Everything in Moderation, Including Moderation

Asteroids Galaxy Tour - "Around the Bend"

2008-11-11T21:27:00.001-06:00

My new favorite song and video...(yes, courtesy of the Apple iPod commercial. So what? SO WHAT, I say!)...

Actual notes from my journal while vacationing in Silver Beach, MI, September 6-15

2008-09-27T16:17:00.022-05:00

The seagulls on the beach - I'm on the beach! - seem grumpy. They'll walk right up to you and not care. They're so over humans. They're like the pigeons in Chicago that way. That and I saw one seagull shoot another seagull and then dump its body in the lake.

Conversation with myself while laying on the beach:
Me: "Hell would be having to count every grain of sand on every beach in the world."
Myself: "But then you'd get to be on beaches all over the world!"
Me: "No. It's Hell. They'd bring the sand to you."
Myself: "But that would take forever."
Me: "Exactly."

The sand is hard and bumpy when laying on it. If this was my bed, I'd be pissed. But it's sand! On a beach! So it's great!!!

It's always the wrong guys who keep their shirts on at the beach.

How does a seagull's skinny, spindly legs support its whole, plump body? And why do they balance on one leg when they could use both? It's like they're a...one-legged...seagull. Or something.

With the light behind them, the cresting waves are darker than the rest of the water and look like night. But then sometimes, with their blue streaks, they look like clouds rolling against a moon-lit sky. Just for a second.

Note to self: St. Joseph basically shuts down at 9p. Plan on eating before then. A take-out container of honey garlic chicken from Chan's Garden (not one single veggie!) does not a dinner make.

I'm going to try to write a story this morning but first I have to point out that so far, within five minutes of walking on the beach, I saw a good-looking, apparently straight guy suntanning in powder blue Speedos next to his girlfriend in a matching bikini AND a woman sweeping the beach with a metal detector. Where am I? An '80s comedy? Where's Andrew McCarthy? Also seen: lots of monarch butterflies.

The thin, white, rippling crests on the waves look like gloved fingers playing piano.

Note: this is the third time I've heard Michael Buble's "Feelin' Good" in 2 days.

I just realized I don't know the difference between corn kernels and popcorn kernels? WTF? Is there a difference? I can't believe I don't know.

Eating a pumpkin doughnut on a sunny beach. Thank you, September.

I wonder if that's the same monarch butterfly I keep seeing hovering over the water. Is it trying to go somewhere? Is it trying to leave Silver Beach to make a better life for itself somewhere else? I've never seen a butterfly flutter around water so much. It almost looks like it's scavenging for food. I'd love to see a dainty little monarch butterfly dip into the water and emerge clutching a fish 10 times its size. But it's like it's trying to get somewhere and then gets tired and comes back. "Next time," it tells itself. "Next time I'll really show Mom and Dad that I'm serious about flying away."

Or maybe it thinks it's a seagull, or at least wants to be one. It does seem to fly over them a lot as they sit on the beach in groups (or balance on one leg. Seriously, why?). Maybe it's confused or unhappy with its lot in life. I picture it flying around, trying to ingratiate itself to the indifference birds. "Hey guys! What's up? What's new? Catch any good fish today? Yeah, me neither."

I've Lost Half the Year and Half of My Mind (Duh Duh Duuuuuh...)

2008-08-17T16:26:00.009-05:00

Whoa. Remember way back in January when I said I was taking time off from blogging but I'd still check in every once in a while with updates, thoughts, etc. Yeah, now it's...August. How did that happen? Where did this year go? All these questions are making me feel stoned.

Anyway, I caught a commercial the other day for Bonnie Hunt's upcoming talk show, shockingly titled "The Bonnie Hunt Show." How much do I love her? This is a perfect idea as Hunt is as funny, sarcastic and down-to-earth as when she's talking to David Letterman or little kids. Who knows how long this show will last but just seeing this commercial made me start compiling a list of other things I'm excited about right now. Other things such as:

- The new music video for "Warcwick Ave." by Duffy, a beautiful song sung by a new, up and coming singer with a great voice. The video is so simple and so touching in its lack of polish. It's light years above the generic singing-to-a-crowd video for her first single, the great "Mercy," so hopefully her record company realizes Duffy deserves a little something more.

- Out magazine's article, "Has Manhunt Destroyed Gay Culture?" In exploring not only why Manhunt.com, the most popular gay male website for, uh, "connecting," has gotten so popular, but what it has taken away from gay culture, writer Michael Joseph Gross has written a surprisingly compelling argument for logging off instead of getting off. Even more, the news that one of Manhunt's founders, Jonathan Crutchley, has donated thousands of dollars to anti-gay Republican presidential nominee John McCain has ignited such fury from Manhunt's subscribers that he's been forced to resign as Chairman. Granted, he'll still be raking in millions and probably still donate it to McCain, but in this age of Web 2.0, it's an inspiring reminder for writers like myself of the power of print journalism.

- The fact that "Project Runway" has finally gotten better. Season 5 has seriously been lacking with the challenges (recycling the grocery store challenge was fine, but then recycling the take-a-photo-in-NY-and-use-as-inspiration challenge? That wasn't even very exciting the first time!) and with talent (no one has really stepped out as a consistent bad-ass designer the way Kara Saun or Michael Knight did in their respective seasons). But when they had to design a day-and-night business outfit for Brooke Shields to wear on her nighttime drama "Lipstick Jungle," the results were exactly as they should be. The top 2 contenders were surprisingly great and the bottom two were heinous and laughable. The best of both worlds!

- Pineapple salsa. It's sitting in my fridge, right now, waiting to be piled on top of grilled jerk chicken for dinner tonight. Just sitting there, with its cucumber and mint and lime, calling my name, whispering, "Donny...Donny, you know you want to eat me...come on...there's plenty extra...I'm so sweet and crunchy...Just scoop me up in a spoon and eat me. Spoon me, Donny, spooooon meeeee." Ok, that just got weird. But whatevs. Between that and the quarter of a watermelon that I ate by myself a few weeks ago and the margarita that I had with ravioli - yes, ravioli! - when the in-laws visited, I'm loving summertime food. I just need some grilled corn and I'll be all set. I wonder if pineapple salsa tastes good on ravioli?

- Jamie Lidell. Love him. If you haven't heard of him, watch this. Or this. Or just go buy his albums Multiply and Jim because his brand of neo-soul pop is infectious.

- St. Joseph, MI. I'm heading there for 10 days in September. Not only is the train ride under two hours and a fraction of the cost of a plane ticket to anywhere, I found a great deal at a nice hotel that's downtown and right by the beach. It's close, it's cheap, it's beautiful, and my sweetie will be joining me for the second weekend for our first and only vacation this whole year. Thank you, staycation!

I'm sure there's more but that's what's occupying my time right now. Summer's almost done so I'm just hoping to make the most of it. And hopefully it won't be summer 2009 before I blog again, but knowing me, that's not out of the question.

So, yeah...

2008-01-26T17:44:00.002-06:00

I obviously haven't been blogging in a while. Over a month, in fact. Something clicked when I started thinking about what I want to do in 2008. I realized I want to write more, but not just for my blog. I want to write bigger and better, dedicating more of my energy to submitting to magazines. Maybe even working on a larger project that's both quieter and more demanding than blogging and magazines, writing a book. So I realized something had to give and that something, for now, is this blog.

After two and some years of always thinking/worrying about what my next post is going to be about, after dedicating entire weeknights or even weekends to put together a post that, quite frankly, not a lot of people read, I decided that I've done it and I'm done with it. I've tried it, I've had my ups and downs with it, I've written posts that I'm really proud of and posts that I'd go back and delete if I was that kind of blogger. Some posts even helped lead to a freelancing gig which has lead to a permanent staff position with a magazine I really like and respect and really, what more can you ask than that?

And you know what? So far it feels great. After sitting in front of a computer all day at my regular job, I can come home and not sit in front of a computer all night if I don't want to. I can cook! I can bake! I can watch TV! I can have dinner with friends! I can work out! So many not-really-exciting-but-
exciting-for-me-because-let's-face-it-I've-been-blogging
-for-over-two-years-and-I-have-low-standards-for-what-
I-consider-exciting activities!!!

Notice what wasn't on that list of activities I can indulge in now that I'm not blogging? Writing. The funny thing is with all this new time on my hands I haven't exactly gotten around to doing the things I gave up blogging for in the first place. But we're now, what, 3 weeks into the new year? I can enjoy myself for a while, right? Plus, have you seen the new American Gladiators? It's pretty awesome.

Some people started blogging a long time before I did and are still going. I think that's great. Some people didn't blog nearly as long as I did before giving it up. I laugh in their faces. And I'm not saying I'm giving it up for a good, anyway. Just for now. Who knows? Maybe after three months or six months or a year I'll be clamoring to bust out a bunch of new posts on the latest pop culture shenanigans. I still haven't finished blogging about making all 125 (127?) recipes in Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian even though it's been, um, quite some time since I started that project. So maybe when that happens I'll have to blog about it for closure and, you know, evidence. (If a virtual text few people read actually counts as evidence that I finished a project.)

The point is: I may pick this back up again, I may not. Who knows what the future holds besides God and Kanye West? In the meantime, here are a few of the things that I'll be doing/reading/consuming/eating whilst not blogging:

Reading Project Rungay - The best way to keep up with Bravo's addictive reality competition and enjoy the witticisms, snark and dead-on fashion critiques of Tom & Lorenzo. Project Runway's 4th season may not be its best (Oh my dear Lord, Ricky has to leave), but this blog makes it a lot more enjoyable.

Reading Janet Xone - With Miss Jackson's latest album, Discipline, hitting shelves on February 26th, this is really the best way to know about all the news, performances, reviews and stories concerning Janet. And if you haven't checked out her latest video for "Feedback," click here. Watch it more than once - it grows on you, especially once the killer choreography kicks in.

Eating Aromatic Noodles with Lime-Peanut Sauce - Part of the reason I've put Giada's Italian cookbook aside is because I picked up fellow Food Network host Ellie Krieger's latest book, The Food You Crave. So far the Pumpkin Muffins, Energy Bars, Baked Onion Rings with Ranch Dip, Vanilla Hot Chocolate and Whole Wheat Pancakes with Strawberry Sauce have all been great and healthy (another New Year's resolution). I loooove me some Asian peanut sauces because I basically love anything with peanut butter, so I'm thinking this recipe from Ellie will make me silly happy.

Using my new Netflix account - I just started my subscription and finally watched 2005's An Inconvenient Truth. Next up is the new, Oscar-nominated documentary No End in Sight. I'm going to be so smrt, s-m-r-t!

Reading Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife by Mary Roach - After reading Roach's Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, I've been dying (no pun intended, especially because it's not a very good pun) to read her follow-up. If she explores the soul with as much humor, eye-opening research and intelligence as she did corpses, then the wait will have been worth it.

Rooting for Atonement at the Oscars - I just saw it and am hoping it wins something big, even though I haven't seen There Will Be Blood yet. Seriously, this adaptation of the Ian McEwan novel (which I really liked) is gorgeous, well-acted and, to employ a cliché, heartbreaking. Knowing the general rule that the movie is never as good as the book, I was surprised to fall in love with this movie so much. Even though it drags in the middle (just like the book), I couldn't help but completely buy into the whole production. And it has James McAvoy looking adorable and delivering a fantastic performance? Done and done. Dear Striking Writers, The Oscars better take place so I can see Mr. McAvoy in a tux. Sincerely, Me.

Well, that's it for now. Enjoy.

Take care.

Goodbye?

Let It Snow, Man

2007-12-21T09:38:00.000-06:00

When I was in the third grade, my class huddled into our classroom on a frosty December night. We were waiting to march single-file to the auditorium where we'd sing in our school's annual holiday concert. (Although I think back then they were still actually called Christmas Concerts.) To placate the rowdy group while we killed time, our teacher, Mrs. Handiwerk (I swear to Santa that was her real name) popped in a video.

I was expecting "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" or "Frosty the Snowman" - you know, something with bright animation, maybe some songs, maybe some characters rendered out of clay, the usual Christmas kids movie stuff. What came on was The Snowman, a 1982 animated movie based on the popular children's book by British author/illustrator Raymond Briggs. Instead of bright, sparkling colors, I saw muted, gorgeous animation renderd out of colored pencil. Instead of "gee whiz!"-style Important Lessons, here was a children's movie entirely dialogue-free, accompanied only by beautifully haunted music by Howard Blake. And the only musical number was the ethereal "Walking In the Air," sung by a young man (Peter Auty, a St. Paul's Cathedral choirboy) with such a clear, high voice, I couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl.

For the next twenty-seven minutes, I, along with a few of my classmates, was hypnotized. The more hyper members of our group couldn't be bothered by such a subdued movie, but the budding, brooding little drama queen in me was instantly attracted to the story of a snowman who comes to life and takes the boy who made him flying around the world. It's cute and whimsical and somewhat melancholy, all of which, to me, perfectly sums up Christmas.

I'm not sure how I feel about someone uploading the entire movie to YouTube. I'm not saying you need a flat-screen plasma TV to appreciate it - obviously that wasn't the technology we were dealing with in 1989. But even a small, quiet movie like this doesn't work so well when viewed in the little YouTube box. But the movie is so good and, unlike other obscure Christmas movies that grew a cult-like fanbase into mainstream popularity (A Christmas Story), still without a sizable American audience (even though it was nominated for the Best Animated Short Oscar in 1983), that I'll share it however I can. Whether it's on a computer monitor or in your living room (or both), you should ideally be wrapped in a blanket with a mug of hot cocoa. (Not hot chocolate. Hot cocoa.) If you're watching this at work, counting down the minutes until you can get away for the upcoming holidays, that's okay, too. (In fact, the movie might help.)

This might very well be my last post of the year, so I thought I'd wrap up my second year of blogging with one of my favorite movies...

Also check out: A Scrubbed-Up Charlie Brown Christmas (and a Christmassy Update!)
And: Sexy and Seasonal.

Best Music of 2007

2007-12-18T16:11:00.000-06:00

Okay, maybe these aren't the "best" from a critical viewpoint. These are just my favorites...which makes them the best. Because I am the best. So there.

Aaaaand here we go! (In no particular order...)

Prince - "F.U.N.K." Yes, Prince released a perfectly fine album, Planet Earth, earlier this year that no one noticed. But because he's Prince and can do whatever the hell he wants, he also released this digital-only single in November. "F.U.N.K." lives up to its all-caps title: this is a monster-sized, 7-and-a-half minute funk jam, kicking off with an appropriately monster-sized guitar riff, followed by punches of horns and Prince's helium voice and ending with his stream-of-conscious monologue over a piano. This is not just Prince how we love him, it's Prince loving what he's doing.

Rihanna - "Shut Up and Drive" I know, I know. "Umbrella" was her ubiquitous hit single this year, you couldn't go anywhere without the "ella, ella, ella" ringing either in someone's stereo or your head, it was No. 1, blah blah blah. I prefer the second single from her album Good Girl Gone Bad. It's three and a half minutes of such perfect, slick, cheesy, catchy, danceable pop, I couldn't ask for her or her producers to improve upon it in any way. (The boring, uncreative video, on the other hand...) If you haven't completely spazzed out to this in the middle of a club after four too many vodka lemonades...well, then you're obviously not me.

KT Tunstall - "Beauty of Uncertainty" Kelly Clarkson's "Irvine," from her battle-scarred new album, My December, is indeed a surprisingly mature, dark ballad from the young singer. But for a truly haunting, cinematic piece of music, Tunstall's "Beauty of Uncertainty," from her sohophomore album Drastic Fantastic, elicits goosebumps. Play this on your iPod when walking down a sidewalk lined with autumn leaves or through a peacefull nighttime snowfall. When her vocals start to stack and swirl at a climax both ethereal and gritty, you'll be surrounded by echoing layers of poetry.

Kelly Clarkon - "Irivine" Oh, who am I kidding? Put this song on the list, too! It's really fucking good!

Junior Senior - "Can I Get Get Get" Jesus Christ, this list needs to lighten up before it kills itself. Luckily, Danish duo Junior Senior finally released their sophomore album after it came out two years ago in Japan. Lead single "Can I Get Get Get" combines not only their love for repetition but the slinky synths and guitars that make you want to clap your hands to the, well, synthesized handclaps. Whatever you want, yes you can can can.

Of Montreal - "Gronlandic Edit" If you like dancing to completely depressing songs about isolation and existentialism, then "Gronlandic Edit" is for you! The indie band comes up with a strangely danceable pop song with unending harmonies bursting like sunbeams in a prism while questioning the usual pop quandries like death and religion and beauty and stuff. Nerds like to dance, too, you know!

Feist - "My Moon My Man" If you want more sexy, moody indie pop, this highlight from iPod Nano superstar Feist is a must for you. In the video, when Feist breathily croons "Take it slow, take it easy on me" while seducing you with her sexy trenchcoat and military marching in an airport, you know she can handle the exact opposite. And how cute it is that, for someone who's album, The Remainder, is mostly ballads, she loves full-out choreography in her videos?

Grace Potter & The Nocturnals - "Mastermind" A while ago, I posted a query concerning the lack of new female rock stars. This year, I found at least one answer in Grace Potter & the Nocturnals. Not only does This Is Somewhere rock more often than not, they're even better live (the album doesn't actually capture just how good they can be, but hopefully the next one will). On this rocking, rollicking hightlight, Potter lays out the recipe for...enlightenment? Peace? Not sure, exactly. But when she belts out "1 part sugar, 2 parts feeling, 3 cups full of bottled lightning," you'll want to whip up a big batch of whatever she's cooking.

Mika - "Grace Kelly" With "Grace Kelly," Mika burst onto the scene with his flamboyant musicality and ambiguous sexuality. Even though he appeared on the cover of Out and sings songs about married men falling in love with men, he refused to reveal whether or not he's gay. (Ooh, the suspense!) So even if his personality is a little annoying, "Grace Kelly" is such a strangely giddy song about professional rejection you can't help but bop your head along. Even Stephen King likes it! And trust me, that man is fickle.

Office - "Oh My" If you prefer your pop with a dollop of rock, then buzzed indie band Office should probably be on your list. (Full disclosure, the owners for the magazine I write for also manage this band.) They not only finally released a full-length album, A Night at the Ritz, but a hilarious video for lead single "Oh My" where they spliced footage of themselves in with 80's porn (totally safe for work). I love the pounding drums and shimmering synths. Thank you, Office, for making it okay to dance at rock shows in Chicago!

Andrew Bird - "Imitosis" And then there's Andrew Bird, making it okay to scratch your chin philosophically at rock shows as you question life, love, relationships and the glockenspiel. Seriously, Bird plays so many instruments that it was only a matter of time before the glockenspiel made its way into his music. (Can you tell I love the word "glockenspiel?" It's second only to "smorgasboard.") As you can see in this live footage, Bird uses recording equipment to layer all the music right there in front of the crowd, each plunked violin string stacked on top of the next. The end result is a sad, quirky little number that gives you an idea of the musicality, melody and moods found on Armchair Apocrypha.

The Attorneys - "On A Whim" Another indie band with an ear for actual musicality, The Attorneys will hopefully release the video for this song soon. (One of the band members, John, actually emailed me when he saw on my blog that I was listening to their album, Stereocracy, and told me a video was in the works.) When I heard this pop/rock gem with the whimsical flourishes like a slide whistle, I was like, why don't I hear more music like this? The album is full of various influences, from Elvis Costello to Queen, but William Ryan George's incredibly strong, expressive voice carries you through the whole experience. It looks like they may change their name to Flying Machines, but whatever they're called, Stereocracy was unlike any other rock record I bought this year.

Amy Winehouse - "Me and Mr. Jones" You really couldn't get away from all the press regarding Winehouse's self-destructive behavior and relationship, but luckily all that hype actually serves a fantastic album (unlike other mediocre pop stars always hogging the pages of Us Weekly). Producer Mark Ronson updates Phil Spector's Wall of Sound for our generation, clearly honoring his sources without sounding derivative. But this show is all Winehouse, from her rich, cabernet voice to her seasoned songwriting. Sure, "Rehab" was a bigger hit and "Back to Black" is both beautiful and chilling, but "Me and Mr. Jones" really shows off Winehouse for the funny, sexy, crass, defiant, difficult creature she is. Hopefully she survives long enough to produce another album like Back to Black, one of the best of the year.

I think 13 is a good number to end, don't you? No? Oh, well then, here are some runner-ups I didn't feel like writing a whole damn essay about.

Britney Spears - "Toy Soldier" Easily the hottest song on Blackout.

Justice - "D.A.N.C.E." One of the biggest dance songs of the year, with a video to match.

The View - "Same Jeans" God, the way Scottish men role their r's is cute. So it this little anti-snob anthem.

Mark Ronson featuring Daniel Merriweather - "Stop Me" Ronson's own music doesn't get nearly as much exposure as the artists he produces (Winehouse, Joss Stone, etc.), but this cover of The Cure should have changed that.

James Morrison - "Pieces Don't Fit Anymore" More British blue-eyed soul (again: Winehouse, Stone, etc.), but Morrison has the goods: lyrics, music, smoky voice and timeless songs like this heartbroken ballad.

The Bird and the Bee - "Again & Again" One of my favorite records this year was from this indie duo. It's light, ethereal and, strangely enough, funny synth pop. While "Again & Again" isn't quite as good as "Fucking Boyfriend," there was no good video/audio of the latter, so the former (with lyrics like "say my name, say my name, say my stupid name") will have to do.

Okay, now we're done. Thanks, 2007, for filling my days with enough sonic goodness to crowd out the endless crap record companies insist on calling music.

Also check out: Top Five Art Moments of 2007.
And: Get Get Get Your Party Party On On.

Top Five Art Moments of 2007

2007-12-16T20:02:00.000-06:00

Yes, I'm doing my own Best Of lists. Future posts might include such classic gems as "Best Music of 2007," "Best Books of 2007" and "Best Amy Sedaris Quotes of 2007." Yes, you're going to enjoy them, and that's that. Don't give me that attitude or we'll turn this blog right around and go home.

That's better. On to the not-at-all-comprehensive recollections of a totally amateur yet enthusiastic art seer/goer/observer/taker-in-er!

My year in art started at the Museum of Modern Art's Richard Serra exhibit, Sculpture: Forty Years in June. (I know, my "year in art" didn't start until halfway through - see "amateur" comment in previous paragraph.) As the title implies, this was a comprehensive survey of the artist. Serra's smaller sculptures seem to flout gravity and physics, making heavy metals seem as light as a penny and fragile as glass. But the real story is Serra's work with sheet metal. Huge, sprawling slabs are erected in swirling, angled mazes that, again, seemingly defy the laws of nature. As you walk through the twisting halls, your own sense of balance becomes compromised. This isn't art that forces the audience to question or engage with their relationship to it - this is art that will literally get inside your head, flicking your equilibrium like a light switch, as if reminding the materialistic modern world to appreciate and be awed by its powerful industrial roots.

I missed MoMa's Jeff Wall exhibit by about three weeks, so I was glad to catch it when it showed up at the Art Institute of Chicago. Wall's large, back-lit, incredibly detailed photographs often look candid but many are in fact staged, employing casts, crews and special effects. While some seem genuinely spontaneous, like Mimic, and some stretch the suspension of disbelief while still looking downright cool (for lack of a better word [and why shouldn't "cool" be good enough a word to describe art, anyway?]), like Milk, pictured above, in some the artist insinuates himself to the forefront. Sure, The Flooded Grave, pictured left, looks great, with its open grave filled with sealife, but you can't help noticing the falsity of the moment. Is that the point? Even more distracting is the inconsistent seams that appear through the exhibit in Wall's larger, panoramic works. Some had clearly visible seams, some didn't. Were they unintentional? Or just more of Wall making us question not just the art itself, but the process of how he created it? (As opposed to say, Barry Frydlender, exhibited at MoMa at the same time as Serra. Frydlender's large, digitally composited photographs were perfectly seamless.) Worthwhile questions, to be sure - I still haven't figured out how I feel about it all. Like filling, stick-to-your-ribs food, this is stick-to-your-mind art, provocative not just for the (often beautiful) end product, but the means Wall used to get there.

In a stroke of a good luck, another photographer, Richard Misrach, was showing at the AIC at the same time as Wall. The AIC was the first museum to collect 20 of Misrach's beach-themed photographs into an exhibit that began a two-year tour. On the Beach showcased large, color photographs of seaside portraits, with the photographer somehow magically floating above the scenes at incredible heights like a voyeuristic angel. The photos often have no horizon and just one or two people either on the sand or floating in the water, presenting a beautiful, strangely peaceful post-apocalyptic (post-9/11?) world. Walking through the narrow halls of the AIC's basement, surrounded by Misrach's expansive shots of endless waves of water, it was serene, melancholy and creepy all at the same time.

On a cold November evening, my friend Laura and I hopped over to the River East Arts Center for Red Bull's The Art of Can exhibit. Yes, you read that right. Red Bull, the liquid crack of energy drinks, hosted a touring art exhibit with sculptures primarily featuring - what else? - Red Bull cans. This appealed on numerous levels: using the Official Sponsor of Underagers, All-Night Ravers and Wannabe Playas to make pop art; the contrast of a cheesy, nasty-smelling, chemical-laden beverage and the occasionally beautiful art made out of its cans; and the potential awfulness of it all. High on a mixture of invigorating winter chills and numerous vodka and Red Bulls (smells like feet!) provided by the gallery, Laura and I toured the many attempts of making treasure out of trash. Some succeeded, like the hovering, fluid, mythic dragon, and some failed, like the uncreative flower-blooming-out-of-a-Red-Bull-can. (Seriously? That's all you could come up with?) These mostly small, shiny objects were like DIY toys - not all art has to take itself seriously, right? But we were the real winners, as where else could you get drunk enough to both enjoy product placement art and blatantly mock said art under the alibi of said drunkeness?

My year in art closed recently with a quick bus ride over to Western Exhibitions, a small studio space in an isolated Chicago warehouse. John Parot's Biological Exuberance, influenced by and named after Bruce Bagemhi's book documenting gay behavior in animals, explores the mating rituals of modern gay men. Multimedia wall art featured cookie-cutter, mask-like faces (using the eyes and mouths from pictures of real-life models and porn stars cut out of magazines) playing out predator and prey roles. Floor installations group Diet Coke cans, whiskey and wine bottles and porn tapes, memorializing clichés that become even more interesting when tied to pink ropes attached to the wall, as if they're bait used to lure the unsuspecting. Most disturbing is Parot's use of color and 80's reference points: black paint drips down over Dead Can Dance and Velvet Underground paraphernalia and very 80's colors like hot pinks and electric blues, like how the death scare of AIDS began to overwhelm gay nightlife in the 80's. An interesting, if not entirely original, concept (human mating rituals mimic those found in nature) is served with a twist, if you will.

Okay, we made it! That wasn't too bad, was it? Everyone get out and take a bathroom break because we have a few more Best Of lists to go, coming up soon.

