like you lost the ability somehow, so you get to move on and take up something more realistically challenging, like knitting, rock climbing.

It doesn't help that I have no set deadlines and no publishing plan (yet), so I'm writing for the sake of writing. That is, to get good at it. I've always written, since I was three years old (I still have the short story about a guinea pig who wants a tail, to prove it), but my fictional output has been, we shall say, sporadic. And I want to write fiction. Don't know why. Why does anyone knit or rock climb? 

Because some people have stories to tell. It's just a genetic/brain thing. Like people who paint still-life portraits of pottery and fruit. They just have it in them. I have stories in me, but shaping them so that other people enjoy the output—that is the challenge. It's not as hard as ballet, and definitely easier than learning to play the guitar (but not learning it well). It's somewhere in the realm of being proficient in golf—nearly impossible but perhaps within reach.

Anyway, this road trip, which has simultaneously cleared my head and left me floundering to get back in my daily occasionally productive writing routine. Keith says I made it happen, but all I said was, "Remember that time we briefly drove through Death Valley on our way to Las Vegas? I've always wanted to go back there." Within a day, he had checked out every travel book on the area in two libraries, looked up hotels, restaurants and routes on the Internet, and brought out the suitcases in time to pack for a late Spring Break--last week in April. Pretty much your last hope of walking around Death Valley without suffering severe heat stroke, until cooler weather in the fall. And we were on our way.

We thought Highway 101 was preferable to I-5 (it is, always), and we first stayed on the coast in the most adorable beach town in California (I think—I'm not a big beach-town person in general), Carpenteria. Its main street is lined with historic (there's a plaque) palm trees, planted in the 1930s. The buildings are California old, like from the Depression era and beyond. And it's quiet and friendly there. There's no big-box stores or much in the way of a mini-mall. In short, developers have been kicked to the curb in Carpenteria, unlike 90% of most small-sized California towns and cities, where retail development pretty much runs the show. The state beach is free, and you can camp in the park next to it. It's so cute, I wanted to move there and sip coffee in one of several beachy cafes immediately.

Low tide

We missed Coachella by a few days (thank God). Not that I want to snot all over a big, successful music festival that helps a desert region economically survive. But I'm too old for such things. Even in my teenage years when Bill Gram Presents hosted Day on the Green (featuring a dozen bands in a ball field full of drunken, stoned fellow youth), I shuddered at the vast humanity and poor sound quality these events promised. But I will say this, the guys from British Columbia who stayed at our hotel and decorated their vehicle for Coachella did a great job. And I commend them. And this is as close as to Coachella Fest as I want to get, and it's highly entertaining.

Keith wanted me to take a photo of the four of them as they drank a last brew before heading home, but I didn't need to, because these self-portraits on their car, captures them perfectly.

I'm not a big fan of snails, but I guess when you travel from the far north to the desert, perhaps you miss your mollusk friends from the damp environs.

The land snail as muse

Good vibes from this crew. Hope they enjoyed the music and had a good outing.

Los Angeles! We visited the Page Museum at the La Brea Tar Pits. Keith and Jackson had never seen them. I practically lived up the street from them when I was five, so they're like a second back yard to me (in my mind). What's changed is the hoity-toityness and science-y nature of the Museum now. You can even watch researchers pick through fossil finds with toothpicks and brushes in their fishbowl-like enclosure.

Really different from my last visit a couple decades ago when the one human skeleton found in the pits was 3D-diorama-altered to resemble a young Native American woman whose closest modern relative, as depicted, would be Cher. I guess someone along the line realized that was not very respectful. That display was changed to a saber-toothed tiger alteration. So that's good. The human skeleton is represented by an imagining of its owner on a mural, and she looks more like a person, less a celebrity.

There's remnants of cheese though, if you look hard enough, and I always do. More on that here. 

Oh dear

LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art) has also changed, morphing into multiple modern buildings lining a huge city block. We only spent the afternoon in L.A. so I'll have to go back and visit a few collections (I'm sure it would take a few weeks to see it extensively). But outside there's fun stuff to see for free. Like this plastic-tube sculpture, Penetrabile, by Jesús Rafael Soto.

