July 31, 2008: Video Concert Hall, Dangerous Confessions, & Fuzzy Memories

Here's something new to geek about--that is, if you're like me and are a fan of 80's music. I was curious about a cable TV program that aired in the late 70's and early 80's called Video Concert Hall. I Googled it and found numerous references to it (not the least of which was on Wikipedia) and even a fan blog site. Because I'm too tired to write out a complete description of the show, here's a borrowing from Wikpee (rhymes with chick-pea):

"Video Concert Hall was an early USA Network television program featuring an unhosted rotation of music videos. Often credited as being the precursor to MTV, Video Concert Hall was reportedly the most popular programming on QUBE, a cable television unit of Warner Communications. VCH, as it was often called, was created by radio and cable television executive Lloyd G. Crowe (Jerry Crowe) and Charles W. Henderson (Charles Henderson), a pioneering journalist and former employee of TriStar Pictures. Video Concert Hall was produced by Henderson-Crowe Productions and Video Concert Hall, Ltd. at studios in Atlanta, Georgia. Crowe and Henderson served as executive producers of Video Concert Hall as well as other top-rated syndicated musical variety TV specials. Billboard, the American magazine covering the music industry, said in a cover story that Video Concert Hall was the first ever nationwide video music programming on cable television. Video Concert Hall creators Charles Henderson and Jerry Crowe are considered the "fathers" of television's video music programming. Video Concert Hall ran daily on USA Network from 1978 to 1981 on a seemingly arbitrary schedule, appearing on early morning, daytime, late night, and early evening timeslots alike for durations ranging from one to four hours. Video Concert Hall was also carried on another cable/satellite network, the Satellite Program Network - SPN, and was seen worldwide on AFRTS, the Armed Forces Network, and frequently as video entertainment on commercial airline flights."

Okay, sounds like a silly thing to geek over, but remember this was before MTV, when it was unusual to see performances (lip-synched or otherwise) of your favorite bands on TV. For instance, on any given hour of VCH, I would almost be guaranteed to see The Who play "Baba O'Riley" in a concert clip from the film "The Kids are Alright." I was a Who fanatic, you see, and this was Spokane WA, a place that would never and has never (as far as I know) seen a Who concert. (And to further give you a sense of my geekitude, I bought a Hohner harmonica just so I could play along with Roger in this live version of the song. And, in fact, I'll add this dangerous confession: I bought a Hohner just the other day to see if I could, 27 years on now, still play the solo--and I can!) In addition to the Who, however, with whom I was plenty familiar, VCH was the place I could see (many for the first time) performances by The Police, Iggy Pop, Gary Numan, The Cramps, The Buggles, The Dickies, The A's, Squeeze, Tim Curry, Devo, Blondie and many many more. Now that I look back at it, the show was astonishingly broad ranging.

But now here's the weirdest part of the VCH site I've found: fans have collected many of the original videos that the show aired and posted them. So now we have a facsimile, of sorts, of VCH we can visit any old time right here on the net. How groovy is that? Huh?

What? Is that a note of regret I hear in the voice in my head?

Yes, I've been brooding lately on the strange way the net (as well as other electronic media--DVD box-sets of old TV shows, for instance) has taken some of the mystique out of my memories of things. I'm sure I'm not the first to note this. VCH, for example, was something that existed sort of dimly, but warmly, in my memory. My brain had absorbed it and, I suppose, distorted it somewhat, making it my own. Now that the site has come along to clarify the reality of the program, it all seems diminished somehow--I know not how, exactly. So I guess I'm torn, in yet another way, about the "miracle" of the net. We have at our fingertips the ability to instantly investigate, clarify, and verify--but at times might it be better to just leave some memories alone and let them sit there hazily in our brains? Just a thought, as DCE used to say...But anyway, here's a link to the VCH site, for your viewing pleasure: http://videoconcerthall.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20A

~

Remember, life is a richly embroidered tapestry and, if we look closely, among the many threads which mingle in the weave, we will find these five golden strands: (1) The writings of Montague Summers. C of E clergyman turned Catholic convert who wrote books on many topics but mostly the occult and gothic literature. His goofball tomes on vampires and werewolves (both of which he professed to believe in) have a place of honor on my shelves. (2) The Sellwood Cat Hospital. The only vet clinic slash art gallery I know of. Go there to see paintings by Daniel Gill, or check out their website at http://www.portlandcats.net/ and Gill's website here http://connective-tissue.com/ (3) The Wisdom Bone (according to my colleague Scriv-Dawg) on a dog's skull, otherwise known as the sagital crest, that little ridge in the back center of the skull (although not exclusive to dogs). (4) The name Kukla. Which means doll in Greek. (5) The skin in the portraits and figures painted by Lucien Freud. Textured, layered, subtly colored (lots of blue!), and somehow translucent like real skin, especially white, pastey, British skin, like that of the Reverend Alphonsus Joseph-Mary Augustus Montague Summers:

Outa here!