Also check out: Black and White and....
And: Blood, Boys and Bambinas.

Feedback on Janet Jackson's "Feedback"

2007-12-13T20:58:00.000-06:00

Is there anyone who can disappoint us like our idols? Is it even fair to be disappointed if an artist's new work can't compare to her prime years? Should we just take her new work on its own terms, as a sign of where she is today as opposed to where we want her to be?

So many serious questions for just one new song, especially a song so desperate not to be taken seriously. Janet Jackson's newest single, "Feedback," from her upcoming album, Discipline, leaked online yesterday. (If you go to her new website, it starts playing automatically.) It's a funky, electro-pop club-banger with a music-as-sex metaphor. "Strum me like a guitar, blow up my amplifier," she demands. "Crank it up, give it to me some more...I want some feedback! Feedback!"

The song is getting understandably mixed reviews: It's hot, it'll be great in the clubs or for working out, finally Janet is competing with Britney and Rihanna for the dancefloor and the pop charts. Or: it's not hot, there's way too much vocoder, doesn't anyone actually sing anymore?, Janet shouldn't have to compete with Britney or Rihanna.

Both sides have a point. This is a hot song. Producer Rodney Jerkins gives it heavy percussion and some fat, juicy synths. This is what you want to hear at 2 a.m. when grinding on that stranger after too many rum and Cokes. But, at the same time, people expect more from Janet than just a modern yet generic dance song that sounds like a cast-off from Britney's Blackout. Jerkins, in his urge to put Janet back on the dancefloor, was too eager to make sure Janet's doing what everyone else is doing. He forgot he was working with Janet motherfuckin' Jackson. Janet's sound has never been especially trendy. Listening to Rhythm Nation 1814 or The Velvet Rope doesn't illuminate the musical landscape of their times, it just illuminates what Janet was doing at the time (and what her longtime producers Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis were doing to complement it). "Feedback" just tells us that Jerkins picked a track he could have used for anyone - a good track, mind you - and gave it to Janet. (I'm also pretty sure he wants the phrase "feedback" to be 2008's "sexyback." We'll see.)

So what does "Feedback" tell us about where she is in her life now? Um, she still feels sexy. So, good for Janet, yawn for the rest of us. Wasn't it great when Janet had actually had something to say? She doesn't have the pipes of Mariah or the media manipulation skills of Madonna, but Janet used to actually have ideas and thoughts, some even tough or challenging for the normally superficial world of diva pop. In "Feedback," when the lyrics aren't generic, they're downright strange. "Flyer than a pelican"? I didn't know pelicans are fly. With those enlarged pouches underneath their breaks, I always thought of them as the deformed, goiter-afflicted cousin to the supa-dupa fly swan. And "my swag is serious, I'm heavy like a first-day period?" For real? Janet, it's called a Rough Draft. Just because you think it, or just because you write it down, does not mean it should make it to the Final Draft, you know? As you so directly demanded during an interlude in Rhythm Nation: Edit.

Looking ahead, what does "Feedback" tell us about the album? (Especially considering the title Discipline doesn't tell us anything.) Her strongest lead singles have always told us what to expect from their sources. 1986's "What Have You Done for Me Lately" gave us both the defiant young woman and Jam & Lewis' heavy beats that dominated Control. 1993's "That's the Way Love Goes" introduced the softer, warmer, sexier sounds on janet. And 2001's "All For You" revealed Janet's new post-depression, post-divorce liberation covered on All For You. So what should we get from "Feedback"'s ridiculous overuse of the vocoder - that Janet is so intent on objectifying herself that she's reduced herself to something barely human? Or that she and Jenkins are both lazy?

Also, now that Janet's signed with a new record label, her boyfriend Jermaine Dupri's Island Records, it will be interesting to see how they market her compare to Virgin, her previous label. Many fans were upset with how badly Virgin could screw up even a solid Janet record (only 3 singles from All For You?), but I'm not sure Dupri is objective enough to work his magic with his girlfriend the way he can with her competitor, Mariah Carey (Dupri engineered her major comeback a few years ago). Is "Feedback" the official first single from Discipline or are they just throwing it out there to whet fans' appetites and get some, well, feedback on Janet's new direction? It's still almost two months before the album actually drops on Feb. 26, 2008 and "Feedback" hasn't even been released to radio yet. Will there be a video? Will people be sick of it by the time they see her perform it again and again during her inevitable onslaught of media performances in February?

As for that new promo pic, seen here above: too much Photoshop, I'm over the bangs and the clothes? Like a hooker in A.I.: Kubrick up top, Spielberg on the bottom. The weird thing is, that sounds like I hate it. I don't. But again, like the entire booklet included with 20 Y.O., this is a pretty straightforward magazine editorial, not an iconic, memorable image for a new Janet Jackson album.

With "Feedback"'s futuristic (read: modern with an ego) sound and the plethora of new producers working on Discipline, it sounds like Janet's trying to step up her game. Here's hoping they're actually paying attention to "Feedback"'s feedback so they can make her flyer than a pelican, swan, pigeon, booby, or any other aviatic creature they find so strangely hip.

Also check out: Mag Hag Reviews the News.
And: What Do I Call Her if I'm Not Nasty?

A Scrubbed-Up Charlie Brown Christmas (and a Christmassy Update!)

2007-12-08T21:21:00.000-06:00

So this is actually a few years old, I guess, but I just found it. The cast of Scrubs dubbed over and edited that perennial holiday classic, A Charlie Brown Christmas. At first it just seems pretty straight-forward, but then it gets sassy, raunchy, and downright perversive. I especially like the new, smooth-talking Schroeder, the flashbacks to Christmas parties past and the crowd's one-liners upon seeing Charlie Brown's pathetic tree. ("Time to deck the halls with your incompetence.") It probably helps to actually know the characters on the sitcom, but I don't and I still enjoyed it.

*UPDATE - Speaking of Christmas traditions being tampered with, did you know that in 1994 they made a sequel to the modern-day classic, A Christmas Story? They called it My Summer Story (ugh) with Charles Grodin (eh) as the dad, Mary Steenburgen (love!) as the mom and Kieran Culkin (wasn't he, like, 3 years old in 1994?) as Ralphie. Like A Christmas Story, this one is based on short stories by Jean Shepard. Unlike A Christmas Story, this one has not snowballed from obscure, cultish hit into mainstream popularity.

Wow, Hollywood, yet another reason to hate you.

Also check out: Sexy and Seasonal.
And: Multimedia Love.

Emmy, Enya. Enya, Emmy.

2007-12-03T19:38:00.000-06:00

With little television or radio airplay to support it, actress Emmy Rossum quietly released her first album, Inside Out, this past October. You may know her from The Phantom of the Opera or The Day After Tomorrow or, based on the album's sales, browsing the bargain bin at Wal-Mart.

The strange thing isn't that a young, cute actress wanted a singing career. Remember the stunning vocal stylings of one Lindsay Lohan? Or Jennifer Love Hewitt? Or Raven Simone? The weird thing is that Rossum has been classically trained since she was, like, an embryo and yet she eschewed classical music in favor of what she calls "pop." Interesting, since she doesn't even have a very high opinion of pop right now. She told Glamour, "I'm so frustrated listening to the radio these days. There is so little emotional honesty" (which is way more blunt and interesting than anything she says in her songs, all of which she co-wrote). Her website even claims: "With a lush, sensual style, Emmy Rossum sings every note on her debut album." Wow! Every note? How far do they think pop has sunk for that to be an accomplishment for a singer?

So it's not Britney pop, or even Vanessa Carlton pop. Strangely enough, it's adult contemporary, lite-FM pop. There's a reason Amazon lists her album with Josh Groban and Celine Dion. You know how seven years ago, everyone was wondering if Britney or Christina would be the next Madonna? Well, climbing her way to the seat of a very lonely throne, Emmy might just be the next generation's Enya - pretty voice multiplied dozens of times in one song, musically competent, a little boring. (Of course, Enya's major hit, "Orinoco Flow," was so long ago, the next generation is like, "who?")

Just take a look at Emmy's first video, "Slow Me Down." Proving that even classy girls need to show a little skin, she rolls around on a bed and runs slow-motion-ly down the street. But there's no choreography, no sweat, no explicit sexual overtures. It's all youthful bewilderment about how she just wants someone to take her hand, slow her down and show her love. I like how, despite her sweet, girl-next-door vibe, it's all directed to just "someone." Not too picky there, eh? For someone so disdainful of the debased sensibilities of her contemporaries, Emmy is awfully nonchalant about anyone just reaching out and grabbing her. You know a hundred creepy basement boys are going to end up with restraining orders and be all, "well, she said 'anyone'."

Even stranger is that Emmy's first single is a capella (that means "with a tiny cape" for the musically disinclined). According to a press release, she recorded approximately 150 different (incredibly breathy) vocal lines for the song. Even with no music, the song still feels overproduced and metallic, like all the sharp edges were buffed and her vocal chords were shellacked with corn syrup. Still, it's definitely a different direction for a young, wannabe-pop star, especially one with such a low opinion of her musical context.

If she actually duets with either Dion or Groban, she could be huge. (Hell, even John Tesh would help at this point.) If not, she can at least take pride in knowing she sits on the most pristine throne in the Young Female Pop Singer universe. It just might also be the smallest, too.

Also check out: It's Britney's (Inner) Bitch.
And: Why I Hate Hollywood.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes: Stephen King's The Mist

2007-11-24T19:33:00.000-06:00

There have been a lot of films based on Stephen King's stories so odds are, since we're talking about Hollywood, most suck. But after 1990's Misery, filmmakers seem to have an especially hard time with King's horror stories. Dolores Clairborn and Needful Things had their moments, but that's about it. So, it's either surprising or extremely logical that it took the director of two of King's most well-respected non-horror adaptations (The Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile) to finally rise to the challenge.

Frank Darabont's The Mist, an adaptation of King's short story of the same name from Skeleton Crew, starts with a thunderstorm forcing the inhabitants of a small Maine town to crowd into the local grocery store for supplies. Out of nowhere, a huge rolling fog descends from the nearby mountains and blankets the town. When large, slimy tentacles emerging from the mist slide under the loading dock's door and snatch the awkward teenage bagboy, the customers decide that maybe they should stay put for a while.

As fear consumes them, locals clash with out-of-towners, middle-class clashes with working-class, and the secular clash with the religious. The latter is led by Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden), a mean, judgmental Bible-thumper who's status as the town crazy slowly ascends to leader as her apocalyptic predictions start coming true.

And how do they come true? Oh, well, because of the giant bugs that emerge from the mist, of course. And the pterodactyl thingies that eat the bugs and break into the store. And the giant spiders that shoot deadly webs. And a giant, clawed squid/scorpion thing. And a giant thingy thing with six feet and tentacles and claws and other giant things. Yeah, needless to say, they're creatures not of this world (or my vocabulary). And the effects, not counting the first cartoon-ish attack from the tentacles, are mostly believable. The details on the bugs' and spiders' faces are so clear, you can practically see them viciously grinning before taking a chunk out of someone's spinal cord. And Darabont deftly maneuvers through the store during the creatures' attacks, making us aware of the actions and location of all the major characters without using the current, clichéd style of ADD-style jump-cuts.

Strangely, as fun and scary and gorey as the "monster movie" aspect of the film is, the real guts (if you will) is King's and Darabont's commentary on crowd dynamics. With a cast of sixty people stuck in one location, Darabont has a lot to deal with. As the situation goes from bad to worse, paranoia and desperation escalate. Their survival instincts turn from the beasts to each other. Cliques soon almost feel like tribes as allegiances switch and fractions grow and dwindle in both number and power. Early on, people think nothing of slapping or throwing canned peas at Mrs. Carmody (and Harden is so good and scary you'll want to as well). But, she keeps on keepin' on, and her preaching soon attracts more and more people desperate for answers.

On the other side is David (Thomas Jane), his five-year-old son, Billy, and an assortment of town oddballs and store staff. While David emerges as the early leader, Mrs. Carmody's influence outpaces his and soon her rabid crowd is throwing people outside as human sacrifices and demanding that Billy be next. While they're never explicitly described as atheists, David's group clearly doesn't agree with Mrs. C's viewpoint. It's as if Pat Robertson (dressed in cardigans and frumpy floral dresses) and Christopher Hitchens (suddenly both ruggedly muscular and sober) were battling inside a CVS and everyone was invited.

What's fascinating is, at first, the film seems to be taking sides. Religous lady = crazy. Easy, right? Yeah, a little too easy. Instead, David's actions, which Mrs. Carmody condemns as "hubris," often get him and others in serious trouble. Trying to save people only ends up with some getting killed for their efforts. On the other hand, at least the proactive ones are also the ones defending the store from attacks, unlike Mrs. C and her followers who stand around praying or pointing fingers (or, you know, sacrificing people to appease an angry God, which I guess is a sign of proactive tendencies).

Even better for a scary movie, Darabont, as the screenwriter, never overestimates the importance of an explanation. There are references to "The Arrowhead Project" that is taking place in a top-secret military compound in the mountains next to the town. A soldier who was stationed there finally admits that scientists tried to open a window to another dimension and...that's pretty much all we get. Since the characters don't know any more, neither do we. Explanations for scary stories are rarely satisfactory, since the answer either sucks out all the suspense (like in Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow), tidily overexplains (like many episodes of The X-Files) or feels lazy or even too over-the-top (King's own It).

The point isn't how the people got into their situation, the point is how they react once they're in it. And King obviously feels the same way as store assistant manager Ollie, who states, "As a species, we're fundamentally insane." If you take away communication systems and electricity, how long until we just lose it? If our lives are in danger, how quickly do we throw someone else in front of a giant man-eating beast?

To top it all off, Darabont tweaks King's original ending. Instead of King's mildly depressing ambiguity, Darabont goes full-out cruel (and, interestingly, it's against David and his posse, so who wins?). Without giving too much away, the twist at the end is so heart-wrenching, so balls-out vicious in its mocking of anything we originally took for courage (not to mention sound values, reasonable judgment calls and actual compassion) that I may hate Darabont.

Except for the fact that I love him. Because he infused a horror movie with topical religious debate with confidence (unlike The Reaping), post-9/11 paranoia with just enough distanced respect (unlike the War of the Worlds remake), heart-breaking emotional depth without schmaltzy clichés (unlike...well...how many horror flicks even attempt that?) and, most importantly, actual scares (unlike 99% of the rest of them), that I hope he gives up on the Oscar-winning dramas forever. Stephen King has written over 200 stories, including over 50 novels, so there's a lot left for Hollywood to screw up. Here's hoping Darabont is already saving another one right now.

Sexy and Seasonal

2007-11-22T10:01:00.000-06:00

I realized that, not only is Britney's "Gimme More" a perfect dance-floor anthem, it might also have to be my Thanksgiving anthem. When I'm sitting in front of my empty plate, waiting for seconds, I might just have to start chanting "Gimme gimme more! Gimme more! Gimme gimme more!" What can I say? I'm a brat for sweet potatoes.

And just for the fun of it, some pics that popped up when I Google Image-d "Thanksgiving." I thought the title of this post would apply only to Britney's song, but I think the last pic nicely fits the theme, too.

Food porn is real, y'all.

(Thanks to Elephantitis of the Mind, Natalie Dee and GetSheila for the pics.)

Also check out: Kiwi, Tab and Turkey.
And: Multimedia Love.

Mag Hag Reviews the News

2007-11-20T16:05:00.000-06:00

I'm such a follower of magazines that I could assemble a fort with all the piles around my apartment. Maybe I have already, but that's not the point. The point is that I kind of ignore them until I'm between books and then I go through my "magazine purge" to catch up. So I just thought I'd summarize some of the best and worst articles, issues and stories that have finally landed in my hands in the past few weeks.

The Advocate - September issue: Hey, did you know that Every. Single. Homosexual. in America is already planning on voting for Hilary Clinton? You didn't? Really? Me neither, until I read this cover story on The Hils. (Get it? Like "The Hills" but with less bleach!) I really wish someone would warn me what my peeps are planning for my future so I don't get my membership card revoked when I accidentally think for myself. I also wasn't aware that signing on for this whole "gay" thing included pre-determined presidential candidates. Sorry, Obama! See ya, Edwards! Nice knowing you...um...other guys! I can't wait for the mag to tell me what else is in my future: the jobs I'll choose, the cars I'll buy, the turkey I'll eat (well, that one will be true in like 3 days). It's so comforting to know that my glossy-paged future will show up on my doorstep twice a month.

Time - 10/15 issue: Great. Just as my love for yoga blossomed this past summer like a lotus flower in spandex, I find out from this Time article that 50 minutes of yoga burns as many calories as a 50 minute walk, or less than are in three Oreos. I wasn't getting into it because I thought it was the best cardiovascular exercise (like, say, checking on my Trader Joe's gingerbread spice cake in the oven - up! down! up! down!), but this is still disappointing.

Details - October issue: Hey, did you know that Brad Pitt has, like, four kids? Which makes him a dad?!?! Luckily, Details illuminates the mystery that is Lé Pitt with a full two-page profile that also includes such nuggets of trivia as: he has a new movie! He's "partners" with Angelina Jolie! He's a worldly do-gooder! Although I will say in their favor, since they're profiling probably the most photographed man on Earth, photographers have to become more creative in what they do with him (not that you can tell by the waxy cover shot, but whatevs). Lé Pitt has a huge spread where he's saturated, inverted, negative-d, overlapped and more. It doesn't quite top his Rolling Stone-cover-in-a-skirt from a few years back, but it shows effort, however schizophrenic it actually appears.

Also, I never quite understood their whole "Gay or _______" feature on the last page of every issue. Is it satirizing how much gay culture has seeped into the mainstream? Or the two were blurred to begin with? Well, apparently, I won't have to worry about that anymore. Details is quitting the four-year-old feature like an inconveniently misbehaved orphan.

The Economist - 11/3 issue: Holy shit! Did you know that there are 218 million laborers worldwide who are under the age of 14? I was kind of skimming through the cover story about religion when I came across a column about Gap and how the retailer found out one its subcontractors was using child labor (more info here). 218 million. That's crazy. A positive twist, however: "Rather than simply cutting off factories employing children, Gap imposes and enlightened form of punishment: it requires suppliers to stop using child workers and to provide them with school instead, while continuing to pay them regularly and guaranteeing them a job once they reach the legal age." Wow. Even if it is just a PR move, that's pretty great. Too bad their clothes still kind of suck.

Jet - 10/22 issue: Jermaine Dupri wrote his new book, Young, Rich, and Dangerous: The Making of a Music Mogul, because, as he says, "No one is giving these young kids a book to read about something they love nowadays." Which is pretty cool and probably true considering how huge music is as a common reference between people. However, I don't really care about Dupri. I do care about the fact that he's dating Janet Jackson. Whenever anyone asks her about marrying her long-time boyfriend, she does her shy shrug thing and is all "if he wants to" or "if it's supposed to happen." But the article, unlike others, also mentions that if she does, she'll be a stepmother! No one brings that up! Dupri has a 9-year-old daughter. Can you imagine Janet as a stepmother? That poor girl will need earplugs to sleep through Janet and Jermaine's sex-a-thons. And the eating habits she'll pick up? One day it will be waffles and ice cream, the next a single lettuce leaf. It's a good thing she's cute.

Out - November issue: Out has this kind of great article about how aging gay authors, after chronicling the post-Stonewall life, now tackle something many of them only hoped to experience after watching many of the friends succumb to AIDS: aging. It's interesting to see how writers from Andrew White to Felice Picano address the issue differently.

However, the article then kind of address the so-called ageism of gay culture. White complains that while aging straight guys like Hugh Hefner are surrounded by young, beautiful women, the same can't be said for Gore Vidal. I'm kind of over this argument. Hefner is an exception. Yes, there might be more May-December romances between straight older men and younger women but so what? For the most part, most twenty-something women are not attracted to sixty-something men, and if they are, it's not always for the most heart-tugging reasons. Relationships between young men and older women are even rarer, something proven by the necessity of the term "cougar." (It's such a novelty that our culture is only now getting around to nicknaming it.) Notice, too, he compares a porn king to an author. Is any elderly author, straight or gay, ever surrounded by scantily-clad groupies 24 hours a gay? If White wants to live with a gaggle of gym bunnies, then maybe he should start a porn mag like Hefner did.

But it's the hypocrisy behind White's statements (he's comphttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.giflained in other articles, too) that really bug me. As a 67-year-old man, he wants the attention of twenty-something men in bars because they're the most sexually attractive, right? So, if he thinks they're the most attractive, wouldn't they also find other twenty-something men the most attractive and not, say, sixty-something men? I mean, if White isn't even attracted to men his own age, why should I be? The kicker is that White does have a partner...twenty-five years his junior. Something tells me that if his aging isn't exactly graceful, it should at least be grateful.

There's so much more, but those are the facts and follies that caught my attention. Until next time, mag hag out! (Aaaand gross. I need a new sign-off.)

Also check out: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.
And: Why I Love The Onion.

The Preacher and the Teacher

2007-11-16T09:35:00.000-06:00

Novels are dead! Readership is down! No one likes books!

The Virginia Quarterly Review had a very good essay a while back about how "the death of the novel" is an old cliché, so I won't opine here. I was, however, reminded of this for two reasons. First, I just finished Tom Perotta's latest novel, The Abstinence Teacher. And second, Camille Paglia, that lover of literature, that Amazon of the arts, declared in her most recent Salon column, "I don't care about any novels published after World War II." Say wha?

One of the supposed reasons for our country's supposedly declining interest in novels is our supposedly hyped-up attention spans. So, although she can devote an entire book to poetry, I guess it's no surprise that with her mile-a-minute mind and hectic life of teaching, public speaking and raising a son with her partner, Paglia might not have the attention span or time for novels. You'd think that our mosquito-on-speed lifestyles would actually make the usually shorter form of poetry more popular, but it has as much do with accessibility as with length.

Another alleged reason for the novel's alleged death is the medium's lack of relevance. Yet, major authors such as Jay McInerney and Don DeLillo both wrote "important" 9/11 novels, but did anyone besides their most rabid fans read them? I've heard people blame the fact that, even if a novel is tackling a relevant current event, novels by nature take so long to produce that the topic is already outdated by publication. But then, didn't audiences stay away from the two 9/11 movies (a medium generally considered more accessible), even with their great reviews and Oscar nominations, because it was too soon?

Tom Perotta seems to have found the right moment for his latest novel. After the evangelical Christian voting surge tipped the scales in the 2004 presidential election, Perotta told the New York Times he wanted to find out more about these people. Who are they, besides their religion? How did they organize for and respond so passionately to the election? He's tackling a current events issue with his usual, accessible, page-turning style.

Even better for Perotta, though the book is released three years after the fact (which isn't too shabby, actually), we're still in the middle of public religious debates - church vs. state, creationism vs. evolution, Project Runway vs. Top Chef (Bravo is my God), etc. Plus, the 2008 election is right around the corner and, even if religion doesn't play as big a role as in 2004, we still have supposedly progressive Democrat candidates who blame their religious upbringing for opposing gay marriage.

So this could have been a great time for a novelist, hot off the best-seller-turned-major-movie-adaptation Little Children, to explore religion's role in public lives. The Abstinence Teacher does just that...kind of sorta.

The story follows Tim, an ex-alcoholic/druggie/rocker turned born-again Christian. After his wife divorces him, Tim tries to stay clean, help raise his daughter (mostly by coaching her soccer games) and move on with his life thanks to the local church group, the Tabernacle of the Gospel Truth, and its leader, Pastor Dennis.

In the same "sleepy" suburb we have Ruth Ramsey, an atheist Sex Ed teacher who responds to a student's question about oral sex with a list of the STDs you can contract from it but finishes with "some people like it." Oopers! The Tabernacle hears of this and, even though they've only recently set up shop in the town, insist that the school teach abstinence instead. Caving to pressure and media scrutiny, the school officials agree and Ruth is forced to teach a curriculum she doesn't believe in.

When Ruth then witnesses Tim leading his soccer team in prayer after a big win, a team that includes both of their daughters, she creates even more of a public spectacle by grabbing her daughter and yelling at Tim. The two adults then begin a strange, interesting relationship, sometimes prickly, sometimes affectionate.

All of this is fine and good, with Perotta's usual astute observations and humor. Ruth imagines returning the Sex Ed curriculum back to her own: "In her mind, it played like a Hollywood movie, Michelle Pfeiffer standing before an audience of earnest, good-looking teenagers, rolling a condom onto a cucumber as triumphant music swelled in the background." A dated pop culture reference, sure, but appropriate for a forty-something woman.

The problem is that after luring the reader at first with multiple chapters about Ruth, Perotta clearly prefers writing about Tim. He devotes chapter after chapter to Tim's new marriage and his relationship with Pastor Dennis, slipping in one chapter here and there on Ruth. Isn't she the title character? Isn't this book supposed to be about her?

Also, even though Pastor Dennis is set up as Tim's spiritual guide and mentor, he's also almost the antagonist to Tim, constantly prodding him to behave against his natural instincts, to reject himself and find God. It's a complicated, tumultuous relationship. Again, Ruth doesn't fair as well. She's up against Joann Marlow, the beautiful, blonde abstinence advocate in heels and pearls who, in a presentation to the students regarding the new curriculum, makes abstinence seem both sexy and realistic. Even though Ruth and Joann have some tense, funny battles, Joann is nowhere near as realized as Ruth, Tim or even Pastor Dennis. Isn't she Ruth's foil? All we know is that she's religious and therefore a virgin. But considering Perotta devotes so much time to exploring the contradictions of human nature, is Joann who she says she is? And is it really so easy for her?

I wish that Ruth's story was as fleshed out as Tim's, but for Perotta to do that he would have had to give her an equally developed, sympathetic antagonist. It's telling that Perotta is able to humanize a character like Pastor Dennis. Dennis, after all, received his call from God while working as a top-notch, electronics-obsessed Best Buy employee. Perotta vividly draws the religious character who also happened to have lived in our mainstream, materialistic world. Joann, for all we know, has never had a spiritual crisis, never regretted a decision she's made, never doubted herself or, more importantly, her beliefs. Isn't that the person Perotta was trying to write about? Isn't her story of doubtless faith just as worthy (if maybe not as dramatic) as Dennis'? Perotta is usually so good at both satirizing and respecting his characters, he could have had a lot of fun and insight with her instead of just using her as a plot device. If he wanted to focus more on Tim, Pastor Dennis and both men's influence on their town, then maybe he should have called the book The Abstinence Preacher.

I'm not sure the book will be considered an important piece of "relevant" art - it's neither challening nor controversial, and probably won't be considered as anything more than a perfectly good book. Perotta gets all his usual details right - the stifling suburbia, the contrast between public personae and private doubts, the sacrifices necessary to live the way we think we should. I just wish he had been as curious about one of his most important characters as he said he was going to be. It's ironic that in a novel about abstinence-only education programs, he left out some of the most imporant stuff.

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Dear Filmmakers of The Road.

