Close Encounters of the Archaeological Kind

My thoughts exactly.

Courtesy of JollyJack over at deviantART.

Cloud Cult @ The Knitting Factory, May 14, 2008

Cloud Cult- May 14, 2008: The Knitting Factory

The population of The Knitting Factory is noticeably swollen by the time Kid Dakota leaves the stage, yet as Craig Minowa and Shawn Neary meander through the crowd- eyes focused on the ground before them with hunched shoulders exuding a mid-country humbleness, not a single hipster bats an eye at their presence. After all, it’s hardly ironic to tell the band how great they are; I mean you bought a ticket, right? Yet as the first notes of the sound check are struck the pretention of the room drops significantly and the crowd takes tentative steps forward readying itself Cloud Cult.

The band takes the stage one-by-one, quietly and passively picking up their instruments and flexing their fingers before front man Craig Minowa appears looking disheveled in his well-worn rumpled shirt. Wearing jeans rolled mid-calf one foot is noticeably bare next to its sock and shoe laden partner. He’s pushed a sleeping mask with drawn eyes onto his forehead and a sheepish smile flickers as he addresses the audience with a sleepy Minnesotan twinge that makes us all feel bad for possibly having woken him up from his seeming backstage slumber.

“Hello,” he mumbles, his fingers form a chord on the neck of his guitar. “I’m Craig…and we are Cloud Cult,”

The crowd takes another step forward as digital cameras and iPhones appear and the band launches into their set.

A frantic, desperate energy drives each song as if the members of Cloud Cult thrive off of the stressful nature of performance treating the nerves and fear like a much needed breathe of fresh air. Each note is tempered with the vaguest suggestion of sadness and each chord hums with joy, a delightful juxtaposition of emotion that couples sweetly with the genuine whole-heartedness of the lyrics that betray an old soul disguised by childish charm. Evidence of the band’s history is scattered throughout the performance with a bittersweet adornment that only adds to the indisputable earnestness of their sound.

At the back of the stage stands Minowa’s wife, Connie, working feverishly on the trademark performance art set to be auctioned at the conclusion of the evening. Each brush stroke and hue compliments the music her husband has orchestrated as haunting eyes and wan smile begin to take shape across the previously blank canvas. As the set progresses the sad eyes are possessed by an awkward youth standing in the midst of windmills and skyscrapers, gazing towards the audience with a lost bewilderment and one cannot help but feel the presence of the Minowa family’s past history lingering on the stage. Bassist Shawn Neary turns to the painting to observe Connie’s work and as the exhilarated concentration fades from his bearded face his hands become the tools of an automaton and a part of his heart lingers in the air. A peaceful nature falls over his constantly moving lanky form and for a moment he and Connie lock eyes. She offers nothing but a sweetly sad smile before turning back to the canvas as he watches. There is something magical occurring in The Knitting Factory tonight, something personal and hidden from the audience, whispering the truth between band mates that we the observers will never be privy too. There is a love and determination in every member of the cult that endears them even more to those standing in awe at the foot of the stage.

As expected, Cloud Cult performs mostly from their newest release, Feel Good Ghosts (Teapartying Through Tornadoes), while much to the delight of the audience they pull tracks from The Meaning of 8 and Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus performing with a rabble-rousing clarity that urges us to bob our heads and shimmy to the beat, the band having found the perfect alternating balance of uplifting and heart-wrenching songs. “Hurricane and Fire Survival Guide” translates perfectly from the album to the stage, just as “The Story of the Grandson of Jesus” and “Happy Hippo” find the venue engorged with hand claps and hip sways. With our eyes closed and our hearts light, digital cameras on the rise, we lose ourselves in the moment, ravenously devouring the little pieces of soul Craig and his band of Minnesotan musicians spoon feed our eager ears. They close the night with a bittersweet performance of “Love You All,” and gratefully we believe every word.

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: Linguistical Prowess

Cubie 1:
(Saying something about "Tagalog" pronouncing it "Tag-a-log".)
Cubie 2:
It's "Tah-gol-og" I used to say "Tag-a-log", but that's not right.

Cubie 1:
Whatever, I wouldn't never speak it, so it doesn't matter.

Attorney:
Tag-a-log is a Girl Scout cookie!