JBF

July 30, 2008: There Will Be Blood; True West; We Are Jim

Recently viewed: There Will Be Blood (2007), written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson. (I guess I'm a little behind the curve on my movie watching, but such is the life of a new father.) Daniel Day-Lewis never ceases to amaze me. I first saw him over 20 years ago in My Beautiful Laundrette, a cute little British romantic comedy-drama, and I can hardly believe I just saw the same actor channel John Huston in an American epic-tragedy about a morally dysfunctional oil prospector turned tycoon. Scanning Day-Lewis' career over at IMDB, I was actually surprised to see how few movies he's made in the past decade or so, at times letting five or more years go by between his carefully chosen projects. He's a treasure, and he turns in yet another powerhouse performance here, dominating the film (almost to a fault) with his intense physicality. The film itself is a beautiful and mysterious thing, wonderfully photographed, scored, scripted and paced, though the last 1/2 hour feels tonally at odds with the 2 hours preceding it. But it's not a major failing, and I found the whole to be a gripping American gothic, reminiscent of Charles Brockden Brown and Hawthorne. Grade: A-.
~

Now Spinning: True West. Hollywood Holiday Revisited. Including Hollywood Holiday(1983), Drifters (1984), The Verlaine Demos (1983). Reissue, 2007.
Back in the mid-80's, my friends and I used to joke that when Hollywood finally got round to making movies about our lives (we had no self-esteem problems, you see) that they'd get the soundtrack totally wrong. Instead of Husker Du, it'd be Tears for Fears. Instead of The Minutemen it'd be The Thompson Twins. Instead of Camper Van Beethoven it'd be Cyndi Lauper. Indeed, whenever I catch one of those VH1 or MTV (is there still MTV?) specials on 80's music, all they ever seem to focus on is Madonna, Bon Jovi, and Boy George. Even in the mid 90's when I was teaching in Chicago, one of my students cracked wise at me as we discussed music, "You guys listened to some pretty fruity stuff back then." Oh yeah? Well it wasn't all Wham, buddy...

True West was one of those bands that time seems to have forgotten. But I haven't. In their rather short career, spanning roughly 1982 to 1985 (though there was some '86 stuff that featured the name True West but not quite the same line-up) they put out a fabulous EP, Hollywood Holiday, and a strong LP, Drifters. They were part of the so-called Paisley Underground, a group of L.A. bands that included The Three O'Clock, The Dream Syndicate, Rain Parade, Green on Red, The Long Ryders, and The Bangles. I'm slowly collecting CD's of this old music, and some of it's surprisingly hard to find. I was pleased to get this, since I only have the old EP in a box and no way to play it. Hollywood Holiday is this band at its best, and 80's music--Paisley or otherwise--at its coolest. From the opening one-two punch of "Steps to the Door" and "I'm Not Here" to the damn-that's-good cover of Pink Floyd's "Lucifer Sam," this EP kicks considerable bootay. The soaring, echoing guitar work by Steve Wynn on "Steps to the Door" still blows my mind. The LP, Drifters, though strong in many spots, doesn't hold a candle to the EP, I'm afraid. It has many of the same elements--twangling guitars and driving rhythms--but few of the songs distinguish themselves. Still, this CD was well worth buying.

Listening to it brought me back to a curious incident from yesteryear. I saw the band live in the summer of 1985 at the Paramount in Seattle when they opened for R.E.M. on that band's Fables of the Reconstruction tour. Before the show, my friends and I were walking around the back of the theater and we happened upon Peter Buck smoking a cig (if memory serves) at an open door. We stopped dead in our tracks, completely star-struck as R.E.M. was our favorite band and Buck our idol. We caught his eye and one of us sheepishly said, "You're...you're Peter Buck, right?" He, of course, gave us a friendly hello. An awkward pause followed. Now it happens that of the four of us concert-goers, three were named Jim (years earlier in high school we were inseparable and known as The Three Jims). One of us Jims, Jim Tonkyn, suddenly filled the awkward pause by saying, chipperly, "Hi, we're Jim!" Peter Buck gave a nod, blew a plume of smoke into the night sky and said, "Glad to know you have an identity." How we continued to talk to him after that, I have no idea; I could have melted into the pavement. But one of the other Jims, Jim Marks, shared a few words with him about the tour and recent recordings and such: Buck was excited to be touring soon with U2; he was down-in-the-mouth about what he considered to be some pretensious French mono releases of some live R.E.M. material. Then one of the guitarists for True West poked his head out and talked guitars for a second with Buck. We just stood there basking in the coolness. It was a classic 80's indie-music moment. And two seconds later we were shuffling along into the theater to enjoy one of the best rock shows I've ever seen.



~


Before you rip your house apart trying to find the source of that infernal beeping noise, take a moment to reflect on these five wonders of your world: (1) Dave Arbus's fiddle part at the close of The Who's "Baba O’Riley." I've heard it a million times but it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand-up. I saw an interview with Arbus on TV the other day and he improvised a little of it, just, well, fiddling about, and I was mesmerized. (2) Mario Bava’s colored lighting schemes. Every one of his color films have them--purple, blue, yellow, and green lights lurking in the corners or behind the doors or at the end of that tunnel that you'd better not venture down...(3) Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. A greater or more entertaining compendium of hearsay, half-truths, folk etymologies, and utter nonesense has never been published. (4) Robert Louis Steveson's poem "Where Go the Boats" from A Child’s Garden of Verses, especially as read by Bullwinkle Moose in the Bullwinkle's Corner segment of the Rocky and Bullwinkle show. (5)The Scandinavian influences in English. Where would we be without oaf, scathe, kindle, crawl, wise, and scant? In an awkward situation to be sure.

Where Go The Boats?

Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?

On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.

Away down the river,
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.

--Robert Louis Stevenson

Ciao,
JBF

July 27, 2008: Ian Robert Finley Turns 1!

There are reports floating all over the Internet that Ian Robert Finley of Portland, OR, turned one year old, Sunday, July 27th, at 1:39 p.m. We cannot confirm or deny these reports, but the following pictures taken, apparently, by a journalist operating undercover (as a dog?), do strengthen the liklihood that these reports are true. Let the viewer judge for him or herself.

Happy Birthday, Ian!

The alleged photgrapher...

