I like an escalator because an escalator can never break, it can only become stairs. There would never be an escalator temporarily out of order sign, only an escalator temporarily stairs. Sorry for the convenience.
-Mitch Hedberg
For some reason this conjures the image of one Saturday at Crossgates Mall. During the throes of this family shopping day, my brother sneaked away from us to go sate his curiousities about the escalator (wow, a moving staircase!). As soon as we realized he was not with us, we turned our heads to discover the naughty boy had somehow affixed himself to the upward moving banister of the escalator and was being tugged to the second floor of the mall, his face frozen in that "caught red-handed and now I'm up shit creek" sort of way.
April 29, 2008
April 18, 2008
Artistic differences
The concept of what is and what isn't "art" has been one that has always eluded my more scientifically minded self. In school, I received higher marks for my knowledge of the human anatomy than I did for my attempts to paint it. But who says art and science are mutually exclusive? I don't know the answer to that either, so it forces me to conclude that maybe I am willfully ignorant of what makes ART.
Which is why THIS is driving me crazy. For those who don't have time to pursue the link, it's a story about an art student at Yale who claimed that her senior thesis was video footage of her undergoing a series of self-induced abortions in a bathtub, as well as some other "artistic" portrayals of the process involving the purported bodily excretions that would result. Before anyone cries foul, the next day, the student admitted that it wasn't true. But that was after millions of people who read about it on the Web puked and the Yale administration shat a cow.
They're calling it a work of "creative fiction," much like H.G. Wells' little "War of the Worlds" ruse on the radio that scared the pants off thousands of people in New Jersey. Or in another way, it's like that viral marketing attempt by the Cartoon Network guys to market a late-night show in Boston, sending the city into lock-down, bomb scare mode. It gets people talking about "issues," namely the things that scare them. In this case, I think it creates a reason to have a meaningful conversation about the great "abortion" debate--which, let's face it, has become a political farce, degraded by the use of its emotional power as a cause to rally everyone behind a wide range of social and economic issues on a political platform. Much like the existence of three-legged aliens, there is nothing but creative fiction behind it.
So on one hand, I give kudos to this girl for getting people to notice what she was doing. On the other hand, EWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Which is why THIS is driving me crazy. For those who don't have time to pursue the link, it's a story about an art student at Yale who claimed that her senior thesis was video footage of her undergoing a series of self-induced abortions in a bathtub, as well as some other "artistic" portrayals of the process involving the purported bodily excretions that would result. Before anyone cries foul, the next day, the student admitted that it wasn't true. But that was after millions of people who read about it on the Web puked and the Yale administration shat a cow.
They're calling it a work of "creative fiction," much like H.G. Wells' little "War of the Worlds" ruse on the radio that scared the pants off thousands of people in New Jersey. Or in another way, it's like that viral marketing attempt by the Cartoon Network guys to market a late-night show in Boston, sending the city into lock-down, bomb scare mode. It gets people talking about "issues," namely the things that scare them. In this case, I think it creates a reason to have a meaningful conversation about the great "abortion" debate--which, let's face it, has become a political farce, degraded by the use of its emotional power as a cause to rally everyone behind a wide range of social and economic issues on a political platform. Much like the existence of three-legged aliens, there is nothing but creative fiction behind it.
So on one hand, I give kudos to this girl for getting people to notice what she was doing. On the other hand, EWWWWWWWWWWWWW.
April 15, 2008
More bacon than the pan can handle
Sure, I'll buy into Mike Doughty's "Dude Theory".
dude theory - the idea of making a relaxed record that sounds like a bunch of dudes playing music for the pure joy of playing.
Doughty, the supremely talented singer/songwriter and former lead singer of the bon-bon shaking 90s band Soul Coughing, proved his thesis a week ago at his rockin' concert at Revolution Hall in Troy. The ever-"haughty melodic" (and probably biased) thesis review board, consisting of myself and RM, sat on the upper level balcony, just above where we stood the last time we were at the venue--almost two years ago, when we saw the Mike Doughty Band for the first time.
Evidence of dude theory was apparent from the start, thanks to the unusual first act: a group of nordic-looking bearded fellows in t-shirts playing an improvised, informal, atonal set featuring unintelligible yells and grunts. Never has primal sound been more musical to my ears. Later, our suspicions were confirmed that this was actually Doughty's band in disguise.
Act the second was The Panderers, a youngish band Doughty had signed on his new record label, Snack Bar. They were a little wet behind the ears, but their sound was far from the contrived, radio-"quality" bullshit we are treated to in the mainstream. Their songs were written and sung from the heart, and they reminded me of the times I watched my dear dude friends from high school getting their jollies by jamming at coffee houses.
