random ketchup

I know, it's been more than a week. Well, first there wasn't anything to write about. Once there was, I was too busy writing my thesis against a deadline. The damn thing is more or less finished, and I'm looking forward to getting out of the house and delivering it later today. Of course once it's defended I'll probably have to do some more work, but I'm just thrilled to be free of this burden. What the hell am I going to do when I have to write the dissertation? The research I love, sitting down to right my crazy ideas seems to be what I dread.

So what am I going to do with my new-found free time? Well, it's movie marathon time. Plenty of movies waiting for me from the library and Netflix.

On Thursday, Allie and I went to see My Summer of Love at the E Street Cinema, since Allie won the free tickets to the screening. While the director was supposed to be there, instead one of the lead actresses (Emily Blunt) was there for a Q&A afterwards. As exciting as Q&As sound, I hate them. They are frustrating as hell. Horrible when the "A" guy is a jerk (i.e. Kevin Spacey & director of The Chorus). Emily was pretty good, but the questions were mostly uninspired and from people who clearly had not seen a non-blockbuster movie. And then there's the moderator for these things: Michael Kyrioglou, director of the DC Film Society. This man is an embarrassment to cinephiles. He makes trite, ridiculous, and sometimes insanely wrong observations, comments, and questions.

Okay, enough of a rant. Anyone want a gmail account? I've got more invites than I know what to do with, so if you email me (see left; you may have to click for complete profile), tell me something funny or interesting, comment on the blog, etc. and I just might oblige.

"A Critic Takes On the Logic of Female Orgasm"

You better click this link quickly, because it's to the New York Times which quickly makes its articles only available online for payment unless you've got access to Lexis Nexis. Anyway, it's a doozy.

It seems another professor at Indiana University is making headlines on sex research and theory. Dr. Elisabeth A. Lloyd claims the female orgasm has no evolutionary function. "The female orgasm, she said, 'is for fun.'" Hey, I'll take that. Does it really matter why things are supposed to happen?

One (male) theorist claims, "There will be patterns in orgasm with preferred and not preferred men." Well, duh. It's called capable and incapable men. Or rather, skilled and observant vs. unskilled and unobservant. Or even the omnipresent selfish vs. unselfish. In other words, yes, women experience orgasm patterns for men they prefer over those they don't. But the (potentially) orgasm-inducing experience dictates whether or not the man is preferred. Not the other way around.

One female anthropologist (you know what I think of anthropology) suggests, "Perhaps the reason orgasm is so erratic is that it's phasing out." Fuck that. Don't tell me evolution is inherently sexist now.

The article ends with: "'Getting the evolutionary story straight has potentially very large social and personal consequences for all women,' Dr. Lloyd said. 'And indirectly for men, as well.'"

But is that really so? Let's talk about changing societal attitudes about sexuality. Is an evolutionary theory really going to help that? Not when those who dictate sexual attitudes in this country don't believe in evolution!

the big 100,000

Yes, it's true, my car hit the very important 100,000 mile mark today. Very important, what makes me think that? I don't know. Important enough that I technically posted this after midnight but had to fudge the time to get this to read appropriately. Eeek, now you know the dirty tricks I play. Been busy as frickin' hell with my thesis and planning a trip to Los Angeles, what can I say?

At any rate, I knew this milestone would occur today. I thought it would happen on Saturday since I drove to Arlington (we know how much I love Virginia...you better get the sarcasm there), but a mostly unplanned stop into D.C. on my way home shaved off a few miles to leave my car at 99,996 when I got home. Working at home the last couple of days put that big day off until today. And for the occasion, I debuted a new mix tape--I thought the car could use it, especially as a celebration.

The big moment occurred on Norwood Road, a hair west of the entrance to the Sandy Spring Friends School at around 12:30 p.m. Yes, I was making one of my last trips to the University of Maryland, which I suppose is quite fitting. Since I bought the car with more than 45,000 miles to its credit, it's been those trips back and forth to College Park that have added the most mileage. It was nice not to be stressed out by a slow-moving minivan, SUV, or geriatric when the moment occurred. What was on my stereo? The Bonapartes.

