Here’s why I love the rise of the local music festival. It gives you second chances, or in some instances, next best things.
Like last year in Little Rock when I got to fulfill a whacky teenager’s long ago dream and see Huey Lewis and the News (you can’t judge me!). Okay, yeah, I’m one of the old chicks reliving her youth (or the youth I wish I had), but the benefit of being an old chick is that I don’t give a rat’s rear what sweet young things think, and I’m going to dance.
And this year’s Wildflower Fest here in the Dallas Metroplex this weekend is going to give my niece and I one of those next best things, on something we never had a shot at the original on. For me, it’s the Wailers. Bob Marley died before I discovered his genius. And the fact that I’ll never actually get to experience one of his shows has always been a big loss for me. But seeing his old backing band (in I’m sure some sort of “frozen juice concentrate” form, but still) is about as close as I’m going to get. I’ll take it. I’ve got my fingers crossed for Redemption Song and 3 Little Birds.
For my niece, there will be Bad Fish. Reputed to be the best Sublime tribute band going. She finds it equally (if not understandably more) frustrating that Bradley Nowell ODed when she was 4. Really quite careless of him. I think she’s also a little pissed that she wasn’t taken to a show when she was 3, so that she could at least say she was there. Careless of her mother not to plan ahead. I find it kind of funny that she’s digging on music from my heyday. You know. The old stuff. Classic. Anyway.
We’re both going to scratch some very old itches, as best as we can. Remember what we never knew. Like smelling madeleines and remembering Proust. We’ll take what we can get. Sometimes the next best thing is the best medicine.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Do and/or Die
http://money.cnn.com/2009/05/12/news/economy/SocSec_Medicare_trustees_report/index.htm
You know, back when I was in high school, one of my teachers looked out onto our freshly scrubbed innocent faces and said, "You know that SSI deduction some of you are starting to see on your first pay checks, that you're going to get back when you're old enough to retire? You're never going to see it again. Kiss it goodbye, suckers."
Okay, the suckers may be my addition. Looks like Mr. Hinkleday called that one. I've been forking out on every paycheck for over 20 years, while all those seniors have been blowing my hard earned cash on Polygrip, slot machines and Jack Daniels.
Actually, I don't begrudge them. I went into this with my eyes open. I sleep better knowing that my SSI contribution keeps some granny from having to eat dog food (though evidently it tastes just like pate [http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-pate1-2009may01,0,6580998.story?track=rss], and I think that says more about pate than it does dog food). I like old people.
And I had hoped to be one some day. But it's now looking like I'd be better off taking up a dangerous hobby. Forget knitting. I need something with a higher mortality rate. Like base jumping. Or unprotected sex with Colin Farrell.
It's too bad. I had high hopes for that master plan to die in bed with my pool boy, Chet, at 87. Now it looks like he's going to out of my price range. Pity.
You know, back when I was in high school, one of my teachers looked out onto our freshly scrubbed innocent faces and said, "You know that SSI deduction some of you are starting to see on your first pay checks, that you're going to get back when you're old enough to retire? You're never going to see it again. Kiss it goodbye, suckers."
Okay, the suckers may be my addition. Looks like Mr. Hinkleday called that one. I've been forking out on every paycheck for over 20 years, while all those seniors have been blowing my hard earned cash on Polygrip, slot machines and Jack Daniels.
Actually, I don't begrudge them. I went into this with my eyes open. I sleep better knowing that my SSI contribution keeps some granny from having to eat dog food (though evidently it tastes just like pate [http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-pate1-2009may01,0,6580998.story?track=rss], and I think that says more about pate than it does dog food). I like old people.
And I had hoped to be one some day. But it's now looking like I'd be better off taking up a dangerous hobby. Forget knitting. I need something with a higher mortality rate. Like base jumping. Or unprotected sex with Colin Farrell.
It's too bad. I had high hopes for that master plan to die in bed with my pool boy, Chet, at 87. Now it looks like he's going to out of my price range. Pity.