 Walk through it.

Give it a hug.

It's a big hit with toddlers and other curious people.

Or you can walk beneath the boulder in Michael Heizer's $10-million assemblage, Levitated Mass. I did, and I feel great. I just have writer's block. Otherwise, can't complain. Ten million, well spent.

Heizer conceived of this installation in the 1960s and finally got enough funding for it recently, so hat's off to him for hanging in there with his vision. It's a good piece, referencing the urban and natural and man-made aspects of our modern existence. That big rock. Sometimes walking under a suspended rock is the thing to do.

Onward! I didn't get many photos from Palm Springs. We were only there for the night and for breakfast the next day, but what a cool, fantastically retro place it is. I want to go back and savor the mid-century architecture and try some hiking in the imposing mountains next door. And by next door, I mean, the mountains rise up immediately next to the city. Your first inkling that plate tectonics are in control here, not us.

The affordable Caliente Tropics Resort features this pool, table-tennis, a lawn, and several large and delightful tiki statues.

Jackson having breakfast in the "Nixon Booth" at Elmer's. Elmer's Diner is an Oregon institution that for mysterious reasons has its only (beloved) California franchise in Palm Springs. The kid's menu coloring book still features plenty of Cascade-mountains trivia, so we got to relive that brief Northwestern settlement moment in our lives over a delicious and affordable breakfast.

I was so pleased we got the Nixon booth - perverse, I know - I just wanted the full Palm Springs experience

Then we made the mistake (a minor one) of driving through desert towns rather than the freeway, on our way to the Salton Sea. Palm Desert, Indio, etc.—here is where the developers have settled like an invasive species, taking over land that no one should ever populate in abundance. Palm Desert has all the excesses of Las Vegas with none of the charm, if you can imagine such a thing. Thirsty lawns alongside the bulky main thoroughfare. Palm trees on every inch of land not taken up by a shopping mall or gated big-box housing development. There's such a thing. I've seen it. Then you hit the regions not swimming in retirement dollars and that's a dusty situation full of closed gas stations and sad storefronts. And Coachella!

But I forgot to mention the Date farms. Date palms for miles for the harvesting of delicious dates. Stop by Shields Date Garden and order yourself a delicious date shake. Don't ask why. JUST DO IT! You'll be glad. And the owner might give you free admission to the Biblical Garden out back. Jesus would get a date shake, trust me.

The Salton Sea:

This saline-filled sea in the middle of the state is the largest lake in California, sits below sea level and was accidentally formed in 1906 during Colorado River flooding. More than 400 bird species can be seen here and I like that. I saw herons, egrets, some kind of plover, and pelicans, as well as songbirds who could mix it up as well as any mocking bird, yet they weren't mocking birds. Like mocking birds, they could sound like car alarms too. Car alarms have become an annoyance in both the natural and unnatural worlds.

Please don't hate me because I made a Salton Sea bird collage

From there, we drove by more date farms, through a surprisingly picturesque canyon, and into Joshua Tree National Park from the south. Note, there's not much to look at during the initial 45-minute drive through the park. But once you hit the northern regions, that's when stuff starts to look peculiar. Like an area where a particular cactus grows, so it resembles a garden, because that cactus doesn't appear to exist anywhere else in the park.

Cholla Cactus Garden - do not touch the cacti - they hurt

Further north, boulders and slabs are stacked upon each other in toys-of-the-gods way.

And of course, Joshua Trees.

And when you exit the park feeling hungry, the town of Joshua Tree features the Crossroads Cafe, where you will find yummy hippie-diner fare and brew. Plus the Joshua Tree Inn where Gram Parsons succumbed.

Donovan reminisces about the importance and other-worldliness of Joshua Tree to classic American rock music. Cosmic meals, celestial wheels...