Now it's weird to see all the slots on the odometer filled. I'll have to get used to that.

Teenage Fanclub returns

I had to post a very quick ecstatic message about the return of Teenage Fanclub! Not that they disbanded or anything (at least I don't think so), but their new album Man-Made is currently out in Britain and will hit a store near me on June 7 (according to various online shopping outlets). Woo-hoo! Now for that tour...

Trojan Horse may strike again

From the Bible's industry news (I thought it was fitting since I will soon be a Trojan):

Company To Ride Trojan Horse Into Primetime

Church and Dwight, the giant consumer products company that accounts for an estimated $60 million in ad spending annually, indicated Wednesday that it plans to use its leverage to persuade the major television networks to carry spots for its Trojan-brand condoms during primetime. Speaking with analysts during a conference call, CEO James Graigie said that he is in discussions with the major networks to air "health oriented" ads for the product after 9:00 p.m. Reporting on the announcement, Advertising Age observed on its website Wednesday that in February, CBS and ABC said that they were considering airing condom ads outside of the late-night hours, where they currently air. A spokeswoman for Fox told the trade publication that primetime ads for Trojan condoms would be considered on a case-by-case basis but would in no event air on American Idol.

Why is it that you can see various commercials advertising the pill at all hours of the day, but yet condoms are so taboo? And we wonder why we have the industrial world's highest rate of teenage pregnancies. Of course advertising during American Idol would change that. I've learned to never underestimate the power of mindnumbingly horrible television, so you never know what a condom commercial during that crap might bring.

Seriously, I don't exactly think television advertising has that much power, but considering the insanely high number of mis- and uninformed out there, it can't really do any harm. Yeah, evangelical right, you heard that: no fucking harm will be done.

urban obsession

I have an urban obsession, if you haven't noticed. I was born in a city (yes, the nation's capital), and I'm going to die in a city. And though I've lived in suburban hell my whole life (this changes in August), I've always been an urban enthusiast. You know I'm always reading about urbanism, particularly in this great time of procrastination. What I've linked you to is an article published in the new issue of The Next American City by Joel Kotkin excerpted from his recent book. It's atrocious, really. It's long, and when I first began reading, I thought this might be a flawed but perhaps decent read to introduce people to the development and significance of cities in human existence, but it quickly became a mouthpiece for promoting fear of Islamic terrorists. Kotkin actually puts forward that Islamic global terrorism is the greatest threat to the world's great, thriving cities. Unbelievable. People around the world, in cities as well as rural areas, starve, live in extreme poverty and substandard conditions with growing wealth disparities that are remaking poor ghettos into rich, homogenized ones. Lack of diversity (in all forms, people, character, social, cultural, economics, etc.), compassion, and tolerance are the greatest threats. I should have known this ridiculous religious, under the guise of cultural, attack was coming when he termed "sacredness of place" (when he really should have said unique architectural and place distinction) as one of the required elements of a surviving city. There are many more flaws, including his contradictory attitude toward Western superiority in citymaking.

i ♥ skinny rock 'n' roll boys

Okay, so yesterday was insanely long. I was up for something like twenty-two hours straight (and idle during almost none of that time). I thought about writing separate blog entries about my various adventures, but let's face it, that's not what ridiculous authenticity is about, it's about me recalling it in my crazy way. So I warn you, this is going to be long, rant-like in parts, and it's probably not for the faint of heart.

I'm going to start, not at the beginning of the day, but at the beginning of the action, which usually means criticism for me.

Million Dollar Bullshit.
Oh, I'm sorry, you probably know this as Million Dollar Baby. You know I had massive bias going into this film and actually an adamant refusal to see it. But a free showing and a sense of guilt for blasting it without seeing it coaxed me into the theater. Now, my bias against it isn't what the press covered. I hate Clint Eastwood. Even I was rooting for Martin Scorsese to take home the Oscar for best director. And, I'm sorry, but Eastwood cannot act. Maybe that stiff, walking skeleton, gruff delivery worked in spaghetti westerns, but he's just nowhere near Oscar-nomination caliber (for acting, at least). Plus, any other Eastwood-directed movies I've ever seen bored me to tears with a complete lack of pace. I'm actually going to praise him this time for not boring me at all; the pace was perfect. See, I'm not always so negative, I give people credit where credit is due.