Survivor
Green Day just put out another big ass rock opera album. And by all reports, it’s good. Whoda thunk?
I mean, seriously, if you were holding a copy of Dookie in your hands back in the early ‘90s, monster album though it was, would you have guessed they would be relevant in 2009? Personally, I would have laid money on them making it another 3 years, beating each other bloody, breaking up, spending 20 years making nasty comments about each other in “where are they now” interviews, and then getting together for a love-me-for-the-money tour. Who knew the brat princes of pop-punk had staying power? And something real to say?
And that’s the way with a lot of bands. It’s a craps shoot on who will make it. In the 80s I’d have said Terrence Trent D’Arby was the real deal. Gone with the mists of time. I’d have said everybody in Depeche Mode would be dead before the millennium. Still putting out the tunes. I’d have said the Beasty Boys were one trick ponies. Turns out they’re kings of all media. Talent can fool you. Bad life choices may not be fatal. And sometimes swagger just hides a fiendish work ethic.
Kind of makes me wonder. Will Lady GaGa be cranking out the hits 20 years from now? Will we wonder whatever happened to Coldplay?
I mean, seriously, if you were holding a copy of Dookie in your hands back in the early ‘90s, monster album though it was, would you have guessed they would be relevant in 2009? Personally, I would have laid money on them making it another 3 years, beating each other bloody, breaking up, spending 20 years making nasty comments about each other in “where are they now” interviews, and then getting together for a love-me-for-the-money tour. Who knew the brat princes of pop-punk had staying power? And something real to say?
And that’s the way with a lot of bands. It’s a craps shoot on who will make it. In the 80s I’d have said Terrence Trent D’Arby was the real deal. Gone with the mists of time. I’d have said everybody in Depeche Mode would be dead before the millennium. Still putting out the tunes. I’d have said the Beasty Boys were one trick ponies. Turns out they’re kings of all media. Talent can fool you. Bad life choices may not be fatal. And sometimes swagger just hides a fiendish work ethic.
Kind of makes me wonder. Will Lady GaGa be cranking out the hits 20 years from now? Will we wonder whatever happened to Coldplay?
Monday, May 11, 2009
I'll just say it - Boldly Go
Okay, I’m going to try very, very hard to give a decent summary of Star Trek, without giving anything away. A tall order. But I HAVE to talk about it. So here we go, in as non-spoilery way as I can be without sounding like my blog has been redacted by the CIA. I think I can do this, but if you want to keep your brain pristine until you’ve been to the mountain, come on back after you’ve seen it for yourself.
So, anyhoo.
As far as re-boots go, this one is nearly pitch-perfect. It re-introduces the ‘verse, establishes a very capable ensemble cast, keeps the plot humming along, and wows your eyeballs more than once. The opening sequence is a flawless, complete short story. If you’re standing on the edge wondering if you’re going to jump for this movie, it kicks your ass right over the cliff. And the special effects serve the story, rather than wagging the dog. This is fully integrated sci-fi, that is more than bang-bang-boom-boom, but still has plenty of bang. And if you are familiar with Trek lore, there are plenty of little tasty treats spread out through out the movie that will keep you snack happy.
And though this is truly an ensemble cast, three notes (and I’m getting close to the spoily boundary here, but just trust me): Karl Urban – damn, boy, who knew you were capable of that? You pulled off a truly original Spock insult that actually sounded like it came out of DeForest Kelly’s mouth. Kudos. Simon Pegg – I feel completely vindicated in my early support of your casting. I think the warp engines are in safe hands. Chris Pine – I was willing to be convinced, though not initially enthusiastic. But there was a minute when you sat in the Captain’s chair . . .
This movie not perfect. There is one character that just stinks of JarJar Binks. And Winona Ryder? Huh? Was this some sort of 6 Degrees of Christian Slater thing? And does Chekov always have to annoy the spit out of me? Always? And not for nothing, did somebody lose a bet to cast the young Jim Kirk? On the child actor appeal scale, this kid is no Haley Joel Osment. In fact, he’s no Danny Bonaduce. We’re talking Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch. And lastly . . . the eyebrows, people. The eyebrows.