Blood, Boys and Bambinas

2007-11-12T11:19:00.000-06:00

After breaking 2007's record for Most Posts in a Single Month (October. 9. Sad.), I have been largely absent from blogging due to crazy work hours and other writerly side projects. So, before I get to pop culture goodies that have been rattling around in my brain like so many Jawbreakers, here's a three-point update:

1) Spent any good time in an ER lately? Yeah, I have. On a Saturday night. Because I apparently swallowed glass or a thumbtack or a chainsaw or something. So my experience at the Illinois Masonic's ER is featured for a week at GapersBlock, a Chicago-themed website. Click here to read about blood-spattered equipment! Crazy patients! Communicating without cell phones! If you're still suffering from a post-Halloween hangover, consider this your literary hair of the dog.

2) November is also time for Reeling Film Festival, Chicago's 26th annual gay and lesbian film festival. I wrote about it for UR Chicago Magazine here and, after enjoying the opening night's film, Shelter, reviewed it here. Click on the links to read about sexy surfer boys! International gay scandals! And did I mention sexy surfer boys?!

3) In news that has nothing to do with me, Chicago, writing, or really anything already covered in this post, I recently found out that our Italian Culinary Princess, Miss Giada de Laurentiis, is pregnant! Food Network Musings has the scoop. Can you imagine Giada pregnant? Remember how, um, top-heavy Salma Hayek became during her pregnancy? Giada will be like the Italian equivalent. I hope she doesn't tip over. But it's very exciting news for her and her husband...as long as she's not lying. (Just kidding!) (Or am I?)

Enjoy these stories while I mentally upchuck the Jawbreaker ideas in my head onto paper. (Lovely image, eh? I think that time in the ER has kind of stayed with me.)

(And, P.S., I said "upchuck." I just thought I'd point that out.)

Also check out: UR Out. Seriously, You Are.
And: LOL @ NPR.

It's Britney's (Inner) Bitch

2007-11-01T18:47:00.000-05:00

I so, so wanted to get this post up yesterday on Halloween because, really, what's scarier than the above image and all that it throws in your face? The bad wig, the bedazzled hat, the recycled picture with a bad hypnosis-meets-downward-spiral symbol, the title's threat (promise?) of a mental, physical or sonic blackout - it all screams "Boo!"

You know what's scarier than all of the above? The fact that I bought my first Britney album at the exact same moment that I could not be more sick of hearing her name. Embracing my inner trash-pop afficionado is one thing, giving money to an artist who will only spend it on Funions and sequined thongs is another.

I've been hesitant...no, completely uninterested, really, in buying Britney's earlier albums. The first 3 were clearly just crappy platforms for 1 or 2 good singles. In the Zone, however, seemed more grown-up and more in touch with what people who aren't 13-year-old girls actually want to listen to. But I couldn't get over the feeling that her newly-explicit sexuality was just a tired choice by an unimaginative singer unable to find any road for herself other than Madonna's well-worn sex-parade route.

But now, here she is, with bad wigs and no custody of her kids, plus what seems like a complete lack of interest in actually putting any effort into her music (hence the spacey VMA performance and lazy "Gimme More" video). After years of working her ass off to make sure everyone loved her - tweens, old men and every record-company-approved demographic in-between - the fact that Britney now doesn't give a shit could have produced a cringe-worthy album. It's what her fans dreaded and her critics (and, hey, everyone else) expected.

Instead, miraculously, the opposite happened: Britney's bad-girl, I-don't-care, I-don't-need-Timbaland-or-Timberlake attitude has produced a hot, balls-out album that's sometimes weird (in a good way), sometimes generic (also in a good way - more on that below) and almost always eager to shake its ass (obviously good).
There's nothing she could say that would shut up her critics or disperse the papparazi, so why not just get her dance on?

Most of the songs feature lyrics about how some Hot Guy has turned her on. Cool, fine, whatever - that's pretty standard. But within the typical girl-gets-boy, girl-rides-boy-like-Bronco scenarios is a pretty bold Britney who's obviously not interested in restraint for her critics' sake. Despite attacks on her weight, she's confident ("Get Naked (I Got a Plan)": "I'm not ashamed of my beauty"). Despite constant attacks on her thin voice, she's co-opting black gospel culture even though it highlights how reedy her instrument is ("Hot as Ice": "Can I get a witness?/"Preacher, preacher, I'm a teacher you can learn"). And even her porn-star growls are tempered with some sweet sentimentality, such as in "Heaven on Earth" when, for the first time, her naked, unmanipulated, unmultiplied voice declares "I'm in love with you."

But a pop star is only as good as her producers, and Blackout's crew (Timbaland protogé Danja, Bloodyshy & Avant, The Neptunes, etc.) seems to enjoy surrounding Britney's breathy moans with fat synths and unexpected extras. A Spanish acoustic guitar scaling up and down the rollicking "Ooh Ooh Baby" literally makes Britney giggle. "Break the Ice," otherwise a perfectly good club banger, never bothers recovering after its break-it-down bridge. And the baroque male vocal dominating "Get Naked" turns the song into a creepy, almost haunting ode to - duh - stripping.

The apex of the album is "Freakshow," a song that lives up to its title. First: Britney raps! And it's not awful - how freaky! Second, for a song about Britney's freak factor, there's something strangely musical theater about it all. It's like if J.J. Fad wrote a song for the "Rocky Horror" soundtrack. This is a perfect example of a song walking the fine line (if Britney didn't snort it) between so-bad-it's-great and just genuinely great pop.

All this outside-the-box thinking would reek of a post-Gwen/Fergie, weird-just-because-she-can viewpoint if Blackout wasn't rooted so firmly in pure dance music. "Radar," "Gimme More" and "Toy Solider" are all sassy, sexy, perfectly crafted club anthems. The only misfire is "Perfect Lover." It's a throwaway track that Britney - and Danja - seemed to forget about.

There's only two songs that showcase self-awareness and reflection and, as it has been pointed out by everyone, Britney didn't even co-write them. (She, in fact, co-wrote very little this time around) "Piece of Me"'s lyrics brilliantly wrap up everything Britney (and we, the audience) think of herself: "Don't matter if I step on the scene or sneak away to the Phillipines/they're still gon' take pictures of my derriere in the magazine." There's a point here: what is she supposed to do to protect herself at this point? Even if she cleaned up and reverted to her old, perky, bubbly self or escaped to a country cabin somewhere, we'd still find her and follow her every move. Closing the album is the only midtempo song in the bunch, the melancholy "Why Should I Be Sad" (too...easy...must...resist...so...many...answers). It's like 11 straight songs of dance music wore down her guard. Now all of a sudden we're getting lyrics like "my friends said you would play me, but I just said they're crazy." Britney's that much cooler for only devoting a single song to her ex, and it's a fairly gorgeous ballad at that.

She's aware, she's vulnerable, but, as she (or the songwriters) says, it's time for her to move along. Luckily, the attitude she's bringing with her - the attitude that has failed her so much in the media - works so well on record.

Also check out: Gimme More, Britney. Please. I Beg You.
And: 3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson.

Why I Hate Hollywood

2007-10-30T21:30:00.000-05:00

Reason #437:

Michelle Pfeiffer is set to appear in a remake of 'Grease'. The 'Stardust' actress, who starred in the 1982 sequel 'Grease 2', has been approached to join the cast for a new version of the original 1978 hit musical and has her heart set on playing an older character.

Michelle said: "It's a great idea and I hear they would like to get Jessica Simpson for the role of Sandy, she would be good."

Oh, come on! When will Hollywood (and by "Hollywood" here, I mean Jessica Simpson's dad) realize that Jessica Simpson is not a star? She is not an actress. Dukes of Hazard and Employee of the Month were not big hits and she wasn't even the main draw anyway. And don't get me started (don't even get me started!) on that supposed Working Girl remake, Blonde Ambition. Even more importantly, as a singer, she's never even had huge success. In eight years, she's had exactly one Top 10 hit. That's pathetic. Even LFO had two Top 10's. Yes, that LFO, of "Summer Girls" and "Girl On TV" fame. Yeah, the "she did a donut on my lawn" guys. They literally crapped out more hits than Jessica Simpson.

Please, please stop jamming this girl down our throats. We'd all be much happier, and I'm sure she would be, too, if she just laid low somewhere, eating her buffalo wings and chicken/tuna (chuna?), humming along to a karaoke machine in her living room.

Oh, and a remake of Grease? That would be Reason #438.

Source: All Headline News by way of Dlisted.

Terrible Twos

2007-10-29T19:20:00.000-05:00

OK, so do you see this little blog post? And these two posts? The first is my 200th post, the others frame my 2-year blogging anniversary.

Yea.

I kind of let both milestones slip by for opposite reasons. The 2-year mark because I was super busy with other writing projects outside of blogging, the 200th post because I had a surge of inspiration for posts and didn't want to slow down just to toot my own horn.

But now, I guess I'm tooting.

This past year of blogging has felt so much more...inconsistent? haphazard?...than the first year. I don't know if I expanded my purpose for blogging or if I just lost focus. I think something happened around this post in December when I changed my blog's template for the 2nd time, which really wiped out a lot of its design (links, content, etc.) that I had to recreate. It became a Catch-22: I felt more disconnected from my readers and commenting slowed down, so I felt more disconnected from my readers. One's the chicken, one's the egg.

But for my first year, I really took the blog's title to heart. Focusing on pop culture, food, Chicago and myself, I really tried to find a balance and cover each subject equally. Then, I added "media" to the list and, separately, broadened my idea of what could be included.

Maybe I was getting bored as a writer. Maybe I realized there were more materials to use for writing than Showgirls and Paris Hilton. Maybe my new writing assignments on the side, while amazing and a direct result of this blog, were sapping my creative energies. I don't know.

But whatever - this is supposed to be a happy post! 2 years! 200 posts! Hooray! So, just because this post about tooting my own horn has come out as a pretty flat, atonal toot, I'm going to indulge myself a bit and list some of my favorite blogging moments from the past year (in no particular order):

Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My! - In which I list the ways sea creatures required for cooking might attack me for trying to kill them. Also: British accents!

Kiwi, Tab and Turkey - In which I commemorate my favorite holiday - Thanksgiving - with two totally unrelated videos. Since Thanksgiving is yet again on the horizon, now might be a good time to revisit them: one's a hilarious vintage commercial for Tab, the other a beautiful, haunting, short animated movie. Also: "mind-stickers"!

Top Chef Check-In - In which I give Bravo some tips on how to spice up Season 3, which naturally include such ideas as making sure the judges make sense and showing off cute guys in tank tops. Also: brothy broths!

Of Booze and Political Statements - Besides my new writing gig, another new benefit of this blog is receiving promotional materials from PR companies to consider for review. One of the highlights was the documentary Small Town Gay Bar. So including this is more about the subject, not the writing itself. Also: homosexual hamburgers!

In Defense of Amy Winehouse - In which I take the local media to task for criticizing the idiosyncratic singer's bewitching flaws instead of appreciating them as quirks that make her stage presence that much more interesting. Also: singing vaginas!

So, that's it for now. Here's to another year!

(End tooting.)

Also check out: 1 Y.O. (Or, 26 is the New 1).

Got to Keep Your Head Up

2007-10-28T12:16:00.000-05:00

If you live in an Alaskan town that experiences nighttime for one straight month, you basically want to be eaten alive by vampires. That was the main point I learned from 30 Days of Night, a new horror film based on a popular graphic novel.

The real-life town of Barrow, Alaska is the country's northernmost settlement and doesn't experience sunlight for two months straight. In the film, however, the writers mercifully cut it down to one month. Maybe the second month is being reserved for the sequel? I don't know.

Anyway, on the eve of the 30-day blackout, the majority of townspeople are smart enough to, you know, leave. Josh Hartnett plays squinty-eyed, and apparently not smart, Sheriff Eben (actually, any character Hartnett plays could be preceded by "squinty-eyed" - seriously, his eyes look like a baby's nostrils) who is investigating weird crimes like stolen cell phones and murdered sled dogs. Hmmm, I wonder if it has anything to do with the creepy stranger that just randomly popped into town that day? "The Stranger," as the movie creatively bills him, is played by Ben Foster. If Hartnett has cornered the market on squinty-eyed guys, then Foster owns the intense, male-authority-figure-worshipping, meth-faced creep. (See: "Six Feet Under," 3:10 to Yuma) It's apparently quite an in-demand niche.

Turns out The Stranger is just a seriously unhinged asshole who wants to become one of Them - the vampires that are staking out Barrow due to its constant darkness. With all communication systems destroyed, they launch their attack on the townspeople like The Matrix characters with fangs. They're leaping, flying and throwing people around, plus they're really pale and wear stylish long black coats and boots. Marlow, their ruler, waxes philosophically about his victims right before, during or after he crushes their heads or strangles them. Luckily, he's subtitled, because their vampire-language sounds literally like this: "Rowr maka laka. God? Maka laka rowr."

Eben alternately hides from and fights the vampires along with his estranged wife Stella (Rachel McAdams look-alike Melissa George, cornering the market on horror hotties - see: Turistas, The Amityville Horror), his, um, "sensitive" younger brother, Jake (sorry, pretty boy, the big, burly sweaters aren't fooling anyone - see you soon in the gayborhood!), and a group of racially- and age-diverse neighbors.

Despite the open fields around them, the town feels claustrophobic due to its 80-mile isolation from any other town. The dark sky and snow along with grainy cinematography lends the film a sometimes black-and-white look. Director David Slade has much more to work with than in his ridiculous Hard Candy, combing elements of horror, western and action films to create a vampire film that's actually scary and suspenseful. Unlike so many other ADD-afflicted horror films, this one takes it time setting up the characters and environment while still slicing in the occasional car crash or heated confrontation to ratchet up the tension. To appease the gore-fans, these vampires can only be killed by decapitation. Sometimes Slade cuts away when a noggin is hacked off (like when Jake is finally able to prove his manhood by attacking an infected little girl who terrorizes the group in a crazy grocery store scene), and sometimes he doesn't (mostly every other time).

However, the film frustrates with its inconsistencies. Sometimes the characters act the way real people would, i.e. most people would not only not know how to react to this situation, they would actually feel extreme grief when they come upon their friend's head mounted to a stake in a field. But sometimes the characters act like, well, characters in a movie. As powerful and numerous as the vampires are, they tend to just stand around as their victims run away. The survivors complain that bullets don't stop the vampires, yet a few scenes later we see the token crazy guy blowing them all away with a shotgun.

Sometimes it's predictable, sometimes not. Like, I wonder if that giant grinding machine in the town's utilidor introduced in the first act will somehow be used to kill someone later in the film? But, to the film's credit, a lot of my other predictions didn't come true. As the survivors spied on the town while hiding in an attic, I kept waiting for a vampire to appear right outside their window as Stella peeked out. It never happened.

For a good Halloween film, you could do a lot worse (let's just say I chose to see this over Saw 4, and not just because I haven't seen 2 or 3 and would therefore have no idea what was happening, right?). For a lesson in real estate, you could not do better: DO NOT MOVE TO A TOWN THAT HAS 30 DAYS OF NIGHT.*

* - Unless you want to get eaten by vampires, in which case, enjoy indulging your death wish, loser.

Also check out: What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?
And: Boo.

Deep Thoughts from America's Next Top Model, part 6

2007-10-27T10:36:00.000-05:00

Ambreal on Tyson Beckford's coaching skills: "Tyson bit my mango."

What the CW won't do for ratings these days.

Everyday Lies

2007-10-24T20:32:00.000-05:00

Why, Giada, why? How could you have done this to me? I didn't think it was possible. I never saw it coming. I am beside myself.

Giada, I think you lied to me.

Okay, readers, on your behalf, I will back up. So I'm slooooooowly cooking my way through the Italian princess' debut cookbook (from 2005!). Right there, on the cover, it says "125 simple and delicious recipes." So I didn't think it would take me two years to get through 125 recipes. (I mean, Julie got through Julia's 400+ recipes in one year, but then again she had no life outside cooking poached eggs in gelatin.) But I've been counting down the recipes on this blog as I get closer to my goal. But I kind of lost track during one particularly long gap between recipes, so I started counting again. And then, to be sure, I counted the recipes I hadn't cooked yet. And it was not adding up. It wasn't making sense. I know I suck at math, but 125 isn't hard to add up to. It's not like 187. That number will kill you. Seriously, 187, what's your problem?

Anyway, I kept getting to 127. "127? 127! 127?" I was asking no one but the glossy pages in front of me, flipping them back and forth in desperation. "How? Why? When? Where? Who? Howzit? Whatzeday?" (Frenzied confusion = gibberish.) I knew there was a recipe for red wine vinaigrette buried in the lame "Everyday Leftovers" section, but even when I counted that it didn't work. So what other conclusion is there, except...?

Giada lied to me.

"So?" you may ask me. "Donny, there are other, more important things in this world right now," you might remind me. To which I say, nay, there are not. (That's right, you just got nayed.) It's the truth, and what's more important than the truth? "The truth shall set you free," right? Uh, no. The only thing it set free is my trust in the publishing world to advertise their products honestly and with integrity. Goodbye sweet, silly trust! And thanks, Clarkson Potter. It's like if Tyra Banks finally ripped off her wig, or Tim Gunn actually had 13 steps to style instead of 10 - you know your idol isn't perfect, but you just want to believe the shiny happy package TV presents to you.

Seriously, how hard would is it to say "Over 125 simple and delicious recipes"? One word could have made all the difference. Oh, and I now have to add two more dishes to my list of uncooked recipes. Just when I thought I was about to sauté my way out, they stir me back in.

Luckily, October in Chicago is finally acting like October and not August. (Seriously, October, what's your problem?) So it's perfect weather for turning on my oven, which I need to do for many of the recipes, including Roast Pork with Fig Sauce, Baked Rigatoni and two different lasagnas. Dessert, unsurprisingly, was the first chapter completely finished, and with one left each in Appetizers and Vegetables, those are almost behind me as well.

Still, Giada, you and I have some issues now. I don't know what you can do to make this up. I thought we had something together, you know? No matter how fleeting or fragile, it was there. And now, that bond has snapped like an overcooked spaghetti noodle. You better hope your Easy Osso Buco makes up for your big, fat, toothy lies.

Oh, Giada, Giada...

Also check out: Giada 3.0.
And: Like an After-School Special, With Liquor.

Okay, Go: Just Jack

2007-10-10T20:24:00.000-05:00

I've noticed lately that I tend to do full-out reviews for female artists, yet just write these condensed, "Okay, Go" posts for male artists. Now why would that be? Is it some stereotypical tendency as a gay male to focus on strong-willed female icons? Or is it because, since I haven't liked a lot of the female artists' albums yet have liked the males', I find it easier to critique than to praise? I guess when it is something I'm enthusiastic about, I don't want to discuss it so much, since compliments all sound clichéd (thrilling, gorgeous, well-endowed, etc.). It's so much easier to just embed a YouTube clip and shout "Okay, go! Watch it! Love it?"

While I ponder this incredibly unimportant query, take a look at the latest male artist I like! (I'm questioning, I'm not changing.) Described as both a "stage musician" and a "British electronic music artist" on his Wiki pages, Just Jack (aka Jack Allsopp) is a sort of rapper/singer/DJ. Instead of typically hard, uber-machismo US hip-hop, however, Just Jack is more laid-back. He's a skinny white male rapper with a British accent and an alias, so it's easy to compare him to The Streets (aka Mike Skinner), and the comparison somewhat applies aesthetically, too, but Jack is more dance-oriented. But listening to "Life Stories" on JJ's new Overtones, I immediately thought of G. Love and Special Sauce's "This Ain't Livin'" from their 1994 debut. He can incorporate smooth beats with melancholy acoustic guitar chords and computerized blips, while balancing cynical observations with carefree appreciation for the small things.

Just Jack already has three (!) music videos to support Overtones, and while I could have embedded the cute "Glory Days" video where he changes t-shirts every 2 seconds and actually attempts choreography (check it out, anyway, it's really cute), I'm going with "Starz In Their Eyez." He somehow made a great pop song about how it can suck to be a pop star: "Since you became a V.I.Person, your problems have all worsened, your paranoia casts aspersions." Not only is the song fun and the lyrics sharp, it's modern culture commentary! He insightfully, if unintentionally, sums up MTV's motives behind Britney's recent VMA disaster ("And they'll just put you in a spotlight, and hope that you'll do all right. Or maybe not") and then chillingly predicts how our generation's Tiffany could find her career bottoming out full-circle ("Remember they said you'd show them all? Emphasize the rise and not the fall? And now you're playing the shopping mall"). He might not have had anyone specifically in mind, but with today's headlines, it's hard not to apply his lyrics to our current pop stars.

But what do I know? He might even have been talking to me directly when he says, "It's a long way to come from your private bedroom dance routines." Tell me about it! What else is there to like about him? Well, his influences range from Jack Johnson (who produced albums by G. Love and Special Sauce - small world!), Barry White and the Neptunes. And! He reads books! Like, even classic, Of Mice and Men-y type books. Yeah, he's cool.

So watch "Starz In Their Eyes" and tell me what you think. Okay, go!

Also check out: Okay, Go: Dance Duo Edition (Justice and Junior Senior).
And: Okay, Go: Scissor Sisters.

Gimme More, Britney. Please. I Beg You.

2007-10-08T20:41:00.000-05:00

Even though it leaked early, the "official" video for Britney Spears' latest single, "Gimme More," debuted today on MTV's TRL. First of all, unlike what so many fans predicted/hoped/prayed, the official version is the same (read: just as bad) as the leaked version. Second, who the hell debuts their videos on TRL anymore? What is this, 1999?

In case you haven't heard, the video primarily consists of Britney in a long brunette wig and ripped fishnets circling around a stripper pole in a club for about 3 minutes. Her body, after having 2 kids? Amazing. She's not exactly the impossibly taut, ripped 19-year-old she used to be, and you know what? That's just fine. If one of our most-watched sex-symbols, just by adding a few pounds, expands our notion of what's physically acceptable for young women (even if she's one of the many female celebrities who perpetuated the unattainable female body to begin with), I'll take it. And that's the only "amazing" I'll use in a positive sense in this whole post.

Look, Britney is 25 years old. She's an adult. If she wants to fantasize about being a stripper, that's her choice. And this time, unlike her previous music video costumes, I have no doubt that this was her choice, not her record company's (whether or not they agreed to it is beside the point). Critics have always been saying that Britney needs to grow up with her audience. I'm not sure this is what they had in mind, but it seems inevitable after her carefully calculated Lolita routine eventually added pseudo-bondage lyrics ("I'm a Slave 4 U"), performances with phallic snakes wrapped around her (the 2001 MTV Music Video Awards) and songs about masturbation (2003's "Touch of My Hand").

So if she wants to be a stripper, that's her right. My only request is that she be a good stripper. Britney was always a dancer/performer instead of a singer, and other pop stars have made that work for much longer careers than Britney's so far (Madonna, Janet, etc.). So, if she can't belt it out, at least she can put her back into it. All she does in this video for three minutes is walk around the pole over and over, flipping her natty hair and occasionally dropping her butt to her heels and bouncing back up.

There's nothing wrong with going through a Bad Girl phase. Hey, Madonna had her Sex book/"Body of Evidence" movie/Erotica album phase. And kicking off her latest single with "It's Britney, bitch" was inspired. What's inexcusable is being a boring Bad Girl. If she wants to distract the public from her personal life, if even for 3 minutes at a time, then she should give us something else to look at/talk about, and crappy lip-syncing does not count. She should remind us that she at least used to know how to put on a show, from flashy music videos to pristinely executed awards show performances.

I know, I know. She's distracted, probably depressed, hitting the clubs and hyped up on coffee. But music and performing is what she supposedly loves, right? That's why she used to sing to no one in malls across the country just to get a record deal, right? So if she wants to be angry, sad, irritated, depressed, or rebellious? Fine! Then she should be like every other artist, including shiny pop idols like Madonna and Janet, and exploit her feelings for artistic expression! Then commit to that exploitation by creating a dizzily-edited music video which only peripherally relates to the song but distracts us with dazzling choreography. See? Easy.

It's too bad, really, because "Gimme More" is a surprisingly solid song (the remix with Lil' Mama, while fun, is not even necessary), and is well on its way to becoming her most successful since 1998's "...Baby One More Time." Like any pop star, she's at the mercy of her producers and her voice is often used as one easily-manipulated layer in well-crafted sonic nuggets. "Gimme More" is no exception, with wide swaths of synths overlapping plink-plunk bubbles in the background. Britney commits herself merely competently, but the song doesn't really soar until the bridge where a possessed-sounding male singer trills over minimal beats.

Unfortunately, 11 other new songs leaked today (and then were taken down after 24 hours!) and they don't come anywhere close to "Gimme More." Listening to the sloppy, uninspired productions makes 2003's "In the Zone" sound downright classic. Her voice is so weak and breathy, the producers have to layer it and manipulate it to the point of losing it all together. She might as well as not have shown up at all. She actually raps on "When You Gon' Pull It?", a song where she compliments her lover "getting pretty good with that thing." Is she singing to her Starbucks barista about the milk steamer? Probably not. The only song even close to a "highlight" is a simple, almost torchy piano ballad that caters to Britney's lower, stronger register. Just to add a curious element, there's something almost like a whirring fan throughout the whole song, as if they rolled a piano and mic into a Dairy Queen to record Britney's vocals between Blizzards. But, while nothing special in any other context, the stripped-down ballad actually works among the 10 other messes.

The title? "Let Go."

Also check out: This Roundtable Might Give Your Computer Herpes.
And: Does Hilary Duff Count?

Eat, Pray, Hype

2007-10-06T14:58:00.000-05:00

"I haven't been this excited since Bono was here."

And so began Oprah's Eat, Pray, Love-fest. Friday's episode was all about Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir detailing her travels to Italy, India and Indonesia to rediscover herself. I have to say, as a writer, hearing anyone get that excited over an author is pretty exciting. Hearing it from Oprah freakin' Winfrey, who has talked to every author from Cormac McCarthy to Jane Hamilton, is pretty impressive.

Sure, Oprah gets excited for just about anything. (Ladies and gentlemen, today we're talking about hummuuuuuuuuus!!!) There's a fine line between enthusiastic and hyperbolic. Her fans see the former, her critics the latter. When talking about a relatively spiritual memoir like Gilbert's, it's hard to walk that line (it's somewhere between the pasta and the preciousness). But combining the overblown with the ethereal seems like an Oprah specialty, as opposed to, say, Tyra Banks, who eats overblown for breakfast. (Now with more fiber!)

So it was great to see Oprah dedicate a whole hour to an author not because Eat, Pay, Love is her new Book Club choice (that would be Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera) but because she was just so damn excited to talk about it. (Even if, strangely, they made no mention that it's being developed as a movie starring Julia Roberts.)