I don't want to give Death Valley short shrift. But this post is getting long, and anything I can say about Death Valley will be overshadowed by the experience of being there, and maybe by photos, if the photographer can hold steady enough to do a good job. And perhaps this is the source of my writer's block. No matter what I write, or edit or think up, these areas remain awe-inspiring and inexplicable, even from a geologist's point of view. I can't top that with my puny imagination. There are boulders in Death Valley that slide across the desert floor, leaving trails, and no one knows why or how. No one's ever seen them do it. It doesn't have to be spiritual to whack the soul into a stupor. The natural world and attempts to explain it will give me pause every time. (Update, 8-28-14: scientists have now solved the mystery of the sailing rocks of Death Valley; hooray for science!)

So why write? Eh, why not.

Death Valley. If you go (and you should), be sure to bring along a copy of California Deserts Camping & Hiking: Including Death Valley, Mojave, Joshua Tree and Anza-Borregoby Tom Stienstra and Anne Marie Brown. This simple guide got us out of our car and hiking around the most incredible places we've ever seen in Joshua Tree and Death Valley. It tells you how long each walk is, the terrain, the difficulty, the sights you'll gawk at, and overall: the death knell of the unprepared hiker who doesn't bring enough water. Luckily we arrived the morning after a much-needed rainstorm, so our day was beautifully temperate. But we still brought gallons of water. Geologically speaking, Death Valley is the ultimate freak-show with micro-climates and micro-geological regions every other mile or so. Respect it.

Heading from the south of the park to west on 190, here's what we saw:

Natural Bridge. Stand beneath a big rock at no cost (with park admission). See what eons of rushing water and erosion are capable of.

Badwater Basin, a former lake and salt flat, 282 feet below sea level. Walk out a mile on a road of salt. There's a snail that lives in the sporadic rainfall puddles here that lives no place else on earth. That's a special snail.

The Devil's Golf Course - salt has crystalized into odd formations. If you fall on it and cut yourself—automatic salt in your wound.

Time to abandon the car for some below-sea-level golf. Furnace Creek Resort has a fine course in the middle of Death Valley—the lowest in the world.

And now for a hike in a slot canyon made of marble and dozens of other types of geological matter, including embedded rock that resembles a concrete collage.

So, you've had enough of rocks. Check out one of two sand-dune regions in the park. Mesquite Flat Dunes are around 120 feet high and shift with the winds. The others, to the north are 700 feet high. We'll visit those next time.

On the way home, stay in charming, old-timey Bishop (it's officially fishing season!), and be sure to stop by eerie, fascinating Mono Lake.

She Mob album release! - "Right in the Head"

Hey, it's been 25 years—time for She Mob to release our fourth album, Right in the Head. For now it's a digital download and you can get it on CDBaby. We're working on a more tangible item for you to hug and gaze upon. We're thinking vinyl. We'll let you know.

Enjoy the She Mobness of the moment. She Mob is me, Joy Hutchinson, Suki O'Kane and Karry Walker. Also Alan Korn is featured, and Myles Boisen, who engineered and mastered it. It rocks. It's weird. It's mysterious and in your face. Enjoy.

Our site

 
 Underworld

The Natural World is a Brutal World at the Page Museum - La Brea Tar Pits

I don't want you to think I'm glib when it comes to the circle of life, especially at the La Brea Tar Pits, where the struggle to survive while stuck in a pool of tar is one of the more distressing life's-end scenarios. But some of the Page Museum's exhibits are inarguably campy. Which is fine—it's in the heart of Los Angeles—America's dream factory after all.

It's been a long time since I've visited the tar pits. Money has poured in from somewhere over the years because the museum now features a lovely garden atrium to stroll through and teams of researchers, pulling up buckets of bones from the surrounding grounds and brushing them under microscopes in fishbowl-like laboratories where you, the public, are invited to witness the archiving of ice-age lifeforms. And that's pretty entertaining.

Enjoy this saber-toothed cat attacking a ground sloth animatronic diorama. At some point they'll both be extinct, so it's not like the saber-tooth "wins" ultimately. He or she was simply hungry. And doesn't hunger drive us all? We are all hungry, hungry animals.