Cubie 1:
No that's "Tagalong".

Attorney:
Oh.

Cubie 1:
I don't care about that warble language, but you better get the cookie right.

Prince Caspian, see?

I just saw a trailer for The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian out of the corner of my eye and my first thought was, "Another Joan of Arc movie?" aka Prince Caspian looks like a chick.


I doubt this is news to anyone.

Holy franchise similarities, Batman!!!

Anybody else see what I see?

"Who Will Tell the People?"

Who Will Tell the People?

By THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN

Published: May 4, 2008, www.nytimes.com

Traveling the country these past five months while writing a book, I've had my own opportunity to take the pulse, far from the campaign crowds. My own totally unscientific polling has left me feeling that if there is one overwhelming hunger in our country today it's this: People want to do nation-building. They really do. But they want to do nation-building in America.

They are not only tired of nation-building in Iraq and in Afghanistan, with so little to show for it. They sense something deeper — that we're just not that strong anymore. We're borrowing money to shore up our banks from city-states called Dubai and Singapore. Our generals regularly tell us that Iran is subverting our efforts in Iraq, but they do nothing about it because we have no leverage — as long as our forces are pinned down in Baghdad and our economy is pinned to Middle East oil.

Our president's latest energy initiative was to go to Saudi Arabia and beg King Abdullah to give us a little relief on gasoline prices. I guess there was some justice in that. When you, the president, after 9/11, tell the country to go shopping instead of buckling down to break our addiction to oil, it ends with you, the president, shopping the world for discount gasoline.

We are not as powerful as we used to be because over the past three decades, the Asian values of our parents' generation — work hard, study, save, invest, live within your means — have given way to subprime values: "You can have the American dream — a house — with no money down and no payments for two years."

That's why Donald Rumsfeld's infamous defense of why he did not originally send more troops to Iraq is the mantra of our times: "You go to war with the army you have." Hey, you march into the future with the country you have — not the one that you need, not the one you want, not the best you could have.

A few weeks ago, my wife and I flew from New York's Kennedy Airport to Singapore. In J.F.K.'s waiting lounge we could barely find a place to sit. Eighteen hours later, we landed at Singapore's ultramodern airport, with free Internet portals and children's play zones throughout. We felt, as we have before, like we had just flown from the Flintstones to the Jetsons. If all Americans could compare Berlin's luxurious central train station today with the grimy, decrepit Penn Station in New York City, they would swear we were the ones who lost World War II.

How could this be? We are a great power. How could we be borrowing money from Singapore? Maybe it's because Singapore is investing billions of dollars, from its own savings, into infrastructure and scientific research to attract the world's best talent — including Americans.

And us? Harvard's president, Drew Faust, just told a Senate hearing that cutbacks in government research funds were resulting in "downsized labs, layoffs of post docs, slipping morale and more conservative science that shies away from the big research questions." Today, she added, "China, India, Singapore ... have adopted biomedical research and the building of biotechnology clusters as national goals. Suddenly, those who train in America have significant options elsewhere."

Much nonsense has been written about how Hillary Clinton is "toughening up" Barack Obama so he'll be tough enough to withstand Republican attacks. Sorry, we don't need a president who is tough enough to withstand the lies of his opponents. We need a president who is tough enough to tell the truth to the American people. Any one of the candidates can answer the Red Phone at 3 a.m. in the White House bedroom. I'm voting for the one who can talk straight to the American people on national TV — at 8 p.m. — from the White House East Room.

Who will tell the people? We are not who we think we are. We are living on borrowed time and borrowed dimes. We still have all the potential for greatness, but only if we get back to work on our country.

I don't know if Barack Obama can lead that, but the notion that the idealism he has inspired in so many young people doesn't matter is dead wrong. "Of course, hope alone is not enough," says Tim Shriver, chairman of Special Olympics, "but it's not trivial. It's not trivial to inspire people to want to get up and do something with someone else."

It is especially not trivial now, because millions of Americans are dying to be enlisted — enlisted to fix education, enlisted to research renewable energy, enlisted to repair our infrastructure, enlisted to help others. Look at the kids lining up to join Teach for America. They want our country to matter again. They want it to be about building wealth and dignity — big profits and big purposes. When we just do one, we are less than the sum of our parts. When we do both, said Shriver, "no one can touch us."

