Chris Willie Williams

I'm back living in Maine with Bev and Cora. I'll write about it sometime. But I've decided to also start occasionally posting garbage from my sketchbook because it's easy. This one made me laugh a little.

I'm thinking about drawing a whole series of poorly-conceived and incompetently-executed craft projects like this.

CURRENT MUSIC: Puking and Crying by S.
CURRENT MOOD: Gangly.
USEFUL MONEYSAVING TIP THAT CAME TO ME IN A DREAM LAST NIGHT: Save money on postage by purchasing stamps from eight-year-olds who are smart enough to raid their parents' desk but not smart enough to charge you the full value printed on the stamp!

I've had a nice week or so. You are going to sit there and hear about it.

Thanks to Juli's generosity, Jess and I got free tickets to see Dean & Britta at The Power Center last Thursday, performing songs to accompany 13 of Andy Warhol's "Screen Tests." I'll copy the summary from the evening's program: "Andy Warhol's Screen Tests, which number approximately 500, are revealing portraits of hundreds of different individuals, shot between 1964 and 1966. The subjects--both famous and anonymous--were visitors to his studio, The Factory. They were asked to pose, lit with a strong keylight, and filmed by Warhol with his stationary 16mm Bolex camera on silent, black and white, 100-foot rolls of film. Each screen test lasted only as long as the roll of film. The resulting 2 3/4-minute films were projected in slow motion so that each lasted four minutes."

The films themselves were interesting studies of the human face, projected huge and flat on a screen, with a tone that varied according to the subjects' attitude. Ann Buchanan defiantly refused to blink for the entire 2:45 film, even as tears rolled down cheeks pulled taut over a determinedly clenched jaw. Only half of 17-year-old model International Velvet's face was lit, with an additional quarter of it hidden behind a daunting curtain of dark bangs beneath which one eye stared transfixingly forward. Dennis Hopper, on the other hand, had clearly never attempted to sit still for as long as the length of 100 feet of film in his entire life, and was jittery even at 16 frames per second. I wasn't always entirely sure what Warhol would have me take from the individual films--am I seeing proto-punk antiestablishment playfulness from Ingrid Superstar or merely the effects of cocaine?--but I also suspect that I wasn't supposed to quite put my finger on it in the first place. Sometimes it's a deep criticism of the superficiality of celebrity, and sometimes it's just fun to watch a young Lou Reed being a mannered smartass by swigging from a bottle that he takes pains to display is labeled "COKE."

The four-minute songs Dean & Britta (accompanied by Matt Sumrow, of the Comas' touring band, and Lee Waters, who's toured with Camera Obscura and The Essex Green) performed on the stage below these films were pretty thoroughly gorgeous. They ran the gamut from minimal electronic drones to firebrand Velvet Underground noise to, as Jess suggested, pop that could have easily segued (but mercifully did not) into "Walking on Sunshine," but they all sustained a vibe of heady, contemplative cool. As far as I can tell, the studio versions of their songs are available only on the DVD of the Warhol Screen Tests and haven't been released in CD or MP3 form. It's kind of a bummer, because some of those songs beg to be on night-driving mixes in cars zipping all across the land. It was a fantastic show.

On some songs, Britta Phillips was playing a MicroKorg of the sort I'd been attempting to win on eBay for the past month. Luckily, I finally procured one on Friday, so it's probably for the best that I didn't bum-rush the stage and take hers.

On Friday, Sarah Palin gave me the best early birthday gift a boy could ask for: a public meltdown that has all the indications of stretching on for quite some time. Now, during election season, I naturally found Palin completely infuriating because of the very real possibility that this dangerously stupid hypocrite and liar could be what some commentator (probably Ken Layne, though I can't find the quote) described as "one Ambien overdose away from the presidency." Ever since this nation sidestepped that landmine, though, I've found Ms. Palin's public antics increasingly hilarious, as a personification of the GOP's sorely deserved implosion. I can't get enough of her nonsense. So her babbly resignation speech--clearly hastily slapped together, in a manner that even hardline Republicans like Ed Rollins described as weird, and with even her sympathetically deranged attack dog Meg Stapleton thousands of miles away--put a spring in my step that will last through winter.

The past few days have seen plenty of commentary (or, you know, the journalistic equivalent of Dana Carvey's John McLaughlin impression) attempting to unravel what the hell happened there, with sporadic interjections from Palin herself that serve only to dig her hole deeper, so I'm not going to try to rehash what others have more astutely said. However, there was one bit of her dazed rambling that struck me as such a weird leap of logic that it made my head spin, and yet I haven't seen anyone mention it in their analyses. Check out the following paragraph from her speech (copied verbatim from the official Alaska Governor's Office transcript, so all creative punctuation is hers):

And so as I thought about this announcement that I wouldn't run for re-election and what it means for Alaska, I thought about how much fun some governors have as lame ducks... travel around the state, to the Lower 48 (maybe), overseas on international trade - as so many politicians do. And then I thought - that's what's wrong - many just accept that lame duck status, hit the road, draw the paycheck, and "milk it". I'm not putting Alaska through that - I promised efficiencies and effectiveness! ? That's not how I am wired.

Maybe no one has specifically pointed this out because it's so obvious and there are plenty of other monkeyfuck crazy things in that speech to discuss at length, but... it sounds to me like she has never considered that "milking it" is not the only road that's available to a lame duck official. Myself, I'd think it would be a blessing for a dedicated elected official with nearly half a term ahead of her to be free from the distractions and worries of a reelection campaign, as she could then use that time to focus exclusively on racking up those "efficiencies and effectiveness!?" that she'd promised. But that's not how she's wired.

Let's look at it this way. First off, I think everyone agrees that she is certainly within her rights not to seek reelection if she chooses not to for any reason whatsoever. Now, if, as she asks us to do, we take her at her word--or those bits of her word that are intelligible and not demonstrably false--for argument's sake, and assume that she's not bailing (a) as part of some truly incomprehensible strategy that she thinks will better position her for a 2012 presidential run, (b) in the hopes of landing a FOX News gig that will feed her addiction to the spotlight and let her run her mouth unfettered by cumbersome requirements of "knowledge" or backing her words up with action, or (c) in preemptory anticipation of some imminent scandal (or as a condition for someone keeping mum on said scandal) that she would have us think she could legally gag us from speculating upon, I think that leaves one conclusion: her resignation is a tacit admission that popularity--and attendant electoral victory--is her only motivation for attempting to accomplish anything.