Never underestimate the influence of artist Jeff Koons on our natural history museums, especially for large-scale sculpture exhibits.

Here's saber-tooth and a ground sloth fossils, unearthed from the tar, with the atrium in the background. Time keeps keeping on.

What did a wooly mammoth sound like? Thanks to this footage from the Page Museum, now you know.

How to tell the difference between a song and a jingle

The line between song and commercial jingle is so blurred it's hard to see straight anymore. Songs sound like jingles, are picked up by agencies and used as jingles, and then what are they? And what was the motive for making a song sound that way?

Advertising is one of the last lucrative economic resources for beleaguered bands. It's expensive to be in a band. Here's just a few of the costs of being an independent musician: rehearsal space rental, instrument purchase, parts and repairs, recording, engineering, and production costs, plus time—time to write, rehearse and perfect the craft. If bands are purposefully (or subconsciously) nudging their material into anthemic major-chord peppy jingle territory—who am I to complain?

Because everything sounds like a commercial now.

Fitz And The Tantrums - The Walker



Song or Jingle? Here are your clues:
1.) "City of Angels" reference.
2.) Verse, chorus and bridge are all ear worms.
3.) Song can be easily broken into anthemic 30-second chunks.
4.) There is much whistling.
5.) There is walking in the streets in the official video.

And here we have it: Ellen DeGeneres' Oscars® Trailer.




Brought to you by whatever the hell this is.

Movies You May Have Missed - Dogfight (1991)

When I first saw the trailer to Dogfight in a San Francisco movie theater (most likely closed now), I instantly knew I had to see this film. Not only because it starred River Phoenix and Lili Taylor—enormously talented, artistic actors, even in their early 20s—but because their "meet-cute" was anything but, as you can see in the trailer. I'd never heard of a dogfight in this context, but screenplay-writer Bob Comfort, a former Marine, had partaken in them and director Nancy Savoca says on the commentary track of the DVD that fraternities used to hold them as well. The premise is so sociopathic, regular minds can barely believe it was (hopefully in the past tense) a real thing.



Eddie (Phoenix) and his three fellow Marines are on leave in San Francisco before shipping out to Vietnam. They've pooled funds for a dogfight, a private party where invitees will be judged and given a cash prize for whoever brings the ugliest date. The girls know nothing of this. Eddie strikes out several times before meeting Rose, a shy would-be folk singer. Anyone who has ever felt unattractive and undatable (I'm guessing a large percentage of us) would be intrigued by this in a sick, sinking way. And then, over the course of a night, it becomes a completely believable love story. It shouldn't work, but it does. Here's why:

• Great screenplay by Comfort, featuring realistic people, not caricatures, with a sensitive ear for dialogue and moral character.
• Director, Nancy Savoca, fresh from a Sundance Grand Jury Prize for her first feature, True Love (a clear-eyed, funny slice of Italian-American wedding-planning in the Bronx—see it if you can), knows how to work with fine actors and did much research on San Francisco of 1963. It shows in her choices for costumes, set design, locations (few actually shot in San Francisco, but well-chosen for a low-budget period shoot), and that subtle thing that great directors have for where to place the actors in the frame, especially in a dialogue-heavy story like this one.
• River Phoenix and Lily Taylor—best movie couple ever—just beautiful and perfect throughout. I tear up to this day, thinking about the lost potential in River Phoenix. I very much wanted him to keep acting into his old age. He could flat-out emote on the screen, projecting so much while saying so little. Lily Taylor is one of my favorite actresses—who acts from the heart. She has a confrontation scene in Dogfight that's a master class in direct emotion-to-action. It gives me chills every time. You'll know it when you see it. (Danny Peary, writer of Alternate Oscars, thinks she should have won that year for best actress, and I agree.)

I find most movie romances rushed and unrealistic because of the truncated time frame of feature-length storytelling. Dogfight is one of the few where the emotions seem to come naturally, because of the (often very awkward) circumstances of the characters, the time period, and location. And it's resolved in a way that respects the characters and you, the audience. You can fall for somebody in one night, especially in San Francisco, but it's not easy to show that. It's a perfect little film, packed with humor, sorrow, and other universal emotions.