Mayday! MAYDAY!!!

Happy May Day all! Today's the day we celebrate the beginning of the Pagan summer!

Everyone: Take a bath! It's courtin' season!

Ladies: Don your white virginal apparel, braid some heather into your hair and grab those flasks of wine! The Men shall come a callin' and you must be prepared!

Gentlemen: Go erect a Maypole on the font yard of the young Fraulein you fancy! Fret ye not if there already be a Maypole erected by some other forward thinking lad. Simply build a bigger, slightly more phallic Maypole to show the "extent" of your love!

Afterwards: Meet down in town for some good ol' fashioned feisty Maypole dancing!

Schönen Maitag, Freunde!

Someone: Show a girl some love… Maypole? Anyone? Bueller?

MS Paint WONDER

My Co-worker (the non-retarded one) told me I was a chef.
She sent me this:



Yeah, that's pretty much AWESOME.

Chinless Man of the Week

Matthew Goode

Notable for being possibly the only good bit about Woody Allen's schlobfest Matchpoint, Matthew Goode will soon be gracing the silver screen as Ozymandius in Zack Snyder's adaptation of Watchmen (!!!), bringing his chinless glory to millions of comic book nerds across the globe. And yes, we must forgive him his role in Chasing Liberty, for surely his dashing good looks and impressive height of 6'2" can earn him a dignified place among the other esteemed gentlemen on this list. Yes? Goode.

Daily Haiku for April 28, 2008

We got some cookies.

The co-workers swooped in;

they* didn't stand a chance.

Word of the Day

omnologist- (n.) A person with extensive knowledge in many areas, or with a formidable collection of general knowledge. An expert in many fields. One who seems to know everything.

"Britta."





*the cookies

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: The Zinger

Me:
(reading the news and finding interest in the ways of the world)
Did y'all hear that Japan ran out of butter?

Cubie #1:
(stares at me incredulously)
Ran OUT of BUTTER?!

Me:
(nods)
Yeah, it's on CNN, BBC and Reuters.

Cubie #1:
How does a country run out of butter?

Me:
Well, they're saying that since the price of grains and cattle feed is so expensive, the cows aren't producing as much as they should and butter production is delayed.

Cubie #1:
What the hell do COWS have to do with butter?!

Me:
(long pause)
Well...cows make milk you see...

Can you say "Schadenfreude"?

A Riddle.

Q: What do Byron "Buster" Bluth and Charlie Bucket have in common?




A: High-fastening pants.

So I'm TOTALLY live-blogging American Idol

Shaddup...it's Andrew Lloyd Weber night. That's my excuse.
Here we go:

Syesha Mercado-

“One Rock ‘n’ Roll Too Many”

Good performance. Messed the first line, came in late, but quickly recovered from these issues. Needs to be braver about those high notes. She has them, can use them. Grow a spine, kiddo! If I voted, she’d have my vote right now, if only for the fact she chose from Starlight Express.

Jason Castro-

“Memory”

Seriously?! MEMORY?! Why? Who let this kid choose and keep that choice? Why not throw the kid “Love Changes Everything”? He could have KILLED that song, or maybe even “Close Every Door To Me”. Not MEMORY! Double-you tee eff, get him off the stage. Especially since he bungled the ending and kept it low, butchering the best opportunity to show some balls strength.

Paula Abdul- how many strokes has she had? Is that what’s going on with her? She can’t possibly be drunk/narcotocized EVERY week (not like I watch every week, that’s what entertainment blogs are for)

Brooke White-

“You Must Love Me”

No, I don’t think I must. This girl…this girl, something about her faux-modesty and doe-eyes annoys me. Yes, she can sing…if you think a hissing tire with a nail stuck in it sounds harmonious. Yeah, she can carry a tune like a ton of bricks. She sounded dull, flat and bored with the very song she was trying to sound sad, upset and pleading.

UPDATE: I might feel bad if this is true, but is something wrong with her face? Like, she only speaks/sings out of one side of it and it’s really disturbing…like she’s a leering, baby-stealing nanny sitting by herself in the park.