If you’re thinking you will, go as soon as possible. There are things that could very easily be totally ruined for you, and you will feel betrayed and angry. I don’t want that for you. Either beat the babbling crowds or invoke an inviolable shell of silence that will be penetrated only under the threat of swift and sure violence.
So, anyhoo.
As far as re-boots go, this one is nearly pitch-perfect. It re-introduces the ‘verse, establishes a very capable ensemble cast, keeps the plot humming along, and wows your eyeballs more than once. The opening sequence is a flawless, complete short story. If you’re standing on the edge wondering if you’re going to jump for this movie, it kicks your ass right over the cliff. And the special effects serve the story, rather than wagging the dog. This is fully integrated sci-fi, that is more than bang-bang-boom-boom, but still has plenty of bang. And if you are familiar with Trek lore, there are plenty of little tasty treats spread out through out the movie that will keep you snack happy.
And though this is truly an ensemble cast, three notes (and I’m getting close to the spoily boundary here, but just trust me): Karl Urban – damn, boy, who knew you were capable of that? You pulled off a truly original Spock insult that actually sounded like it came out of DeForest Kelly’s mouth. Kudos. Simon Pegg – I feel completely vindicated in my early support of your casting. I think the warp engines are in safe hands. Chris Pine – I was willing to be convinced, though not initially enthusiastic. But there was a minute when you sat in the Captain’s chair . . .
This movie not perfect. There is one character that just stinks of JarJar Binks. And Winona Ryder? Huh? Was this some sort of 6 Degrees of Christian Slater thing? And does Chekov always have to annoy the spit out of me? Always? And not for nothing, did somebody lose a bet to cast the young Jim Kirk? On the child actor appeal scale, this kid is no Haley Joel Osment. In fact, he’s no Danny Bonaduce. We’re talking Cousin Oliver from the Brady Bunch. And lastly . . . the eyebrows, people. The eyebrows.
If you’re thinking you will, go as soon as possible. There are things that could very easily be totally ruined for you, and you will feel betrayed and angry. I don’t want that for you. Either beat the babbling crowds or invoke an inviolable shell of silence that will be penetrated only under the threat of swift and sure violence.
Good
Good weekend.
Saturday was a Roger Clyne & The Peacemakers show down at the House of Blues. And for some reason things just hung a little weird all night. My sister was able to ride along for the first time in a long time, which was great, not wonky. We headed over to Dick’s Last Resort for dinner, place that pride’s itself on the insouciance of its wait staff. Which is fine. I’m perfectly willing to play along with a little sass. But our waiter kept insisting that he needed a slap on the fanny in order to get me a beer. !! Seriously, if it was actually socially acceptable to give someone a spanking in order to make them get me a beer, I’d have kids by now. (Kidding) Anyway, I gave him a couple of token pats, but really, I’m not cougar material. That takes a lot of effort. And that naughty boy needed more discipline than my pimp hand could mete out. Pert though his posterior may be. Besides, I was saving energy for the show.
And thank goodness I did. Weirdness energetically ensued. Though we did score the coveted sofa seats for the opening act. Nice. We could only see about 10% of the stage from there, but I discovered that sitting behind a column ain’t so bad when the slice of stage you can see contains a view of 2 tall-drink-of-water guitar players and a scruffy drummer. I was content. But then we moved into the crowd for RCPM.
The drunken eejit factor was extremely high. And my sister has an absolute knack for attracting the most . . . unusual sort of bar fly. She spent several minutes getting a tutorial in how to make devil fingers from a very wobbly gent with the most fro-tastic head of kick-my-ass-red hair I’ve ever seen. She tried to explain that she did indeed go to ASU, and, as a proud Sun Devil, no lessons needed. But she’s not terribly fluent in drunken eejit, and I'm not sure communication every really occured. Add in that we had to side-step a sloppy little bar brawl that turned into an I love you mannnnn. And we were next to another wobbly gent who really loved giving the high fives. And at some point I found myself in a spontaneous group sway (those break out quite regularly at Peacemaker shows – feel the love, y’all) with the arm of some random guy (who was built like a brick chicken house) thrown around me. Hey, I said it was a weird night. I didn’t say it was a bad night.