Eddie and Rose are about to meet. River Phoenix is excellent as a 19-year-old, immersed in an all-male world of training, fighting and defending, but seriously out of touch with the more sensitive issues of life. Glimmers of a potentially "nice boy" who got lost in a macho environment keep peeking throughout his performance. A lesser actor couldn't make us believe that Eddie would truly appreciate Rose.

Rose is naive and idealistic, but stands up for herself and others, and has a good sense of humor. You can see the mischievous little girl beneath her awkward late adolescence. She's coming of age in a brutal way, but she faces it and makes the most of her chances. She's a humanitarian and a true mensch.

Rose learns an ugly truth from fellow dogfight attendee, Marcie (Elizabeth Daily). Savoca excels in showing women communicating with each other, especially in public restrooms. The way of the artist is mysterious.

A reference to long-gone Playland at the Beach. There was enough in the budget to imply San Francisco in the 60s, but it's San Francisco in close-up.

Rose's folksinger-hall-of-fame. Odetta is one of her very favorites. Rose has great taste in music. So does Savoca, whose soundtrack picks are pristine choices for every scene.

I heart Rose. How could I not?

Minor quibbles: It's not easy portraying San Francisco when most exteriors were shot in Seattle. No place on Earth looks like San Francisco, but unfortunately it's very expensive to shoot there. Because I was born and lived in the city for many years, these little location glitches jar me a smidgen. How I wish I could have been hired as "City-by-the-Bay Consultant" in 1990. I could have used the money too. It won't ruin any aspect of the film for others, but allow me to share.

Rose's address doesn't exist, but if it did, it would be on top of a hill between the Noe Valley/Diamond Heights neighborhoods, off of Market Street (and would be a multi-million-dollar property today). I lived five blocks away from this imaginary place from 1964 through 1968. True, I was only four, but I remember San Francisco of the 60s very clearly. I had family there, so after we moved away, we came back to the city all the time. This area is very hilly. The street where I lived was on such a sharp angle that I still have marks on my knees from all the times I fell down it. Falling down my street was an almost-daily occurrence and lots of band-aids on skinned knees were part of my early childhood.

But as you can see here, Rose's street is as flat as a pancake.

The cultural and political changes in the U.S. caused by the Vietnam War are a major plot point but the army of hippies in Rose's neighborhood is overkill, in my opinion. This neighborhood was, at the time, working class, full of families, and not a counter-culture meeting spot. It's very subtly shown in the film, mostly with sound cues (that I just discovered after multiple viewings), but this scene is the after-math of a music festival, hence all the long-hairs. But this real-life neighborhood is too hilly and congested to hold a festival, plus the nearest park (Dolores) is too far away to make geographic sense. The majority of musical events in the 60s took place in the panhandle in the Haight, and in Golden Gate Park, a few miles from here.

Personal aside: I used to beg my Dad to drive us over the hill to see the hippies, and he often would. I just loved them—like giant muppets—so colorful and free. Remember, I was just a toddler.

Hippies galore!

Here's some San Francisco. Pretty distinct—the crammed-together architecture, the weird hill-top angle, the feeling of "how did this get here—it was technically all sand dunes and swamp and earthquake faults." It's a true gold rush town, even today with the invasion of the techies, who I would never have begged my Dad to see. No offense, but San Francisco isn't doing it for me lately.

The most jarring (to me), yet visually arresting shot: Eddie running toward the Bay Bridge, which is nowhere near Rose's place, but that's not my issue. The pretty lights on the cables weren't installed until 1986—23 years after this scene takes place. But I don't care—Savoca reports that her DP noticed the beautiful view and suggested they take advantage of it at that moment during production. And she made the correct artistic decision and did so, shouting "Run, River, run!" as they filmed. It's a perfect shot to depict San Francisco and I'm glad it's there.