Whatever else you'd care to say about her--and you could say lots of mean things and I would cackle along with you--she is a fighter. There was nary a point made against her during the 2008 campaign that did not prompt her to come out swinging and claiming those points were invalid, whether she was claiming media sexism, condescension on the part of Katie Couric, below-the-belt attacks on the children she was toting along as props, whatever. She's not brainy, but she's a scrapper. And she's continued to evince that ill-considered lust for battle long after the "real America" that she claimed to represent issued her a resounding "NO" last November. For instance, she recently won something of a Pyrrhic victory against David Letterman in that she got an apology out of him even though it only ratcheted up her reputation as someone who is either an embarrassing, shrill opportunist or a genuinely dense lunatic. (Or both.) She loves the feeling that she's conquered something, even if that means something as unsportsmanlike--not to mention pathologically cruel--as shooting wolves from planes.

So if the pull of another 18 months in office, during which she could push whatever agenda or effect whatever change she believed in her ostensibly divinely-guided heart was right, without fear of reprisal from a potentially disillusioned electorate who may not Get It, wasn't enough to convince her to finish the term of office she'd committed to when she ran for it without a gun to her head... clearly her motivation for action lies solely in the thought that it might lead to some personal victory. Some check mark for the "W" column, that doesn't signify accomplishments, but says, "I defeated Thus-and-So." Absent that chance to raise her arms triumphantly above her head [tasteless McCain joke redacted] as they slip a medal 'round her neck as the 2010 gubernatorial champion, she couldn't care less about what she does or doesn't accomplish in the remainder of her term. Lame duck status holds no trophy in it for her, regardless of what other opportunities it may present. So may as well opt out of it.

Personally, I'm holding out hope for a scandal because my schadenfreude knows no bounds, but if she's breaking with tradition and telling the truth, that's my reading. You?

Anyway, my actual birthday was Sunday, and my dad took me to see Moon, starring Sam Rockwell and directed by Duncan Jones (David Bowie's kid!), at the Main Art Theatre in Royal Oak. Rockwell plays Sam Bell, the sole worker on a lunar mining base who, coming up on the end of his three-year contract, starts hallucinating in a way that causes himself injury, which in turn causes far bigger problems of identity for him. I really liked it a lot. (THE VAGUEST OF SPOILER-ISH MATERIAL AHEAD) I agree with some of the criticism I've read that says the third act would've benefitted from some sort of a tense setpiece as opposed to the existing linear wrap-up that, though emotionally satisfying and well earned, feels somewhat anticlimactic. But part of what impressed me most about Moon was that it didn't overreach. It's a small film with a very small and talented cast (the only notable non-Sam Bell character in the film is Gerty, a computer voiced by Kevin Spacey whose smiley-face palliatives suggest a Malibu Stacey take on HAL 9000), confined mostly to a small set, with small narrative ambitions that Jones knows he can knock out of the park. I'd much rather watch a film like Moon, which is certainly not stingy with clever revelations but which wisely limits its scope to twists it knows it can sustain, than something like, say, Arlington Road, which throws in implausible left turns in the hopes that the audience's adrenaline rush will cover the plot holes. I suppose it's ultimately a little safer than it could've been, but it still feels like a complete film, and there's a certain backward audaciousness in an indie film like this refusing to go off the rails in a way that would negate the world it spent 90 minutes building. I definitely recommend it.

On the ride home, Dad and I discussed the movie and filled in holes in each other's theories about what we were supposed to infer from certain scenes. I was actually very proud of Dad, because there are moments in the film that are fairly jarring--not in a shock-cut way, but in a disorienting way where you're clearly missing vital pieces of the puzzle. And Dad has, over the years, developed a deserved reputation for interrupting movies with questions about what's happening, in the Homer Simpson style of "Who's that guy? What'd that guy say when I said, 'Who's that guy?'" I vividly remember having to pause The Brady Bunch Movie as Mom, T-Bone, and I attempted to explain the plot intricacies to Dad.

So the fact that Dad not only followed along with Moon, patiently awaiting answers that he realized would be forthcoming but not immediately, but spent chunks of the film angrily muttering, "Just be patient!" under his breath at the women sitting behind us who were asking each other about each successive shot, made me feel very pleased that I'd finally prevailed upon the old man not to demand instant, straightforward gratification from his movies. That was also a fine birthday present.

So basically, this most recent checkpoint on my inexorable march towards the grave was pretty boss. Thanks to all who participated.

CURRENT MUSIC: Ambivalence Avenue by Bibio.
CURRENT MOOD: Pretty okay!
CURRENT FAVORITE PUBLISHER'S DESCRIPTION OF A BOOK: Zone Press, on Arvin Short's Reckoning: "For three young boys, an innocent campout at some caves is disrupted by an escaped murderer hiding out in their favorite summer getaway!." (Hat tip to Kerri.)

Progressive just mailed Bev a new insurance card for me to keep in my car. So Bev, in turn, mailed it to me, buried amid a package of other goodies. The rest of the contents were as follows:

·One (1) blue baseball shirt that she and I both like, so we take turns wearing it. Guess it's my turn!

·One (1) Biscoff brand cookie-style food treat which is emblazoned with the Delta Airlines logo. [UPDATE: I asked Bev about this, and she giggled and triumphantly exclaimed, "Isn't it disappointing?!"]

·One (1) Ziploc bag containing a Mr. Potato Head-style SpongeBob SquarePants osteology and assorted whimsical ornaments that can be crammed into his various holes.

·A length of wallpaper border depicting adorable cartoon ducklings, frogs, and fish that apparently is no longer tacked up to serve as a decorative dado rail in our house's hallway.

·Two (2) pairs of socks with penguins on them.

·One (1) toy ice cream cone with a release lever built into the side that will, when pressed, send the foam scoop rocketing off into someone's nose.

·An article clipped from the May issue of the Working Waterfront entitled "Maine granite graces Yankee Stadium." At first I thought she sent this to me because the article is written by Kris Osgood, and she thought it was funny to imagine the Red Wings' homophonically named goalie as a journalist for a tiny Maine paper. Then I realized that the article focuses on events taking place on Maine's tiny (tee hee) Crotch Island, and it was just my delicate bride's sophisticated sense of humor at play.

·One (1) quasi-educational pamphlet entitled "Always Changing: Puberty and Stuff" published by Proctor & Gamble as part of their "About You Fifth Grade School Program" for irresponsibly lazy school districts. The pamphlet is overflowing (tee hee) with Always and Tampax branding, along with questionable definitions like "Puberty means when you get older and you start finding out more about your body and how it's changing."