July 25, 2008: The Odd Volume

Greetings, blogfloggers. I'm going to institute a new, semi-regular feature on this blog. Every couple weeks or so I'm going to present The Odd Volume, profiles of some of the more curious books on my shelf. The books may be "odd" for any number of reasons: their rarity, their obscure subject matter, their warm inscriptions, their physical features, their marginalia--whatever. It's all very subjective, obviously. Although I'm not a die-hard collector, I'm enough of a bibliophile that I've nosed out some pretty interesting books over the years. It's time I share my books and my stories. And so, to start things off, here's the first...

The Collected Poems of Vachel Lindsay, Macmillan 1923. Reprinted 1927.

When I lived in Spokane, Washington (as an adult, 1989-1997), I'd frequently drive to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, to George Nolan's bookshop. Sadly, George closed his shop a year or so ago, leaving North Idaho bereft of one of its best bookshops, but in his bookdealer years, George was a good buyer, with a keen eye for quality and variety. This book, The Collected Poems of Vachel Lindsay, must have been picked up at an estate sale or something similar, since it was accompanied on George's shelf by several other rather rare Lindsay volumes. Lindsay was an American poet and artist who flourished in the teens and twenties, and who actually lived in Spokane between 1924 and '29 (he moved back to his hometown of Springfield, Illinois, in '29, committing suicide there in '31). When Lindsay was in Spokane, he was a tireless promoter of the city and even, for a time, took up residency in one of the best suites in the famous Davenport Hotel, being touted by the local congnoscenti as Spokane's Poet Laureate. Later he moved to the Browne's Addition neighborhood, a leafy residential area just off city center, filled with historic mansions and beautiful vintage apartment buildings. Lindsay's house was at 2318 W Pacific Avenue (not terrible far, in fact, from my first Spokane apartment, also on Pacific). He lived next door to the house owned by the Hawes family (still standing and noted as the "Hawes House" on a plaque out front), and the book I bought from George Nolan carries this interesting inscription on the fly-leaf in Lindsay's own whirling handwriting : "To my dear friends and neighbors, 'The Hawses', Forgive my sins and be neighbors. With love Nicholas Vachel Lindsay". I have never been able to find out whether Lindsay's sins were of the general kind or if he were referring to something more specific; considering his colorful life, controversial reputation, and mental illness, they could be either. As for the Hawes family, I can find precious little about them, too-- in online searches, anyway. Perhaps a letter to a Spokane historical society will turn up something. For now, we'll just have to imagine for ourselves what Lindsay's sins might have been and whether or not the gift of this book managed to redeem him.

Here's the inscription. The loopty-loop handwriting was in keeping with his approach to illustration--wonderful, frenetic, fantasy images in pen and ink. This book is filled with them. I'm providing images of the book's cover art as well, just to give you a sense of his unique style

~

Even though you have more books than you have shelf-space for, and you cannot bring yourself to get rid of the volumes that are piling up on the floor of your study, don't despair! Remember these five facts: (1) The Datsun Fairlady is perhaps the prettiest little roadster ever built. (2) The voice of Scoobie-Doo has come to be the default voice of all dogs (it's true!) (3) Spinal Tap's (or the Thamesmen's, excuse me) "Gimme Some Money" has been used in a TV ad for American Express. How many viewers (especially boomers) are aware that it's a fake hit from a fake group? (4) Delacroix fully embraced the use of photography as an alternative to prepatory sketches for paintings--in contrast to the purists around him who eshewed such "cheating". Good on him. (5) "Got down sat on a bench" and "Cheese and rice" serve as brilliant LDS alternatives to !#$%&* and *&%$#@!. As you can see below, we are trying keep "clean" around this place.

Ciao,

JBF

July 23, 2008: Salute to Sellwood

I'm a fan of film music and a fan of Italian films of the 60's and 70's, so what could be better than an album of Italian film music from the 60's and 70's? Right, nothing. So I bought this little gem that came up on my search for music by Claudio Gizzi, "Delirium of the Senses: Psychedelia in Italian Cinema." It features 28 tracks (the 28th of which is the only Gizzi entry!) drawn from a variety of Italian produced sci-fi thrillers, horror shows, crime dramas, and sex comedies from the era ('66 to '74). While I've seen only a handful of the films in question (though many of the filmmakers are ones I know and respect--Fellini, Pasolini, Bava, Scola, Polanski, Sordi, Guerra, Argento), and am familar with only three of the nine composers featured (Morricone, Rota, and Gizzi) I already love the music on this recording! I've given it a couple whirls in the car (good movie music = good driving music, for me), and found myself highly entertained. If you dig music that will, as the liner notes suggest, "mix Indian music with cool jazz....an organ and marimba-based freak-out with a string quartet....avant garde sound-clusters with a funky backbeat" then purchase this psychedelic smorgasbord. You won't be disappointed. For more on this recording read the words of Uncle Dave Lewis (wtfih?):

http://www.play4me.com.au/product/delirium_of_the_senses_psychedelia_in_italian_cinema_1579498_3974.html

