My craw, and what's stuck in it
Remember when I used this blog for something other than extra-long dissertations and infrequently updated musical playlists? Like, when I started it MORE THAN FOUR YEARS AGO? Yeah, me neither, but I'm trying to. Here are some things I'm thinking about.
•First of all, to all Chicago-area summer lovers: I honestly feel bad that you have experienced an unusually temperate season. I understand that "70s and overcast" doesn't make for great pool parties. Still, not having been a big fan of bright, muggy summer weather since I was about 13 or so, I have no complaints myself, and I think it's weird to hear people complain about pleasant temperatures and moderate electricity bills. The economy still blows and everybody's stressed out, but at least we can open the windows without boiling or freezing.
•My current workplace pipes in music, which is quite a change after more than a decade of toiling under headphones which would only blast whatever clattering black metal, cuss-laden hip-hop or amateurish local punk I felt like hearing. The good news is that we get the oldies channel, which is really the only radio music format I can handle. This was underscored by two hellish days when some joker switched to some adult contemporary station and I had to squirm through a procession of songs I truly hate. I didn't catch their call letters, but those goat-fucking sadists threw everything from Bette Midler and Spin Doctors to Coldplay and Sara Bareilles at me, and I will never forgive them. (And while I'm ranting, let me tell you how much I loathe that new goddamned Jordin Sparks song. My fabulous girlfriend will occasionally leave VH1 or MTV or MTV2 or something on when we fall asleep, and Ms. Sparks' garish holler has now awoken me twice. This happens, of course, in the dead of night, when those channels stoop to playing music videos because no one's awake to watch "Who Wants to Date Someone Who Lost Another Dating Reality Show?" and "Semi-Celebrities Relate Uninformative Memories of Pop Culture Circa 1989.")
Throughout the day, I get to hear songs I actually like... you can never go wrong with The Monkees, The Turtles, The Crystals or The Four Tops. However, I naturally have my grievances with the local oldies FM station's playlist. Never mind that part of their programming is the syndicated "True Oldies Channel," hosted by crusty old Scott Shannon, who sounds like a constipated pirate who has been rudely awoken by the banshee shriek of Jordin Sparks. I can handle that in 2009, "oldies" means less time for Little Richard and more time for Seals & Crofts, and can even accept the inclusion of '80s tracks like Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl," which sounded a few decades old when it came out. However, I am not too pleased by the bleeding over of classic rock staples like Boston or Journey, who truly clash with the rest of the programming, and when they shoehorn Wham! among The Eagles, Elvis Presley and Louis Armstrong, they barely differentiate themselves from the "we'll play whatever" format that took over the former Chicago oldies frequency a few years ago.
Then there's "Margaritaville," which I suppose fits the bill of a "true" oldie. I really don't have a problem with Jimmy Buffett, but I have a hard time believing that even the most dedicated Parrotheads are not as totally burnt out on this song as I am. After all, I'm a huge Iron Maiden fan, but I could go a long time without hearing the overrated, overplayed "The Number of the Beast" again. And even if there are some fun-loving middle-aged types out there who always whistle along with its jolly tropical intro, I cannot fathom who would want to do so at 9 a.m. Yet, it's a rare morning that I don't hear this breezy ode to heartbreak-induced alcoholic benders while I'm hunched in my cubicle, and it never fails to feel wrong.
•I've actually gotten out to the movies a bunch recently. The first selection was "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," which chopped out a lot of the book's flashback-heavy filling but was still the least exciting film in the series since the first. I knew it would be that way going in, though, and at least appreciated its effectively brooding tone, of which "Order of the Phoenix" could have used more. Then Sassy Frass treated me to a fine birthday film, the Nazi-smashing "Inglourious Basterds," truly the most fun I've had at the movies this year. While packed with knowing film geek references, it's the least pretentious flick Tarantino's made since "Reservoir Dogs." Christoph Waltz is a fantastic villain and like George Clooney in a Coen brothers joint, Pitt is pure gold whenever he's onscreen.
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Last weekend was a two-fer. M'lady and I took in Ang Lee's "Taking Woodstock," a straightforward coming-of-age story about a closeted Catskills homebody who naïvely helped facilitate one of the most famous events in rock music history. It's not mind-blowing, in fact it's pretty corny and stereotype-ridden, although supposedly a true story. Still, the cast (especially Demetri Martin, Imelda Staunton, Emile Hirsch and Liev Schreiber) and cinematography make it much more engaging than it would normally be, and the requisite trip sequence is pretty wicked. Finally, I saw "The Final Destination," an enjoyably ridiculous junk food mainstream horror sequel if there ever was one. Despite the wacky 3-D effects, it has the been-there feel you expect from a "part four," but it at least eschews the bullshit happy ending of the second "FD" picture (directed by the guy who made this one), and you're certainly not expected to care about the doomed characters, which is a good thing in this series. I just can't say anything bad about a film in which a televised NASCAR event is treated as an omen of impending calamity.
•I am otherwise awash in playful British humor (The Mighty Boosh: The Complete Radio Series and "Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch," both highly recommended). We're trying to finish the third season of "Heroes" before the fourth one starts. It's bound to be a somewhat happy fall around our crib, since my favorite band's new album drops in November, two months after Sassy Frass' favorite band releases theirs. I'm currently attempting one of those herbal digestive cleaning regimens, so I'm finally getting optimum levels of skullcap, marshmallow, dandelion and slippery elm powders. What are you up to?