According to Oprah, "Women have been carrying it everywhere. I've seen it on planes, buses and trains." Buses? Yeah, I think I saw Oprah on the 49 Western yesterday with her Trader Joe's bags. But the book has already been incredibly successful. However, a lot of the reviews, even positive ones, were hesitant to rave. The New York Times observed how charming Gilbert's prose is while rightfully criticizing how easily her problems tend to get fixed (she asked the universe for a divorce and - poof! - her husband, until then stubborn, signed the papers). And Slate's Katie Roiphe couldn't rave about it before going on and on about how horrible the book sounds and how, of course, she would normally never read a book like that.

That, most likely I presume, being Chick Lit. The label is ridiculous in this case. Yes, it's a woman's memoir, and yes, there's some cutesy descriptions about how eating pizza is really empowering! (Which I happen to totally agree with.) But Gilbert is an incredibly charming, qualified writer, having been nominated for three National Magazine Awards, the PEN/Hemingway Award, the National Book Award and National Book Critic's Circle Award. If a man wrote this book, this whole paragraph wouldn't be necessary. God forbid a female author write something both spiritual and funny, profound and cute.

So, luckily, she was perfectly open, modest and down-to-earth with Oprah about her journey, her epiphanies and her success. She's the kind of person who can throw out phrases like "word salad" without coming off flaky and can discuss a journey devoted entirely to making herself feel better without sounding guilty or entitled. (For an example of how she explains - nay, make that celebrates, and kind of awesomely - her story's inherent selfishness, check out the E,P,L F.A.Q.)

One mistake I think Gilbert and Oprah both seemed to make was confusing someone relating to the book with someone experiencing the exact same thing Gilbert did. When talking about her late-night breakdowns in her bathroom, Gilbert looked at the audience and said, "Who among us has not met our bathroom floor tiles at 3 a.m.?" Um, me? I read your book and haven't met my tiles at 3 a.m. Do I count? Oh, wait, are we also including being drunk? No? Nevermind then.

But Gilbert flat-out admits that she didn't write this book for anyone else, and that's maybe the most "rock star" (Oprah's words) thing about her. Unlike so many reviews about the book and interviews with Gilbert, this was one whole hour without the author having to justify, defend or apologize for her lucky circumstances (such as affording the travel thanks to her publisher's advance). She might not be the literary equivalent of Bono. (Who is, then? Dave Eggars? Chuck Palahniuk?) She's not even a rock star. She's a really good writer. And that's just as exciting.

(Thanks to Oprah.com for the pics.)

Also check out: Cradle to Tears.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Curse you, Hung!

2007-10-04T19:11:00.000-05:00

Since you are both a) the newly crowned Season Three winner of Top Chef and b) not from Chicago, you ruined the potential trinity of Chicago reality show winners. You narrowly defeated fellow Chicagoan Dale, who would have joined recent America's Next Top Model winner Jaslene (TM) (that's right, I added the TM because if you check out her MySpace profile you'll see that she trademarked her name) and Bravo sister show Top Design winner Matt Lorenz to become the third Chicago reality competition winner in a row. Now our all-powerful, world-crushing triumvirate will never be. And it's all because of two things: curry and cake.

You see, in last night's Top Chef finale, Dale and Hung were duking it out with Casey for the highly-esteemed title and prize money. Casey unfortunately buckled under all that altitude. (Seriously, Casey, you knew the finale was going to take place in Aspen, you know altitude affects cooking times and temperatures, do your research!) So, with four dishes per contestant to choose from, the judges decided that Hung and Dale each had two of the best dishes.

That's where the debate kicked in. Hung kind of missed with his first dish, which lacked acidity, and then underwhelmed again with his dessert, a clichéd chocolate lava cake that in no way fit in with the rest of his impressive Asian menu. Dale, on the other hand, served up a curried lobster dish with unforgivably heavy gnocchi and way too much curry. While Hung's cake was boring, at least it was edible. So the it came down to, is it better for a chef to make a safe choice that doesn't impress but doesn't repel, or should a Top Chef serve up a bold, risky dish even if it goes down in flames?

Earlier in the season, when Casey was winning multiple challenges in a row, it seemed like the finale would be between her soulful cuisine and Hung's technically-perfect food. We already had the Heart & Soul vs. Scientific Precision debate in Season Two, where Ilan's soulful heartiness (or is it hearty soulfulness?) flambéed Marcel's steely glares and fluffy foams. So I'm glad this season's finale was a little different. Would underdog Dale's rollercoaster dinner of robust highs and inedible lows trump front-runner Hung's smooth, analytical consistency?

Well, we know where the judges stand on this issue. You could frame it as, who's restaurant would you rather eat at? Hung's, where everything is perfect if sometimes safe and unsurprising? Or Dale's, where you might get a flawless, creative dish or one so inedible you have to send it back?

It's a trick question. Hung would probably never serve that chocolate lava cake at a restaurant. He's not a baker, he just memorized one cake recipe to pull out of his hat should the need arise. And Dale would never really serve the lobster dish, as chefs don't whip up dishes on the fly and send them out without tasting and testing, going through draft after draft until they get it right.

I'm sure a lot of people will use this finale as evidence that Casey only got as far as she did because Bravo wanted to keep around a cute woman for ratings (which makes no sense because, hi, Bravo is gayer than Logo and here! making out to Fall Out Boy). I can't believe how many comments I've seen on message boards claiming that the only reason she survived was because she's like Jennifer Aniston with bigger boobs, even though we saw episode after episode with Casey deservedly winning. And I also can't understand people bemoaning Hung's win just because he's arrogant and unlikable. To paraphrase ANTM's ever-brilliant, philosophical Jade, this isn't Top Best Friend. In the end, I could understand the decision going either way. As Dale would say, it was "100% 50/50."

The truly disappointing part isn't that Chicago doesn't get one more cubic zirconium jewel in its plastic reality-show crown. It's that, with Top Chef now over, I won't be able to use my brilliant joke that I have yet been able to work into converations:

Padma Lakshmi?

I like her, too.

Also check out: Deep Thoughts From America's Next Top Model, part 6.
And: Top Chef Check-In.

KT. Not Katie, People. KT.

2007-09-25T21:23:00.001-05:00

You can check out my review of KT Tunstall's latest album, Drastic Fantastic, at UR Chicago's repository of awesomeness, also known as its website, here (scroll down until you see her name and album title).

You can also check out UR's interview with KT here. For a limited time, so act now! (Seriously, it's only up for a couple weeks.)

Also check out: Telescopic Boogaloo.
And: Feist Feels It All. A Lot.

Deep Thoughts from America's Next Top Model, part 5

2007-09-22T17:39:00.000-05:00

With so many to choose from in this week's Cycle 9 premiere, where to begin with ANTM's contributions to philosophical quandries?

On self-contradiction!

Sylvia: "I'm not going to give this up. I'm going to give it one last shot."

On professionalism!

Janet: "I guess you've seen one butt, you've seen them all."

On kissing ass!

Tyra: "Any girl that gives me a simulated kitty cat wax is fine by me."

On violence versus, um, violence?...!

Marvita: "I didn't want to fight, I just wanted to slap the hell out of her."

And, finally, this show's raison d'etre, self-awareness!

Mila: "I've basically had a really great life so far, so I basically have no reason not to celebrate! I celebrate a new nail color! That's huge!"

Jenah: "I am beautiful and I'm smart. I know stuff. I read books. I can play beer pong. I party with guys."

Chantal: "I think I have something that no other girl has. I don't know what it is, but there's something. There's something."

Cradle to Tears

2007-09-16T14:51:00.000-05:00

When reading Cradle to Cradle, William McDonough and Michael Braungart's manifesto for eco-effective living, I went through multiple phases of emotion. For a book that spends 156 pages describing everything that's wrong with environmentalism - including both companies that avoid it altogether and those that practice yet still do harm - and then only 29 pages explaining how to do things right, it was still surprising how discouraged, angry and despondent I felt - toward Earth-screwing corporations, toward deceitfully Earth-saving practices that end up actually as Earth-screwing, and towards the authors themselves.

Since nothing makes a depressive feel better than sharing their negative feelings, let's walk through those phases together, shall we?

1) Alarmed Paranoia. I, like most sane, aware people nowadays, am trying to incorporate more environmentally-friendly practices into my daily life. (Without, you know, rearranging my life too much, of course. Hey, it's amazing I actually get to work on time as it is - I can't unplug every single appliance, you know?) So the first section of Cradle surprised me with its cynical take on modern, "effective" environmentalism, even on the first page.

First, that comfortable chair you are sitting on. Did you know that the fabric contains mutagenic materials, heavy metals, dangerous chemicals, and dyes that are often labeled hazardous by regulators - except when they are presented and sold to a customer? As you shift in your seat, particles of the fabric abrade and are taken up by your nose, mouuth, and lungs, hazardous materials and all.

The authors then go on to deconstruct computers, carpets, shoes, electric hand mixers, water bottles, hair dryers and baby toys. Lesson: don't buy or touch anything even remotely synthetic.

2) Angry Discouragement. OK, but what if I buy all-natural products, like, say, my clothes? Granted, most organic clothes still haven't evolved beyond burlap sacks in both style and comfort. But hey, I watch Top Model and Project Runway and I will make it fierce and I will make it work! What do you say, authors?

If several billion people want natural-fiber blue jeans dyed with natural dyes, humanity will have to dedicate millions of acres to the cultivation of indigo and cotton plants just to satisfy the demand - acres that are needed to produce food.

Plus, apparently indigo contains mutagens! So the authors warn, "change your jeans, not your genes." Ha ha! Punny! But it's hard to laugh at puns through clenched jaws, especially when I'm breathing in all these toxins from my dangerous, mutagenic clothes. Damn you, Levis!

3) Wide-Eyed Horror. What about recycling? That's good, right? Um, no. "Just because a material is recycled does not automatically make it ecologically benign," the authors explain. Forcing materials into longer lifetimes and into uses they weren't meant for means spending more money and energy than if they were just discarded (which they will be at some point anyway). Plus, you have to add chemicals and all sorts of crap to the recycled material to make it usable again. So in chapter one, I was told my computer is dangerous, but I can't just turn to my handy, Leonardo DiCaprio-approved journal, either.

Because it was not designed with recycling in mind, paper requires extensive bleaching and other chemical processes to make it blank for use again. The result is a mixture of chemicals, pulp, and in some cases toxic inks that are not really appropriate for handling and use...allowing an even higher proportion of particles to abrade into the air, where they...can irritate the nasal passages and lungs.

Toxic inks? Are you kidding me? Why, Mother Nature, why? Why do you hate me? Here I thought writing was the lowest-maintenance hobby because it just required a pen and paper. A pen and paper that are killing me.

4) Quivering Mass of Tears/Curled into Fetal Position.

So then there's..

One study of household contaminants found that more than half of the households showed concentrations of seven toxic chemicals that are known to cause cancer in animals and are suspected to cause cancer in humans.

And...

Allergies, asthma, and "sick building syndrome" are on the rise.

Oh, dear God...and...

Some industrial chemicals produce a second effect, more insidious than causing stress: they weaken the immune system.

For the love of...and...

Legislation establishing mandatory standards for indoor air quality is practically nonexistent.

Sweet Jesus. But, somehow, I came upon a...

5) Sliver of Hopefulness. Upon reading the last chapter's title, "Putting Eco-Effectiveness into Practice," I thought I finally could discover what I can do to protect myself and those I love by making better choices. Except, of course, the authors are an architect and a chemist, so the solutions are really for those who design products and buildings. So then I, the consumer, am left helpless, knowing I can't make better choices until I have better options to choose from. And, as the authors made explicitly clear in the first 90% of the book, there aren't very many good options right now. So...

6) Back to Quivering Mass of Tears/Curled into Fetal Position.

So now I will curl up onto my toxic couch, wrap myself with a hormone-altering blanket, watch my TV that's killing both my brain cells and my sperm with radiation, and contently log out. Cradle to Cradle's one positive contribution is reaffirming my lazy procrastination, as now I know that I can't really make a difference until someone else does first.

Also check out: WWED?
And: A Whore Among Flowers.

UR Out. Seriously, You Are.

2007-09-13T20:46:00.000-05:00

So you may have noticed that little pic/caption on the side of my blog about how I now write for UR Chicago, a local, monthly entertainment and culture magazine. I had done some freelance work for them in the past, interviewing Margaret Cho and Paddy Boom, among other articles. But now I am a full-fledged member of their writing staff. Hooray for jobs/side projects that actually relate to my college major whether directly or indirectly!

Let's back up. This past March, UR found new owners in the form of En Prise Entertainment, an event promotion and artist management company, and with them came a new editor-in-chief. Since then, in my humble opinion, UR has really popped. The covers alone are unique and fantastic. I mean, look at this cover for the current issue about food. Who does magazine covers like that? I don't see magazines looking like that anywhere else in the city...or, country even?

Plus, their food and wine coverage is always informative, they interview the most interesting personalities whether local or national, and they cover everything from sex toys to local do-gooders to Chicago's crazy nightlife. Most impressively, their awesomely expansive music section showcases the latest and greatest and have introduced me to some of my favorite new bands (hi, The Attorneys!). They even revamped the website and added a kickass podcast where you can listen to all the music that's featured in each issue. And just when you thought they might have been too cool for school, they even add a Dogs & Babies section. Hey, babies can be trendy, right? Word.

But just to completely round out the Chicago experience, they have also added an LGBT section. To my surprise and delight, they asked me to create the content every month. Wait, how did they know I was even gay to begin with? Oh, yeah. And, yeah. And...yeah. So anyway, each month is a new article and event listings written by yours truly.

Anyway, the section is called UR Out (I love the accusatory/informative statement behind the name; see title of this post) and it debuts in this month's issue. You know, Chicago's LGBT population (I prefer that to "community") may have the Windy City Times and a section in Time Out Chicago, among other publications, but with a city this big there's always room for more coverage, right? I just hope I do my fellow 'mos proud through fun, informative articles. I'm also expecting to learn a lot in the process, about Chicago's LGBT scene, about writing on deadlines and about how the local/national LGBT stories evolve over time, especially in these heightened, we've-come-so-far-but-have-so-far-to-go times.

P.S. If you have something going on you'd like to see listed in our event listings, or know about something I should check out, please email the details to urout@urchicago.com.

Also check out: UR Here.
And: U {Heart} Pierogis.

2007-09-11T22:26:00.000-05:00

(Thanks, Slate.)

Deep Thoughts with Amy Sedaris

2007-09-09T21:11:00.000-05:00

On party introductions:

When introducing people, try to avoid saying something that could be embarrassing like: "This is Barbara, she can't have children," or "Matt's on mood stabilizers," or "Lenny just got fired. He was the promotions manager at Nowells."

Thanks, Amy.

Check out previous deep thoughts here!

Dear Filmmakers of The Road

2007-09-03T20:06:00.000-05:00

What's up, boyeeez? I'm writing this letter to discuss your adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's best-seller/Oprah pick/Pulitzer Prize winner that actually lives up to the hype about a father and son traveling through a barren, post-apocalyptic land. Yes, I know it's not news anymore that you're making this, and I know the book didn't just come out, so this may seem a little late. But from what I can tell you've barely gotten started, so you still have time to incorporate my ideas. And lest you get the wrong idea by my writing you a letter for basically my own amusement and assess your entire careers based on a few IMDB entries, let me just reassure you, I'm not crazy! Got it? Awesome!

First off: who the hell are you guys? Let's see...Joe Penhall, you adapted Ian McEwan's Enduring Love, which I thought got mixed-to-good reviews until I saw one comment thread on the IMDB message boards titled "Worst book-film adaption ever?" Ouch. That's got to hurt, even a little. But you have worked with Daniel Craig twice, which leads me to believe that you might have good taste and might even try to cast him as the nameless, ageless Father, but more on casting later.

Moving on to you, John Hillcoat, Mr. Director. Let's see, you directed an 80's documentary about INXS and something called Digital Hardcore Videos. Rock and porn? Seriously? But you also directed The Proposition starring Guy Pierce and some obscure 1996 movie with Rachel Griffiths, so that means...nothing. Or something. I'm not sure. I'm still focusing on the rock and porn 1-2 combo and what that means for this movie and, well, humanity in general.

But let's face it: you're both random choices. I mean, geez. At least the Coen brothers are adapting and directing the other upcoming McCarthy adaptation, No Country for Old Men.

In fact, it looks like Hollywood actually may not be screwing up NCfOM, with its stellar filmmakers and pedigreed cast. Of course, they did take seriously sexy actor Javier Bardem and make it look like he smooshed his face into a brick wall. That may be so we, the audience, don't focus on how sexy he is. But then, all I'll be thinking about is how I'm being deprived of his sexiness, which will bring up all of my deprivation issues I thought I had worked out in years of therapy like how this one time? My mom? Made a batch of Rice Krispie treats the first day of my sugar-free week for a 5th grade science project so I couldn't eat them and by the time Sunday came they were all eaten which just, like, symbolizes my whole childhood, ya know?!?!

Sorry. Digression. Still not crazy!

Anyway, let's talk about a few points, shall we? First, that Variety report said you guys were waiting for the right script and star. Seriously, don't even think about Tom Hanks/Da Vinci Code-ing this thing just for international interest. The Road is gritty and austere, reeking of flesh and disease. If you pop in some Shiny Pretty Movie Star, the whole world McCarthy created would become just a backdrop to SPMS' squinty, steel-jawed Acting. You can already hear the James Lipton's affected whisperings of "Oscar" and "credibility." Go with the right guy, no matter what. I'm not going to give you suggestions because, due to the character's lack of distinguishing external characteristics in the novel, you could go 50 different ways. Just don't screw it up, k?

(And, despite what I said before, Daniel Crag would probably not be a good choice as he looks like he's probably eaten a few people himself to get where he is in Hollywood. I'm not sure we'd ever doubt his survival skills).

Also, I swear on the career grave of Keshia Knight Pulliam, if you take fucking Dakota Fanning and put her in a pair of Osh Kosh B'Gosh overalls to pass her off as a precocious five-year-old(-ish) boy, I will find you both and I will break you. (Not crazy!) Again, go with the right boy. You'll probably have to pick an unknown (not too many famous male kiddies, luckily), so take your time and get it right. This kid will have to get through some pretty scary scenes - babies roasting on spits, cannibalism and maybe even (gasp!) unshaven women - so make sure he's tough enough. Maybe lock him in a room with Donald Trump for five hours and see how he holds up. That would drive even the hardest of us absolutely insane.

And finally, respect the source. That seems so simple and obvious, right? Why would someone love a book so much they wanted to turn it into a film only to then arrogantly think they can make the story better somehow? But it happens all the time. The Road is already cinematic, and the story is much like its characters: no extra fat or gristle on its lean frame. So don't go adding backstory, don't insert information because you think the audience is too stupid to keep up, don't spell it all out. So, I guess, don't just respect the source. Respect us, too.

OK, I think that may be it. See? Just a simple document of ideas. No reason to be scared. Unless you screw up this movie. Then you should be scared.

Sincerely and maybe just a tad crazy when it comes to one of the best books I've read all year,
Me

Also check out: Babies Are the New God.
And: Update: Oprah Rips Frey a New One.

Get Get Get Your Party Party On On

2007-08-28T21:14:00.000-05:00

In the latest UR Chicago, I reviewed Junior Senior's new(-ish) album, Hey Hey My My Yo Yo. It's so hard to compress all your thoughts about one album into 150 words, and I'm not going to quote the whohttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifle review here, but phrases like "non-stop party marathon," "the 80's are back in full force" and "generic, anonymous lyrics" give you an idea. (You can find the review at their website in the Reverb section until the next issue's reviews replace it.)

HHMMYY really threw me for a loop. They managed to evolve by regressing. It's like they combined the R&B/disco/pop of the 70's and 80's with their Casio-keyboard productions in a dehydrator: all the unwanted fat dripped off and you're left with tight, crisp sonic nuggets. The Danish duo adds piano and hand claps to what sounds like a Jackson 5 cover on "Ur a Girl." The single "Can I Get Get Get" (they obviously really like stuttering words and repetitive titles) is squeaky, squirmy cartoon funk. Like the Junkyard Gang got horny. And one of the highlights is when Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson of the B-52's belt like gangbusters through "Take Your Time." Through not one but two key changes, they buttress the giddy melody to its euphoric highs.

They're seriously focused on having fun: nothing lasts even four minutes and there's not a mid-tempo song or ballad in the bunch. Unfortunately, that's where I got a smidge disappointed. Sure, they're having a lot of fun and throwing one hell of a party, but the hosts remain anonymous. On the sunny surfer pop of their first album, D-D-Don't Stop the Beat, straight "Junior" and gay "Senior" had a funny back-and-forth repartee that was quirky and unique. "B-b-b-b-boys are handsome and tall," sang Senior. "G-g-g-g-girls are nasty and small," chimed in Junior. They sang of "Chicks and Dicks" and every little hipster in nail polish and hipsterette with buzzed hair felt equally sexy.

It seems that, in an effort to really focus on their aesthetic, they felt they had to check their personalities at the door. Obviously they can't ride their "one of us is gay and one is straight!" act for too long. It's a gimmick that wears out its welcome as fast as being a gay white rapper. But did they have to resort to such banal, "break it up, break it down" lyrics in order to serve their musical vision? "Senior" barely even shows up to sing or rap at all. They do, however, present themselves as the coolest of the uncool nerds, so Junior probably doesn't mind dancing all by himself.

Also check out: Okay, Go: Dance Duo Edition (Justice and Junior Senior)
And: Rock the Cazwell

Top Chef Check-In

2007-08-20T21:38:00.000-05:00

OK, so we're day 4,189 into Top Chef's six-year-long Season Three. How's everyone holding up? Stocked with plenty of water and truffle butter? Do we need to pass around the mushroom risotto for sustenance?

Seriously, this season started, what, a couple months ago? And there's still Eight. Chefs. Left. For real? Bravo is milking this show for all they can. Not only was there a useless mini-reunion halfway through the season (hosted by that insufferable Bravo producer Andy Cohen), but this past week the judges (spoiler alert!) didn't even eliminate anyone! The two teams of four chefs had 24 hours to open a mock restaurant. They had to create a full menu, shop for all the interior decorations, train an apparently incompetent waitstaff in thirty minutes and then serve thirty people. When both teams - unsurprisingly - failed, no one was sent home! Since they all sucked, all the losers cancelled each other out and everyone ended up being, in a way, winners, since they could stay another week. Got that? Hugs all around!

It's not that I'm not enjoying the show. I am. I've been a little hesitant about Top Chef in the past, but Salon's Heather Havrilesky changed my mind:

I love the guessing game...Top Chef is sort of one part cooking competition, one part unfolding mystery: You develop your theories about which dish tastes the best, but you don't really know that it's lacking oil or acid or is unevenly salted until the judges have their say.

Okay, I can go along with that. Now I'm fully, unconditionally addicted and it's mostly due to the show itself. The challenges are interesting, most of the chefs seem genuinely talented and it's hard to guess who's getting kicked out of the kitchen each week as past successes don't necessarily guarantee anything.

But TC's charms are starting to wear thin. Instead of decreasing in number, these chefs seem to be multiplying every week. The judges should be eliminating two, three, four chefs at a time by this point. "Hung - you're a big spaz! You're gone! CJ - you're too tall! You're gone! Sara, no, you, the other Sara - you haven't won one challenge yet! You're gone!" See how easy that was, Padma?

Here's how Bravo could punch this show up:

1) Show Tre in sleeveless shirts more. When Tre stripped down to a tank top for the challenge in which they had to feed a late-night club crowd, even he knew that the drunks were lining up to check out his guns, not the raw oysters. With the cute-girl quotient rapidly reducing (only the beautiful Casey remains as a specimen of poreless womanhood), Bravo should take advantage of the cute boys left: the built, soft-spoken Tre, 6'8" former-volleyball-player CJ and mohawked, former-gymnast Dale. Forget the chef jackets as kitchen uniform - bring on the requisite tank tops.

2) Let us actually get to know the contestants. At the beginning of one episode, we see Casey and Lea talking over breakfast. Then, when Lea is eliminated later, Casey has a mini-breakdown because they're apparently best friends. Same thing with Dale and Sara - as soon as we found out they were BFFs, Sara is sent packing. I'm all for a Bravo show focusing more on the creative challenges and less on personal drama ({cough}Project Runway{cough}) but we still need to get to know the chefs if we're going to care about them.

3) The judges should...I don't know...make sense, maybe? The biggest problem with this show - what the hell are they talking about half the time? First Tom Colicchio complains that the chefs aren't being creative enough when they have to update a classic American comfort food. Then they criticize Sara's updated Chicken a la King for not resembling Chicken a la King closely enough. Say wha? Could they complain even more, please? When served pineapple sorbet, two of them literally cried "It's so cooooold!" In fact, these judges complain more than any other judging team from any other reality show. I'm waiting for critiques like "your broth was too brothy." Or "your saffron sauce didn't match my shoes." Or "your left earlobe looked slightly asymmetrical when you brought out your dish."

And please...no more never-ending plugs for overrated, largely disregarded food bloggers, please.

Minor details, overall, however. Bravo has a good thing going and they know it. Which is why I'll still be sitting on my couch at the season finale, eight years older, with a beard as big as Hung's ego, surrounded by discarded fennel bulbs and empty mascarpone tubs, crossing my fingers as the next Top Chef is announced.

Also check out: Top Project Runway Rip-Off.
And: Please Pack Your Breasts and Leave.

Babies are the New God

2007-08-19T14:42:00.000-05:00

If you name your first book God is Dead, you might be a young, brash writer brimming with big ideas, or a one-note gimmick suffering from a desperate need for attention any way you can find it or you might just suffer from elephantine cojones. Luckily, in the case of Ron Currie, Jr., it's the first and last options. (Okay, with maybe just a healthy dollop of attention-baiting thrown in for good measure.)

In his compact novel-in-stories, Currie's vision is big and darkly funny. In interviews he has said that the spirit of his book closely follows a line from The Brothers Karamazov: "If God is dead, then everything is permitted.”

Fittingly, Currie has taken his idea and run with it. In the introduction, God takes the form of a Dinka woman who pleads with Colin Powell - yes, that Colin Powell - to help her. Currie imagines Powell in spiritual crisis who studies Samuel L. Jackson movies to be more intimidating. When an assistant apologizes after questioning whether Powell is black enough (hmmm, where have we heard that one lately?), Powell responds with "apology accepted. Bitch-ass." Then, after a stunning monologue, Powell calls the unnamed U.S. president a "silver-spoon master-of-the-universe motherfucker" to his face. If only, you know? If only.

With the title as its own spoiler, God is killed in the Sudan. Word of his death spreads around the world thanks to the pack of feral dogs who eat God's decaying body and are then blessed with the ability to communicate to humans. The rest of the stories deal, however directly or indirectly, with the ramifications. While the whole book is one giant "what if" for the future, Currie lets us know that maybe it's not that far in the future. To fill the void, adults start worshipping their children. Teenaged boys with no parental supervision turn cynical and violent. Warring populations kill innocent civilians in their quest for idealogical dominance. Where, oh where, does Currie get his crazy ideas?