~

Because you just bought a cute little house in Sellwood, Portland OR, and you're anxious over whether or not you made the right purchase, here is a deluxe version of the five to set your mind at ease: ten reasons you did the right thing: (1) Gino's restaurant. Forget Olive Garden--Gino's is perfect American Italian, what I call neighborhood Italian. Great tomato based sauces, lots of seafood dishes, excellent pasta, good wine list. (2) Mark Humpal Fine Art. A fun little gallery featuring mostly Oregon painters from the 19th and 20th centuries (a few living, but mostly topping out mid-century). Tap into Mark's encyclopaedic knowledge of American art, always delivered in an unpretensious, user-friendly manner. (3) The Ugly Mug Cafe. Has it made the list before? So be it. The best funky little caffeine vendor in the hood. Great art on the walls too. (4) Grand Central Bakery. Just down from the Mugly. Have a rhubarb hand pie and remember why you loved rhubarb so much as a kid. (5) Vino. Bruce Bauer is the nicest, jolliest, funniest, unsnobbiest wine dealer in town. Sample his wares on Friday nights. Get free tastes on Saturdays. (6) Mekong. A great Viet Namese place. Wonderful skewers and noodle salads. Clean, fresh, bright tasting food. (7) All the antique dealers on 13th. Spencer's, Justin and Burke's, Sellwood Antique Collective, Europa, Den of Antiquity (best name!), Era (sadly moving), Farmhouse, 1872 House (?), etc. (8) Spielwerks Toys. Great place to find German (mostly) made toys for Ian. (9) Oaks Park. 100 year-old amusement park is a great place to eat corn-dogs, cotton candy, and people watch. Go into the ancient roller rink and smell 100 years of feet in roller skates. (10) Mike's Drive-In. A fine spot for a halibut fillet sandwich and a butterscotch malt. I could probably list another ten or twenty things I love about Sellwood, but I'll leave it for now. Most of all, I loved our little 103 year-old house--long on charm, short on closet space. I'll miss you grape arbor, maple tree, potting shed, chandolier, gas fireplace, loft, sun room, bamboo floors, nursery, flower beds, back deck, and front porch. I'll miss you all!

Ian's first arrival in the capable hands of K:

So long,

JBF

July 21, 2008: Claudio Gizzi...the search is on!

I won't count this as a "recently viewed" since I only caught bits and pieces of it on cable; I've seen it before anyway: Andy Warhol's Blood for Dracula, directed by Paul Morissey (it goes by a variety of aliases, most notably Andy Warhol's Dracula). It's a pretty inane film that I appreciate largely as a guilty pleasure. It stars the incomparable Udo Kier as the count, who, in this sexed-up version of the story, can only feast on the blood of virgins. He has targeted a family with comely daughters, all of whom, sad to say, get spoiled one after the other by a servant before Udo sinks his teeth into them. Like I said, it's an inane film (though prettily filmed in spots) that exists mostly so that the audience might enjoy watching Joe Dallesandro simulate the deflowering process with the winsome maidens. But here's why I'm mentioning the film at all: the score is wonderful! As I was watching, I was enthralled by the music and wondered who the composer could be. I assumed it was patched in music borrowed from some classical composer--a Ravel or Stravinsky (since it had affinities with both). No sir. It was an original score by one Claudio Gizzi, an Italian composer conductor who did other Warhol films as well as Polanski's Che? (which I have yet to find on DVD). The themes have a tenderness and poignancy wholly unbefitting the film (it hardly deserves it). Was there an oboe? I can't recall. But I'm on the hunt for it now and hope to locate it soon. (Sadly, the soundtrack is no longer available new.)

~

Five things that might put a skip in your step despite the fact that Adam Sandler introduced The Who at their "VH1 Honors" show with an absolutely stoooopid take-off on "Magic Bus" that made me wish Pete would suddenly appear on stage and brain him with a Gibson SG: (1) Pickle soup at Otto and Anita's, a German restaurant in Multnomah Village, Portland. Sounds strange, I know. But it's the color of a robin's egg, filled with bits of pickle and dill, creamy, and served warm. Delicious. (2) The smells humidity draws out of the wood in an old house, such as my grandparents' house in Springfield, Illinois, or our old apartment in Chicago. A deep, varnished wood odor, as lovely as pipe-tobacco. (3) The incidental music on Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Yes, I love the original Neil Innes stuff, but the symphonic pieces, supplied by clips from DeWolfe are wonderful. Am I the only person on earth who wants DeWolfe to release these pieces whole? Tell me, am I? (4) The newly revised Starbucks logo. I'm not a big fan of the company (especially after they bought out Torrefazione only to shut 'em down) but the recovery of the old worldliness in the logo is nice, especially after the idiotic protests from the God squad against its showing too much boobage. (5) Kevin Kline's performance as Nick Bottom the Weaver in what is otherwise a merely passing version of A Midsummer Night's Dream directed by Michael Hoffman. As is often the case in his films, KK is the best thing in it. He gives the role a certain dignity that it deserves, and plays him not as an utter fool, but as mostly a foolish dreamer who believes intensely that art can change lives.

Bottom and Titania by Arthur Rackham

Ian investigating reading material.

Adios.

JBF

July 18, 2008: Eppur si muove!

I've been reading Thomas Kinsella's 1969 translation of the Irish epic The Tain (published by Oxford UP) and enjoying it immensely. Sad to say, my familiarity with the myths of my ancient, barbarous forebears is pretty lacking. Kinsella's work captures the excitement, the rawness, and the strangeness of these stories well. They feel at once very foreign and very familiar--meaning they have all the grandiose dimensions of any mythic tales, but are also interlaced with the surprisingly mundane. The edition I have is wonderfully illustrated with "brush drawings" by Louis le Brocquy; their primitive, cave-painting qualities are uniquely appropriate to these ancient tales. On a whim, I Googled Brocquy and found his official site, which is excellent. I hadn't known much about him until now, and he deserves much deeper study (how embarassing! he's one of Ireland's greatest living painters too! I have so much to learn...) Find his site here: http://www.lebrocquy.com/.