David Archuleta-

“Think of Me”

Kid has an excellent career singing over Disney credits. Unless the apocalypse comes and pop-music decides this kid is the second coming of Peabo Bryson, I can’t see him being supremely successful on the whole. Kudos for the re-imagining, it was a nice take on a very well-known and getting tired tune. I liked it, but…Peabo Bryson.

Carly Smithson-

“Jesus Christ Superstar”

Like getting hit in the face with a bag full of AWESOME followed by a one-two punch of SWEETJEEBUS.

Honestly, live-blogging this, I don’t know how or who is going to follow that.

David Cook-

“Music of the Night”

Gerard Butler did it better, and that’s REALLY saying something. Nice outfit, Kiefer, what is this, 1988?

HAHAHAHA….and that longing gaze at the camera following “…let you BEEEE!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH….jeebus christo. “Touch me, trust me/ savour each sensation” who told him how to pronounce that? Kid, if you sing musical theatre, try to stick to ANYTHING Adam Pascal has done. Stay away from ALW. Much love, the Theatre Nerds.

Randy…”amazing”? Really?

Oh god, now they’re recapping. Lord Weber, I apologize on behalf of the Americans who completely muffed up your music.

Chinless Man of the Week

Michael Vartan

We might have Drew Barrymore to thank for this deliciously weak-chinned gent. Clocking in at a respectable 6ft., Michael Vartan won many a lady's heart as the tasty High School Teacher of a crush in Never Been Kissed, went on to become engaged to Jennifer Garner, tread the mythological waters of made-for-TV-movies and now holds down for the erstwhile series Big Shots. Aside from these achievements he's not only devilishly handsome but also spent his childhood summers memorizing Star Wars. Need there be another Chinless Man after Mr. Vartan? The answer, of course, is a straggled,"Yes!" while we concede this most illustrious honor of being the Chinless Man of the Week for April 21, 2008! Congrats, and welcome, Mr. Vartan.

(not so) Daily Haiku for April 17, 2008

Supermex: I ate

it. Now for the kidneys to

kick into first gear.

Word of the Day

roister- (v.) to act in a swaggering, boisterous, or uproarious manner.

"Rallying the rabble, Reginald roisterously regaled and roused the revolutionaries."

"To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?"

Which is a worse situation: either a) having oodles of creativity bursting to be scored/written/orchestrated/spewed forth from your mighty pen/typed with your diligent keyboard/etc. and yet be lacking the time and place in which to do so; or b) having ample time with which to create genius, yet be lacking in the creativity you so desire to have?

I currently find myself suffering from the latter (option “b”) and am therefore spewing forth whatever nonsense I can think to write about. In this particular instance I find that I have writer’s block to write about which therefore completely eschews the theory and universal definition of said writer’s block. Perhaps in this rambling diatribe I will run out of things to say about writer’s block and will therefore fully succumb to the mind-racking numbness the affliction invariably leads to. I hope not, that would be awful. It would be a little like that page in Goodnight, Moon that is completely blank and only reads in the bottom corner, “Goodnight, nobody,” The sheer overwhelming crush of nothingness brought about by a simple case of writer’s block which, in a way, could be representative of existentialism on the whole.

Existentialism is the idea that our destinies are mapped out completely by us, the persons, with deities having little or no control over the whole thing; the idea of absolute nothingness, full existence, and eternal freedom.

Originally that whole idea seemed a little bleak, the idea that we truly are the masters of our own destiny and fate, that there are no great puppet strings controlling our actions and helping us along, that we are alone. But then I began to really think about it: the existentialist has nothing to fear. Whatever is going to happen will happen as they accept the consequences of their own actions. In a way, an accepting existentialist is possibly the most at peace person in all of creation. Say what you will, but while others are busy questioning whether or not they led a good and wholesome life, whether they truly abolished that original sin, whether those seventy-two virgins will be ready and willing whence they go wherever they will go, whether they achieved the sought approval from a higher power, I imagine the true existentialist does something sort of like this:

He sits back in his leather deskchair, feet propped up on his desk and arms crossed behind his head. Perhaps a mug of coffee sits near the mousepad, 4chan/b/ on the monitor as his lazy eyes roll towards the worrying nips that surround him. An all-knowing smirk crosses his lips and he briefly ponders the eternal question of “heaven or hell?” before the blip of thought fades into nothingness. Slowly, he lifts his legs from the desk and leans forward grasping the mug with one free hand, bringing towards his nose he deeply inhales enjoying the aroma of a well-made mug of coffee. He sips experimentally, it is delicious. Calmly, our existentialist replaces the mug on his desk, leans back and props his feet up once again as his cubicle mate glares at him from a cluttered corner.