Well, according to his acknowledgments, Currie started working on these ideas when he was in the Zoetrope Workshop. Honestly, it felt like it, too, which is neither a critique or a compliment. A lot of the stories, especially the first one, sound as if they originated around a bong or in a bar after a writing workshop. (Or, maybe in Currie's case, both?) "Dude, what if God was on Earth, like, right now?" "Yeah. And what if he was actually a woman?" "Yeah, like a snobby blonde lady who shops too much." "No! No! Like, some other woman. Like a Dinka woman." "Dude, you just said Dinka."

But that youthful courage to just go for it is exactly what's so refreshing about the book. Titles like "Interview with the Last Remaining Member of the Feral Dog Pack Which Fed on God's Corpse" are what made me unable to put down the book after catching it in Borders' Original Voices section. And luckily, Currie's prose stands up to his ideas. His descriptions land perfectly between the feminine (i.e. flowery, unending) and masculine ("muscular," clipped). He develops characters while keeping the action moving forward. And if some of the ideas don't work, as is the case with most story collections, then the ones that don't are still fascinating.

Hopefully, Currie didn't blow his creative wad on his first collection. I eagerly await his next book, whatever it may be about, eagerly anticipating how his work grows more sophisticated yet still blustery and in-your-face. We could use more fiction like that.

Also check out: Just Wondering.
And: My Love is More Like Vodka.

Spread the Word

2007-08-12T18:10:00.000-05:00

...and the love. The first annual QueerFest Midwest is coming to Chicago on August 25th.

From UR Chicago (more of which I'll get to in a later post)...

On August 25, Pulaski Park Fieldhouse in Wicker Park will hold Chicago's first music and art festival for the Gay-Lesbian-Bi-Transgendered (GLBT) community. Queer Fest Midwest will gather and showcase the artistic talents of the GLBT community through their wide range of musical acts, as well as visual and interactive artists, while raising money for About Face Theater, a theater company that creates city and nation wide dialogue about gender and sexuality through their plays. The visual arts portion of the festival - "The Cowboy and The Pegasus" - focuses on the wide range of work by local and national recognized queercore media artists. The exhibition features video artists Sadie Benning, Dylan Mira, Latham Zearfoss and Bruce La Bruce, paintings by Zack Stiglicz, Grant Schexnider and Terrance Koh, photography by Sean Fader, the creative concepts of Will Harrison and Kean O'Brien, and a confessional documentary about HIV by Charles Lum.

Musical performances by...
Katastrophe
The Ex-Members
Johnny Dangerous
Chris Garneau
Katz
Gina Young and Team Gina
and many more

For more info check out the festival's MySpace page.

Giada 3.0

2007-08-09T20:13:00.000-05:00

First came her signature cooking show, Everyday Italian. Then came the best-selling cookbooks and another TV show. At this point, Food Network star Giada De Laurentiis is hosting 3 shows - Everyday Italian, Giada's Weekend Getaways and Giada in Paradise - and is also a regular correspondent on NBC's Today. But now, according to Broadcasting & Cable magazine, her name-branding machine is kicking into high gear.

Already appearing in ads for Barilla pasta, Mrs. De Laurentiis will also be launching a line of oils, vinegars and spices with Barilla due in December. She's designing a line of bakeware for Pyrex Glassware to launch in early 2008. AND, come September, she will co-host the new fourth hour of Today for one week each month for at least a year, as well as becoming "one of a rotating roster of co-hosts for all of the hour's segments."

Holy over-enunciated Italian words, Batman! Emeril may be the face of the Food Network and have his own line of cookware, and Rachel Ray may be the media-saturated star with her own talk show, magazine and kitchen products, but Giada is really stepping out on her own here. She has really surprised me with her ambition. Her story always made it sound like she was just along for the ride, kind of like, 'I wrote a magazine article about cooking for my large, Hollywood family and voila! Food Network asked me to host a show!' But now it seems like our dainty pasta princess is really aiming for household-name status. (I was going to call say pasta queen, but that would be insulting Lidia Bastianich.)

And what a name it is. How refreshing to know that a household name could be one as long, complicated, vowel-choked and flat-out Italian as hers. Yes, Ray is technically Sicilian, but I don't think anyone associates "Ray" with Italian ancestry. I know it seems trivial, but I've seen and heard as many possible variations of my last name as possible. ("No, ma'am, you can't insert a consonant between the three vowels just to make it easier for yourself.") Even if it's in some small way, someone like Mrs. De Laurentiis gives hope to all of us. We're here, we have long names, get used to it!

Now, being a long-time Giada fan, will I mindlessly run out and buy her stuff? No. It's really not as if the world needs one more bottle of olive oil lining the shelves. I'm sure Giada's name alone insures some credibility, and therefore sales, but you just never know, especially when it comes to celebrity products. The article doesn't mention price points, either, so I'll simply have to wait, taste and see.

It will be interesting to see how this all plays out. Sometimes Giada cooks on Today, sometimes she doesn't. So will there be any cross-promotion of her products on the show? Will she use her own products on her own Food Network shows? Because one of the more interesting points of the article is that Giada's products, including her books, are separate from the Food Network.

Food Network has approached De Laurentiis to jointly launch products, but she has chosen to go it alone (she already has three cookbooks in addition to the ongoing Barilla relationship) because star and network haven't been able to align on terms of a deal, she says.

“I came in at a time where Food Network didn't have those ties with a publisher and others,” De Laurentiis says. “They were doing food programming, and that was it.”

Luckily, both parties acknowledge their mutual benefits relationship - the more popular one gets, the more it helps the other - and so it sounds like their relationship isn't affected negatively. Which is good, because I like Giada in the grocery store, even moreso on my bookshelf, but most of all I like her where I got to know her first: on my TV.

(Thanks to Esquire for the pic.)

Also check out: You Had Me At "Prosciutto."
And: Ode to Polenta.

Of Booze and Political Statements

2007-08-07T19:55:00.000-05:00

Since I live in a city with a large gay population, a gay-friendly mayor and two neighborhoods heavily populated by my fellow 'mos, it's sometimes easy to forget that not every gay person has it so easy. Granted, my boyfriend and I know not to hold hands in certain neighborhoods, and there's always going to be some bigoted asshole who has a problem just to have a problem, but Chicago has its advantages. There are plenty of stylish gay bars, gay publications and even Hamburger Mary's, a national gay burger chain (the waiters are actually ponies and the burgers are made out of glitter and Cher's old noses).

It's not like I live in, oh, say, Mississippi. When you open a gay bar there, it's right down the block from a Confederate-flag-decorated straight bar where the patrons say things like, "If [the queers] fuck with me, I'm-a bust their heads wide open." Obviously, he's never tasted a queer burger. Chicago 1, drunk redneck 0.

Luckily, that guy doesn't get too much air time in Small Town Gay Bar, a new documentary out on DVD today. A grand jury prize nominee at the 2005 Sundance film festival, the film documents the struggles to open and maintain a gay bar in rural areas of the "Bible Belt." Faced with prejudice that sometimes leads to violence, the owners and patrons of these establishments risk social alienation and physical harm just to toss back a few Bud Lights.

The film starts by interviewing many of the customers, who endlessly reiterate how much they need Rumors, the local gay bar - how it creates a sense of community, how it's the only place they feel safe and comfortable (once actually inside), how they'd have to travel up to 2 hours away to the second-closest gay bar without it. It then jumps, somewhat jarringly, to the tale of Scotty Weaver, a local boy who dressed in drag. He was tied up, strangled, mutilated, partially decapitated, then dragged to the woods and set on fire. The filmmakers tie this to the danger rural gay men and women face by being themselves. Anyone who follows the news knows that many gays are the victims of hate crimes all over the country, even in such gay-friendly cities as Chicago. But the film reminds us that the large scale of cities offers an element of anonymity, whereas everyone knows who are in a small town. Sure, the local gay men and women could flock to a larger, more accepting city, but whether for personal or financial reasons, they choose to stay and live in the place they call home.

In the film, we meet Rick, the owner of Rumors who isn't even out to his parents ("I know they love me and accept me, but if I told them that I don't think they could accept that"). There's Rumors' "show director" (pictured singing here), the fantastically glamorous, sharp-tongued drag queen Jim Bishop, aka Alicia Stone ("Let us be the grown adult taxpayers that we are and make our own decisions"). There's also Lori and Ruby, the lesbian couple that buys the abandoned, dilapidated gay bar Crossroads and put all their time and money into opening it up as a new gay bar, Different Seasons.

We also get a long, in-depth interview with the Fred Phelps, leader of the Westboro Baptist Church that picketed Weaver's funeral (I'd compare his balding, pockmarked, squinty looks to Mr. Burns, but I would never, ever insult Mr. Burns like that). Phelps blames homosexuality on parents who don't teach their children about God 'n stuff and actually says, "I'm the only one telling [homosexuals] the truth, for God's sake. I'm the only one that loves them." Of course, that would be a lot more believable if he could actually supress his smirk when he says that all gays are going to hell.

We also get to meet Tim Wildmon, president of the American Family Association, located in nearby Tupelo, MS. Wildmon describes his association's acceptance that other people are allowed to "exist" (gee, how big of them) while others explain how AFA members would read on the radio the license plate numbers of cars parked at gar bars the previous night. So, you can exist, just don't be different and drink beer at the same time.

The film gets a little repetitive. Not to take away from anyone's problems, but there's only so many times in a 76-minute documentary you need to be told that being gay in a small town is really, really hard. Maybe it's because I'm part of the choir, but there's only so much preaching necessary to make your point - and isn't this documentary probably going to be viewed only by the choir anyway? Also, after a moving, silent montage of proud gay men and women who promise to keep attending their local gay bar despite local prejudices, director Malcom Ingram strangely decides to end his film with one more offensive spit of verbal bile from Fred Phelps. Not exactly the note on which you'd expect him to end his tribute to tough, perseverant gay men and women. (To make up for that, if you get the DVD, definitely watch the hilarious extras with executive producer Kevin Smith, director of Clerks and friend of the gays.)

Still, with the national debate still focused on gay marriage, it's easy to overlook the small, daily battles that gay men and women go through just to peacefully live their lives. These aren't activists marching in parades or providing commentary on national news shows. They're the local veterinarians and DJs and post office workers trying to escape from the daily grind like we all do. When you see all the effort they have to go through just to drink beer, laugh with some friends and maybe dance to something other than Hank Williams, Jr., you have to stop and think. The AFA and others accuse them of trying to push a homosexual agenda or revolutionize mainstream culture. In some parts of our smorgasbord country, grabbing a beer bottle - next to a rainbow American flag - truly becomes something radical.

Also check out:http: You Win.
And: Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans.

Okay, Go: Dance Duo Edition (Justice and Junior Senior)

2007-08-03T21:41:00.000-05:00

*Updated below!

You know, MTV has gotten a lot of (deserved) shit for not playing any actual music, but now it and its sister station VH1 have really abandoned music videos altogether. It's shameful, really, as some videos can approach works of art, like this one or this one.

For this edition of Okay, Go, my occasional post dedicated to the dying art of music videos and/or new artists you should hear, we will be distracting you with not one but two new videos. First up, French duo Justice are back on the scene and ready to dance. You might remember them as the winners at the 2006 MTV Europe Music Awards that provoked Kanye West to jump on stage, protest and generally lose his mind. "D.A.N.C.E." features hipsters walking around with constantly changing animated t-shirts. Simple concept, awesome execution. Oh yeah, and the song itself is pretty sweet, being sung entirely by a children's chorus and sounding as if could be pumped through your local roller disco.

I especially like when one t-shirt quickly flashes "Internet killed the video star." It's so true and yet...it's so not. The internet delivers music videos whenever we want them, on demand and ready at a moment's notice. But because they're so accessible online, MTV and its brethren seem to have completely abandoned them for the same reason. Thank you, Youtube! You give record companies and artists reason for pumping thousands, sometimes millions, of dollars into a single that has no chance of ever being seen on TV!

*(After winning the 2006 MTV Europe Music Award for Best Video of the Year, Justice is now nominated for the US equivalent! It really comes out of nowhere - no other major nominations, they're not a mainstream band. And yet, with that kind of recognition for an actually good video, it's almost like MTV...has...taste...)

Next up is Junior Senior. This Denmark duo burst onto the scene in 2003 with the scarily peppy "Move Your Feet," accompanied by a hilarious early-Atari-graphics video. They're finally back with Hey Hey My My Yo Yo and its first single, "Take My Time." It's a Red Bull, tequila and crack cocktail of a song (wait, the song actually sounds kind of 80's, so what kind of cocktail would that be? Percocet, tequila and crack? Valium, tequila and Freezy Freakies juice?). There's not one but two key changes, culminating in a euphoric, almost hysterical climax (your speakers at work probably won't do it justice). Even better, the lyrics are belted out by none other than Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson of the B-52's. (The band is working on a new album, btw.)

In fact, I couldn't help but notice that the hand-drawn graphics in "Take My Time" more than slightly resemble the graphics for the B-52's own "Roam." Coincidence? Homage? You decide, then tell me. Okay, go!

Also check out: Okay, Go: Scissor Sisters.
And: Okay, Go: Mika.

3 Reasons Why I Love Kelly Clarkson

2007-07-25T21:44:00.000-05:00

From her recent interview in Blender:

1) On Jesus: "I frickin' love him! He's done a lot of cool things for me."

2) On meeting Clive Davis over her new record her reportedly hated: "I was like, I don't know you very well, and I am not a bullshitter. I get you don't like the album. You're 80; you're not supposed to like my album."

3) On hooking up: "I just don't make out with people. That's a waste of my kisses and time. And it's so personal: It's, like, my face. Plus, I'm afraid of mouth herpes."

Besides cracking me up in a magazine interview, which basically never happens, she comes off as a tough 25-year-old who stuck to her guns when an entire record company was telling her to cave. In a nutshell, she wanted to write everything on her new record, they wanted her to have outside help. What kind of help did they suggest? Turns out Davis sent her a song called "Black Hole," a song that already appeared on a Lindsay Lohan album. Oh, and no one told her. Could they have been more disrespectful?

I haven't heard her new album, My December, but I feel the need to give it a chance after reading about all she went through to get it released the way she wanted - and she did get it released the way she wanted. And how cool is it to see a young, successful, female pop culture obsession be defiant and rebellious without resorting to appearing in trashy outfits and getting busted for DUIs? (And how lame is it that that needs to be pointed out as a measure of her non-lameness?)

Plus, she's already working on her next album which she describes as "country-blues" influenced by Patty Griffin, Ryan Adams and the Rolling Stones. I'm already in line.

So that's more than 3 reasons, but whatever. Our little American Idol is all grows up!

Also check out: D-List Divas: Mandy Moore and Paula Cole.
And: Feist Feels it All. A Lot.

Just When You Thought It was Safe to Watch Daytime Television

2007-07-23T20:14:00.000-05:00

Drew Carey will be hosting The Price is Right. According to reports, he reveals it tonight on The Late Show with David Letterman.

I guess it makes sense. I mean, the whole time Carey hosted Whose Line is it Anyway?, he was the least interesting, least funny person on the show. And let's face it, it's not like Bob Barker really had a lot to do other than charm midwestern Claymates (please click on that link. Oh, pretty please.) and hold that weird lollipop microphone.

This makes much more sense than someone like Rosie O'Donnell for a host. Rosie's fiesty, sarcastic humor (her take on health-store customers: "you know the type: a lot of hair, not a lot of deodorant") would be squelched on a sanitized, wholesome show like TPiR. Just ask fans of old-school Ellen Degeneres. Sure, she's cute and friendly and funny on her daytime talk show, but Ellen really shines during her cable stand-up specials where her I'm-just-the-lesbian-next-door act drops and a more caustic, bawdy Ellen emerges.

Drew may have a darker, more outgoing side to him in his stand-up routines. But on his eponymous sitcom and WLiiA?, he was always upstaged by his funnier sidekicks like Diedrich Bader and Ryan Stiles. In fact, that seems to be Drew's actual talent, and it shouldn't be disregarded: surrounding himself, and sharing the spotlight, with skilled comedians who otherwise might not get noticed for their talents. On his own, however, he is perfectly capable of reading cue cards and smiling and stuff.

So The Price is Right fans get a perfectly pleasant host and prime-time television is guaranteed one more overpaid, bland comedian is too busy to star in another generic sitcom. (Why couldn't they create another game show and hire Charlie Sheen and Kevin James?) I should knock on wood, just to make sure.

Also check out: Martha Stewart: You Know You Love Her.
And: Obsessing Over Food I Never Eat with Giada de Laurentiis.

Miller Swill

2007-07-22T14:40:00.000-05:00

I'm not a beer guy. Beer, as we all know, is urine thickened with sweat. Or at least, that's how a lot of it tastes. Give me a cocktail any day, especially with vodka or tequila, and I'm a happy, happy man. But for some reason as soon as I heard about Miller Chill, a beer flavored with lime and salt based on the Mexican chelada, I had to try it. As a margarita fan, I love me some lime and salt with my alcamahol. I've never had a chelada, but I was intrigued to try it as soon as I joined some friends at a bar.

Color me disappointed. The website says "Chelada Style Light Lager with a Hint of Lime and Salt." Hint? That's being generous. What would be more appropriate? How about "rumor?" "Rumored to be flavored with lime and salt." Their website has more Latin flavor than this bland beer. Luckily, I at least like the flavor of regular MGD, as that's basically what I was drinking. The drink seems to be getting mixed reviews elsewhere, as well.

Actually, it made me even more determined to try an actual chelada to see why a company would go to all the effort of (badly) replicating its flavor. So the following night on my way to a dinner party, I picked up some Corona and limes...and margarita salt. Here's what you do: salt the rim of a highball or beer stein, squeeze in the juice from half a lime, add ice and pour in the beer. It will fizz up at first, and then you have a light summer drink perfect for hot days and balmy nights. The ice and citrus cut the beer so it's not as heavy as usual and the salt...well, salt is just good. I'd salt the rim of my coffee mug if I had enough time in the morning.

Variations differ regionally in Mexico. There's also a michelada which adds hot sauce and Worcestershire sauce, plus, depending where you are, Clamato or some other tomato-based drink mix. (I skipped those versions because I refuse to try anything named "Clamato.")

So two good things came out of this. Not only did I learn about a new drink that's easy to make and so good on humid summer evenings, the trip to the grocery store for the ingredients forced me to enter the beer aisle. After I passed up the towering stack of Miller Chill in the corner, there was a whole wall of interesting choices before me - lagers in lemon-flavored and "summer wheat" varieties, hard iced teas and numerous pale ales that would be perfect for the patio. I'm sure some of them suck, but it's almost like a challenge, finding the one that forces me to skip the vodka tonics and grab the bottle opener.

Ironically, it wasn't until a corporation heavily advertised their sub-par product that I had even heard about this traditional Mexican drink. You could argue that Miller is badly exploiting a cultural tradition for profit (I'm not sure I'd agree, since our grocery shelves are stocked with all kinds of ethnic ingredients that you would not find there even twenty years ago, but you could argue it) but really, Miller did me two favors with their lame imitation. It exposed me to a popular drink from another culture and, more importantly, if I had liked their bottled version, I might not have bothered making myself the real thing.

Also check out: Pringles and Pimpfants.
And: Eat My Cookies.

D-List Divas: Mandy Moore and Paula Cole

2007-07-18T21:06:00.000-05:00

Two albums have been sitting on my desk for over a month now. I may have forgotten them because, despite their good intentions and polished products, the artists themselves are forgettable.

Does anyone know why we know Mandy Moore? Why is she considered a star, even remotely? I dare you to name one of her songs. She's always gotten a lot of support from her record labels for albums that sold a fraction of what her poptart competitors sold. She has starred with some pretty big names (Diane Keaton, Hugh Grant, Robin Williams) in some pretty forgettable movies (Because I Said So, American Dreamz and License to Wed, respectively). Her biggest hit was 2002's teen drama A Walk to Remember, and I use "hit" very loosely.

The thing is, I like Mandy Moore. Unlike artists with down-to-earth personas that cover up their demands for gold-plated toilet seats, Moore is all about her healthy body-image and low-maintenance lifestyle. Plus, she starred in the religious satire Saved!, which was just flat-out fantastic. Her last effort, 2003's Coverage, an album of cover songs, showcased Moore's sophisticated tastes and stronger vocals but still didn't go anywhere.

Which is why I was curious about her new album, Wild Hope. She co-writes every song and collaborated with The Weepies and Rachael Yamagata, among others. She told Blender: "This is me, and these are my words, and this is my taste in music." Then, more dramatically: "I feel like in many ways this is my last chance to do a record on this level. If this doesn't work, how many opportunities do I get?"

Shedding her Lolita-with-a-mic past for a folky, earthy singer-songwriter vibe, Moore & Co. come up with pleasant but bland songs that blur into one long Lifetime drama theme song. Heavy on the acoustic guitar, piano and quiet vocals, Wild Hope tips over from subtle to sleepy. For someone who is supposedly free to express herself for the first time and laying it all on the line as if it's her last chance, Moore is sadly subdued. The first single, "Extraordinary," features a repetitive chorus of "Now I'm ready to be extraordinary." That's great. Instead of telling us about it (in an ordinary song, by the way), why doesn't she just actually try?

This is supposedly a grown-up, darker, melancholic Moore, deeper after surviving public break-ups with well-known actors and athletes. But the burning hostility of "Nothing That You Are", where Moore stabs an ex with "I hope you burn in hell," is undermined by the cheesy, random electric guitar and Moore's cop-out follow-up: "Or do I?" She went from day-um! to...damn.

Coincidentally, the other day I was flipping through the new Pottery Barn catalog that features a new focus on "nature" with wood candles and tree-branch wall-art. It reminded me of Wild Hope because not only does its match the album's cover art (sepia-toned photos of Moore in vintage dresses hiking through the woods) but because they both feature pretty, earnestly "natural" yet bland aesthetics that can be found, done better, elsewhere. (Since they're such a good match, I'd love to see her actually in the PB catalog: "New item! Mandy Moore - Chestnut-tressed, with skin like vanilla-flecked creme brulee, this all-American pop star makes the perfect accent to your living room or veranda. Catalog/internet only. $24.95. Free shipping.")

It's too bad the record doesn't work better since Moore can produce a neat phrase here and there ("here and gone, like a decoration for the holiday"), so hopefully any potential shown here will develop by her next album, if she does indeed get another chance.

In the meantime, she could learn a thing or two from talented songwriters who know how to use their voices to create sonic ambience, like Sarah McLachlin or Paula Cole (who Moore will be co-headlining a tour with). Remember Paula Cole? She came out of nowhere in 1996 with This Fire, featuring the moody, left-field hit "Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?" and the Dawson's Creek theme song, "I Don't Want to Wait." After an eight-year hiatus due to record company snafus, getting married and divorced and raising a baby, Cole is back with Courage.

Incredibly self-reflective and brutally, sometimes disturbingly, honest, each song on Courage is like reading Cole's mind as she writes in her journal. Her anger, confusion, regrets and fantasies are laid bare before us, creating a portrait of a fascinating, complicated woman.

Nowhere is this more obvious than the opening, "Comin' Down." In this haunting, primal chant/prayer, we know exactly where she is, her view looking both behind her and to the future. "Lord, make me a lighting bolt to burn off this ring," she begins, asking for help in making better choices. It's hard to overestimate a songwriter who can sum up her spiritual evolution in one song, with bridges that start with "I see the greatness above and the smallness of me," then opens herself up to "I see the greatness within; the greatness in me." Far from arrogance, it's actually humility and trust in the universe and her place in it.

Substituting a jazzier, torchy sound for her previous folksy, unshaved-armpit Womyn past, this is an older, slightly mellower Cole. Unfortunately, some of the arrangements veer into undistinguished, adult contemporary mode. For someone who claims "sometimes I'm too bold for my own good" (as Cole does in "Safe In Your Arms"), you wish that boldness would make its way into the arrangements, not just the words. And not one but two songs turn into duets out of nowhere (the vocalists, Ivan Lins and Paul Buchanan, are not credited on the track listing), creating the jarring feeling that an intimate performance has been interrupted by some drunk stumbling into the studio.

Still, Cole has two weapons at her disposal: her lyrics and her voice. She writes as if using lazy clichés are not only insulting to the audience, but denying her own truth. And her thick, rich, gutteral voice can crawl and float through her range with emotional precision.

It probably doesn't appear fair to title this "D-List Divas," as neither Moore nor Cole seem to be especially diva-ish. But both are starting over - one trying to escape her poppy past, the other trying to climb back into the public radar. And, unfortunately, neither of them seem to be breaking onto radio or TV, either. It remains to be seen if either one can (re-)claim their pop crowns, or if their albums will be remembered a year, or a month, from now.

Also check out: Feist Feels It All. A Lot.
And: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.

You Win

2007-07-12T18:24:00.000-05:00

What is it about sassy gay men that make them so hard to write as on-screen characters? It might work if they're sidekicks to the protagonist (and therefore taken in small doses) as in Kissing Jessica Stein or Will & Grace. But if one is the leading man of a mediocre movie, you're often spending two hours with a wannabe-Wilde who very quickly seems brittle, forced, condescending and phony. It takes a very talented writer to make an him likeable and a very talented actor to let the wit roll off his tongue with panache.

Unfortunately, we have no such luck with Nathan, the leading man in writer/director Russell Brown's Race You to the Bottom. Brown seems to like the idea of writing a young, successful, unabashedly sexual man (scratch the above "gay" adjective and make that "bisexual"), but Nathan is also narcissistic, inconsiderate, rude and sexually inconsiderate. And if you're going to make him "sassy" or "witty" or whatever, then you better give him some good lines. That doesn't happen.

For a brief summary, Nathan (Cole Williams) and Maggie (Amber Benson) abandon their respective boyfriends to take a trip to Napa for an article he's working on for a travel magazine. As soon as they leave, they're making out! Sassy! I think we the audience are either supposed to be so shocked (rubbing our eyes in disbelief, "say wha...?) or cheering them on ("Yeah, you go, sexual rule-breakers!"). But all I could think was "Really? She's cheating on her supercute boyfriend with a greasy Clay Aiken clone wearing way too much eyeliner?"

Some people mistakenly believe that they have to "identify" with the protagonists in art. While I didn't mind that I couldn't identify with Nathan (he actually tells Maggie "the taste of another man on your lips makes me hot." Who talks like that? And...really?), I at least wanted to understand what was so attractive about him to Maggie. The movie offers few clues: He spontaneously dances in hotel rooms! He...um...likes to drink wine! He can get erections!

That last quality is apparently what gives him an edge over Maggie's devoted but pouty boyfriend, Milo. When her friend points out what a great guy Milo is, Maggie guiltlessly shrugs it off. Apparently, to her, it's perfectly okay to cheat on your long-term boyfriend if he can't get it up. And it's perfectly okay to do this with a man who has a boyfriend of his own. The movie's tagline is "Maybe their boyfriends should worry..." Yeah, about STDs.