Act the third: Doughty's gal-melting voice. It's a hard crust with a buttery center, amping to a degree of macho sensitivity that any lady would want in the father of her children. But one can easily tell that the wooing a lass is not his primary objective. He's having way too much fun up on that stage to be the sensitive, lonely guy he sings about. The honest and relaxed quality of his music (which does sweep the ladies off their feet) is purely dude theory.
That ain't more bacon than the pan can handle for me.
dude theory - the idea of making a relaxed record that sounds like a bunch of dudes playing music for the pure joy of playing.
Doughty, the supremely talented singer/songwriter and former lead singer of the bon-bon shaking 90s band Soul Coughing, proved his thesis a week ago at his rockin' concert at Revolution Hall in Troy. The ever-"haughty melodic" (and probably biased) thesis review board, consisting of myself and RM, sat on the upper level balcony, just above where we stood the last time we were at the venue--almost two years ago, when we saw the Mike Doughty Band for the first time.
Evidence of dude theory was apparent from the start, thanks to the unusual first act: a group of nordic-looking bearded fellows in t-shirts playing an improvised, informal, atonal set featuring unintelligible yells and grunts. Never has primal sound been more musical to my ears. Later, our suspicions were confirmed that this was actually Doughty's band in disguise.
Act the second was The Panderers, a youngish band Doughty had signed on his new record label, Snack Bar. They were a little wet behind the ears, but their sound was far from the contrived, radio-"quality" bullshit we are treated to in the mainstream. Their songs were written and sung from the heart, and they reminded me of the times I watched my dear dude friends from high school getting their jollies by jamming at coffee houses.
Act the third: Doughty's gal-melting voice. It's a hard crust with a buttery center, amping to a degree of macho sensitivity that any lady would want in the father of her children. But one can easily tell that the wooing a lass is not his primary objective. He's having way too much fun up on that stage to be the sensitive, lonely guy he sings about. The honest and relaxed quality of his music (which does sweep the ladies off their feet) is purely dude theory.
That ain't more bacon than the pan can handle for me.
April 10, 2008
Do what you gotta do
"It's wrong on so many levels that it's 3-D."
That's a gem I picked up from a bloke in the elevator this afternoon. At the time I thought it was just about the lamest thing I'd ever heard (well, besides the circumstances of the recent demise of Gov. Eliot Spitzer, and the musical stylings of his hooker), but I managed to trump that on the train home. Yes, I'd had a lot to drink at work (weekly dinner/happy hour), but I can't even use that excuse to justify my ridiculous behaviour.
I was looking up answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle on my blackberry, in public.
I know, I know.
The man sitting next to me on the train was horrified. So much so, that I think he threw up a little in his mouth. Or maybe I imagined that. Or maybe it was actually me who did that.
That's a gem I picked up from a bloke in the elevator this afternoon. At the time I thought it was just about the lamest thing I'd ever heard (well, besides the circumstances of the recent demise of Gov. Eliot Spitzer, and the musical stylings of his hooker), but I managed to trump that on the train home. Yes, I'd had a lot to drink at work (weekly dinner/happy hour), but I can't even use that excuse to justify my ridiculous behaviour.
I was looking up answers to the New York Times crossword puzzle on my blackberry, in public.
I know, I know.
The man sitting next to me on the train was horrified. So much so, that I think he threw up a little in his mouth. Or maybe I imagined that. Or maybe it was actually me who did that.
April 6, 2008
High school musical
The year was 1776, and I was sitting in the stuffy meeting hall during one of the hottest days of the stifling Philadelphia summer. The vote was stymied, and I knew it was all because of me. Damn the stubborn southerners and their refusal to acquiesce on breaking free of the tyranny of evil mother England unless we continue the ridiculous practice of slavery in the New World! But then, alas, a distraction! Representative Ceasar Rodney of Delaware stumbleth and fell, the jaw cancer having weakened him. I jumped up and ran to his side, as the only doctor in the house. I knelt beside him and tenderly removed the bloody dressings on his wounded face. I examine the damage. It was the worst case of sharpie marker my physician eyes had ever seen.
For the whole side of his face read, "WHO'S MY BITCH."
And that was just one of the many times I nearly lost it during the middle of a live performance. We were doing '1776' and I had a pillow stuffed down my shirt. The gals thought it would be funny to screw with me onstage. Good times.
I was reminded of that recently for absolutely no reason. But it sent me spinning into one of my nostalgic fits, during which I am drawn back to the slick pages of my photo albums of yore. The process inundates me with memories how freaking uncool I used to be, thrust back into the reality in which I thought tearing up magazines and collaging the various images with my own photos was a hip form of alternative self-expression. (One of the collages that had made me most proud at the time was the one where I'd cut out a clever little tennis ball advert that read, 'Gentlemen, hold on to your balls' and manually photoshopped (in the days before I made myself learn how to use the digital version) it in with some of my wild college photos.) Yeah, I know, I was the epitome of awesomeness.