 

"Kung Fu" - A Play About Bruce Lee Features Dance, Drama

A new play called Kunt Fu, about the early career of Bruce Lee and featuring dance and martial arts has opened off-Broadway at New York City's Signature Theater. Written by David Henry Hwang (M. Butterfly, Golden Child), this has been a 20-years-in-the-making production. Dance, martial arts, Bruce Lee - I would pay top dollar for this (if I had top dollars to spend, that is).



- New York Times review

Cole Horibe stars as Bruce Lee and may be familiar to viewers of So You Think You Can Dance, season nine .

Fresh Stereotypes for Athletic Mascots - Get 'em Here

It's time for Native American mascots to be retired. There's no excuse in the 21st century for athletic organizations to insist that due to tradition and other bullshit reasons, their racist naming and logo practices can't be updated and improved. They can and they should. Because stereotypes are crude, derogatory and disrespectful. Nobody wants to be a cartoon character, or referred to as a group by an insulting misnomer from the 19th century when death and destruction were sanctioned by the U.S. government.

A simple rule of thumb: don't appropriate tribal imagery for your franchise. It's actually easy to be decent about this, and much more difficult to go out of your way to carry on this disgusting practice. Still not sold? What if I offer up some fresh, new stereotypes for teams? That way I'm providing a solution—not just taking away a "tradition."

Who's first? How about Chief Wahoo, the Cleveland Indians' cartoon mascot who looks like he's about to be bonked by an anvil at any given moment? What if we replaced him with, I don't know... a cartoon white guy, perhaps? How about a stereotypical kind of guy, but one who means business? I'm talking about Waldo Weatherbee, principal of Riverdale High in Archie Comics. True, Mr. Weatherbee is obese, bald and fairly grouchy at times, but he's also helpful to students and a former Marine. He's sure to make a great mascot for the newly named Cleveland Anglos!

Before and after: what do you think? I like Mr. Bee's pink skin tones, don't you?

Next: The Washington Redskins. It's hard for me to even type that name—makes me feel dirty.

Perhaps a more current white-man image might help balance the scales on this one. How about an ode to office jockeys who toil from nine to five, then spend evenings and weekends cheering their team? I give you, The Washington Whiteskins. Thumb's up, Biff! (I call him Biff.) He means business!

What about the Atlanta Braves? Their fans just love to Tomahawk Chop the game away, waving their giant sponge movie-stereotype weapons and chanting like they're in an early-50s' John Wayne shoot-em-up. Am I going to take away their right to behave like insensitive assholes on national TV? No way! I'm solutions-based, and then some.

I give you: The Wine-spritzer Toast, modeled here by Ted Turner. I bet he loves a good wine spritzer. Imagine a full stadium, toasting their team in the most encouraging fashion: Tally-Ho! Pip pip!

Paula Deen's ready to promote some fresh new stereotypes.

If you like [insert band], you'll LOVE [insert other band]!

I know the pain and suffering of trying to keep up with today's go-go high-speed Internet pop-culture landscape. You can't. C'mon, admit it. Even if you're 22 years old and an on-call substitute bowling-alley lounge DJ on Tuesday nights, you don't have enough hours in the day to figure out all the new stuff coming down the pike from cyberlandia.

And neither do I. I'm old now, almost 50. So old that going to a live show is a major coup for me and can only occur on weekends with plenty of pre-planning (no more Tuesday-night club-hopping for me!). And the drug-taking involves allergy medication to help me sleep afterward just so I can somewhat function the next day. That's how old I am. And I'm not sitting around listening to Pandora suggestions because I looked up a Lydia Lunch song in a fit of nostalgia. Life's too short. Especially for me.

At one point, I was briefly hired to post a bunch of new songs by new bands who released MP3s of their offerings for publicity purposes. These were legal downloads sent out to the world and in some cases, the world took notice, but as is often the case, y'know... Hey, music's hard, son.

But I say: bully for new bands, Bully, I say! And now you can too. I'm gong to slap some on here. Though most of these were released in 2011, music is timeless, I think you'll agree. And so, my recommendations—new music from bands who probably aren't even together any more. It doesn't get any up-to-the-moment than that (around here, anyway).