·One (1) package of Shock-a-Lots brand chocolate-covered coffee beans, which will be consumed in a single mouthful tomorrow morning.

·Five (5) photos taken on our recent trip to Florida: two (2) of a chair in our Homosassa Springs hotel room, one (1) of me convalescing in that same hotel room, and two (2) that appear to be of our rental car's window.

·One (1) wallet-sized booklet of 146 Easter-themed stickers.

·One (1) "original Du-Rag with long-tie" hair kerchief, distributed by Nu Golden Products, whose website is still under construction. The particular style Bev sent me is dubbed "The Challenger," which put me in mind of the hilarious model names from the old Cock Ring Warehouse commercial.

·One (1) piece of looseleaf paper on which is written (in pen), "Hey Michelle, guess who sat at your desk?? I think you need to sharpen your pencil pretty soon! Have a great Tuesday--Pay attention! Love you, Mom." On the reverse is a drawing of a spider and some math problems.

·One (1) awesome Burger King kid's meal toy. It's Gary from SpongeBob! And if you roll him backwards to rev him up, he will quickly scuttle across your desk or floor!

·The May 2009 issue of Bev's employee newsletter. I haven't a clue why Bev sent me this, but it's amusing. The banner headline reads, "Board of directors holds April meeting," and is underlaid with ominous clip art of a suit-clad Reservoir Dogs silhouette using a pen to point at an outlying spike in an otherwise downtrending line graph. There's also a random fact box that purports to be full of lawnmower safety tips but which hews closer to rhetorical, Oblique Strategies-style questions like, "Do you want to vary the cutting height of the grass during the growing season? Consider the ease with which you can adjust the height."

·One (1) large plastic egg full of tiny woodcarvings of cheerful woodland pals.

CURRENT MUSIC: Happy Birthday! by Modeselektor.
CURRENT MOOD: In love with my weird, weird wife.
CURRENT FAVORITE ABSURD FACTOID FROM IRAN: The Guardian notes, "Kamran Daneshjou, the head of the ministry's election commission, has attributed the reported 141% [voter] participation in the town of Taft to the good weather in Yazd province, where the town is situated."

(I wrote this last night but was too tired to post it. Some parts may already be out of date, for all I know, but I hardly think anyone is relying on me for hot-off-the-presses Middle Eastern news. Also, I wrote most of it while watching the synapse-numbing reality show Hitched or Ditched, so I do not warrant the accuracy of anything that follows.)

I have quickly become a bloodshot-eyed obsessive over the popular uprising in Iran following the questionable (to say the least) official results of last Friday's election, which declared controversial Holocaust-denier Mahmoud Ahmadinejad the winner by a large margin, and which were suspiciously certified by Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei far in advance of when election rules dictated they could/should be. What's particularly noteworthy is that the hundreds of thousands of Iranian people who have taken to the streets in defiance of the regime's commands are doing so not because they're mad that their candidate lost or that a candidate they dislike had won, but because they want the election to be won or lost democratically, with a simple counting of the votes, and that was denied them in favor of what has been described essentially as a coup. One which the people are rightly and fervently rejecting, instead demanding a new election. Khamenei's forces have been attempting to quell the protests via propaganda, force, and a flimsy attempt at mollification which held out the unappetizing pledge of a partial recount (to be performed by Khamenei's own far-from-neutral Guardian Council, no less), and all thus far have failed, as a groundswell of support for the democratic rights of the Iranians has poured in seemingly from all corners of the globe and, here in America, across the political spectrum.

The big story-within-the-story, and one on which I feel marginally less thoroughly unqualified to offer my thoughts than I am on international politics themselves (since, in the absence of any firsthand geopolitical expertise, my reactions tend to be as much to news stories as to events themselves, and as such aren't going to be particularly nuanced or original), is the way the online community--and soundbite mechanism Twitter in particular--has become the clearinghouse for information within the Iranian people's ranks. Simultaneously, Twitter has become many Americans' primary source of information on this topic following a period of irresponsible silence or understatement from traditional media outlets, television news bureaus being the worst offenders. (While obviously, no one expected or indeed ever expects anything substantial from FOX News, CNN has, by all accounts, been largely ignoring the uprising in favor of lavishing more attention on Sarah Palin and her pretend revulsion with David Letterman. Though Larry King, via his predictably lunatic Twitter account, pledges "tonight we'll talk Iran," he has spent the last few days largely concerned with the Jonas Brothers.)

When, on the day before the election, the Khamenei regime brought the hammer down on all non-official methods of communication in Iran--jamming non-state-run news stations like BBC Persia, shutting down mobile phone services, and blocking access to websites through which it was thought opponents might try to coordinate or disseminate information--determined and tech-savvy protesters turned to Twitter. Their access has been spotty over the last few days, but due to clever exploitation of whatever blessed loophole there seems to be in the Iranian government's control of the networks, firsthand messages from opposition supporters have been getting through. To one another and to us. Many of the Ayatollah's opponents used Twitter to spread the word amongst themselves about imminent marches and demonstrations, as well as to issue warnings about potential danger spots. Some uploaded photos and videos of what they were seeing, events both inspirational and harrowing, for the world to see. Some dissidents asked the world to form a united front and help them crash the Iranian government's propaganda websites through widespread denial-of-service attacks.

{Remarks on the latter: Some have expressed concern about the perceived hypocrisy of decrying the Iranian government's media blackout while working to silence its communications, which is a point of view I understand and respect. While I'm generally not an "eye for an eye" or "two wrongs make a right" type of guy, I personally feel, however, that it's a legitimate form of nonviolent protest to retaliate in kind against those who stifle the voices of those who disagree with them, until the oppressing party relents. I admittedly couldn't make a cogent logical case for it, but I feel in my gut that it's okay for individuals worldwide to peacefully yet forcefully give a corrupt government a taste of its own medicine as far as freedom of speech is concerned. This isn't a great analogy, but if you had a son who hid his younger sibling's favorite toy just to be a dick, you'd be well within your rights as the caretaker for both of them to forbid the older kid from playing with his favorite toy until the hidden item is returned. I guess you could accuse such a parent of hypocrisy, but in my view, that parent would be bringing pressure to bear not just to pragmatically right a wrong, but to make this a teaching moment and both instill in the older child that there are consequences for being a crappy kid and maybe a bit to show him how it feels to have something he likes taken away. Not for revenge, but to help develop empathy. And to overextend that metaphor, we should all be each other's caretakers on this ridiculous planet, and even though we should always act from a place of love and compassion, sometimes it's necessary to use our collective might to push back against someone who is behaving as they shouldn't.