~
Here are five reasons to forgive yourself for yelling at an old man who tried to snip rose blossoms out of the flower beds in your front yard: (1) Misheard song lyrics. They are almost always better than the real lyrics. Check out the funniest website in existence: KissThisGuy (as in "'Scuse me while I...": http://www.kissthisguy.com/. Some years ago I offered this bit, misheard from "Funkytown": instead of "I gotta move on," I heard, "A cat on the lawn". It didn't make it onto the site due to an absurdly long backlog and mismanagement, but I think it's a better lyric. Why shouldn't there be cats on lawns in Funkytown? K's was from Bowie's "Jean Genie": instead of "loves chimney stacks" she heard "loves genie snacks", which, I say again, is a much better lyric. (2) Mango sticky-rice. A terrific Thai dessert--sweet, sticky, ricey, mangoey goodness. Probably what the Jean Genie would snack on. (3) The Sellwood Bee. A 100 + year-old SW Portland newspaper still going strong with headlines such as, "Homeowner leaves sprinklers on for a week. Can't pay water bill" and "Sellwood Library Expands Hours of Operation," and "New Chalkboards Coming Soon to Local Bakery" and "Yard Sale Creates Traffic Confusion on Tenino." (Okay, I made those up. But you gotta love the Bee!) (4) The poem "In An Artist's Studio" by Christina Rossetti. While her poems are, for me, hit and miss ("Goblin Market, in fact, could be a good example of the abysmal sublime, see entry for July 8) this one about a visit to her brother Dante Gabriel Rossetti's studio and seeing the countless images of Elizabeth Siddal is brilliant. Any fan (or despiser) of pre-Raphaelite art would understand these sentiments, I think. I've never read a better articulation of an artist's singular obsession--and communicated with such a lovely, curious, searching, and exasperated tone. (5) Galileo's legendary utterance of "Eppur si muove" before the Inquisition, even if there's no proof he said it. It needs to be true.

~

In an Artist's Studio -- Christina Rossetti

One face looks out from all his canvases,

One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:

We found her hidden just behind those screens,

That mirror gave back all her loveliness.

A queen in opal or in ruby dress,

A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,

A saint, an angel — every canvas means

The same one meaning, neither more or less.

He feeds upon her face by day and night,

And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,

Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:

Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;

Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;

Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

All right, sonny. That's enough. Just pack that in...

July 15, 2008: 2 Cents on The New Yorker Cover, etc.

Since talk radio, cable TV news, and the blogosphere are all abuzz about the New Yorker's latest cartoon cover, allow me to throw my two cents in. Contrary to what some commentators are saying, the cover illustration showing the Obamas as fist-bumping terrorists who have "infiltrated" the oval office is satire and is funny. It is a direct (and amazingly obvious, though to some, such as Thom Hartmann, it isn't) satire on the racism of the American public and those media engines (such as Fox News) which stoke it. Apparently, some feel that unless the very target of the satire is not featured clearly in the text, then it can't function as satire. Or as Thom puts it, unless you have a toothless yokel holding a bottle of moonshine imagining the scene in a thought balloon, it can't be satire. He, in fact, sees this as nothing more than a racist caricature, on par with offensive images such as depictions of "little black Sambo" or the Coon's Chicken logo. I beg to differ. The cover's satire clearly is not an attempt to peddle the racist accusations and stereotypes that have dogged the Obamas but to illustrate their patent absurdity. No intelligent, liberal New Yorker reader is going to view the cover as anti-Obama propaganda, nor will he or she suddenly be persuaded to vote McCain because of what it depicts. Likewise, no McCain supporter who would read the New Yorker (if there are such types) could possibly take the cover seriously. Any dunderhead who finds his way to this cover art and believes it to be either an honest attempt to bash the Obamas or an honest claim about what the Obamas stand for is not likely to be an Obama voter in the first place or even a voter! If anything, the cover will serve as an excellent talking-point opportunity to further clarify who Barack Obama is and what he and his family are all about, since, unfortunately the rumors of their being America-hating Muslims and extremists still abound. That the media are all abuzz with this issue serves the Obamas well, in fact. Over the next few months, every racist jackass in the country will be bashing Barack Obama; this cover will serve to disarm at least some of them.

~

So, before you pick up that phone and cancel your New Yorker subscription, relax and take a moment to reflect on these five marvels that Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, in His infinite grace has bestowed upon us: (1) Hammer horror films. Since I was a child, these full-blooded, full-bosomed, supernatural thrillers have warped my fragile little mind. In a good way. (2) Unagi (eel sushi). I'm craving it as I write. (3) Thomas Kemper sodas. Especially root beer, blackberry, and orange cream (the latter takes me back to grade school and those two-toned ice-cream cups of vanilla and orange--mmmmm!) (4) Daniel Craig as James Bond. Being a life-long Connery fan, I could scarcely conceive of a blond haired, blue-eyed, non-broguing Bond . When Craig debuted (to a chorus of jeering by die-hards) he made the role his own like no one else has done since Connery. He gave it a much needed blood transfusion after two and half decades of fumbling about. Craig's a Bond to be reckoned with--steely-eyed, ruggedly handsome, hard-bodied, powerful, smart (but still a little reckless), and most importantly, vulnerable. You punch him, he bruises and bleeds. You break his heart, he cries. You pound a knotted rope against his balls, he screams in pain. But when you cross him, expect to pay dearly. (5) The voice of British folk singer Ewan MacColl, especially when he does sea-chanteys, Child ballads, and other traditional music. The record series he made with Peggy Seeger, The Long Harvest, was my first introduction to him. His wild, crackling, nasal delivery is, I confess, an acquired taste and not for the faint-hearted, but vastly entertaining if you dig such things. And I do.