It's too bad, because the movie could really have approached a unique situation. There aren't many films out there that deal with bisexuality as a legit sexual orientation or, at least, worth exploring as such. The fact that she deems Nathan a "70/30" kind of guy is perfectly fine with Maggie, and I know a lot of women in real life who wouldn't mind if their gorgeous gay best friends were 70/30s as well. And I'm sure relationships like this do exist, however underrepresented in film they may be. But Brown can't do his subject justice, and his dialogue bounces from unrealistic to overused clichés. When Maggie's friend explains Nathan's sexual preference with "bisexuality is just one stop on the road to gayville," I was expecting one of the Sex and the City girls to pop in with "that was my line!"

In fact, Nathan is just so gosh darn sexual that he basically whips it out in front of every attractive guy he comes across. (But not around attractive women besides Maggie. Hmmm, maybe he's more 95/5.) Or he encourages them to whip it out. When they visit some friends during their road trip to Napa, Nathan effortlessly seduces the hunky husband, Joe (Justin Hartley, the only man in this movie who doesn't have the skinny, hairless build of a 12-year-old). But as he gives Joe a hands-on workshop in new masturbation techniques, Mr. Overly-Sexed-Up Nathan spaces out and we cut to an utterly pointless flashback. (Focus, Nathan! Aren't Gen Y-ers overly-medicated on ADD pills?) By the time we're back to the present, Joe zips up and gives the most unconvincing "wow" in cinema history. Geez, this movie about sexual boundary-breaking can't even get handjobs right.

As they ascend the hills of their vineyard-hopping adventure, they become irritated and annoyed with each other - he at her clinginess and prudery, she at his pursuits of his 70% side. One review generously compared this to Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf? for Generation Y (or whatever the hell we are), but I think that's a bit of an overstatement. They say such awful things to each other (especially Nathan) that you're not quite sure why you want to be around them anymore. You could argue that Nathan is intentionally turning Maggie off after she declared her love for him - to save her, to protect her, to break her heart now because it would be even crueler to lead her on - but that would mean Nathan would have to think of someone besides himself.

First Maggie tells him that his need to seduce everyone is due to his self-loathing, then she accuses him of only loving himself. Which is it? Just like Nathan, the movie tries to have it both ways, mistaking snark for charm. And like Nathan, Race You to the Bottom sorely lacks the latter.

Also check out: Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans (Or At Least Just Sing About It)
And: Movie review: Rent.

Where Am I?

2007-07-11T20:37:00.000-05:00

What is this strange and magical land with its green borders, witty textual phrases and crisp aroma of impending Pulitzers?

Oh, right, it's my blog. I haven't been here in a while so I kind of forgot what it looks like.

So obviously I've been kind of MIA lately. I just had to take a break. A few pop culture/food/media/Chicago things had flashed into my radar, pulsating every so lightly with mild interest. I have been trying recipes (107 down!), listening to new music and reading great books , but I just couldn't commit any of it to the page/monitor.

Blame the bazillion degree weather or the Food Network. Both would be slightly accurate. Really, I just didn't feel like it. Sometimes you just have to take a break from writing; you have to get off cruise control, pull over and just be a tourist in your own strange little life. Luckily, batteries have recharged and I will getting back on the road soon. Stay tuned.

Black and White and...

2007-06-21T20:12:00.000-05:00

Ah, New York, the city of dualities. Gritty and sophisticated, hipsters and hippies, WASPs and wiggers (yeah, I'm bringing back "wigger"), cupcakes, Cosmos and crack. How can you not love it? At least, you know, in small doses. My sweetie and I were there for three days and three nights eating, drinking and figuring out the streets from the avenues. Luckily, we stayed with my lovely friend/hostess Stacey who knows all the hot spots.

Some surprises? Black and white cookies and Egg Creams (which has neither eggs nor cream - discuss) both deserve their legendary reputations, TKTS doesn't just offer decent Broadway ticket prices but great seats, too, and the Metra is so much better than the CTA. Of course, riding a blind, amputated warthog would be better and faster than the CTA, but I digress. I would digress even more if I expounded on my crush for Raúl Esparza, so all I'll say is, if you can see Company before it closes July 1st, do it. Go. That's all I'm saying.

Even better was the lack of taxes on clothing and the unpredictably decent prices. Sure, Dean and Deluca might charge an arm and leg for some products, but they also have Meyer Lemon Olive Oil for $22 which is the same as in Chicago. And did I mention there's no taxes on clothes?!?!

Also surprising? Magnolia Bakery. Meh. Their cupcakes were dry and the buttercream frosting was so sweet I could taste the sugar granules. I actually prefer Chicago's own Cupcakes for their flavor combinations and Swirlz for their superior, moist cakes and restrained use of smooth frosting.

Two other highlights included the Museum of Modern Art and a Greenwich Village food tour. We went for MoMa's Richard Serra exhibit but stayed for Israeli photographer Barry Frydlender's huge portraits composed of dozens (or even hundreds) of seamlessly collaged digital pictures. The 3-hour food tour stuffed us with pizza, freshly-filled cannoli and deep-fried rice balls. That, my friends? Is called heaven.

While I wasn't pleased with the way most of my photos turned out, I'm wrapping this post up with pics offering a glimpse of Serra's towering steel slab sculptures in MoMa's garden and some Greenwich Village gems.

Also check out: Wisconsin, Suckas.
And: Happy Birthday to Me.

Fuggedaboutit, Suckas

2007-06-13T20:00:00.000-05:00

Don't be offended, the title is sort of a tradition at this point. And yes, I am traveling to NYC for a long weekend vacation with the sweetie. Woo-hoo! Bring on the black and white cookies, the egg creams and the entitled superiority.

Unfortunately, I also have a cold. Yeah. Who has a cold in June? Me, right before my first vacation in a long time. So I hope the cast of "Spring Awakening" doesn't mind that there will be some guy in the mezzanine blowing his nose while they sing about their hormonal urges and teenage oppression.

So anyway, I'll hopefully be back to blogging by early next week, unless all that New York attitude really rubs off on me and I decide blogging is so 2006 or something.

You better wash your hands before coming into my city, bitch.

Also check out: Seattle, Suckas.
And: Aloha, Suckas.

The Same Thing We All Do With Our Feet

2007-06-06T20:42:00.000-05:00

Many bloggers have talked about the funny phrases people look up that somehow lead them to their blogs. At this point, it's almost a cliché post. But I can't keep one in particular to myself. (Trust me, I could have done a whole post about how someone looked up the phrase "Who decided that Elizabeth Berkeley is attractive" and found my site...but I didn't.) When looking up what leads people to my blog, I came across this phrase:

What did the most flexible japense [sic] women do with her feet?

Um, WHAT?!?! Is there some Japanese (sorry, "Japense") woman who's somehow been proven to be more flexible than every other Japanese woman alive? And does she do something strange with her feet? It almost sounds like a riddle...and I came up with an answer that's just too dirrrty to mention. So I'll go with title here as the answer.

Not only did it lead this flexible Japanese fetishist to my site, I was the #1 result on Google for this particular phrase. I couldn't tell from the other results what they were looking for in the first place. The reason my blog was pulled at all was because of this post featuring my description of Margaret Cho's burlesque show, which I can assure you had nothing to do with her doing anything special with her feet.

In other not-really-news about people lumping together things that are only barely related, CBS Chicago's website features a completely random slideshow on their site where they basically try to list every single celebrity who's gay and out. The only explanation given is:

Here's a look at some stars who are living openly gay lives, and realizing that it is "in to be out."

I love how "in to be out" is in quotes as if that's a phrase that people actually use. I've never heard anyone say this, probably because it's not really true. To be sure, they feature Rupert Everett, who actually reveals in his autobiography that he lost roles in movies like About A Boy specifically because he is gay. I don't mean to belittle the progress that has been made when people like Neil Patrick Harris and T.R. Knight have come out and still maintained solid careers, but I just wish that CBS Chicago had maybe put this feature in some context and really explained why it was there.

And, oh yeah..."some stars"? They list every single gay person who's ever had even the most passing brush with fame, not to mention the most obviously gay celebrities that even the most clueless straight people would already know. News flash: The stars of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy are...wait for it...queer!

But what they can do with their feet remains to be seen.

Also check out: This Post is AWESUM.
And: Who Wants to See That?

Kinsey Sicks Wanna Be Republicans (Or At Least Just Sing About It)

2007-06-03T20:15:00.000-05:00

Are you a depressed Democrat, looking for a cheap laugh at your political counterparts' expense? Or maybe you're a repressed Republican who needs an injection of pride? Then you might want to think about checking out The Kinsey Sicks. These funny, talented drag queens have been performing since 1994 and have finally captured their four-part harmonies and bawdy political humor on their first live concert film, I Wanna Be a Republican (due June 12th).

I admit, I had never heard of them before watching this new DVD but quickly found myself attuned to their patented brand of campy sarcasm. I mean, there's over-the-top, and then there's the Kinsey Sicks. Self-billed as "America's favorite dragapella beautyshop quartet" (because, really, we have so many to choose from. Thank you, democracy!), these four feisty drag queens stage a mock GOP fundraiser to announce their switch to the Republican party. According to anal Winnie, "your contributions this evening will help eradicate such rampant social evils as social security! Evolution! Pleasure!"

The following 84 minutes are not only entertaining but, really, educational as well as they sing (in impressive a capella four-part harmonies) the benefits of conservatism. One by one, the group - which also includes glamorous Trixie, horny Rachel and spiritual Trampolina - take to the podium to explain why and how they decided to cross party lines. At the end of the fundraiser, we're promised that "George W. Bush himself will be here to deliver his first ever coherent public policy address!"

During their personal speeches, they take on numerous subjects, reveal personal confessions and hold nothing back. On why she's a pro-choice Republican, Trixie says, "We cannot go back to the days of back-alley abortions. I myself have spent much time in those back alleys and believe me, nothing ruins the moment more than a mangled fetus."

On Trixie's decision, Winnie assures her that "it's fine for you to be a pro-choice Republican as long as you're content to have no influence whatsoever."

And that's just the between-song banter. To kick things off, the ladies outline their motivations in their anthemic title song, singing "I'm tired of thinking about you when it's all about me, me, me!...Now I'm in a place where I'm embraced for being selfish and mean!"

Apparently, joining the Republican party has its advantages. "Don't you just love flesh-colored bandages?" Trixie sings in "All the White Places." And in "Money," the title subject "buys you noses and elections, it buys you pills that buy erections." Plus, you can can have politically correct cocktail parties while exploiting those you oppress: "Rent a homo for your party, you will have a barrel of fun! Rent a homo for your party, every party should have one."

The only part I found confusing was Trampolina's gospel-tinged "Be A Slut," where God told her to, well...I think the title explains it (in case it doesn't, the chorus goes: "Be a slut! Be a slut! No ifs, no ands, but lots of butt!"). The "abstinence-only" Republican party doesn't exactly seem pro-sex but hey, if every Republican drag queen was as inspiring as Trampolina, they might just change their policies. Girl doesn't just sing, she can sang.

Filmed before a game audience in San Francisco (tough crowd to convince of the powers of Republicanism), the Kinsey Sicks doo-wop, meditate, seduce audience members and hire minorities for photo ops. Does W. ever show up for his public policy address? I won't spoil it, but they do perform his personal anthem called "When You're Good to Dubya," a take on Chicago's "When You're Good to Mama."

Watching a concert on TV is always strange as there seems to be a disconnect between you and the live audience. Some things are just funnier in person, even if you're watching the same joke in your living room. And I admit, I never want to see a drag queen acting out the party game "Bobbing for Butt Hairs" ever again. But on one of the DVD's many special features, more than one of the cast members reveal that their conservative parents enjoyed the show. By the time the Sicks close with "We Arm the World," you might be singing along, too.

Also check out: Laughs and Tears, Courtesy of the New York Times.
And: Magically Delicious.

What Time Left Behind

2007-05-30T22:06:00.000-05:00

Time magazine's cover story on No Child Left Behind is a much-needed evaluation of a controversial, complicated law. I mean, their first example is a school where, before the law was enacted, only 13% of fifth- and eighth-graders could read at grade level or above. Now that number is 36%. That's like a difference of...um...well, it's a big difference.

I've never read the actual document because it's, oh, 1,100 pages, so I'm only as familiar with the law as I am with the criticisms of it. (I'm barely getting through The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, and that's only because I have to for my book club.) This article helped put the statute in perspective. The purpose of the law was to expose failing schools and hold them accountable. And, according to Time, it's done just that.

It's almost everywhere else that the law has underperformed.

Raising student achievement? "Though some districts are reporting significant gains, results on national math and reading tests are mostly flat - so far." (Which is only kind of true - their own graphs show gains in math for fifth- and eighth-graders.)

Measuring school improvement? "The law's reliance on a single,pass-fail system for assessing 'adequate yearly progress' is one of its weakest points." In other words, every school has to reach a standardized plane of grade-level reading. So even kids who make significant gains but don't reach that plane are considered failures.

Raising standards for teachers? "NCLB is the first federal statute to require that teachers actually know the subjects they teach, though there are still some loopholes." Time gave NCLB a mixed review for what it expects of teachers, and teachers have some problems with NCLB. 30,000 educators (and concerned citizens) have signed an online petition against the statute.*

Helping schools improve? "Even the department of Education concedes that its remedies for chronic school failure are not working." Ouch. None of the remedies, which include tutoring and transferring students to non-failing schools, "have any basis in reality or research," says one research professor of education at NYU. Ooh, snap.

The part I was most interested in reading about was how NCLB's intense focus on standardized testing for math and reading leaves other subjects overlooked. With so much time dedicated to taking tests (a skill some smart children aren't good at, to begin with), the article explains how science and social studies have suffered.

I was surprised that the authors left it at that. While those are undoubtedly essential subjects, I was expecting them to then explore the lack of art, music and physical education in our grade schools. Granted, their suggestions for NCLB's improvement include schools providing more information about "achievement in the arts" but the suggestion seems half-assed. What about the effects on students' morale, engagement and, indeed, performance in other subjects due to the dwindling focus on art and music? There have been studies done (they're what VH1's entire "Save the Music" foundation is based on), so why weren't they even briefly referenced?

Even more blatant is overlooking the consequences of diminishing physical education. According to the National Center for Education Statistics (the same source for many of Time's figures), only 17-22% of elementary schools provided daily physical education in 2005. This is extremely important because childhood obesity seems to be growing as fast as a third-grader's waistband. (Seriously, has anyone at Time ever seen those overweight kids on Maury Povich? They eat grilled cheese sandwiches the way others eat french fries) Yes, there are other contributing factors, such as eating habits and extra-curricular activities. But do they think recess makes up for no gym class? Are they thinking about this at all?

Almost 1 in every 3 kids is overweight or at the risk of becoming overweight. It's a greasy, oily, deep-fried downward spiral from there. The huge increase in rates of childhood obesity has led to increased rates of childhood diabetes, so much so that "adult-onset diabetese" has changed names to just "type 2 diabetese" since so many kids have it now. Along with increased blood pressure and stress, today's children are on the road to lifelong health problems. And according to the American Heart Association in 2006, the direct national cost of treating obesity-related diseases are already estimated at $61 billion. That number could go up and up as these overweight children turn into overweight adults. Of course, this problem began before NCLB, but that program's intense emphasis on standardized testing has exacerbated it.

I just couldn't believe Time didn't even touch on this subject. Granted, it's already a long article (almost as long as this post), but still. If it's going to be a comprehensive evaluation of the program, negative side effects should be mentioned, if not thoroughly explored.

Time's final grade for No Child Left Behind? C.

My final grade for Time's article? B.

*Updated - Thanks to input from Philip, this part was modified as the original phrasing may have contained misleading implications regarding the motivations behind the teacher's petition.

Also check out: The Top 10 Lists of Top 10 Lists.
And: Cheney Trumps New Orleans?

Feist Feels It All. A lot.

2007-05-29T09:29:00.000-05:00

The cover of Feist's second album, The Reminder, shows rainbow lasers beaming from her throat, symbolizing either her colorful singing or that her neck is really gay. Feist (she dropped her first name, Leslie) was the lead singer for the punk band Placebo (but not the more famous band of the same name), sang with indie rock supergroup Broken Social Scene and even collaborated with her ex-roommate, the raunchy electro/punk goddess Peaches. Since the rainbow beams are both behind and in front of her, maybe it's saying that her colorful past informs her colorful music?

OK, so I'm overthinking it, but overthinking seems right up Feists's alley. The lyrics produce a cohesive vision of a self-reflective, independent woman who questions relationships but always acknowledges her own roles and flaws in them. Check out the uptempo, wonderfully complicated "I Feel It All," where Feist starts out chanting phrases like the title, "the wings are wide," "wild card inside," and "I know more than I knew before." It's as if she's psyching herself up to tackle the obstacles in her relationship ("No one likes to take a test"). But the head-boppy, guitar-strumming music is so upbeat, as is her delivery, that it sounds like Feist is ready to take it all on.

Then there's the first single, "1234." Finger snaps, cascading pianos, bright horn sections, a back-up chorus and a banjo all swirl around some of my favorite lyrics on the album. "1234, tell me that you love me more/sleepless long nights that is what my youth was for" - I love it! In other words: "Hi, yeah, I'm not a teenager anymore, so that brooding, too-cool, anti-commitment thing isn't going to work. Be emotionally available or I'm out." While so many pop stars over the age of 25 think they have to get caught up in relationship drama to appear youthful (what's up, Gwen Stefani?), it's refreshing to hear a grown woman write emotionally developed, mature music, especially when she's so gosh-darn cute about them (to see what I mean, watch the video here).

With these gems, why does the album seem so long? Maybe it's because out of thirteen songs, about 8 of them are ballads. Seriously, Feist might be a mature, independent woman, but girl needs some caffeine. The lyrics are indeed insightful. Everyone can relate to "Intuition," which questions how and where one gets their feelings about the relationship they're in, such as when do you work at it? When do you move on? (It ends on the melancholy note: "It's impossible to tell/how important someone was/and what you might have missed out on...Did I miss out on you?" Pass the tissues. And the vodka.) It's lovely, but by the album's finale, these moments bordered on overly-precious.

It's not that the slower songs aren't good, but when more than half the album consists of a girl and her piano - plus some funky extra (but minimal) sounds and a lot of water/mountain metaphors (I'll let you figure that out) - they tend to blur together. Feist seems to get lost in her music, as if in a trance, where her vocals echo and wrap and warp around themselves to create more of an ambiance than a narrative. But when she picks up the pace, as in the haunting, jazzy "My Moon My Man" or the tribal "Sealion," her interpretation of Nina Simone's "See Line Woman," she creates an urgent sexiness without losing any of the mood or insight.

Because the Canadian singer-songwriter is riding a shallow but growing wave of buzz into the U.S., I was hoping her sophomore effort would showcase her range of musical interests and to some extent, it does. The instrumentation is creative, unpredictable and sometimes curious, but in a good way. She's a worldly pop chanteuse that just happens to sometimes play the banjo. (I might not know punk, but that seems pretty punk, right? Right?)

After touring for two and a half years supporting her first album, Let It Die, Feist cozied up with her band in a 200-year-old French manor house to record The Reminder. It's intimate, it's torchy, and even though she seems to have been dragged down by all the self-reflection, the overall album is beautiful. So after all that deep, profound self-analysis, let's just say the cover art for The Reminder is cool, and leave it at that.

Also check out: In Defense of Amy Winehouse.
And: KT Tunstall: Telescopic Bugaloo.

This Post is AWESUM

2007-05-27T16:48:00.000-05:00

I just took a lovely walk through the tree-lined, sun-dappled streets of my neighborhood. I picked up some báhn mí sandwiches, shrimp rolls and steamed pork buns (tee-hee) at a new French-Vietnamese bakery. Hoping to score some limoncello, I stopped in a local liquor store. You know the kind: dirty floors, dirty shelves, merchandise that's been there since 1982, and a very weathered, heavily eye-linered woman behind the counter gruffly asking, "How ya doin'?" as if her throat was lined with sandpaper.

Anyway, they were out of limoncello (that stuff is hard to find, yo) so I picked up some citron vodka. As I was paying for it, I turned around to see a sign behind me:

Absolutely NO wireless communications allowed in this store.

Xplanation - They are VEXING and INSOLENT.

What I love about this is that it's so direct and yet it leaves so many questions. "Xplanation"? Doesn't spelling it like that deserve an xplanation of its own? Was that intentional? And is writing out an "E" such a time-sucking burden? For people who are so against "wireless communications," I would they think they'd find spelling a word like that cutesy and annoying. While this is not the first store to have rules against cell phones, it is the first I've seen to use such sophisticated and accurate adjectives.

Maybe it's not just the merchandise that's stuck in 1982 there. The ironic part is, if there wasn't such vexing wireless communications in the first place, they wouldn't have to put up such a great sign. I think that sign itself might justify all the unnecessary, attention-sapping and, yes, insolent technologies that the store owners are so against. But I wouldn't xplain that to them.

Deep Thoughts with Amy Sedaris

2007-05-17T22:17:00.000-05:00

What Amy did when a rich uncle unexpectedly dropped in for a visit:

After he fell asleep, I sprinkled a trail of glitter from the window to his bed so when he awoke he could imagine a fairy had come to visit him while he was sleeping. I also gathered some bricks and stones from the basement that I could heat in the oven and place around his pillow to keep his head warm.

Something we could all learn from. Thanks, Amy.

Check out previous deep thoughts here!

102 Recipes Down!

2007-05-14T21:03:00.000-05:00

Only 23 to go!

FINALLY! It's like there's a light at the end of the spaghetti noodle.

When I first started working my way through every recipe in Giada De Laurentiis' Everyday Italian, one of my first posts - way back in February, 2006 - finished with "6 down, 119 to go." Now I have less than two dozen in front of me.

Unfortunately, they're 23 of the more complicated dishes - some calling for a lot of fresh seafood, some with really long roasting times (not what I'm looking for when it's finally 80 degrees outside) and some that I've been avoiding simply because they don't really entice me. (I'm slowly working on my irrational hatred of eggplant.)

Some things that I'm learning along the way:

1) Throw whatever you got into your tomato sauce. Now, I understand that classic tomato sauces are hotly debated, what with the ratio of onion to garlic, vessel of sweetness (carrot or sugar?), and so forth. But, it seems that there's a lot of flexibility after you get the basic template down. Want it spicy? Add red pepper flakes...and then maybe some capers and olives to round out the flavor. Want it thicker? Add some pancetta and Parmesan. (Well, almost anything is better when you add bacon and cheese.)

2) Atkins is WRONG. Some carbs are not only delicious but good for you. Quinoa, a South American grain, can be easily substituted for rice, even in risotto. It won't be as creamy since it has less starch, but it's filling and tastes great. You can substitute low-fat (not non-fat) ricotta in your stuffed manicotti, soy milk (not vanilla) for cream in your frittata, and turkey for just about any recipe calling for pork sausage or ground beef.

3) It really does taste better homemade. I know: duh. When throwing together some turkey burgers, I was able to top them with homemade olive tapenade and homemade roasted peppers. Would it have been fine buried under jarred garnishes? Maybe. But I decided what kind of olives went into mine (no black ones, thank you). And the peppers had a smoky-sweet flavor and tender texture that you just don't find in the jarred kind. (Although Giada's recipe calls for the more laborious method of broiling the peppers instead of just charring them directly over gas stove burners.)

3a) ...Especially when it's fresh. As an addendum, sometimes rule #3 works only if you're using fresh ingredients. For instance, while it is convenient that Trader Joe's sells bags of frozen calamari rings, you'll still be able to tell they're frozen even after you've fried them. But then sometimes frozen is okay, like using their frozen red snapper for Giada's Roasted Red Snapper. So it's just a matter of trial and error. And not listening to me, apparently, since I just contradicted myself in one rule.

On another note, I realized a little while ago that I really should have started a separate blog for this project. But, a lot of what this blog does is intersect food with pop culture, and what better way to do that, while utilizing the immediate user-generated feedback the internet excels at, than by cooking my way through the cookbook of a Food Network star?

Anyway, I'm almost done with this project and I definitely will not be starting a similar project anytime soon. I'm ready and eager to mix it up with different recipes. Bring on the short ribs! And the...um...clementine cake! And the pistachio brownies! And the billion other recipes I've been drooling over the past year and half but putting off, all in the name of Giada. Just as long as they're covered in bacon and cheese (aw hell, why stop there? Smear some Nutella on while you're at it), I'll be just fine.

Also check out: The Food Detective.
And: Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My!

Why I Love The Onion

2007-05-07T20:56:00.000-05:00

Because of articles like this:

"Women Now Empowered By Everything A Woman Does"

My favorite part? Where they rip on Luna bars, the energy bars specifically for women:

'Unlike traditional, phallocentric energy bars, whose chocolate, soy protein, nuts, and granola ignored the special health and nutritional needs of women, their new, female-oriented counterparts like Luna are ideally balanced with a more suitable amount of chocolate, soy protein, nuts, and granola,' Klein said. 'Proto-feminist pioneers like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony could never have imagined that female empowerment would one day come in bar form.'

I don't find this hilarious because I have any problem with products championing women's health per se, but because I find Luna bars specifically to be hilarious. From their website:

"As women, we understand the importance of wholesome, natural foods to help energize and support you through your day and life."

Um, what? That's somehow attributed to XX chromosomes? So then, men who eat healthy are somehow blurring the gender lines? Gosh, now that bowl of quinoa I had last night feels so subversive. I guess that means my morning oatmeal is downright kinky! I don't consider myself androgynous, but apparently my meals are. I wonder if David Bowie ever eats tofu.

Also check out: Well, That's Better Than Oops! I Crapped My Spandex Shorts.
And: Pink vs. The Magazine Stars.

In Defense of Amy Winehouse

2007-05-04T20:46:00.000-05:00

Neo-soul singer Amy Winehouse just played at the Vic in Chicago last night and the local critics were eager to voice their disappointment. Time Out Chicago's blog pointed out the shame "that Winehouse’s raw talent – so ably displayed on her recent Back To Black album – didn’t translate to a live setting." And Chicagoist pulled no punches: "From a critical standpoint, she was just a train wreck."

Ouch.

Chicagoist's Tankboy mentions that her SXSW performance "produced the buzz she rode into her sold-out Chicago show." Well, I didn't hear any of that buzz, so I came in with lower expectations. I love BtB, I've seen the music videos and read the booze and drug-streaked stories about her on gossip blogs. More importantly, I also checked out some performance videos on YouTube where she basically stood at a mic and sang in a dark, small space to subdued crowds. So as I walked into the early twentieth-century vaudeville theater, I wondered, "what will she actually do on a full stage?"