{That's just my opinion, and furthermore, it's a moot point because you shouldn't participate in the denial-of-service attacks anyway due to the danger that they might further limit what little bandwidth the Iranian people have available to them. And if you do participate in the attacks before you realize that you could be harming those you intend to help, you run the risk of singlehandedly disrupting Internet access for the entire Math Reviews building and you will arrive at work the following morning to discover an irritated e-mail from the systems guy telling you not to do that again. I AM SPEAKING ENTIRELY HYPOTHETICALLY.}

At any rate, the flurry of information on Twitter has prompted more than one observer to declare that the Web 2.0 model has finally transcended not only the need for the mainstream/traditional media, but for any sort of journalist middlemen selectively framing information for us. ("The revolution will be Tweeted" is an unfortunate phrase I've seen quite a few times, which is a single rung up on the Headline Wit Ladder from "Iran, Iran so far away.") This strikes me as kind of dumb. Twitter's accessibility and ease of use have certainly revealed an unexpected utility in the midst of a crisis, but once proper channels of communication are restored in Iran, Twitter will resume being an amusingly silly social networking site and a delivery service for Meghan McCain's bellicose sense of entitlement. (As I write this, three of the top ten discussion topics on Twitter are indeed about the Iran situation, but two others are about the iPhone, one is a meme entitled "#haveyouever," and much discussion is apparently being devoted to Weird Al and "SOulja Boy" [sic].) As it stands, Twitter's vaunted and briefly indispensable #IranElection feed has, in the space of a day, become all but unreadable not because of Iranian government intervention but due to the white noise of well-meaning individuals who crowd out important new information with reposts of stories that broke hours ago and pointless pleas for Google to change its homepage colors to green in solidarity. There's no quality control.

Thankfully, some actual reporters who know how to do actual reporting and savvily synthesize information caught onto the story early, were thus able to identify the credible Tweesters, and have broadcast these eyewitness accounts far and wide while supplementing the 140-character missives with original research to make sense of it all. Both The Guardian and The New York Times have been doing an excellent job pulling together new facts and analysis as each becomes available. For those who are understandably more desperate for quantity of information than for pieces that can necessarily be assembled into a logical whole, but who still understand the necessity for some sort of contextual filter, Andrew Sullivan has been mightily impressive (even if his clear personal concern with these events has led him to be overly credulous) with the sheer volume of work he's done over the last couple days. I've also been very interested in Spencer Ackerman's posts, which focus largely on well-thought-out explanations of the line America--Obama, in particular--has had to walk in official reaction to the uprising (and why outright condemning the election results would be disastrous for those we'd ostensibly be supporting).

Of course the important thing right now is that peaceful stability returns to Iran in a way that is dictated by the will of its people. What the larger ramifications of a new elected (or even re-elected, unsavory as the thought might be to us) leadership might be, for Iran and the world, can be figured out, debated, and dealt with in time. The sustainability of social networking sites as tools for news distribution and political organization is of zero significance. At the moment, all that matters is that there is a nation full of people hungry for the democracy they were promised and, increasingly, for the reform of a system whose pretense to their common good is rapidly disintegrating. I don't feel like there's any meaningful way I can offer my support to them--this entire post may as well read, "Boy, Persepolis really made me think," for all the practical good it does--but I hope the fact that this information was able to get to me at all, in spite of the Ayatollah's best efforts, is somehow indicative of a tide that is turning in favor of human rights.

CURRENT MOOD: Populist and most likely naive.

Once again I have failed to update for ludicrous amounts of time, so it's another accursed catch-all post that covers a month and a half.

( Bev, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Indigo children )

( Amanda, Sean, The Tragically Hip, sparkly vampires! )

( Let's play video clips )

( My preposterous website celebrates 10 years of shame )

CURRENT MUSIC: Dark Night of the Soul, the mysteriously unreleasable Danger Mouse/Sparklehorse collaboration. It sort of lives or dies on the talents of the individual guest singers, but The Flaming Lips, Vic Chesnutt, and Gruff Rhys in particular make it worth a download.
CURRENT MOOD: Completely through with humans, far more concerned with animals, thank you very much.
FAVORITE ENTRY IN A BOOK OF FUNNY NEWS TYPOS THAT BEV GAVE ME: "To Mr. and Mrs. Ben Mendez, a son, 7 lbs. 12 oz. more t com more more more mor."

My many dedicated fans--LaimerHeads, they call themselves--will remember my longstanding vow never to return to Wisconsin after a miserable family vacation in 1996 (which consisted of a week in Green Bay during which my dad and my brother T-Bone spent every day at Packers training camp while my mom and I wandered various identical malls, went to see Kingpin, and watched the Olympics in the hotel room while praying for Bela Karolyi to spirit us away to a more interesting life) and a road trip to see Radiohead in 2003 in which my soul and Jess's soul were devoured by penniless Milwaukee hippies. Well, T-Bone and his girlfriend LeAnne moved to Madison, and since I love them both lots and it's not a horribly long drive from Ann Arbor--and my favorite non-Yo La Tengo band, The Handsome Family, happened to be playing there--I went against my every instinct last Friday and drove out there.

An hour outside of Ann Arbor, I noticed that my hood wasn't quite shut from when I'd added coolant earlier, so I pulled over to slam it. Getting back into the car proved a problem, as I'd locked the keys inside. AAA was helpfully prompt.

Then I got lost in Illinois, because the Mapquest directions to [NAME OF HIGHWAY REDACTED BECAUSE T-BONE WANTS TO KEEP HIS SHORTCUT A SECRET] were hopelessly confusing. I wound up on the wrong interstate and spent much of the evening making my way from Milwaukee to Madison, grinding my teeth and shouting, "Dammit, Wisconsin!" from beneath the neck of my shirt, which I had by that point pulled over my nose as a result of the fact that I was evidently driving through the state's Manure Belt.

I noshed on a bagel when I got to LeAnne and T-Bone's fabulous new condo, re-introduced myself to their laid-back cat Petey, and met their new kitten Mika, whose goal in life is to clumsily torment Petey. (T-Bone writes: "Today Petey was hanging out in the living room minding his own business and Mika decided to jump off one of the dining room chairs, hurdle the box next to the chair, and land juuuuust on the other side of Petey. It scared the crap out of Petey so he took off running, then Mika tried to change directions to chase after him, but of course she can't dig in to our hardwood floors, so she slammed into the couch instead.") After I got the grand tour and LeAnne and I bored my brother by talking about Harry Potter for awhile, T-Bone and I went to the satisfyingly cozy High Noon Saloon for the Handsome Family show.