Enjoy my algorithms.

If you like demented folk-psychedelia, such as The Olivia Tremor Control, Brian Jonestown Massacre, whatever happened during the 60s, and then again in the 80s with the Paisley Underground, you'll love Mercy Mercy by Extra Happy Ghost!!! I don't recommend placing three exclamation points at the end of your band name, but remember, I'm old and cranky, so don't listen to me.




Gee, I miss the Buzzcocks, The Television Personalities, The Soft Boys, and all their pals in the British 80s-explosion of manic, sardonic punk-pop. I'll listen to Comet Game's Working Circle Explosion until the reunion shows come around. Sorry—no studio recording of this one on YouTube yet. But plenty to choose from otherwise. And this one has such a driven sound to it. It's Brit-pop so go for it!




Remember all those cool jazz samples from Arrested Development, Digable Planets, De La Soul, and Guru (among others)? Odjbox remembers on Sepia Sky.




All-girl garage rock rules! If you're craving sassy snarling female bravado, (The Donnas, The Runaways, The Pandoras, The 5.6.7.8's, The Slits, uh, She Mob...?), give The Gore Gore Girls your attention. Fox In A Box will start you out.




I just can't get enough of that Arcade Fire, Decemberists, Vampire Weekend, Arctic Monkeys bouncy ironic folk sing-along style! I just can't! Although they appear to be on permanent hiatus (2011 was a big year for this musical style), Jared Meese & The Grown Children's Hungry Like A Tiger fits right in there. And they even made a video every self-loathing bohemian can get behind. Don't ask me to explain. I'm just an algorithm.

Magical Leaf is Magical

I've been neglecting my posting duties, but only because I'm writing a lot (short stories and a screenplay) and it's so challenging. It's taking all my creative brain powers to think of "storytelling" as a form of writing. I used to write stories many years ago but gave it up for Lent. Or something. I gave it up because, while not the hardest thing in the world to do, certainly it's difficult to do well. I'm still learning. But I'm enjoying the process and I feel lucky I have some time per day to work on it.

Also, I'm watching too much Winter Olympics.

Meanwhile, here's a magical leaf. These photos were taken for an art class. I believe the assignment was to photograph an object several different ways. I'll spare you the one where I'm holding it in my hand because it was too lyrical.

I've found a lot of cool-looking leaves in my time, but this was the coolest. I had it propped up near my desk for a long time and it kept falling down behind the furniture. I'd find it and prop it up again—never learning from my mistake to put a pushpin through it, or frame it or at least save it in a book. No. It fell down one day and I haven't found it since. I know when we finally move from this townhouse, I'll find it again. It's here, in the leaf-colored shag rug somewhere, just deteriorating in a cool, artistic way. Magical Leaf.

 

She Mob - Luge

From She Mob's album, "Cancel the Wedding," comes Luge. The 1998 Winter Olympics were happening, Joy had a riff, and I suggested we sing a chorus of "LUGE!" and not much else. Joy came up with the nonsensical words for the verses. I told her to try and make them sound Norwegian. I was really into the Winter Olympics. She did that. I backed her up with a bunch of Yeah Yeah Yeah's, and here it is. It's one minute long: Luge.



Footage from the Prelinger Archives.

Johanna Magdalena Beyer wrote some cool tunes (1889-1944)

Johanna Beyer, mystery woman, German immigrant to the U.S., nearly forgotten experimental composer who worked with Henry Cowell, Percy Grainger and Ruth Crawford. Introduced to me by a 19-year-old college student with impeccable musical taste on her Tumblr site, This is Hanging Rock Comics. Take a moment to discover the Sticky Melodies of Johanna Beyer.

Music of the Spheres (1938, recorded in 1977) from An Anthology Of Noise & Electronic Music - Vol. 2 (Disc 1), 2002




Waltz (1939)




Percussion Suite (1933)




Percussion, opus 14 (1939)



Beyer scores are available at Frog Peak Collective.