~

Here's Ian, who also likes Ewan MacColl (or so I have interpreted from certain phrases in his babble):

July 13, 2008: Revolver

Recently Viewed: Revolver, directed by Guy Ritchie. Whereas I quite enjoyed Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch (the latter, I felt, was brilliant), Revolver I found utterly lacking in almost all departments. It should have been right up my alley: a darkly humorous, neo-noir gangster thriller threaded through with poststructuralism, neo-Freudianism (Jungianism too), eastern mysticism, and homages to everything from the Usual Suspects to Kill Bill to The Killing. But somehow this film is just a bit too full of itself. In the end it sags under the weight of its own pretensious (and preposterous) claptrap, finally ending up a tedious mess that loses track of its own identity and, worse, its story. And the ever watchable Jason Statham, one of Britain's best baldies, wears a wig of stringy, greasy, brown hair. Whazzup wit dat? Grade: C.



Before you pick up that hatchet and chop off your big toe, remember that the universe contains such treasures as these: (1) Dave's Killer Bread. Oregonian baker and former convict Dave Dahl started a bakery when he got out of the joint. He now makes one of the best loaves of bread in the country. Try the 29 (count 'em!) grain whole wheat. And visit Dave here: **. (2) Nina Simone's version of "Sinnerman". A true tour de force, and used beautifully on that nifty little remake of the Thomas Crown Affair. (3) Huckleberries--those found in the midalpine regions of the Pacific Northwest of North America, mind you. Far far different from the common blueberry to which the name is sometimes misapplied. Bright, tart, purple packages of perfect pungency. (4) Secret family recipes, such as for the huckleberry/apple pie my mom used to make, or the fantastic buttermilk pancakes K makes: the acknowledged protectionism that accompanies them and is respected by all. (5) Peacock feathers. Is there anything more captivating to the mind of a child? Rainer Maria Rilke described it exactly in this lovely poem, translated from the German by M.D. Herter Norton:

Peacock feather:
peerless in your elegance,
how I loved you even as a child.
I took you for a love-token
which by silversilent ponds
elves in cool night hand each other,
when children are all gone to sleep.

And since good little Grandmama
often read me of wishing-wands,
I dreamed, you delicate of air,
there flowed in your fine filaments
the crafty force of the divining-rod--
and sought you in the summer grass.

R.M. Rilke:

Bye,

JBF

July 11, 2008: Chuck Connelly

Recently Viewed: The Art of Failure: Chuck Connelly Not For Sale. A fascinating and somewhat distressing HBO documentary about the painter Chuck Connelly, a former rising star of the New York art world, now a drunken, bloated, roarer painting in seclusion in Pennsylvania. It's hard to tell what exactly makes Connelly a failure: his "uncompromising" attitude, his rage, his refusal to schmooze, his quite self-conscious performance-art portrayal of the archetypal cantakerous painter-dude? As many in the film say, he is clearly his own worst enemy. But I can't help but feel he likes it that way. He cherishes his rage and sups off the dramatic narrative he's acting his part in. He plays it beautifully for the cameras too. He's a wonderful painter of the neo-expressionist kind, at his best when producing still lifes, self-portraits, and pictures of houses and rooms (comparisons with Van Gogh [wildly exaggerated in my opinion] abound). In the end, this film is an interesting but flawed document--like its subject (because of its subject), it seems a bit of a put-on. Interesting that the film is now being used as a tool to revitalize his career. Well, of course it is. Had it really any other purpose? Grade: B.

Here's a link to Chuck Connelly's work at the DFN Gallery in NYC: http://www.dfngallery.com/.

And here's one to the film: http://www.hbo.com/docs/docuseries/artoffailure/.

~

Here are five reasons why you might (an awfully big might!) keep yourself from bashing Glenn Beck's brains out with a crowbar, saving yourself a prison term: (1) The greatest stage-direction of all time: "Exit, pursued by a bear." (from Shakespeare's Winter's Tale). (2) The Onion. America's Finest News Source: http://www.theonion.com/content/index. (3) The brilliant final segment of Michelangelo Antonioni's film L'eclisse , in which the subjects of the film, played by Monica Vitti and Alain Delon, are eclipsed by the background--literally, the film inverts and what we see are apparently random shots of extras in the places where the dramatic action of the film took place. Haunting. (4) The Chinook Jargon: The lively, strange, ever fascinating but now extinct patois developed for commerce between whites and Indians in the early years of the fur-trade in the Pacific Northwest. (5) The ridge on a Rhodesian Ridgeback. A genetic throwback to the original Khoisan dogs that were bred with European hounds to arrive at this amazing breed--the African Lion Hound!

So long,

JBF

July 10, 2008: The Hipbone's Connected to the...

Good Morning, Campers. Yesterday I went to Hipbone drawing studio during their 1:00 to 4:00 drop-in session. For a mere $10 I got three hours of drawing time with a live model: gesture studies, short-term poses, and one long-term. Great fun, though I was nervous about drawing from life after such a long hiatus. Curiously, I now find painting to be the more natural medium for figure studies. Go figure (ha! bad pun). In my nervousness, I kept trading off from one medium to another--charcoal to graphite to pastels to crayons--and occasionally I just intermingled them on the same picture (never very successfully). Next time I go I think I'll discipline myself to stick with one medium per session. Visit Hipbone @ http://hipbonestudio.com/. Their site is a blast. Enjoy.

Five reasons to smile despite the fact that Sen. Barack Obama voted for the FISA bill: (1) The haiku. A greatly undervalued poetic form. Powerful when done well. (2) Sterling Hayden's performance as General Jack D. Ripper in Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. Pitch perfect: cool, calm, collected, calculating lunacy. (3) The line, "Mr. Fire Chief, do not joke. This business is just too sad." in Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Soprano. (4) The fact that the summit of Mt. Everest is marine limestone (thanks to John McPhee for that observation!). (5) Naples Yellow. What would a painter do without the charm, tranquility, creamy warmcool of Naples Yellow?