The Handsome Family are currently touring behind their beautiful new album Honey Moon, which is a record that Brett and Rennie Sparks recorded as a 20th-anniversary gift to one another. It's an album of love songs, which rules out the dark, occasionally supernatural story songs they've proffered on albums like the idiosyncratic alt-folk masterpieces Through the Trees and Singing Bones... but doesn't rule out much else, since The Handsome Family's definition of "love song" extends to tales of cannibalistic insects ("Darling, My Darling"), crippling loneliness (the stunning "The Petrified Forest"), and the feeling you get, to quote Rennie's stage banter, "when you see a paper cup rolling down the street and you think, 'Man, that paper cup's got it made!'" ("Little Sparrows").

The stage banter was a hugely entertaining component of their show last Friday, too. As documented on their fine live album Live at Schuba's Tavern, Brett and Rennie spend a good amount of time between songs joking and bickering as only two people in deep love can. For instance, when introducing the cheeky murder ballad "Arlene," Rennie said, "We wrote this song back when we lived in Chicago. I was really depressed at the time, and at first I'd thought, 'Well, maybe I'll try growing tomato plants in the apartment. That might cheer me up!' So I tried growing these tomato plants inside but they died and I was still really depressed, so I thought it might help to paint the walls happy colors, so I tried that..."

At which point Brett interjected, "She painted the walls--I walked out of the shower one day and was confronted with this, and thought, 'What the fuck--that is the color of madness!' The walls were the color of, like, Van Gogh's sunflowers." [He paused to hold up a beer bottle with a violently orange label.] "This is the color our walls were!"

"It was summery!" Rennie maintained. "So anyway, the plants didn't cheer me up and the walls didn't cheer me up, so I thought, 'Well, maybe it will cheer me up to write a song about a girl who gets kidnapped and dragged into the woods.' And whaddaya know!"

Of course, the musical performances were great as well. Brett did seem occasionally aggravated by a malfunctioning guitar pedal (which drew indulgent smiles from Rennie that were as adorable as any expression you'd see shooting between Pam and Jim on The Office), but that was the only minor asterisk I'd put alongside a completely solid set. Judging from the live recordings I'd heard, I assumed Brett and Rennie would be touring with a prerecorded rhythm section confined to minidiscs, but they had two human accomplices (whose names I don't have handy since I loaned Honey Moon to Bert for the weekend), one flailing on half a drum kit and one violinist/second guitarist, both of whom added surprising and effective spontaneity to favorites like "My Sister's Tiny Hands."

Thanks to an e-mail I'd fired off before driving to Madison, they played a gorgeous rendition of "Whitehaven," which is both Bev's and my favorite Handsome song. As soon as Rennie said, "We got an e-mail this morning asking us to play this," I called Bev and she was able to listen to it, however murkily the transmission came through. (I was briefly awestruck by the ability to send an e-mail from Michigan that would result in a band playing a specific song that night in Wisconsin, which I could broadcast to my sweetie in Maine. Technology!) They also made room for T-Bone's favorite song, "All the Time in Airports," which performance you can watch here. (Thanks to that same YouTube user, you can also watch the Madison performances of "So Much Wine" and "Weightless Again.") The Handsome Family have been the number-one entry on my "bands to see live" list for, like, three years at this point, and I am happy to report that the wait was worth it and then some.

On the way back to the condo, T-Bone pointed out some hot tub showroom and said, "Yeah, that's one of those sketch 'Come get into our hot tub!' places," which completely cracked me up. My brother frequently has the sharpest comic delivery of anyone I'm aware of this side of Patton Oswalt.

The following morning, I was awoken by Mika cheerfully purring and rubbing all over me, and T-Bone discovered that the pack of bagels from which I'd eaten the previous evening was growing fuzzy things. He and LeAnne took me to the weekly farmers' market that's held on the square surrounding the Wisconsin State Capitol. Though it was crowded, being a lovely day and the first farmers' market of the season, I had a great deal of fun. I bought a bag of fresh cheese curds from this guy's booth. They were pretty great! Just irregularly-shaped hunks of soft cheese the color of circus peanuts, still moist with whey and squeaky between one's teeth (if you were feeling grumpy, I suppose you could imagine the little curdlets were actually shrieking as you gobbled them alive), but full of salty deliciousness! Madison strikes me as a very nice city.

They then took me on a tour of the amazing Epic Systems campus where they work: 350+ acres of eco-friendly, artful, hilariously detailed whimsy that's actually living the "Where ideas can hang out and do whatever!" dream that so many shortsighted '90s startups smothered in the crib. I'd been meaning to brag for awhile about getting invited to lunch at Google's fancypants Ann Arbor digs, but Epic makes Google's building look like some sort of half-finished Peace Corps sewer project. Epic's got waterfalls, kitschy themed boardrooms, and lots of nerd humor. For instance, the buildings have been named alphabetically, after astronomical phenomena (Andromeda, Betelgeuse-or-something-that-starts-with-B, Cassiopeia, etc.), but they jump abruptly from D to F. This is because the campus contains a treehouse-themed outbuilding... named Endor. Also, the observation deck of their gigantic, helix-shaped conference building is called "The Bridge," and overlooks a huge gathering room whose blocky carpet design, from above, is revealed to be a Space Invaders tableau.

And for those of us who've built much of our personality around actively disliking the Lucas/Roddenberry/Spielberg/Abrams sci-fi quadrant, there were still plenty of hipster Easter eggs. Hard copies of The Onion and Simpsons chess sets were strewn on tables in common areas. A test-your-strength machine sits randomly in a hallway. A vestibule designed to resemble a mid-20th-century NYC newsstand was furnished with time-specific periodicals, including a mid-1950s issue of Seventeen, in case Epic employees are curious about what Ann Shoket was up to back when she was a spry and naive 45-year-old.

There's also a 5,000-seat theater, about which T-Bone told me: "On Inauguration Day, they figured that everyone was going to be streaming the ceremony at their computers and they didn't want the network to completely crash, so they projected a feed onto the big screen in the theater and let us all watch the inauguration in here. One thing I noticed, though, was that throughout the entire ceremony, there was a sports ticker crawling along the bottom of the screen, with piddly little stories like 'Papelbon Gets Record Deal From Red Sox' that seemed really odd during a pretty important event. Well, apparently, they chose to stream the inauguration ceremony from MLB.com for some reason."

I had a blast there.