•First of all, to all Chicago-area summer lovers: I honestly feel bad that you have experienced an unusually temperate season. I understand that "70s and overcast" doesn't make for great pool parties. Still, not having been a big fan of bright, muggy summer weather since I was about 13 or so, I have no complaints myself, and I think it's weird to hear people complain about pleasant temperatures and moderate electricity bills. The economy still blows and everybody's stressed out, but at least we can open the windows without boiling or freezing.•My current workplace pipes in music, which is quite a change after more than a decade of toiling under headphones which would only blast whatever clattering black metal, cuss-laden hip-hop or amateurish local punk I felt like hearing. The good news is that we get the oldies channel, which is really the only radio music format I can handle. This was underscored by two hellish days when some joker switched to some adult contemporary station and I had to squirm through a procession of songs I truly hate. I didn't catch their call letters, but those goat-fucking sadists threw everything from Bette Midler and Spin Doctors to Coldplay and Sara Bareilles at me, and I will never forgive them. (And while I'm ranting, let me tell you how much I loathe that new goddamned Jordin Sparks song. My fabulous girlfriend will occasionally leave VH1 or MTV or MTV2 or something on when we fall asleep, and Ms. Sparks' garish holler has now awoken me twice. This happens, of course, in the dead of night, when those channels stoop to playing music videos because no one's awake to watch "Who Wants to Date Someone Who Lost Another Dating Reality Show?" and "Semi-Celebrities Relate Uninformative Memories of Pop Culture Circa 1989.")
Throughout the day, I get to hear songs I actually like... you can never go wrong with The Monkees, The Turtles, The Crystals or The Four Tops. However, I naturally have my grievances with the local oldies FM station's playlist. Never mind that part of their programming is the syndicated "True Oldies Channel," hosted by crusty old Scott Shannon, who sounds like a constipated pirate who has been rudely awoken by the banshee shriek of Jordin Sparks. I can handle that in 2009, "oldies" means less time for Little Richard and more time for Seals & Crofts, and can even accept the inclusion of '80s tracks like Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl," which sounded a few decades old when it came out. However, I am not too pleased by the bleeding over of classic rock staples like Boston or Journey, who truly clash with the rest of the programming, and when they shoehorn Wham! among The Eagles, Elvis Presley and Louis Armstrong, they barely differentiate themselves from the "we'll play whatever" format that took over the former Chicago oldies frequency a few years ago.
Then there's "Margaritaville," which I suppose fits the bill of a "true" oldie. I really don't have a problem with Jimmy Buffett, but I have a hard time believing that even the most dedicated Parrotheads are not as totally burnt out on this song as I am. After all, I'm a huge Iron Maiden fan, but I could go a long time without hearing the overrated, overplayed "The Number of the Beast" again. And even if there are some fun-loving middle-aged types out there who always whistle along with its jolly tropical intro, I cannot fathom who would want to do so at 9 a.m. Yet, it's a rare morning that I don't hear this breezy ode to heartbreak-induced alcoholic benders while I'm hunched in my cubicle, and it never fails to feel wrong.•I've actually gotten out to the movies a bunch recently. The first selection was "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince," which chopped out a lot of the book's flashback-heavy filling but was still the least exciting film in the series since the first. I knew it would be that way going in, though, and at least appreciated its effectively brooding tone, of which "Order of the Phoenix" could have used more. Then Sassy Frass treated me to a fine birthday film, the Nazi-smashing "Inglourious Basterds," truly the most fun I've had at the movies this year. While packed with knowing film geek references, it's the least pretentious flick Tarantino's made since "Reservoir Dogs." Christoph Waltz is a fantastic villain and like George Clooney in a Coen brothers joint, Pitt is pure gold whenever he's onscreen.
Last weekend was a two-fer. M'lady and I took in Ang Lee's "Taking Woodstock," a straightforward coming-of-age story about a closeted Catskills homebody who naïvely helped facilitate one of the most famous events in rock music history. It's not mind-blowing, in fact it's pretty corny and stereotype-ridden, although supposedly a true story. Still, the cast (especially Demetri Martin, Imelda Staunton, Emile Hirsch and Liev Schreiber) and cinematography make it much more engaging than it would normally be, and the requisite trip sequence is pretty wicked. Finally, I saw "The Final Destination," an enjoyably ridiculous junk food mainstream horror sequel if there ever was one. Despite the wacky 3-D effects, it has the been-there feel you expect from a "part four," but it at least eschews the bullshit happy ending of the second "FD" picture (directed by the guy who made this one), and you're certainly not expected to care about the doomed characters, which is a good thing in this series. I just can't say anything bad about a film in which a televised NASCAR event is treated as an omen of impending calamity.•I am otherwise awash in playful British humor (The Mighty Boosh: The Complete Radio Series and "Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch," both highly recommended). We're trying to finish the third season of "Heroes" before the fourth one starts. It's bound to be a somewhat happy fall around our crib, since my favorite band's new album drops in November, two months after Sassy Frass' favorite band releases theirs. I'm currently attempting one of those herbal digestive cleaning regimens, so I'm finally getting optimum levels of skullcap, marshmallow, dandelion and slippery elm powders. What are you up to?
posted by SoulReaper at 6:42 PM
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