I'll leave you with a haiku written by one of my students from some years back. Used without permission, of course--like all things on this blog! (thanks Ryan!):

Bottom of a bottle
It’s coming up the way it went down
His signature gesture.

--Ryan LaLonde

July 9, 2008: Kai Aitchison

Doodly-doo, cyber-neighbors.


After dropping Ian off at daycare this morning, I stopped in at a groovy coffee shop on SW Corbett in John's Landing called the Coffee Plant (highly recommended, learn about them here: http://www.coffeeplant.net/). Anyhow, they are currently displaying a series of very arresting color photographs by Kai Aitchison. The pictures observe the intermingling of vegetation with contemporary, human-made structures. The photos are at once caustic, dreamy, whimsical, melancholy. Drop in at Coffee Plant, buy yourself some Stumptown brew, and enjoy the photos. Learn more about Kai's work here http://photo.net/photodb/user?user_id=872265 and here http://plantsandbuildings.com/splash.html).

~

Five reasons why you should not put the barrel to your temple and squeeze the trigger: (1) The fossil beds in Fossil, OR. You can dig up fossils in the hillside behind the high school football field. You'll find dozens and dozens within minutes. In particular, great examples of Oregon's state fossil--the metasequoia. (2) PG Tips (tea). Have a friend bring you back a box from Britain (it'll cost you too much here). Put the baggies in a container. Toss them in a cup in the morning. Whisk yourself (mentally) back to England's green-and-pleasant. (3) The poem "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden: "What did I know, what did I know / Of love's austere and lonely offices?" (4) Pad See Ew with beef. Salty sweet, wide rice noodles, broccoli, beef...mmmm! (5) The strained, smoky, tragic voice of Johnnie Ray, whom the Brits nicknamed "Boo-boy" because he would cry when he sang "Cry."

~

Here are Ian and K feasting on duck:

Adios,

JBF

July 8, 2008: The Abysmal Sublime

Good morning, Blogsters. I was thinking about a theory of aesthetics that I invented (though I doubt it is an idea that only I could have come up with) some time ago--that of the Abysmal Sublime. It goes this way: Is it possible that a work of art can be so bad, so inept or ill-conceived or poorly made, so, in a word abysmal, that it transcends its own badness and becomes something, if not sublime (an exaggeration, surely), then aesthetically arresting? Its own badness somehow inverts its aesthetics to become something unique and beautiful? Minnie Ripperton's "Loving You" is such a uniquely bad song that I, somehow enjoy it. I don't want to hear it more than three times in a row, mind you, but I don't turn it off if it's on the radio. Same with Captain and Tenille's "Muskrat Love" and Starland Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight." And I think this is more than just a kitsch appreciation. It's much more. These songs are transgressive in some ways, but bumblingly so. I don't think their composers ever thought they were expressing anything but honest sentiments, of course, but they take real liberties: Ripperton's orgasmic, ear-drum puncturing high note; the muskrat noises made on the moog synthesizer; the quavering, scaling harmony (is it five-part?) on the word "an" at the finish of "Afternoon Delight"--these are strokes of schlocky genius! They go where no one else would because most normal people recognize the boundaries of good taste. These artists have obliterated that boundary and stomped all over that ground. I'll never say these are good songs--they're horrible!--but they occupy that grey area where east meets west, where communism becomes fascism, where hell meets heaven--where the abysmal touches the sublime.

~



Your task, dear reader, is to identify other works which are abysmally sublime and make a case for them. Here are more possibilities, listed as my daily five: (1) Glen or Glenda, directed by Ed Wood; (2) Ravel's "Bolero"; (3) "Birth of Venus", Alexandre Cabanel's painting, not to be confused with Botticelli's simply sublime "Venus Anadyomene" or "Venus Rising from the Sea" (otherwise known as "Birth of Venus" or "Venus on the Half-Shell") (4); the novel The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole (which gave rise to that most abysmally sublime of literary genres, the gothic novel); (5) the paintings of Giovanni Boldini, the sultan of swish. Any takers.......?

~

Also, I'm interested in things that are common misconceptions but are not worth fighting over. Take, for instance, the word forte. Technically speaking, this word is not accented on the final e. It simply rhymes with snort. This is a fact. Yet, if I ever pronounce it the correct way (which I have resigned myself never to do), I will in turn be wrongly corrected. Is this worth arguing over? I think not, not unless I want to look like an asshole. But it's hugely annoying! Same with Botticelli's "Birth of Venus" above. Can you, dear reader, add something to this growing list of common misconceptions not worth fighting over? Or do you want to claim that some are worth fighting over? Here's one: The Immaculate Conception is not the conception of Jesus! It's the conception of Mary in the womb of St. Anne. I saw a book on renaissance art the other day that made that mistake--on Piero della Francesca's "Madonna del Parto," of all things. I know we all make mistakes, but sheesh.

And here's the totally sublime Ian:

Adios,

JBF

July 7, 2008: Back from Idaho

Greetings, faithful readers. I spent the 3rd through the 6th at Lake Coeur d'Alene in North Idaho. We've had a house on Rockford Bay since 1974--my parents had it built. Hard to believe how much has changed in 34 years. The lake is becoming another Tahoe, what with all the multi-million dollar mansions, exclusive resorts, and hugely overcompensatory watercraft. Of course, all the growth has increased our property value (and property taxes) but in the end, I miss the vast empty woods that we used to go romping around in with our BB guns, the empty lake shore we could walk along without troubling any neighbors, and the lack of pestering wave-runners and jet-skis. Still there are some good things. The fishing has gotten better over the years. We're catching lots of bass and perch off the dock, and big salmon out in the deeper parts of the lake (my brother and I went looking for the smaller kokanee but came up empty handed). There are bald eagles around too--we saw one--as well as aspreys and pelicans.