We ate lunch at Adler's House of Deep-Fried Yummies and returned to the condo to amuse the kitties and watch various Detroit sports playoff games on T-Bone's Slingbox. Then the three of us spent the night drinking champagne and playing Mario Party 5. Despite much encouraging profanity, we all lost to the computer player even though we had the skill level set to "learning disability." It was a really great night.

I had to leave in the morning, although I wish I would've had a few more days to hang out and explore the city. Getting into my car proved a problem, as I had again locked my keys inside. AAA was helpfully prompt.

So while I'm certainly not ready to approve Wisconsin as a whole (though maybe as "a hole," which I originally typed)... Madison gets a reprieve until I can investigate further.

CURRENT MUSIC: Camper Van Beethoven live at the State Theater on 1/8/09, a pristinely recorded and inspiringly performed concert I should've directed you to long ago.
CURRENT MOOD: Already sick of the heat, mourning the spring we never received.
CURRENT BEST THING EVER: Auto-Tune the News, which I've watched several dozen times in a row and have giggled at each time. It's hilarious, indefensibly catchy, and the only time any of these bozos has been useful.

Just in case you missed it, here's Billy Bob Thornton being an unbelievable dick (and badmouthing Canada) on CBC Radio. (I discovered this through Scott Tobias on Twitter, but it's also on the newswire at The A.V. Club.)

At first I thought Billy Bob was having some sort of psychotic break and was genuinely concerned about him, but don't worry--he's just being a petulant 8-year-old. It all becomes clear as the interview goes on.

It's really super-hilarious.

Bev and her mom are in Maine. Bev's sister, Audrey, is in Cleveland. I am in Ann Arbor. These are some of the chillier regions of the country. So it was that we met up in Ben's old stomping ground, Florida, for a week, to hang out at the trailer Bev's dad maintains in Cedar Key. Her dad's been down there since January, befriending his neighbors, fixing up his plane, and developing a scorching hatred of Simon Cowell, as FOX is the only station his television receives with his new, government-provided digital converter box.

On the plane, crunched into half of my seat by the contortions of the camo-clad minotaur beside me who'd decided to spend the flight twisted sideways, the better to mack on his fiancee, I read the Best American Comics 2008 anthology, which contained depressingly little that made an impression on me for a book edited by Lynda Barry. (The only real standouts were the familiar gems from Chris Ware and Alison Bechdel, a sophomorically hilarious skit from Evan Larson, and creepy historical true crime from Rick Geary.) I also started Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris, which I wound up liking pretty well. It's a breezy, anecdote-driven workplace novel that's set in a turn-of-the-century ad agency, and that owes an enormous debt to Douglas Coupland's Microserfs (my favorite book). Despite its occasional over-clever strain to replicate Coupland's pop-spiritual electro-navel-gazing analyses, it's frequently very funny, and the way Ferris wields workplace layoffs with gleefully unpredictable Ten Little Indians fatalism certainly makes the book a better Microserfs for the Dubya decade than Coupland's own rancid JPod.

My flight arrived at the Orlando Sanford Airport (to the obsequious applause of my fellow passengers--do people generally do that?) about 10 hours before Bev and her mom's, so I retrieved the rental car and checked into the hotel (getting lost in-between, natch) so I could relax, read, eat a supper of Fritos, and watch The Amazing Race instead of stewing at the airport.

The space shuttle Discovery was being launched from Kennedy Space Center that evening, and I decided to toddle outside to see whether I could see anything from the Days Inn parking lot. There were maybe a dozen others standing outside when I'd arrived--mostly seniors, mostly folks who'd already witnessed a shuttle launch or two, I gathered. I'm not sure how far Sanford is from the launch site, but the liftoff did provide an impressive spectacle. A searingly white, oblong magnesium glow rose into the sky, leaving behind a ruffled vapor trail that burned orange to yellow to lavender, and hung in the air like a psychedelic jellyfish tendril. I leaned against a palm tree, listening to the hoots of my fellow spectators and the approving croaks of the frogs in the ditch beside me, and watched with something cheesily close to awe as the boosters-or-whatever fell away and the shuttle passed out of view behind an Outback Steakhouse billboard.

Without attempting to sound profound or as though this was some sort of mind-altering experience--I'm not and it wasn't--my chosen life situation isn't going to often afford me the opportunity to watch a rocket launch while reclining against a palm tree, so it was a nifty, novel moment, marred only by the uncomfortable sneers directed at me by those other spectators who happened to glance my way.

I then realized that, after taking a shower in the hotel room earlier, I'd blindly donned my Dinosaur Comics T-shirt that boasts a picture of an astronaut and the phrase, "Not all dreams can come true."

So I was the contrarian dick who apparently crashed an impromptu NASA party in a hotel parking lot while silently wearing some sort of inscrutably bilious anti-space program protest garb to mock everyone's elation.

Bev and her mom didn't have much nice to say about their long-delayed flight by the time I fetched them from the airport and we wended our way through the air compressors powering the cleaning crew's nightly rounds. In our room, Bev and I fell asleep in front of some crappy CBS procedural where Graham Chase from My So-Called Life took a bunch of hostages.

On Monday, Bev, her mom, and I drove from Sanford to Cedar Key, where Bev's dad, Audrey, and Audrey's kid were waiting. Bev's dad's trailer down there is surprisingly roomy and comfortable, decorated with dozens of whimsical tchotchkes that match his admirably upbeat personality. The trailer's wood paneling reminded me of the trailer from Raising Arizona, and I spent much of my stay wondering whether there was a subtle way I could scrawl the word "FART" on the wall. I also spent much of my stay seeing how few words I could get away with saying to Audrey's kid (technically my "nephew"). The highlight was when he stood up in front of the television, in better-door-than-a-window fashion, and I wordlessly jabbed a cushion at the back of his knees until he sat down on it and got out of our way.

I did have to say "thank you" to him, though, when he plopped a half-eaten hush puppy in my lap, as I wasn't sure how else to react.

Around 1:00 a.m. on Tuesday, I awoke with my every muscle pounded into cube steak by the flu and could not get back to sleep, which was just absolute horseshit. I had a feverish reverie in which the United States government privatized sleep and I was lying in an insomniac stupor because I hadn't purchased sufficient sleep credits from my local slumber distributor (or accumulated enough promotional SiestaPoints from Jose Cuervo, which were also accepted). When she awoke, Bev fed me lots of medicine and I spent the day convalescing.