First, her 9-piece band, The Dap Kings, filed onto stage. Then Amy struts on to rapturous applause and good Lord she is tiny. Seriously, she's like a foot shorter than everyone else. (I don't just mean on stage. She's basically a foot shorter than anyone, ever) Her huge, upswept black hair and thick Cleopatra eye shadow probably weigh more than she does. She was wearing a belly-baring (and, thusly, tattoo-bearing) t-shirt and the lowest slung jeans I have ever seen. My first thought was, "is she going to sing out of her vagina?" I mean, I know she's talented...

Anyway. I, for one, was riveted by her. She carried a basket full of candy and popped in two huge pieces of bubblegum, and then sang flawlessly anyway. Between songs, after admitting in her thick British accent that she's terrible with onstage banter, she starts throwing candy into the crowd. Chicagoist referred to this as "padding" her set. Since when is talking to the crowd and having fun "padding"? Her remarks, when understandable, were hilarious. She danced in her own little funny way and made sure the stagehands kept her plastic cup full of gin. I like her.

There were nuances that maybe not every audience member could see depending on their angle. Chicagoist criticized her " annoying tendency to try and pull off the 'bad girl' act to mask insecurity and inexperience." She seemed genuinely surprised at the crowd's roaring enthusiasm, eliciting a smirk or widened eyes from her and looking back at her band as if to say, "can you believe this?" I swear we were witnessing this very young - and yes, maybe insecure - woman realizing the power she wields. She seemed to flit from unsure to torchy diva to brassy badass back to shy again within minutes. She is only 23 after all. (And then, to be honest, sometimes she seemed to be coasting on her big, bluesy voice alone.) It was raw, unpolished, uneven and totally refreshing to watch.

Did the show have problems? Sure. The set was short, but if you were smart enough to snag the tickets when they were $20 you might not be as pissed about that. The Dap Kings were underutilized. And, for some reason, they did rush the songs, but it seems inaccurate to criticize Amy for rushing her delivery - the songs were simply played faster so she accomodated appropriately.

Did she nervously fuss with her hair? Not that much, but even if she did, c'mon! Where do you think she keeps her extra booze? And yes she hiked up her jeans a lot, but no one criticizes rappers for touching their crotches for no reason a bazillion times per show. When Amy does it, it's a sign of her lack of presence.

On the contrary, it's exactly all these little tics and flaws that made her so interesting. She's not a one-note, run-up-and-down-the-stage performer, nor should she try to be. She's not a rock star. BtB is polished, but that doesn't mean we have to expect her performances to be. Many of her songs are about her fucking up, she referred to herself as "fuck up" on stage, and she's even documented her refusal to clean up her fucked-up-ness on her hit "Rehab." We all knew exactly what we were getting when going to her show. You can call her a "train wreck," but why stop there? She was a boozy, messy, funny, flirty, great-sounding train wreck. And it was bewitching.

Also check out: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.
And: Out with the Old, In with the Slightly Less Old.

Okay, Go: Scissor Sisters

2007-04-24T20:57:00.000-05:00

Could I love them even more? Now they've chosen my favorite song from their second album, Ta-Dah, as their third single. Here's the video for "Kiss You Off," complete with snappy choreography, saran-wrap trenchcoats and amputated, dancing mannequins. Plus, Ana Matronic takes the lead on this one - what more convincing do you need? Granted, this song is best when blasted at top volume so you can lip-sync while dancing on your bed, but watching the video on a computer is a close second.

(P.S. Are you there, Maroon 5? Hi. It's me, Donny B. This is how you do disco and rock together. Not your lame new single, which manages to be both catchy and kind of crappy at the same time. I can appreciate you guys trying to branch out, but alas, I think you fell out of the tree altogether. Next time, just get Jake Shears and Babydaddy to write your stuff for you, since that's who you're ripping off anyway.)

Tell me what you think!

Also check out: Okay, Go: Mika.
And: Scissor Sisters: Filthy and Gorgeous.

WWED?

2007-04-22T21:01:00.000-05:00

So today is Earth Day. Happy Birthday, Earth! No, wait, that's not what today is about.

Happy Anniversary, ol' buddy! No? That's not it, either?

Um...

Here's to another year of sobriety? What? Oh, okay...

Um...

Happy 161st blog post, Earth! Wait, that's me.

Anyway, today is Earth Day, so apparently we're supposed to celebrate this by eating. Or, that's what it seemed like at the Green Expo in Chicago this weekend. Organic lavender chocolate, vegan "ice cream," hemp oil tastings, organic cherry cabernet jam, vegan BBQ soy nuggets with vegan BBQ sauce, etc.

There were other booths, of course, all celebrating everything and anything "green." Housed in the huge McCormick Place, there were so many products that some vendors had to share the same booth. Paint, clothes, soap, razors, tiles, rugs, new magazines, books, office supplies, baskets made out of recycled chopsticks and more. It was like a street fair but with more flax and less drugs.

Maybe it could be called the "Whole Foods Effect," or maybe it's because of An Inconvenient Truth, but, based on those attending the Expo, the green movement and environmentalism seem to be getting more and more mainstream, which in turn attracts diversity. Families with SUV strollers paraded through middle-aged couples in hemp shirts. Buff pretty boys lead their girlfriends past skinny, dread-locked hippies on cell phones. Maybe it was the cause, maybe it was the great weather, but everyone seemed pretty pleasant in the loud, packed exhibit.

One of my favorite highlights was the Steaz booth. They created a line of organic green tea sodas with only organic Ceylon green tea, natural flavors and organic cane juice (not high fructose corn syrup!). In flavors like orange, root beer and lemon dew, they are slightly fizzy and not too sweet. Even better news was the Steaz Energy drink, the self-proclaimed "world's first certified USDA Organic and Fair Trade energy drink." Combining guayaki yerba mate ("nature's most balanced stimulant") and guarana ("high in naturally occurring caffeine") with natural flavors and organic green tea, one can has 80mg of caffeine without that awful, chemically sweet taste of most energy drinks.

While recharging with an organic energy drink, why not charge your cell phone the natural way? Noon Solar has created a line of handbags with a solar panel on one side and inside is a small charger. After sun exposure for a minimum of three hours, you can remove the charger, plug in your cell phone or iPod and recharge it wherever you want. Not only is it a practical way to start thinking about sustainable, renewable energy, the bags are rugged and, well, stylish. I mean, why shouldn't it be environmentally friendly and cool-looking?

Even conscientious crowds can be overwhelming so we left after a few hours. As we walked down to dinner, the wind had blown garbage from overstuffed dumpsters across a few, normally well-maintained streets.

"Ugh," I frowned. "Isn't this supposed to be Earth Day?"

So we picked up what we could. And when picking up the bf's eye contact solution at Walgreens, the cashier put the single box into a plastic bag.

"No, thanks," he told her, carrying it home in hand.

Just what Earth would want us to do.

Also check out: LOL @ NPR.
And: That Pretty Much Sums It Up.

Copyright Royalty Board Killed the Internet Radio Star

2007-04-20T20:22:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so that's obviously not a very clever title, but it is accurate. Speaking of not clever, in case you haven't heard, the U.S. Copyright Royalty Board hiked royalty rates for Internet radio stations so high they will render the medium unsustainable. So now, many artists who only get coverage online (don't expect Clear Channel to pick up the slack here) won't get any coverage at all. This isn't about the stations not wanting to pay royalties or copyright fees-they have been this whole time anyway. It's basically about greed.

So I saw this on Something Glorious and thought I'd pass it along...

Hi, it's Tim from Pandora,

I'm writing today to ask for your help. The survival of Pandora and all of Internet radio is in jeopardy because of a recent decision by the Copyright Royalty Board in Washington, DC to almost triple the licensing fees for Internet radio sites like Pandora. The new royalty rates are irrationally high, more than four times what satellite radio pays, and broadcast radio doesn't pay these at all. Left unchanged, these new royalties will kill every Internet radio site, including Pandora.

In response to these new and unfair fees, we have formed the SaveNetRadio Coalition, a group that includes listeners, artists, labels and webcasters. I hope that you will consider joining us.

Please sign our petition urging your Congressional representative to act to save Internet radio.

Understand that we are fully supportive of paying royalties to the artists whose music we play, and have done so since our inception. As a former touring musician myself, I'm no stranger to the challenges facing working musicians. The issue we have with the recent ruling is that it puts the cost of streaming far out of the range of ANY webcaster's business potential.

I hope you'll take just a few minutes to sign our petition - it WILL make a difference. As a young industry, we do not have the lobbying power of the RIAA. You, our listeners, are by far our biggest and most influential allies.

As always, and now more than ever, thank you for your support.

-Tim Westergren
(Pandora founder)

Also check out: Yawn or Grrr.
And: Random Thoughts: The Devil and Miss Stone, 300-Pack Abs, and Akon's Vibe.

Top Project Runway Rip-Off

2007-04-12T20:17:00.000-05:00

With Top Chef, Top Design and last night's debut of Shear Genius, it seems that Bravo is committed to landscaping their entire schedule with the creative-arts-reality-contest "brand" they created with Project Runway. Take twelve campy, dramatic creative people, stuff them in a pressure cooker situation with multiple challenges per episode and then offer them up to awkward hosts and bitchy judges. The diminished returns are obvious. As evidence of how much Bravo has diluted their own brand: Heidi Klum begat Padma Lakshmi who begat Todd Oldham who begat...Jaclyn Smith?

The differences become especially obvious during the best part of each show - the judging process. Top Design is as much about a visual art form as PR. Sure, you might not get to walk in the space and really analyze the details, but for the most part you're experiencing what the judges experience. The vital difference from PR's judging process, however, is that rooms don't move. Those ugly, cavernous booths the contestants paint windows on just sit there. Each designer awkwardly stands at the entrance while the judges silently walk around their creation before moving on to the next one. The whole process is strangely quiet and restrained.

At first I was underwhelmed by TD. Even after a couple episodes, not one contestant had produced a room provoking a response beyond "eh, it's fine." Luckily, Bravo snagged at least 6 genuinely talented designers that began to produce much work as the show went on. And I was happy to see the sophisticated Matt walk away with the contest. He was always professional and produced consistently chic rooms.

(As a side note, since the show is called Top Design and not Top Designer, shouldn't that mean Matt's collection of chairs and sofas walk away with the prize money? And when did Todd Oldham get so orange and sing-songy? He's like a flirty carrot. Even with his exhaustive quick fixes for the contestants, he was much more charming on his own HGTV show.)

What frustrates me about Top Chef is that you can't participate in the judging process the way you can with PR. You hear about the ingredients the contestants are throwing together, you watch them sweat over a stove with a blow torch or massive chef's knife, and you can admire, or mock, the presentation. But you can't actually taste the final product. You have to take the judges' word on whether or not they achieve culinary perfection.

As for Shear Genius...well, let's just say that so far, the best part about it is that it's theme song is nowhere nearly as ear-bleedingly bad as Top Design's. It's as if the composer of TD's wants everyone to hate music as much as they do.

It's not the other show's fault. They just don't fit the medium of television contests the way PR does. Dinner plates and 12'x12' rooms aren't revealed by sexy models hopping and spinning and baring ass. I'm not saying they should, but it would be fun to see a starving model hungrily salivating over the hunk of beef she's parading around, and I don't just mean tall, scruffy TC contestant Sam Talbot (pictured above right). And I have a feeling SG's models might regret appearing on the show once they realize they have to stand around with treasure chest "hair art" on their heads.

Whether it's a plate of dehydrated veal cheeks, plywood walls smothered in Tuscan Sunrise paint, or a mannequin head sporting yet another set of asymetrical bangs, not one of these shows produces the same kinetic sexiness of PR's runway shows. And considering PR just started auditions for Season Four, it's going to be a while before the original returns.

(Thanks to Chicagoist and New York for the pics.)

Also check out: Pack Your Breasts and Leave.
And: Project Runway Sashays Into My Heart.
And: Todd Oldham: Everyone's New Best Friend.

What Hath Hilary Swank Wrought?

2007-04-09T16:36:00.000-05:00

The Reaping isn’t the zero-star catastrophe that some critics have claimed, nor is it as good as it could have been. But somewhere before producers and editors slashed the movie into tiny incoherent pieces is a movie that could have been both a topical commentary on current events and a throwback to when horror movies were actually respected (and respectable).

Hilary Swank plays Katherine, a former Christian missionary whose husband and daughter were ruthlessly sacrificed by local savages while on a humanitarian mission in Sudan. Now a faithless professor who specializes in using science to debunk religious “miracles,” she’s asked to investigate a small town plagued by, well, plagues.

In Haven (get it? Oh, the subtlety), Louisiana, the river runs red, frogs rain from above, and victims of boils beg for Dr. 90210 to save them. Instead, they get Katherine and Ben (Idris Elba), her hunky, faithful and faith-full assistant who believes the plagues have a Biblical explanation after all.

The screenplay practically screams “Current Events!” as soon as our independent, scientist heroine is greeted by the God-fearing, breeding, family-centric Christians. Katherine hangs on to her scientific theories as long as possible, even delivering a fantastic monologue scientifically explaining the origins of the original Egyptian plagues, before things just get too weird.

This sets up a story brimming with religious-thriller potential, and the fact that the writers are smart enough to create a character as three-dimensional as Ben – a teacher who can devote his career to science yet still wear a crucifix around his neck, a scarred beefcake with a rough past who can cradle Katherine in his arms after a nightmare – makes me believe they started with an interesting screenplay. But then the filmmakers drown the story in overly long flashbacks and unnecessary special effects.

[Warning: spoilers ahead] Worse, the writers overly complicate their own logic as soon as we learn that the Bible-thumpers are actually Satan-worshippers. The townspeople originally want to "stop" the little girl, Loren (the impressively creepy AnnaSophia Robb), they blame for the plagues. But when their true Satan-worshipping is revealed, they want sacrifice her to…appease their Dark Lord…or something (all the special effects kind of distracted from that plot point).

But it seems like the writers were on to something there, even something as provocative as this: is religious fanaticism dangerous, no matter the denomination? Are God-fearing fundamentalists just as (potentially) destructive as Satan worshippers? Is it really so easy to equate them as two sides to the same coin?

Back in the early to mid-70’s, horror flicks were both respected cinema and cheap-thrills exploitation, sometimes in the same movie. Films like The Omen and The Exorcist used religious, specifically Biblical, references and scared up big business at the box-office and garnered critical raves. The latter was even nominated for a Best Picture Oscar.

Then, in 1978, came Halloween’s Michael Meyers, a silent, faceless antagonist onto which we could project our own fears, however secular they may be. The 80’s brought us Freddy Kreuger of the The Nightmare on Elm Street fanchise – a snarky villain who stood in for the audience by mocking the horny teenagers he terrorized.

From Scream to Saw, recent mainstream horror films have excluded religion entirely. Even 2005’s The Amityville Horror remake significantly reduced the role religion played in the original book and film from the late 70’s (this prompted the Chicago Reader to headline its review of the remake “Secular’s Not As Scary”).

The Reaping comes at a perfect time to return religion to the cinematic spotlight. With evolutionists fighting creationists, marriage and civil rights being tied to the Bible and a president that has repeatedly used God to justify his occupation of the Oval Office, a thriller could tap into the national tension created by these issues. Instead, we get bad direction, lazy references to those Biblical thrillers from the 70’s, plus a ridiculous Rosemary’s Baby twist thrown in at the end for no good reason.

The film never answers its own questions about religious extremism. I’m not even sure they knew their screenplay was asking those questions in the first place. An even bigger question might be what Swank is going to do now that she’s too old to play the tomboyish underdog. Because if she wants her third Oscar by the time she’s 35, she’ll have to wring something better than The Reaping.

Also check out: Spoilers!
And: Boo.

Okay, Go: Mika

2007-04-02T21:38:00.000-05:00

I go through month-long droughts where I could not be less interested in the current music scene, but I'm kind of loving the music of 2007 so far. James Morrison, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Amy Winehouse, Joss Stone and Lily Allen have all released good, and in some cases great, albums. I haven't even gotten around to the new Arcade Fire or Bloc Party, and I'm still enjoying 2006 holdovers like Regina Spektor, Cazwell and Cat Power's re-released The Greatest.

But before I get to my newest obsession, I'm going to do it a little differently this time. My last couple of reviews have been a little long and provoked zero comments, so I'm going to give you a bit of background, discuss a couple music videos and then let you tell me what you think.

But let's get around to Mika, shall we? This Lebanese Londoner's debut CD, Life in Cartoon Motion, hit big in Britain and is building some buzz in the States. It would not be hyperbolic to say it's quite unlike anything on the pop landscape right now. Sure, he might be compared to Elton John, Scissor Sisters and Queen, but none of that does him justice.

A classically trained pianist with (according to his Wikipedia page) a five-octave vocal range, this 24-year-old phenom combines kinetic camp with full, lush instrumentation, deceptively rich lyrics and - this is where he gets me - insanely catchy hooks. Love him or leave him, I think you'll find that you don't hear anything like this on the radio or TV right now.

His first U.S. single, "Grace Kelly," was written as a kiss-off to all the record companies that originally rejected him, only to be chosen as the best song to introduce him to people. I didn't know what to make of this the first time I heard it, but now when his voice scales the skyscraper melody of the chorus, I can't help but sing along.

His newest single, "Love Today," wraps itself around a slinky disco beat but the anthemic chorus is cheesy, inspirational and self-absorbingly cheeky all in one. If you're not dancing in your cubicle/office/prison cell (I don't want to make any assumptions about my audience), then you might want to get your pulse checked.

I don't know how to upload MP3s, but if you want to hear more Mika, check out the spacey "Relax (Take It Easy)" and ridiculously infectious "Lollipop" (thank you, YouTubers who make amateur music videos). You can also check out this intriguing interview where he explains why he won't answer questions about his sexuality. It's a PR choice that makes people all the more eager to speculate about him, but hey, you have to admire the guy's gumption to defy the usual celebrity gawking that has become a juggernaut in our media.

Anyway, the first and best word I thought of to describe his music is "celebration." He just seems so happy to be doing what he's doing, and he actually has the talent to back it up. So check him out and this time, you can tell me what you think of him.

Okay, go!

Also check out: Okay, Go: Scissor Sisters.
And: Rock the Cazwell.

Random Thoughts: The Devil and Miss Stone, 300-Pack Abs, and Akon's Vibe

2007-03-24T22:38:00.000-05:00

Some pop-culture-related nuggets that have been floating around in my head:

- Last summer I posted my positive review of The Devil Wears Prada to Blogcritics and got some feisty comments. “It’s not as good as the book!” “It glamorizes unhealthy female body image!” “There’s no conflict!” To which I say: no, yes and kind of. Now that I’ve rewatched it on DVD and also read the book, I still want to praise Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci. What Lauren Weisberger, the book’s young author, couldn’t understand was that her boss could be both a bitch and a brilliant woman who is incredibly good at her job. It is too bad that the heroine deems slimming down to a size 4 (from an elephantine size 6) as a major accomplishment, and yes, the boyfriend is lame (he’s an aspiring chef and he’s complaining about her schedule?), but overall, the film is still entertaining fluff.

- In the spirit of re-thinking, or amending past reviews: my love, or should I say my really like, for Janet Jackson’s 20 Y.O. has sufficiently waned to wonder what exactly is wrong with it. I know it’s underwhelming, and I know I’m tired of her obsession with sex, but what else is there? It didn’t hit me until I listened to the chorus of “Show Me” for the 800th time: “Show me, ‘cause actions speak louder than words.” No shit? I mean, she’s forty, and this is what she’s learned? A cliché that’s older than she is? Since the whole album is based on how she’s a forty-year-old woman who still looks/feels/acts like a twenty-year-old, I had to ask: should a forty-year-old want to think like a twenty-year-old? How is that a good thing? If it means trite “insights” like that, then guess what? It’s not.

- Why are songs that are about how inspiring music is so uninspiring themselves? I was reminded of this when listening to Joss Stone’s new CD and her song “Music.” It’s so laid-back it’s practically asleep. I mean, the song is fine, I guess, but if music is really so awesome then why is its tribute so comparatively boring? It reminded me of Leela James' "Music" (even these titles are boring) which I found equally odd – all about how amazing music is, yet so underwhelming itself. Which made me think about Lauryn Hill’s “Superstar” which at least had good lyrics but was still a mid-tempo chill-out that embodied her own accusations: “everything you drop is so tired.” Ironically, Hill guest-raps on Stone’s “Music.” It doesn’t help.

- What is up with AfterElton.com’s horrible book section? They feature only four items right now – scratch that, make it three, as they actually repeat the same link twice. And the big feature is an interview with Augusten Burroughs from May 2006! Their other sections like movies and especially TV are chock-full of articles, columns and recaps. Granted, if the site is about how gays are portrayed in the media, then I guess TV probably has a bigger impact than literature, but when Bookslut features new interviews with Edmund White and Andrew Holleran in the last two months, you have to wonder who’s asleep behind the wheel at AfterElton.

- In his gorgeous new Italian cookbook, Jamie's Italy, Jamie Oliver recommends a local treat: drizzle really good olive oil over really good vanilla ice cream and sprinkle with sea salt. I tried it. I think I need better olive oil.

- I love how, in his new interview in Vibe, Akon basically admits over and over again that he lies whenever he feels like it, leading one to believe that you probably shouldn't believe anything he says. And yet, somehow, I don't think that will affect his career at all.

- And finally...I finally saw 300. There’s a minor hubbub in the gay community over its portrayal of the villains in the movie. I was doubtful going in, but now I kind of agree. Frank Miller, who’s historically inaccurate graphic novel the movie is based on, clearly has some (probably unconscious) prejudices that he needs to work out. His heroes apparently have to be white and very heterosexual, virile, macho and hirsute who live to sleep with only women (again, historically misleading) and kill people. His villains, on the other hand, are be-jeweled, manicured, effeminate RuPaul clones who stage massive orgies with lesbians, trannies and hunchbacks. It’s not just offensive for the stereotypes and negative associations he’s passing on to young straight men everywhere (as if an R rating is keeping out the teens), it’s lazy, outdated shorthand to contrast the “other” from the straight, white, male protagonist.

I wonder if it would bother me less if I really enjoyed the movie, but I hope not. As it was, the special effects were cool, the Abercrombie & Fitch models - I mean, the cast - looked good in leather briefs and capes, but I didn’t care about any of the characters.

(Thanks to AfterElton for the pic.)

Also check out: If She's the Devil, Then Hell Must Be Fabulous.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?
And: Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone.

Deep Thoughts with Amy Sedaris

2007-03-23T20:41:00.000-05:00

When an unexpected guest doesn't know when to leave, and he happens to be gay:

You can always lie. Make up a story, such as: "Don't mind me. The doctors said the best thing for my yeast infection was to expose my vagina to the air."

OR

"Oh, I'm so glad you're here. You can help me pick out the best photos of my vagina from these contact sheets."

OR

"You can't stay. It's March Madness."

Thanks, Amy.

Check out other deep thoughts here!

Soul Sisters: Amy Winehouse and Joss Stone

2007-03-22T20:37:00.000-05:00

When I was young, I wanted to sing like a big, black gospel singer. Is that stereotype offensive? Maybe, but I was, like, nine, so I didn’t know any better. But now that there’s a British neo-soul invasion storming the U.S., I might have to amend that to also wanting to sing like a young, white British woman.

For instance, if I want to sing like Amy Winehouse, which I so desperately do, I’d also need to get my drink on. Four of the ten tracks on her American debut, Back to Black, reference alcohol in some way. The torchy title track, with its cinematic strings and echo-chamber bridge, is the gut-wrenching kiss-off of a woman who chooses her drinking-and-drugged-out blackouts while her lover chooses another woman (“You go back to her/And I go back to…”). And even the songs that don’t reference her vices directly are drenched in self-destructive heartbreak.

Thank God for Phil Spector. The legendary producer’s iconic “Wall of Sound” influence is all over Winehouse’s album (her debut, Frank, was allegedly more jazzy R&B and was not released in the States). Strings, chimes, hand claps, harp and horns perfectly complement Winehouse’s lyrics without letting them weigh down a song. Winehouse’s powerfully deep, sprawling voice is often compared to the likes of Shirley Bassey and Sarah Vaughn and all the more impressive because she doesn’t rely on the melismatic faux-passion of so many of her peers. Combined with her inspiration from Motown’s 50’s and 60’s soul and a lifetime’s worth of heartache and Back to Black adds up to a sound well beyond her 24 years.

Luckily, she also has a sense of humor, as should any young, sassy soul singer. It’s hilarious when, in the old-fashioned standout “Me & Mr. Jones,” she blares out “What kind of fuckery are we?/Nowadays you don’t mean dick to me” and her girl-group harmonies echo “dick to me-e-e-e” in the background. But she sums up her reluctance to end the relationship by addressing the title character with “’side from Sammy you’re my best black Jew.” Yeah, I kind of love her.

So it’s all the more stunning when she hits you with the poetry of her words. I can’t help but quote the entire chorus of “Wake Up Alone”:

He gets fierce in my dreams, seizing my guts,
He floors me with dread,
Soaked to soul he swims in my eyes by the bed,
Pour myself over him,
Moon spilling in,
And I wake up alone

Reading about Winehouse’s penchant canceling sold-out shows for booze-soaked escapades in the tabloids, you hope she gets her shit together. Hell, even her management company staged an intervention, but as she documented in the riveting opening track, “Rehab,” she just said “No, no, no.”

However, her fellow Brit, Joss Stone, seems to be gushing “Yes, yes, yes!” all over her new CD, “Introducing Joss Stone.” From her new, funky, wild-child hair to her naked, graffiti’d body all over the album covers to an undeniable liberation in her actual songs, Stone seems to be having her own “Control” á la Janet Jackson moment. Her name ain’t baby…unless you’re under the covers with her.

Damn, girl done all grown up! How else to explain how, in “Put Your Hands on Me,” the lyrics “Bring me your sugar/And pour it all over me, baby” are followed by what can only be described as an all-out aural ejaculation? During the bridge she blares out a breathless rave of her man, ending with “I love him/I feel him/Oh, I’m loving those hands!” Easy, girl. Breathe.

Stone has described her third album as the first time she’s able to truly express herself (which is strange, as she received co-writing credits on most of her sophomore effort, Mind, Body & Soul), hence the title. She actually seems to be drawing from similar musical, if not lyrical, influences as Winehouse, employing girl-group harmonies and neo-Motown instrumentation. In interviews, Stone can’t help but gush about her producer and co-writer, Raphael Saadiq, which is appropriate as, according to his Wiki page, they’re dating.

Whatever is going on behind the scenes, “Introducing…” is a huge improvement over her previous albums. 2003’s The Soul Sessions was a fine introduction to the then-16-year-old prodigy, but, with a few exceptions, the album felt like generic Soul 101. 2004’s Mind, Body and Soul was even worse. It’s overly long and overly constricting, tightening its young star in a noose of forgettable R&B to the point where she can barely breathe.