Anyway, the show was great, per the usual high standard, weirdness not withstanding. Though at one point, I started trying to mentally calculate, not for the first time, just how many shots Roger Clyne had shared with fans. By midnight, he must have been sweating pure tequila and Dos Equis (shall we say, an interesting notion, in and of itself). And as a side note, Roger, I’m rather fond of you in a person-I-don’t-actually-know kind of way. And I’d like to think we’ll be doing these happy/sweaty/tribal, Peace-filled shows until I’m 60. Take care of that liver, darlin’. Just sayin’.
And all of that was followed by a bleary Sunday morning viewing of the new Star Trek movie (more on that later – but for now, suffice it to say, let the choirs of angels sing – AWEsome!) and my niece’s Hawaii themed surprise B-day party. Good weekend.
Saturday was a Roger Clyne & The Peacemakers show down at the House of Blues. And for some reason things just hung a little weird all night. My sister was able to ride along for the first time in a long time, which was great, not wonky. We headed over to Dick’s Last Resort for dinner, place that pride’s itself on the insouciance of its wait staff. Which is fine. I’m perfectly willing to play along with a little sass. But our waiter kept insisting that he needed a slap on the fanny in order to get me a beer. !! Seriously, if it was actually socially acceptable to give someone a spanking in order to make them get me a beer, I’d have kids by now. (Kidding) Anyway, I gave him a couple of token pats, but really, I’m not cougar material. That takes a lot of effort. And that naughty boy needed more discipline than my pimp hand could mete out. Pert though his posterior may be. Besides, I was saving energy for the show.
And thank goodness I did. Weirdness energetically ensued. Though we did score the coveted sofa seats for the opening act. Nice. We could only see about 10% of the stage from there, but I discovered that sitting behind a column ain’t so bad when the slice of stage you can see contains a view of 2 tall-drink-of-water guitar players and a scruffy drummer. I was content. But then we moved into the crowd for RCPM.
The drunken eejit factor was extremely high. And my sister has an absolute knack for attracting the most . . . unusual sort of bar fly. She spent several minutes getting a tutorial in how to make devil fingers from a very wobbly gent with the most fro-tastic head of kick-my-ass-red hair I’ve ever seen. She tried to explain that she did indeed go to ASU, and, as a proud Sun Devil, no lessons needed. But she’s not terribly fluent in drunken eejit, and I'm not sure communication every really occured. Add in that we had to side-step a sloppy little bar brawl that turned into an I love you mannnnn. And we were next to another wobbly gent who really loved giving the high fives. And at some point I found myself in a spontaneous group sway (those break out quite regularly at Peacemaker shows – feel the love, y’all) with the arm of some random guy (who was built like a brick chicken house) thrown around me. Hey, I said it was a weird night. I didn’t say it was a bad night.
Anyway, the show was great, per the usual high standard, weirdness not withstanding. Though at one point, I started trying to mentally calculate, not for the first time, just how many shots Roger Clyne had shared with fans. By midnight, he must have been sweating pure tequila and Dos Equis (shall we say, an interesting notion, in and of itself). And as a side note, Roger, I’m rather fond of you in a person-I-don’t-actually-know kind of way. And I’d like to think we’ll be doing these happy/sweaty/tribal, Peace-filled shows until I’m 60. Take care of that liver, darlin’. Just sayin’.
And all of that was followed by a bleary Sunday morning viewing of the new Star Trek movie (more on that later – but for now, suffice it to say, let the choirs of angels sing – AWEsome!) and my niece’s Hawaii themed surprise B-day party. Good weekend.
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