Once I got on my feet, at around 6:00 p.m., Bev, Audrey, and I went to retrieve pizza from the Blue Desert Cafe, which took an hour and a half for some reason. Bev busied herself by organizing the Trivial Pursuit cards that were sitting on the bar, while I busied myself by unintentionally Robotripping and staring blankly at the tabloid newsmagazines flickering on the cafe's muted television. ("What I'm taking from Entertainment Tonight is that the octuplets got kicked off Dancing with the Stars," Aud remarked at one point.)

We returned home, watched a Seinfeld rerun ("The Millennium") which made me wonder why I ever watched Seinfeld, and then Beverly Hills Chihuahua, which made me pine for Seinfeld.

On Thursday morning, Bev and I took the rented Sebring down to Silver Springs, which is essentially a zoo with theme park prices. It was alright. We fed graham crackers to some friendly giraffes, saw amusing fish from a glass-bottom boat, and giggled at a Kodiak bear who was merrily pile-driving a bucket, but the whole experience was still kind of a downer. The animals weren't neglected by any means, but neither did they seem as well taken care of as I would've liked. They seemed lethargic and vaguely sad. The experience was pretty well embodied by the ibis whose foot was hobbled by some sort of packaging material, pathetically limping around the food court to the accompaniment of a gung-ho MC who was distributing awards at an Amway banquet across the park. At any rate, Bev and I agreed that we weren't sorry we went, but the day hadn't left us particularly happy either.

We spent the night at the Riverside Resort in Homosassa Springs, which maintains a tiny, floating playground for monkeys called "Monkey Island." (Not related to the fabulous LucasArts game series, but cool nonetheless.)

In the morning, Bev and I hit the Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park. That one was great, particularly since we arrived just in time to watch the manatees eat breakfast. Manatees are amazing. We didn't see a single one that wasn't sporting a horrifying propeller injury that had been spackled over, but they all seemed perfectly, adorably content to gobble down entire heads of iceberg lettuce as they bobbed lazily in the water. We also saw a wonderful presentation by a volunteer who struggled to educate us about the burrow owl while wrangling an especially antsy example of the species. I blurted, "I love them!" at just about every exhibit Bev and I passed by. (Exception: the bobcat who violently snatched a squirrel from the tree in its pen. I think I booed while Bev chided me, "It's nature!")

Upon our return, Bev, her parents, and I ate at a restaurant called Seabreeze, which was pretty awesome. We sat by a window overlooking the gulf, spotting the occasional leaping dolphin, and observing the dock behind the restaurant which has evidently been ceded to a hilarious gang of pelicans. None of the animals I saw on this trip were as lovely as Cora, of course, but there were still dozens who stole my heart.

On our last day in Florida, Bev's dad took us to a yard sale at the Cedar Key Historical Society Museum, where Bev found a comforter and some mud flaps. I picked up a couple VHS tapes whose labels suggested they were someone's home movies, but which turned out to be a bunch of shows taped off Bangor's NBC affiliate in the early '90s. (Kind of a disappointment, but I did enjoy Cured! Secrets of Alternative Healing, hosted by Olympia Dukakis, of Too Many Grandmas fame.)

On the way back to Michigan, the Allegiant Air flight attendants blared into the loudspeaker for nearly a half-hour straight while hosting an in-flight 50/50 raffle. Very classy.

My dad met me at the airport and immediately thrust a folder into my hands, containing the latest in my grandpa's posthumous legal battles (this time against a property management company who claims that Grandpa defaulted on his lease by dying). Ah, life.

CURRENT MUSIC: Discography by Pet Shop Boys.
CURRENT MOOD: Sketchy.
CURRENT SONG I WISH I'D WRITTEN: "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star.

You're never gonna believe it, you guys! Life doesn't suck so bad after all!

Yo La Tengo's garage-rock alter egos The Condo Fucks (who were born as part of a hilarious fake Matador catalog stuck in initial pressings of YLT's I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One) are releasing a covers album called Fuckbook either this Tuesday or March 24, depending on whether you believe the Matador website or the YLT mailing list communique that I just received, respectively. [Edit: Matador's website now confirms that it will be released on the 24th.] It is sure to be completely awesome in every way. Pitchfork probably already reported this somewhere but it's the first I've heard of it and I am seriously so happy that I just did a lunatic jumping dance all around my apartment.

YOU GUYS!

Alright, here's the deal, man. The total deal. I haven't written in this journal or on the Disclaimer site in almost three months because December was full of stressful holiday nonsense (and stressful holiday television specials), January was spent being sullen and solitary (and watching crappy mid-season replacements like Lie to Me and 13: Fear is Real), and February was full of personal tragedy, including the death of my grandpa and the serious injury and hospitalization of a close friend (and awaiting the most shocking "After the Final Rose" ceremony in The Bachelor history, which will air tomorrow night, hooray!). March, I can only assume, will bring fender benders, fire ants, unwanted ball gags, and the continued presence of "Coach" on Survivor.

I decided early on that 2009 was going to be a "rebuilding year," to use a pro-sports euphemism that's employed when teams sink to hilarious levels of ineptitude, because I am determined that this year will end better than 2008 did, but in spite of my uncharacteristic optimism, I've simply been too preoccupied to write anything substantial--even smartass three-sentence rebuttals to Scott's MP3 picks. In my personal resolve not to be (as much of) a downer this year, I have written nothing. This must change.

So here are a few things that have made me happy lately:

--Daisy Owl.
--A 12-year-old who rode his bike across my path the other day while loudly and unself-consciously singing "I Know What Boys Like" by The Waitresses. Coolest 12-year-old ever.
--The Carolina Chocolate Drops performing "Hit 'Em Up Style" at the Ann Arbor Folk Festival.
--A testimonial excerpt from the 1916 Michigan Supreme Court case Rohmer v. Labo that Tim e-mailed me, which contains the following sentence: "Just as I got back on the sidewalk, or very near to the sidewalk, I felt something strike me in the leg, and I says, 'Possibly I am shot.'"
--Man on Wire.
--Sandra Lee's online recipe for "King Cake" (best read with no context whatsoever, so I shan't provide any).
--The use of Soul Coughing's "$300" on an episode of House centering on the title character's methadone treatments.
--This particular video from Jandrew Edits, even though I ordinarily cannot stomach anything Star Trek-related.

Also friends, family, etc.

Furthermore, even though it's embarrassingly late in 2009 for "best of 2008" anything, here's the tracklist for my year-end mix Tarragon Spill in Curdled Waters: The Best I've Heard of 2008, which has sat on my hard drive unpublished for goodness knows how long. I usually attempt to describe the individual songs in some pithy way, but I continue not to have the energy, and yet I want to get the list posted and out of the way so it's not hanging over my head any longer. (My sincere apologies to Mike from Quetzalcoatlus, whose song and album both deserve a proper--and positive--review that I am too burned out to provide at this time.) So here's that:

1. Pierce Brosnan: "S.O.S." (3:21)

Wait, wait.