However, the first part of the movie was such a postmodern experience for me. I was laughing hysterically like I'd gone to see a Farrelly Brothers movie. Sure, there was intentional comic relief, but I was reading it from a different light: this is supposed to be serious, and it's the most cliched thing I'd seen in a long time. That was the awful part.

The movie actually improved once Maggie (Hillary Swank) falls. And I don't mean that in a sick, sadistic sense. It was heart wrenching, and dammit, yes, I cried as the film went on. But this also meant I could take it seriously especially since the horrible, awkward exchanges among characters became something more real, more emotional, less farce to me. Eastwood still couldn't act to save his life, but was valiant in taking hers. I didn't read widely about this film, but just in reading my usual suspects I got enough of a sense of the hoopla over the damn thing to be convinced Eastwood was trying to crush disability rights yet again (I'm admitting my own bias here as a truly well trained cultural critic should). But man did the media spin this improperly, but I shouldn't be surprised at this at all since you know I contend that there is a general conservative bias to go along with the current conservative regime (which predates Dubya). While I don't think you're meant to take a political message away from this throw-back to Hollywood glamour days, let's face it, in postmodernity it's all political and anything could have an equal message to anyone. So let's get it straight: it's not about euthanasia, but the right to die. And I support that.

Overall assessment: bad movie, not worth the praise or Oscars, but also not as horrible as I made it out in my head. I'm glad I went. And I'm sure you're glad you read my rant.

Intermission.
Now for where the title of this entry starts to make sense. I saw a total of five bands split between two concerts yesterday. And yes, they were all skinny rock 'n' roll boys. Okay, two of the bands were middle-aged and probably past their prime, but still made for good performers. But in just recalling this, perhaps my incessant small indie concert going as a teenager is what bread my intense attraction to my archetype of skinny, tall, dark-haired, fair-skinned gentlemen preferably in suits, ties, or some sort of mod-inspired/conceptual look. Or perhaps that fueled my interest in going to these concerts. A chicken and the egg thing maybe?

Gin Blossoms Festival.
So Allie and I mosied to Byrd Stadium, home of the Maryland Terrapins in case you didn't notice the fifty zillion signs claiming that. I'd never been in the fucking thing, and I'm sort of sad to have killed that streak so close to my retirement from Maryland. At any rate, we were psyched to see the Gin Blossoms, who played an annual event known as Art Attack. We couldn't get a sense of when they were playing, but we figured they'd follow the campus band that won the competition to play before Chevelle and Guster hit the stage. Good thing we got there early, because the Gin Blossoms were first. Yes, the Gin Blossoms opened for a local act in a massive stadium. How sad, but so fortunate for me because I said I'd meet someone at the Velvet Lounge on U Street at 8:30, and I had plenty of time for that.

The sound was good, but you couldn't help but wonder why they were booked or even had an interest in playing. Who knew they still existed?! They don't even have a website. I Googled them and located the "unofficial" website, but even that didn't help provide details on this gig. The photo used in the school paper yesterday was dated 1996. 1996! The frontman, Biff (yes, Biff), was wearing a hoodie. A fucking hoodie. You know that is not my thing, it's way too related to publicly wearing pajamas or sweats. And wearing sunglasses (it was freezing for May and not sunny). Clearly trying to reclaim his youth, it was a bit sad. He crowd surfed. Yes, seriously. He was a good showman, and I really want to give him credit for that. It was well worth the experience and the free price tag.