So I can forgive Stone for going a little overboard now that she feels emancipated from record label influences. She’s not just breathing here - she’s belting, blaring and blasting all over the fourteen tracks. Some work, some don’t. The pumping bass, horns and sing-along back-up girls make the lead single, “Tell Me ‘About It,” a funky, appropriately brief blast of fresh air. The lush soundscape of “Proper Nice,” complete with twinkling harp and flirty back-and-forth harmonies, evokes a blissful descent into love. And if you’re inside while listening to the drum-‘n-bass propulsion of the opener “Girl They Won’t Believe It,” you’ll want to jump in the nearest convertible and bob your head back and forth in the wind.

Sometimes Stone and her loveryboy producer just seem to have too many ideas per song, but sometimes it comes down to Stone herself. She camped out in Barbados to pour all her energy into her lyrics, but the results rarely reach beyond easy clichés. “These are my words, and this is who I am as an artist,” she has stated in press releases. Fine, but who is she? Most of the songs are either about her love of love or her love of music. Both are perfectly fine, albeit unoriginal, themes, especially for a 19-year-old (what does anyone know about at 19?). But when she has fourteen entire songs all to herself to say whatever she’s bottled up for so long, I hoped she would sing about more than…singing.

Still, for what Stone considers to be her real debut album, she displays an awful lot of potential. Maybe within five years, Saadiq will dump her and she’ll be hitting the bottle and the blues with Winehouse’s gusto, but I’m hoping this bohemian, bare-footed soul singer finds her own way.

Both talented artists are welcome on my radio anytime. I’ll be the guy in his apartment, blaring at the top of his lungs, starting his own Chicago neo-soul (mini-)invasion.

Also check out: In Defense of Amy Winehouse.
And: What Do I Call Her If I'm Not Nasty?

If You Buy Chiquita Bananas...

2007-03-19T20:27:00.001-05:00

...you support terrorism. Seriously.

U {Heart} Pierogis

2007-03-18T09:35:00.000-05:00

Or you should, anyway. If you've had them, then you know what I'm talking about. It's basically Polish comfort food: flaky pastry dough filled with meats, cheeses and/or veggies and then fried. If you haven't had them, you can come to Chicago to go to The Pierogi Factory. If you can't do that, you can just read my review of the new restaurant in the latest issue of UR Chicago. No, that's not me on the cover, but I'm almost as sexy.

UPDATE: Due to new owners with a new website, my older work for UR Chicago will no longer be available online. Hopefully I'll scan them in soon with the appropriate links.

Also check out: UR Here.

The Food Detective

2007-03-17T20:00:00.000-05:00

So I recently received results from a cholesterol test a few weeks ago. I knew high cholesterol ran in my family and even though I’m a fairly healthy eater and exercise somewhat regularly, I know that you can’t really override genetics.

Well, the results weren’t great. They weren’t terrible, either, so I don’t need any meds, luckily. Yes, I don’t get as much cardio exercise as I should and yes, I’ve always had a sweet tooth, but I was still surprised and disappointed. I eat almonds and apples every day; I always choose 100% whole wheat bread and try to avoid high fructose corn syrup (and it’s many variations); my desserts are usually low-fat (thank you, Skinny Cow).

So where did I go wrong? Could it possibly have anything to do with cooking over eighty recipes, and counting, from Giada’s Everyday Italian? They do tend to be filled with cheese and pasta and cream and butter…oh, man, I’m getting hungry. In fact, I think that’s an actual recipe. Cheese and pasta with cream and butter. If it’s not, I’ll make it one.

I do tend to adopt a “how often?’ justification towards culinary indulgences. As in, “well, how often do I ever have a big bowl of creamy, starchy Wild Mushroom Risotto?” Or, “how often does my dinner exclusively consist of Cheese and Rosemary Bread Sticks?” Eating these recipes only once may not be a problem, but when you eat numerous less-than-healthy recipes all in a week or month or year, it starts to take its toll. So let’s take a look back at some of the evidence and see if we can track down where I went wrong on my culinary journey to eat healthy and eat Italian at the same time.

Could it possible have been the numerous pestos? Granted, they almost all have a big clump of grated Parmesan added at the end, but it’s mostly herbs and veggies mixed with oil and nuts. That’s all good, right? The Mushroom Pesto used walnuts which are supposedly a Super Food, and the spinach pesto provides a good dose of greens. And when smothered over grilled tuna steaks or spread on whole wheat crackers, that’s even better, right? So there’s nothing to see here. Let’s keep it movin', people.

OK, I did have a brief affair with butter sauces. Can you blame me? These recipes are like the sexy bad boy – you know they’re bad for you, but you just can’t resist. First, I added basil and pine nuts and then splashed it over Mushroom Ravioli. Another time I added sage, spooned it over Pumpkin Ravioli and then crumbled hazelnuts and amaretti cookies on top. Oh, yeah, and that time I tossed some over lobster ravioli, too. I guess I should disclose that we’re talking about a stick of butter per recipe, folks. This doesn’t sound too good, but this was all months ago - like, before the holidays, so I’m thinking that, while I won’t rekindle this culinary romance any time soon, they’re also not the culprit.

You’d think the problem would be desserts, but I’m not convinced. Yes, I’ve made Panna Cotta on more than one occasion. But the Rice Pudding didn’t turn out right (not the recipe’s fault) so I barely had any. I would think it would be the two days I spent assembling the Chocolate Tiramisu, right? First, you have to make the Chocolate Zabaglione. Zabaglione is an amazing combination of eggs, sugar and Marsala wine that, when cooked, becomes a foamy, boozy ambrosia for dipping fruit and cake. Add chocolate and, well, you can just imagine how much I “sampled” to make sure I got the recipe just right. Then fold in whipped cream and mascarpone cream (again, much sampling), layer with espresso-dipped ladyfingers and you’ve got the chocolate tiramisu. I know, I know – how can I eat that and wonder about cholesterol results? Well, I actually made this the day after the blood test. So it wasn’t just a hit at the Oscar party, it’s also completely innocent. Innocent, I tell you!

Maybe I should retrace my steps the week of the test. First, there was the Salmon Baked in Foil served with Farro Salad. The salmon just steamed in the oven with tomatoes and shallots – all delicious and healthy – and the salad consisted of wild rice (farro is hard to find and takes forever to cook, FYI) with tomatoes, herbs and a balsamic vinegar dressing. So I’m thinking it has to be the Verdure al Forno. It’s a vegetable dish consisting of three layers of zucchini, plus the broccoli and cauliflower that I added. So what’s the problem? Well, between each layer is three, yes three, different cheeses (it’s like the Perfect Storm of dairy: mozzarella, fontina and Parmesan) and cream and bread crumbs. Needless to say, these might have been the best vegetables I’ve ever had. But, I made them 2 days before the test and they’re probably what pushed me over the edge by pushing their cream-coated way into my arteries.

Conclusion? Eat less vegetables. Well, at least less vegetables drowned in cream. The good thing is this is forcing me to find ways to still eat what I want, yet make the necessary changes for a healthier lifestyle. I’ll have more on that in another post. For now, I have to go make a very healthy version of cheese and pasta with cream and butter.

Also check out: Like an Afterschool Special, With Liquor.
And: Square One.

Rock the Cazwell

2007-03-12T22:04:00.000-05:00

Imagine Eminem’s slutty cousin and Justin Timberlake's slutty cousin producing a baby and you might get something like Cazwell. Very white, very bald and very dirrrrty (that’s right Christina, I’m giving him 4 r’s), the Worcester, MA-born rapper is making a name for himself as the party-loving, powder-blue-running-shorts-wearing, NY-club-scene-regular, gay white rapper.

To say Cazwell is a unique addition to the pop landscape would be an understatement. Sure, there are other gay rappers vying for attention (Phudge Packerz, anyone?), but only Cazwell (first name Luke) mixes disco with hip-hop, trash with glam, homo with hetero and urban sleaze with positivity.

On his 2006 debut EP, Get Into It, the rapper doesn’t introduce us to him so much as he introduces us to his scene: NY’s 70’s & 80’s (read: pre-AIDS) sexual freedom, where sexy was dirty and sleazy and fun all at the same time. Maybe it’s because Cazwell didn’t actually live in NY during this time that allows him to be so nostalgiac for it, but his infectious beats and freaky humor more than make up for his lack of experience.

The opener, “I Buy My Socks on 14th Street,” pretends to be about his day-to-day life, but the lyrics - like “Why is everyone always looking at me?/Is it ‘cause I jerk off on my webcam for free?” – pretty much obfuscate any credibility. Maybe he has a webcam, but hours and hours of trolling the internet – I mean, research – has produced nothing. Why, Cazwell, must you tease us? The chorus pretty much confirms my frustrations with “You don’t know me/and I don’t know you.” Just when you think you know a faux-public-masturbating exhibitionist, they turn on you.

It’s not until “The Sex That I Need” that he starts flirting with his flip-flopping sexual persona. In this number, he describes being with a male hustler, than the pronouns turn to “she,” then he’s back to cheating on his bf with his bf’s brother. His use of 70’s porn guitar riffs seems especially appropriate here. On “Do You Wanna Break Up?” he brags “I scandalize girls that used to be guys.” By “Getting’ Over,” he’s back to men.

“All Over Your Face,” which samples the underground disco classic “Is It All Over Your Face” by Loose Joints, is the lead single and one of the most downloaded videos on YouTube, no doubt assisted by a cameo from NY club icon and girl-that-used-to-be-a-guy Amanda Lepore (pictured here), who also guest raps on the CD’s title song. It’s also where he drops all pretense of autobiography and becomes what is normally lacking in ego-driven hip-hop: the anonymous narrator. He’s playing the part of a horny club kid, taking us through a sex-soaked New York escapade, hooking up with ho’s (“That hotel was so cheap/I should have brought my own sheets”) and getting even freakier than he’s allowed himself to be on any other track, referencing bukkake, kinky duct tape applications, and his own enthusiastic skills (“I eat that ass like a cannibal!”).

It’s ironic that the song with Cazwell’s most exaggerated sense of personality – he’s admitted that he’s not anywhere near the nympho he plays on his songs – is the one that is garnering all the attention, even if it won’t be played on any major music outlet, including gay network Logo. When do we get to know him? Is he just a good-time novelty act, a one-night fling that we’ll forget once the dance club high (read: ectasy) wears off? The fact that Get Into It comes with eight remixes and three videos seems to suggest this. Even publicity shots seem to portray him as both a genuinely sexy, albeit quirky, good-looking guy and a self-parodying white-trash slezeball.

But he’s also stated that his next step is where he’ll really reveal himself, likening it to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. Since he’s playing with a certain sound now (he asked Queerty: “if anyone's going to rap to disco, shouldn't it be a gay guy?”), it will be interesting to see how he develops it over the course of a full-length album while combining humor with the maturity he’s hinted is underneath. The temptation to remain a gay club novelty act must be sharp as he knows not to expect recognition from the hip-hop community. “There are rules in hip-hop,” he has said. “And one is that you can't be a fag.”

But if he wants to last, he’s going to have to develop a musical persona beyond being the Notorious G.W.R (Gay White Rapper). Besides, that gimmick will only work for so long. I can just imagine the next much-hyped rapper coming up on the scene á la Amy Poehler’s imitation of reality show contestants on SNL: “I’m white and gay and I only got one leg. Jealous?”

Although I'm sure if Cazwell only had one leg, he'd make sure it was the sexiest, kinkiest, dirrrrrtiest leg ever. That's right, even his one leg gets 5 r's. Now that's freaky.

Also check out: Kings, Queens and Norah Vincent.
And: Scissor Sisters: Filthy and Gorgeous.

Spoilers!

2007-03-11T15:58:00.000-05:00

See? Right there. In the title. Don’t read this if you don’t want to hear specific plot points about The Host. I must admit that most reviewers for this movie have been pretty good about warning their readers, but in general I feel like print publications have gotten exceedingly worse at giving away major plot points about a movie without any warning, much like the majority of movie trailers (coincidence?). I'm not even giving away anything surprising, so this review won't ruin anything for you. I'm just warning you: plot points. That's all I'm saying.

Anyway, you may or may not have heard about the South Korean monster movie The Host, as it’s receiving a lot of buzz but is still in only 71 American theaters as of this weekend. Already the most popular film in its native country, The Host is receiving all sorts of raves from American critics and audiences. A film this daring, enjoyable and outside-the-box deserves a large audience, but almost unanimous praise always raises the chance that people will be disappointed due to high expectations.

Just go and see it even if you don’t like monster movies, as it really will engage you on multiple levels.

The movie begins in a Korean science lab, where an American scientist orders his Korean underling to pour gallons upon gallons of formaldehyde down the drain since the bottles are dusty. (Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see Phil Hartman play this guy as an evil scientist version of his anal-retentive [chef/fisherman/fill-in-occupation character]: “First, we wrap the beakers full of poison in plastic wrap. Then we stuff each one into its own paper bag with packing peanuts. Now where did I put my duct tape?”) Interestingly, the director, Bong Joon-ho, admits that this scene was inspired by real events.

Leaking into the Han River, the toxins mutate a fish. It first develops three tails (all the better to slap three-eyed Blinky if he gets too fresh), then grows into a bus-sized monster with multiple mouths and an appetite for human flesh.

Cut to the Park family: Hee-Bong (Hie-bong Byeon) runs a food stand by the river; his fiery son, Nam-Il (Hae-il Park), is an aimless college graduate; his quiet daughter, Nam-Joo (Du-na Bae), is a professional archer; and his other son, Gang-Du (Kang-ho Song), is a sleepy, slothy father to an adorable, sharp little girl, Hyun-Seo (Ah-sung Ko).

Once the monster starts terrorizing people, the Park family becomes the center of the film’s attention, moreso than even the monster itself. Hyun-Seo is kidnapped by the creature (who likes to save bodies to snack on later), and the Korean government, claiming that any touch by the monster spreads a deadly virus, pursues Gang-Du after learning that he was sprayed with the monster’s blood.

Even though it’s a cliché, the film really is a rollercoaster. Believing Hyun-Seo is dead, the family’s public grieving goes from heart-touching to over-the-top, as they writhe around the floor, punch and kick each other and draw a circling crowd of paparazzi. Moving drama gives way to slapstick comedy...which can then overlap with suspenseful chase scenes that are cut with genuinely scary moments. If it sounds like the movie is all over the place, it is, but the results are fascinating even if sometimes uneven.

That’s not even the half of it. Just as many monster movies are viewed as metaphors for larger themes (Godzilla is a result of hydrogen bomb test and therefore represents the fear and fallout of using nuclear bombs), The Host has already been dissected and debated as a commentary of, among other things, the U.S. government, the South Korean government, the media and the Iraq War. Joon-ho admits that any social commentary had to take the back-burner to the family’s story, citing Signs as a major influence of how a scary movie can focus more on the family than the monster(s).

However, there’s a lot to look into here, with some references being obvious and some more subtle. For instance, the American government decides to step in after the Korean government mishandles their national crisis (a possible critique on both countries). The U.S. unleashes a chemical weapon named Agent Yellow, a barely-disguised derivation of Agent Orange, a similar chemical attack used in the Vietnam War.

Not much has been made about the title itself. A slightly deranged American official (is there any other kind?) confesses to a Korean doctor that, despite the U.S. and Korean government’s public statements to the contrary, there so far has been no proof of any virus, echoing certain claims made about WMD’s. So if Gang-Du is not an actual host to the virus, who is the host? Is Korea the host to the U.S.? Or is Korea hosting the monster? And is the “monster” really the U.S.? And can my brain please explode now?

Back to the film itself, one of the most refreshing aspects of the film is Joon-ho’s defiance of rules regarding the monster/horror/action movie genre. We see the entire monster early on and in complete daylight, instead of the climactic build-up leading to the shocking reveal in some shadowy haunted house or sewer system. Unlike everything from Godzilla to Starship Troopers, the monster isn’t huge and is therefore more limber, swinging under bridges like an amphibian Kerri Shrug. Our heroes, the Park family, are a rather bumbling group, antagonistic to each other and unlike the typical, invincible he-men heroes of other movies.

So: fine acting, seamless special effects (until a strange, eleventh hour dip into cheesy, low-budget effects that look sub-Photoshop), engaging use of multiple genres to tell a multi-tiered, metaphorical story, and actual, seat-jumping scares. Just so I don’t oversell the film, I will admit that it is a touch long and certain scenes drag. And, I guess if you're the type of person who doesn't like to "read movies," then the subtitles will bother you, but I didn't find them to be a problem.

OK, so I didn’t give away that many spoilers. I just wanted to make sure. I’m kind of anal-retentive that way. Now where’s my duct tape?

Also check out: Boo.
And: Sweet, Sour, Stupid.

Maybe It's Time for The Change

2007-02-22T22:06:00.000-06:00

I just spent my whole night writing about Project Runway versus Top Chef versus Top Design and then the new Beta Blogger made my internet connection unexpectedly quit YET AGAIN. By now you'd think I'd remember to save my posts as drafts before digging around my archives for links to previous posts, but no, that would be too smart and logical.

It's not like I'm the only person to use Safari so why, oh why, must Blogger always be so incompatible with it? Maybe I should switch to Typepad. Do any Safari-users out there have any opinions or experience to share about Typepad?

In the meantime, I'm going to go write a big, long, angry letter to Blogger and then not send it. Because that's so productive.

LOL @ NPR

2007-02-19T17:20:00.000-06:00

This past Thursday a group of friends, my sweetie and I braved Chicago's Antarctic weather conditions as we headed over to a taping of NPR's political/current events-based game show, Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me!. Five hundred audience members sat in the Chase Auditorium, our seats enveloped in layers of shed coats and scarves, as the three guest panelists and two hosts took the stage. This particular show featured humorist and writer Roy Blount, Jr., Washington Post's Roxanne Roberts and former Daily Show correspondent/"television personality" Mo Rocca.

Host Peter Sagal immediately apologized for being somewhat moody, as he too was convinced that he was Anna Nicole Smith's baby's daddy. He then confirmed that the ANS references would be kept to a minimum for the rest of the evening and, aside from one or two exceptions, he was thankfully right. They launched into the questions, covering everything from Google Earth's most popular searches (nude sunbathers), how the Chinese government used green spray paint to make a dilapidated mountain range look prettier and the new culinary trend of picking up roadkill for food. All true stories, by the way. There were callers who answered questions for the chance to have judge and scorekeepr Carl Kasell leave the outgoing message on their voicemail. It would be worth it, too - the man could read a physics textbook out loud and make it sound badass.

The show got even more interesting with the segment called "Not My Job," where a celebrity of varying degrees (I guess some would qualify more as "personalities") calls in, ostensibly to participate in the quizzes but moreso to shill their latest project. Our show featured French chef Roland Mesnier, who has been the White House pastry chef for the past 25 years, from Carter to Dubya, and documents it all in his new book, All the President's Pastries. It was interesting to hear how stern Nancy Reagan was about entertaining, or how our current president likes "simple" desserts such as "American cake." But as Mesnier said, "It made no difference if [they] are Democrat or Republican, they all enjoyed my desserts."

Mesnier was quite the good sport. You know how, when you watch game shows in a language you don't understand, no matter what they're doing, they just seem so weird? Such as when Bill Murray's movie star character in Lost in Translation appeared on that Japense game show that made absolutely no sense to him since he didn't understand Japanese. If you remove even one factor - such as language or context - from what is otherwise a perfectly normal or funny situation, it appears as strange and nonsensical.

It would be funny if Mesnier was actually thinking, I climbed my way to the White House and they're asking me about fried worms? But he played along very well. He answered Sagal's multiple-choice question about 3 possible desserts eaten around the world - including the real answer of larvettes, which are fried mealworm larvae - by pausing for a perfect beat before asking incredulously, "Who eats that stuff?" The thickly-accented Frenchman laughed when Rocca asked him to say "Be our guest, be our guest..." and even bid adieu by claiming, "Time to make the doughnuts."

As the show wrapped up, the diverse crowd started weighing themselves down with layer upon layer of winter accessories. I couldn't help but notice a number of attractive twentysomethings in the audience. Who knew NPR listeners were so sexy? Maybe it was that whole metrosexual thing that told straight men it was okay to find clothes that fit, but there were quite a few guys who, a few years ago, could have been sweaty boys playing Dungeon & Dragons in their basement but were now stylishly scruffy.

We ventured out back into the bracing winds, standing under heat lamps while waiting for the Brown Line. We repeated the funny lines to each other (Rocca to Mesnier: "It's not 'creme brulée' anymore, it's Freedom Custard"), compared notes on the sexy group sitting behind us and eventually made our way onto the El only to be joined in the same car by some punk-ish kids with an empty grocery cart. Technically, they spoke the same language I do, but with the speeding train drowning out their conversation, three punk-ish kids with an empty grocery cart just seemed strange and nonsensical.

Also check out: Shut! Up!
And: The Death of the Metrosexual.

Oysters and Mussels and Squid - Oh My!

2007-02-17T18:24:00.000-06:00

Since my last update, I've made 79 out of 125 recipes in Giada de Laurentiis' Everyday Italian. I was feeling pretty good about this until I calculated that it only amounts to 63% of the recipes. Ugh. Granted, I did have a big lull from December into January, which I've only recently, and barely, begun to correct. But still, how can I have made 79 recipes and not even technically be two-thirds of the way there yet?

To start with, I've barely touched most of the seafood recipes, many of which call for clams, mussels, oysters and squid. I've never purchased these types of items and they kind of scare me. Part of it is a somewhat rational fear that I will unknowingly store them incorrectly and thus poison myself. But, honestly, part of it is some weird fear that they won't be completely dead and any of the following things will happen:

1) I'll open my refridgerator door, peer inside only to have a squid leap onto my face and wrap its tentacles around my head á la Alien, attacking me before I have a chance to chop it up for Grilled Seafood Salad. I pass out on the floor, the squid stealthily oozes away like a salty, delicious ninja, and the cops can't figure out how my killer left a single streak of slime on the kitchen floor instead of footprints.

2) Same as above, but with oysters. They leap out of their bowl of ice and fasten themselves to my body like possessed clothespins. I run out of the kitchen, limbs flailing, until I pass out from the blood loss and am found lifeless in an alley. (Why I can't just pull them off is beyond me. This is, after all, a list of the ways in which seafood could attack me.)

3) After enjoying Mussels, Clams and Shrimp in Spicy Broth, I fall asleep. The emptied and discarded mussel shells force the trash can lid open and bounce toward my bedroom, clip-clapping against my hardwood floors. I wake up only to have a gang of mussels attacking every inch of my vulnerable body. I try to scream but they pinch my lips shut. They leave a note pinned to my lifeless body, a picture of a fish in a circle with a line through it, which will become their signature as they continue on their quest to take out those who dare to cook seafood.

4) Clams, much like their bretheren, the mussels, decide to wait until the perfect moment. I throw them in the pot while making Spaghetti with Clams. As I open the lid to see if they're done, they leap out at me, so they not only pinch my face but they're boiling hot. Once again, I end up dead in an alley, because no one wants to help the weird guy running around, screaming, with clams on his face. Worse, dinner is ruined.

5) I'm chopping up squid, coating it in flour and frying it in oil to make Fried Calamari. I take a bite, satisfied in my deep-frying skills. It's only then that my cat, who has been watching the whole process, proceeds to rip off his face, revealing a squid underneath. "A ha!" he exclaims in a British accent. "You thought it was I that you just ate, didn't you? Too bad it was actually poor little Isabelle, or 'Izzy' as I believe you preciously nicknamed her. That's right, I killed her in her sleep last night, skinned her and switched her body for mine! And now, as you wallow in the death of your domestic slave who's flesh was fried by your own hands, I shall finally taste the sweet nectar of freedom!" And he, a squid poking out of a real cat's body, jumps out the window and bounces down the street.

There's more, but they tend to become kind of dark and twisted.

So, yeah, I have to admit I've been avoiding certain recipes. Which may also explain why I'm closer to finishing the dessert chapter before any other. I mean, it's not like Almond Cake can just leap out of its pan and suffocate me in its cakey goodness, right? Right?

Also check out: Kiwi, Tab and Turkey.
And: Like an After-School Special, With Liquor.

UR Here

2007-02-16T07:16:00.000-06:00

So part of the reason I've been largely absent from the blogging scene recently is due to the unexpected rush of assignments for Chicago magazine UR Chicago. In their February issue out now, I have a mini-review of my local coffeeshop/restaurant Cafénéo, a q&a-style interview with one of my favorite comediennes, Margaret Cho, and the cover featre on the Scissor Sisters. So it's all very exciting as I've been published before but never in a cool, glossy magazine like this one. And I got paid!

For some reason the Margaret Cho interview isn't online, but it's about her new career path into bellydancing and burlesque. She was in Chicago last month to perform in Gurlesque Burlesque, a fundraiser for the Sissy Butch Brothers' documentary about the history of burlesque and Exotic World, the burlesque museum of Las Vegas and the only archive in the world of bulesque-esque materials.

I went to the show so I could, you know, know what I was talking about when writing the article. I've never seen any burlesque before so this was quite the plunge into feminist, political debauchery. How could I not love it? "George and Dick" performed an act in which they dressed up as, well, our good friends and national leaders George and Dick, complete with plastic masks and and business suits. They stripped each other, ending up as George and Dick's creepy, smiling faces on top of two topless, bikini-clad women's bodies. They stepped into a kiddie pool and poured oil over each other and wrestled, finishing by draping an American flag over themselves.

Sassbox was a trio of women singing an a capella bluegrass lullaby while being washed down by an admiring fan. The Boyz, a group of drag kings, dressed as sperm trying to impregnate an egg to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" ("You've only got one shot/Do not miss your chance to blow!"). And Julie Atlas Muz, a well-known dancer and one of Cho's inspirations, performed two fantastic acts, one of which included a life-sized balloon that, by the end, she had completely crawled into and danced with a spotlight behind her, illuminating her sillouette as she writhed around inside.

Cho was equally awesome. For her first act, she emerged dressed completely in Aztec warrior garb, complete with helmet with a huge, sprouting mohawk, breastplate, shield and spear. She stripped and strutted around the stage, slowly losing each piece of her costume. Then, when it looks like she's about to rip off her black warrior skirt, she instead rips it in half. The waistband was actually two flexible batons with transparent black flags attached, draping all the way down to her feet and back up behind her, attaching at the back of her neck. She whipped those suckers around like some kind of warrior butterfly. She finished on the floor, topless. Oh, yeah, all this was done to Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun."

For her second act, she slowly stripped off a nightgown while also flinging around two giant, pink-feathered fans that would throw Karl Lagerfeld into a jealous hissy-fit. She finally used them to reveal a twist ending worthy of David Lynch. I'll use a condensed excerpt from my interview to explain:

Me: Some of your burlesque is described as involving "gender swapping" and "gender play." What does that mean?

Cho: I have a very, very realistic false penis that will sometimes appear during dance routines. It's very shocking. It's very big.

Me: How big?

Cho: I don't know, but he's very big. Well, that's what people tell me - that he's very shockingly big.

So there you have it. I was paid to see Margaret Cho almost naked with a very shockingly big (and very dark) dick - with equally big, dark balls - dangling between her legs. Yeah. Awesome.