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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
Allergies, asthma, and "sick building syndrome" are on the rise.
Some industrial chemicals produce a second effect, more insidious than causing stress: they weaken the immune system.
Legislation establishing mandatory standards for indoor air quality is practically nonexistent.
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.
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."
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.
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
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.
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." 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.