Muttering quietly, the cubicle mate shuffles about cardboard coffee cups, folders and printouts. His monitor displays spreadsheets, matrices and word documents as his printer never ceases production. The Existentialist passing him a quiet glance before closing his eyes and humming quietly, “que sera sera, whatever will be…”

In my mind’s eye, our existentialist is wearing fitted pants, pointed boots and waistcoat, his sleeves rolled smugly halfway up his forearms, perhaps a bit of stubble grows on his face. Whereas the cubicle mate, working tirelessly through life to appease some higher ups wears something resembling Leo Bloom’s accountant’s uniform.

So, back to Goodnight, Moon and that page that troubles me so…”Goodnight, nobody,” As holyjuan.com pointed out, who is nobody? On the blank page there exists no “person,” so who is it? Asking this I am straying from my original point, so I’ll just get to that now in examining that page as purely existential fare: perhaps nobody is the existentialist; the person who had no one to answer to but himself and therefore failed to create any discernible identity within the confines of societal expectation. This is the sort of scary existentialist I had originally imagined when the philosophy was first introduced: the existentialist who, under all circumstances, fails to be. But now I realize that there are two kinds of existentialist: the nobodies- those without identity simple wafting through time until they have exhausted their purposeless life, and the somebodies- those who, understanding the lack of previously mentioned puppet strings, become their own Puppetmasters. Current society would tend to call them atheists as your standard existentialist, in upholding the credo of the philosophy, does not believe in a higher power, but these are the people who, when looking into the void and understanding the nothingness achieve something from it by embracing the pure and simple fact that they exist.

In as much, writer’s block may be seen as a basal form of existentialism in that the hypothetical block represents a Nothingness, a barrier beyond which someone cannot succeed, create and be. As with existentialism, there are differing approaches to writer’s block; you can give up and try another day, or you can keep trudging through until you have a philosophical argument on the screen before you. Either way, however, the end question is almost always the same: how do you finish?

Like this.

Reviews of Movies You've Already Seen: Batman- Mask of the Phantasm

Last night the roommate and I decided to battle the mid-week malaise by firing up one of the two movies Netflix had so kindly placed in our mail slot. Might I say that one of the greatest pleasures Netflix offers is a game I like to play called:

The rules are as follows:

1. Log-in to your Netflix account

1a. Should you not currently possess a Netflix account, get one (I recommend the 3 DVD deal-io for the simple reason that that is what I use and when have you ever known me to steer you in the wrong…wait, no… better rethink that question.). Once you have procured a Netflix account, return to step 1 [above].

2. Add a whole bunch of movies into your queue. I suggest first rating films you’ve seen and adding almost anything the algorithm says you would enjoy.
3. Enter your queue and shuffle things around a bit. You wouldn’t want to receive three films of the same ilk, now would you? Trust me, even Twyker can get old after a time, not to mention the off-chance that the algorithm suggested you rent all American Pie movies back to back. If so, my condolences to your family.
4. Await the fun!

So, ANYWAYS, yesterday arrived Batman-Mask of the Phantasm and 3:10 To Yuma, both of which seemed to be aching for a view, but as the roommate and I were in dire need of fighting the aforementioned mid-week malaise we popped Batman- Mask of the Phantasm into ye olde DVD player(e); a good choice.

The film starts off promisingly enough with a choral version of the ubiquitous Batman: The Animated Series theme song. The world of Bruce Timm is deliciously foreboding as we sweep through the streets of Gotham just in time to see the Dark Knight kicking the ever-loving bajeesus out of some baddies. Off to a good start, yo.

Now, as most of us have probably not seen this film in about fifteen years, let me pause to remind of its premise. The tagline tells us that “The Dark Knight fights to save Gotham city from its deadliest enemy”; which I automatically assumed to be pollution. Poised and ready to witness the Batman turn Gotham green I dimmed the lights in our apartment so as to help the cause. APPARENTLY that’s not was this film is about, but whatever.