Anyway, I was in the throes of nostalgio-rama and found this:
And it took me back to a time in my life when I actually was cool. Or at least nowadays would be considered cool, given all the successes of the "High School Musical" franchise. I am proud to say that I lived the high school musical, from the on-stage drama to the backstage shenanigans. The above photo was taken during a performance of "Godspell" starring me as Sonja, the sultry, free-spirited disciple of the Hippy Christ.
I'm a huge fan of dramatic situations, and the theatrics of high school theater is the most fertile ground on this jealousy-ridden green Earth for it. Hormones bounce off the walls of the theater like tazer-fire in a magnetically sealed room. Jealousy over talent and assigned roles and a competitive atmosphere that makes the real world seem like a cakewalk. And where else can you fall in love with one man on one side of the curtain and hook up with another in the stage flies? Or where else can you watch a backstage cat fight over a boy who is clearly better friends with Dorothy? Or where else can a group of kids who didn't quite fit in with the high school cliques form bond over a growing cache of inside jokes? And in real life, seriously, you can't find a better setup for real-life outtakes.
Like the time during the dress rehearsal for "Crazy for You" when I was performing "Naughty Baby" for a crowd of teachers and students when I turned toward my captive audience (who couldn't believe the little choir geek was convincing as a sex kitten onstage) my buttoned-down red polka-dotted dress popped open and my boobs fell out.
I look back on my life in high school sometimes and wish that I had been cooler, or that I had grown a (proverbial) pair and asked a certain football player to go to the Commencement dance with me. Or that I had gone out more or stood up for myself more against the teen queens. Or, that my first time locking lips with a guy hadn't been a stage kiss. Shit, I wish I'd known then what I know now, yadda yadda. But when I really think about it, I had the fucking time of my life being a geeky theater kid. And I showed everyone my boobs.
For the whole side of his face read, "WHO'S MY BITCH."
And that was just one of the many times I nearly lost it during the middle of a live performance. We were doing '1776' and I had a pillow stuffed down my shirt. The gals thought it would be funny to screw with me onstage. Good times.
I was reminded of that recently for absolutely no reason. But it sent me spinning into one of my nostalgic fits, during which I am drawn back to the slick pages of my photo albums of yore. The process inundates me with memories how freaking uncool I used to be, thrust back into the reality in which I thought tearing up magazines and collaging the various images with my own photos was a hip form of alternative self-expression. (One of the collages that had made me most proud at the time was the one where I'd cut out a clever little tennis ball advert that read, 'Gentlemen, hold on to your balls' and manually photoshopped (in the days before I made myself learn how to use the digital version) it in with some of my wild college photos.) Yeah, I know, I was the epitome of awesomeness.
Anyway, I was in the throes of nostalgio-rama and found this:
And it took me back to a time in my life when I actually was cool. Or at least nowadays would be considered cool, given all the successes of the "High School Musical" franchise. I am proud to say that I lived the high school musical, from the on-stage drama to the backstage shenanigans. The above photo was taken during a performance of "Godspell" starring me as Sonja, the sultry, free-spirited disciple of the Hippy Christ.
I'm a huge fan of dramatic situations, and the theatrics of high school theater is the most fertile ground on this jealousy-ridden green Earth for it. Hormones bounce off the walls of the theater like tazer-fire in a magnetically sealed room. Jealousy over talent and assigned roles and a competitive atmosphere that makes the real world seem like a cakewalk. And where else can you fall in love with one man on one side of the curtain and hook up with another in the stage flies? Or where else can you watch a backstage cat fight over a boy who is clearly better friends with Dorothy? Or where else can a group of kids who didn't quite fit in with the high school cliques form bond over a growing cache of inside jokes? And in real life, seriously, you can't find a better setup for real-life outtakes.
Like the time during the dress rehearsal for "Crazy for You" when I was performing "Naughty Baby" for a crowd of teachers and students when I turned toward my captive audience (who couldn't believe the little choir geek was convincing as a sex kitten onstage) my buttoned-down red polka-dotted dress popped open and my boobs fell out.
I look back on my life in high school sometimes and wish that I had been cooler, or that I had grown a (proverbial) pair and asked a certain football player to go to the Commencement dance with me. Or that I had gone out more or stood up for myself more against the teen queens. Or, that my first time locking lips with a guy hadn't been a stage kiss. Shit, I wish I'd known then what I know now, yadda yadda. But when I really think about it, I had the fucking time of my life being a geeky theater kid. And I showed everyone my boobs.
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