Velvet Lounge Love.
On Wednesday, I ran into a dilemma. In a random effort to procrastinate by checking out local venues for clubs prompted by an email from The Phobes saying that Friday would be their last show, I looked up the other three bands playing with them--and dug all the sounds (particularly The Bonapartes and Bona Roba). I had to go. But I also wanted to see Deep Throat, showing at midnight on campus. I decided, fuck Deep Throat. If you know me, you know I had to be really psyched about the show to turn down classic porn. But then Allie couldn't go due to the 21+ policy. I was even thinking of going alone, but my pal Jon agreed even though he hadn't heard of any of the bands. I love the thrill of discovering really cool, live, local music. L.A. better not disappoint (like I could be disappointed with that smoking ban! I'll be in heaven.). So I got there prompt as hell at 8:30. I was the first person there that didn't work there (or band). Yes, I'm serious. How dorky am I? There was some confusion about start times for key bands so I thought better get there just before the thing was supposed to start at 9. Well, it started a little after 10. I was geekily sitting there reading the City Paper as the employees chatted and I tried to make some conversation. I was saved from utter embarrassment when Andrew (grad school colleague) and his friends walked in to have a drink at the bar. Then Jon showed up. I had to talk a mile a minute (as if I don't do that naturally) just to keep myself awake, knowing it was going to be a long night. And it was. I was ready to pack it in by the time The Phobes hit the stage at nearly 1. They were my least favorite of the night, perhaps influenced by my zombie/exhausted state and the interaction of some of the smoking and drunken people, but also because I think I just liked the other three bands better. Bona Roba was a strong second to The Bonapartes (see below) with melodic indie rock and some Mick Jagger/Jim Morrison/David Bowie showmanship. Jerra, fronted by a woman (and you know I generally detest female vocals even as a feminist, it's a style thing), was very solid. Something to look forward to in L.A., where they are based.

The Bonapartes.
So you know I've got this Francophile thing going on. No, The Bonapartes aren't French, but reading their self-description they like to play up that sort of influence too. Actually, I rather like the words they put out about themselves, intellectualizing their own endeavor. That's sexy as hell. You can stream three songs via their MySpace page, but I couldn't get the download function to work using three different browsers. So I posted a comment praising the show and their concept, but asking about the download issue. Well, I should click around before I open my mouth, because now I'm embarrassed. I located their independent website at http://www.thebonapartes.com to find the songs downloadable. However, my personal favorite "Domino Theories" is incomplete! So I recommend streaming that one for sure, but the other two are solid, especially "Concentric." I'm bummed, because I was planning to make a new mix CD and use "Domino Theories" as the opener.

Wesley Stace / John Wesley Harding

In my usual attempt to procrastinate, the other day I was browsing around various club websites looking for cool upcoming shows when I noticed that Wesley Stace, or as I usually refer to him under his musical name, John Wesley Harding, would appear at Warehouse, an avant-garde theater/music hall/cafe/bar complex on 7th Street (beautifully juxtaposed with the new Convention Center across the street).

Who is this John Wesley Harding (JWH, hereafter), you ask? Well, have I given you any mixed CDs lately? Check The Geodesic Dome (cover features the Buckminster Fuller stamp--aren't I clever?) for "Goth Girl." Everyone loves that song. That would be JWH from one of his handful of albums, Confessions of St. Ace. And how did I learn about him? Actually, I saw him open for Fastball in November 2000 at the 9:30 Club (before you snarl, I was a big fan of Fastball before anyone else had heard of them!). I found it odd that I was singing along to all of JWH's songs as he performed since I'd never heard of the dude and he wasn't doing covers. Then it hit me: I had listened to his CD for a month when I worked at Barnes & Noble. B&N's policy used to be (don't know what the deal is now since many things have changed since I departed) that the store could only play a certain 5 CDs (selected by corporate or at least above the store manager) for an entire month. JWH was one of those 5 sometime in 2000 (probably August). I heard the damn thing a million times, that's how I knew to sing along.

Anyway, returning to this evening, Allie and I arrived. He read a couple of selections from his massive novel Misfortune and performed a couple of songs from the book a cappella. It was wonderfully funny and postmodern. A great combination. As an ironic twist, he invited the entire audience of--I don't know--20-30 people to a party at his friend Jim's house in Georgetown. But first he asked if there were any thieves, [blanking on this one], or antisocials. Allie and I laughed loudly knowing we fit the latter. Those types weren't invited to the party. So we didn't go. Oh we aren't party people, but I might have considered it if it wasn't in fucking Georgetown. I really hate Georgetown, but you knew that.

Oh and expecting a "mini-concert" as the website advertised I brought my ear plugs. I'm such an old woman.