I'm glad Ian was able to meet my brother and his family--especially Katherine who is 9 and Ryan who is 6. The next time they will probably see him he won't be a baby anymore, alas.

So, despite the fact that Dick Cheney is still (arguably) the second most powerful man in the world, here are five reasons God should not put out the sun today: (1) The shuffle mode on the I-Pod. What could be more wonderful than to go from Aerosmith to the Cocteau Twins to Patsy Cline to The Jam to Neil Diamond to the Stooges and not have to lift a finger? (2) Hebrew National hot dogs. Especially when eaten at a baseball game and the baseball game is the Cubs v. the Giants and the baseball game is played at Wrigley Field. (3) G&J Dairy Freeze, Umatilla, OR. A great place to stop (half-way between Spokane and Portland) for a corn-dog, tater-tots, and a malt. (4) Blow-Up, directed by Michelangelo Antonioni. One of my favorite films; I just rewatched it for the hundredth time this weekend at the lake. Is there a better commentary on the vapidness (vapidity?) of pop-culture than the sequence where Jeff Beck, during a Yardbirds performance of "Strollin' On" (awesome tune!), smashes his guitar ala Pete Townshend, and David Hemmings fights tooth and claw among the audience for the severed guitar neck, only to, later, toss it in the gutter like the worthless trash it is? (5) The drawings of Heinrich Kley. I bought a book of his drawings (Dover) some years ago after seeing a bigger (and too expensive) book. Wonderfully inventive sketches provide caustic comments on European culture at the turn of the 20th century; as the back cover puts it: "His frantic, posturing, iconoclastic brainchildren lash mercilessly at bureaucracy, militarism, false 'Gemutlichkeit,' the eccentricities of reformers, the ballast of majesty, and many more facets of a weary civilization." See some here: http://thescreamonline.com/art/art7-1/kley/kley.html.

July 2, 2008: On The Way to CDA

We're leaving for Lake Coeur d'Alene for a few days this afternoon. I'll make this quick.

Daily Five: (1) St. Johns Bridge. Spectacular gothic suspension bridge spanning the Willamette. Built in 1931. (2) The OHSU Tram. I love this for no other reason than when I'm driving down Macadam to Naito Parkway and see a great silver pod floating along the cables above my head a feeling of sheer joy bubbles up in me. (3) Chinese Yo-Yos. Great for kids, pets, and for a boredom cure for college students on long road trips. (4) The Ugly Mug Cafe. My favorite place in Portland for Joe. Unpretensious, artful, happy, shabby. Great coffee too. (5) ABC's Lost. Best TV show ever (even better than, alas, Twin Peaks--although I will say TP was ballsier given that nothing like it had been on TV before.) Lost is a whole wacky universe unto itself.

Hasta Luego,
JBF

July 1, 2008: Ian & Patrick

Greetings, bloggerati. I've made initial contact with about half of my 101 roster and am hoping the other half logs on today. The next week will be dicey as far as internet connections will be concerned. Maybe I'll be able to use Scott's lap-top, but how and where may be problematic.

~

Last night was critique night in my painting class. I must say I was delighted with the response of my classmates to my latest work--a back view of a nude woman sitting on a bed in a blue room. For the first time I can honestly say that I've made a painting I wouldn't mind buying. This one will be framed and hung upon our wall. I can feel myself turning a corner into new, more exciting territory and I'm very happy. As soon as I make an adjustment or two to a clumsy hand, I'll take a picture and share it in the Galeria.

~

Daily Five: (1) Stumptown Coffee Roasters. Portland's finest, served at their own coffee shops and elsewhere. (2) Portland Art Museum's Sales and Rental Gallery. A wonderful adjunct to the museum; they feature all living artists, mostly regional, and offer their works at surprisingly affordable prices. A great way to pick up (or even rent) fine art. Once I had the pleasure of assisting K pick out pieces to rent for her law firm's offices. A real treat. (3) Lorenzo Bartolini's Dirce, in the Louvre. On my last trip (two years ago now!) I spent more time away from the "big tickets" (Mona Lisa, Venus di Milo, Winged Victory, etc.) and more time in the baroque and roccoco galleries. Only lately have I developed a taste for the b&r, for previously I'd always been somewhat turned off to the heaviness, the manneredness, and (what I perceived of anyway) as preciousness and frivolity. Fragonard was always the emblem of all this. An enormously talented painter but somehow sentimentally over-the-top despite his inventiveness. Now I see his sense of humor and playfulness--even irony (in a modern kitschy sense too!). I guess I wanted art to be serious, dammit. Silly me. Bartolini's Dirce is tender and cute and quaint and sexy and classical and romantic and lovely and soft and ridiculous and sublime--all at once. And that's roccoco. (4) The Goodwill Superstore's (the one on Grand and Mill) book section. Arguably as good an any used bookstore in town (except for Powell's which beats it in selection, of course, and not price). Funny thing--at Powell's I'll see a thousand books of Shakespeare criticism and not buy a one. At Goodwill I'll see one and buy it almost unquestioningly. Why? The psychologists have a word for this and I've forgotten it. (5) Kennings. The metonymic word compounds made by Anglo-Saxon poets: whale-road (ocean), swan-road (sky), wave-courser (ship). You can tell I've been re-reading Beowulf for fall Brit Lit!

Au revoir,

JBF

P.S. Ian and his 4 year-old cousin, Patrick, last Christmas.