So basically, this “Ghost of Christmas Future” dude (aka The Phantasm, even though we never hear the character referred to as such) starts showing up all mask and long flowing cape complete with magical-voodoo-make-you-disappear fog and killing the various mob bosses in Gotham (seemingly a recent development as the only mob bosses setup so far in the Animated Universe were Arnold Stromwell and Rupert Thorne…maaaaybe Tony “Boss” Zucco if you absolutely must split hairs) who have apparently wronged said Phantasm in some way. The catch is- donning a mask and cape, witnesses of the crimes mistake the Phantasm for Batman and thus a smear campaign begins (again) against Gotham's Greatest Defender.

Enter random love interest for Bruce Wayne in the guise Andrea Beaumont- girlfriend/fiancé from Bruce Wayne’s youth…wait, what? FIANCÉ? Our Bruce Wayne?! Clearly, I did not remember this portion of the film when I was ten years old. But anyways, she shows up and starts messing with Mr. Wayne’s mentality, calling into question the very reasons he pursues his midnights quests.

So things proceed along undulating nicely between love interest, chase scenes, a fight with the Phantasm and the Batman getting shot at in a construction site (a scene I definitely remember being concerned about as a child and now find myself going, “Holy hell, Spiderman III totally ripped off of Batman:MotP. Wtf.”) during which we are treating to varying flashbacks recounting how a young and dashing Bruce Wayne met said Andrea Beaumont, their courtship, Alfred’s approval and the following dénouement of the relationship involving a giant ol’ rock, Daddy Beaumont’s mob ties and an unscarred Joker…wait…Joker?! Oh hells yeah, this just got good. Good and confusing as we now try to figure out exactly who Gotham’s deadliest enemy is. Pollution? A corrupt infrastructure? This Phantasm cat? Or The Joker?

Not wanting to spoil any film noir surprises you may have in store for you (whatever you do, don't look to the left. DON'T DO IT! I told you not to.), I will simply fast forward to a part of the film I was strangely/happily intrigued by. The Joker, being hidden away so nicely, has taken up residence at the abandoned Gotham World’s Fair (I’m guessing the site is about fifteen years old based on that fact that Brucie met Andrea in college and they attended the World’s Fair in one amusing flashback) all on his lonesome. Seemingly for no better reason than Harley Quinn is tucked away in Arkham and all other villains have fled the Gotham city limits, the Joker has decided to pack the twenty miles of tunnels running underneath the fair grounds full of TNT. Now, I ask you, why would anyone do that? I mean, I know he’s the Joker and crazier than Naomi Campbell on an airplane, but c’mon…who packs twenty miles of tunnels with full-on eff-your-shit-up dynamite and then tells Batman that he has done so?! Definitely not your best work, Clown Prince of Crime (which was, I might add, your turning a Christmas Tree into a rocket and busting out of the loony-bin. CLASSIC!).

But I digress, Batman: MotP most definitely stood the test of time as a well-written, awesomely animated Bruce Timm production. If you are a Batman fan and have not yet seen this, shame on you; but if you have seen it then congratulations, let’s go buy some beer and watch cartoons together.

P.S. Eff you, Starman.

Chinless Man of the Week

Chris Wall


There seems to be a musician-themed tangent to our recent Chinless Men, but really now...who's complaining? Chris Wall, ladies and gents! The weakly be-chinned frontman of the Bournemouth born 'n' bred band Air Traffic. Look at him; perched with delicate balance atop that guitar case, tickling those ivories with talented delight whilst fully aware of the glory his profile is casting upon that fish-eye lens. Tasty. Whether he's wailing into a microphone, bashfully being interviewed, or composing catchy hooks involving a chorus of cacophonous kazoos, Chris Wall is quickly reaching the higher ranks of our Chinless Men of the Week.

Daily Haiku for April 7, 2008

Oh sweet jeebus child

That really took three hours?

Effective time kill!

Word of the Day

apace- (adv.) with speed; quickly; swiftly.

"Algernon's apostatic atheism adhered with accumulated apace."