1. Mike Doughty- "Fort Hood" (3:13) From Golden Delicious.
2. Lykke Li- "I'm Good, I'm Gone" (3:09) From Youth Novels.
3. Magnetic Fields- "California Girls" (3:00) From Distortion.
4. Aliens- "I Am the Unknown" (5:28) From Astronomy for Dogs.
5. R.E.M.- "Houston" (2:05) From Accelerate.
6. Shearwater- "Rooks" (3:21) From Rook.
7. M83- "Kim & Jessie" (5:23) From Saturdays = Youth.
8. Matmos- "Polychords" (3:31) From Supreme Balloon.
9. Emiliana Torrini- "Jungle Drum" (2:13) From my favorite album of the year, Me and Armini.
10. Electric Six- "Watching Evil Empires Fall Apart" (3:58) From Flashy.
11. Ladytron- "I'm Not Scared" (3:58) From Velocifero.
12. Minotaur Shock- "Bats" (3:47) From Amateur Dramatics.
13. Of Montreal- "For Our Elegant Caste" (2:35) From Skeletal Lamping.
14. Katie Herzig- "Forevermore" (2:13) From Apple Tree.
15. Jim White- "Jailbird" (5:45) From Transnormal Skiperoo.
16. Bon Iver- "Skinny Love" (3:59) From For Emma, Forever Ago.
17. Flying Lotus (feat. Dolly)- "RobertaFlack" [sic] (3:08) From Los Angeles.
18. Beck- "Walls" (2:22) From Modern Guilt.
19. School of Seven Bells- "Prince of Peace" (3:06) From Alpinisms.
20. Fleet Foxes- "White Winter Hymnal" (2:27) From Fleet Foxes.
21. Quetzalcoatlus- "Donda Hadda Farn" (4:56) From Beats + Noise.
22. Liam Finn- "Gather to the Chapel" (3:21) From I'll Be Lightning.
23. Music Tapes- "Freeing Song for Reindeer" (2:59) From Music Tapes for Clouds and Tornadoes.

I hope to send out copies of this CD soon to those who've requested it, but the impatient may prefer to make their own. If anyone else wants one, e-mail me with your address.

More in awhile, hopefully.

CURRENT MUSIC: The sound of German hip-hop in my head.
CURRENT MOOD: Stomach-knotted.
CURRENT FAVORITE TEXT MESSAGE FROM BEV: "Still at walmart. Watched kid sneeze on stuff, then bonk self on head w/ball."

Bad Religion's Suffer is my favorite punk album of all time. My heart naturally belongs to the Ramones and the Dead Milkmen, because they were instrumental in shaping my identity back in middle school, but neither of them recorded an album as taut, melodic, literate, and pissed as Suffer.

I have Jon to thank for introducing me to Suffer back in the Barnes & Noble days. My Bad Religion knowledge stretched back only to the Generator era--which was plenty good--but while we received and dumped box after box of books, alternating CDs from our collections on the receiving room stereo, Jon introduced me to a whole world of hardcore that I would otherwise probably never have bothered to investigate.

Of course, every time we listened to Suffer, Jon would complain when its best song, "What Can You Do?" came on. "Ugh, it's too slow!" he would gripe, even though "What Can You Do?" is one of the catchiest songs ever written, not to mention pretty speedy: its entirety could still fit between two notes of a Low song.

So, for Jon, I spent this morning recording a cover of "What Can You Do?" that is actually way too slow and timid. Kind of Christmasy, even, now that I listen to it. Ick. I hope it makes him appreciate the Bad Religion version.

Disclaimer: "What Can You Do?" (Right-click to download.) (Guest vocals by Gormley and Goldklang.)

CURRENT MUSIC: Sing to God by The Cardiacs.
CURRENT MOOD: Smartassy.
TODAY'S MAIL: Something from my credit union and an Entertainment Weekly from three weeks ago.

I just finished reading The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson, which is fantastic. It's a justly-lauded book that manages to effortlessly conflate two topics: the design and construction of the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago and the grisly acts of H. H. Holmes, who is by some estimates America's most prolific serial killer (and whose busiest period took place at his own World's Fair Hotel in Chicago). Looking at that description, it might be easy to guess which of the two tales is the more action-packed, but although Larson displays a sharp eye for narrative cliffhangers, his wit, storytelling acumen, and respect for the reader's intelligence will have you turning the pages on the Fair--and, say, its landscape shrubbery--just as quickly as the parts on Holmes.

Furthermore, although I generally dislike the entire genre of true crime for its rubbernecking over the details of other people's misery, Larson knows how to keep things tasteful without sacrificing excitement, and adopts a sympathetic (rather than leering) tone when the specifics are unavoidable. That's a big selling point for me, at any rate.

Here's my favorite passage: "As always, [Fair director Daniel Burnham] longed for Margaret. She was out of the city but due back for the opening. 'I will be on the look out for you, my dear girl,' he wrote. 'You must expect to give yourself up when you come.' For this buttoned-up age, for Burnham, it was a letter that could have steamed itself open." Ha!

And of course, for companion reading, Chris Ware's peerless (yet peerlessly sad and eyestrain-inducing) graphic novel Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid on Earth is partially set against the backdrop of the fair's construction.

*     *     *

Tim, a bunch of Tim's friends, and I went to see the Electric Six in Detroit last night at St. Andrew's Hall. (Juli was there somewhere as well, but I couldn't locate her.) The sound was messy as fuck and we had to sit through grunge-era leftovers Local H slinging their godawful mishegoss for about a week before the Six took the stage, but once they did, all was well. After a couple quick opening numbers (in which Dick Valentine one-upped James Brown by dramatically twirling and shedding two spangly capes, one reading "Flashy" and one reading "Showtime"), the band fell into a satisfying assortment of rock singalongs from all five of their records. None of the songs sounded particularly different from the studio versions, but on highlights like "Gay Bar," "I Buy the Drugs," and "Germans in Mexico," the band plowed along with admirable enthusiasm to match the crowd's. Valentine's stage presence especially is every bit as hilarious as his lyrics, whether he was delivering an absurdly lengthy apology for playing "Rock and Roll Evacuation" (with its classically stupid anti-Bush sentiment, "Mr. President, I don't like you/You don't know how to rock!") at this time in history or simply striking a series of goofy, grinning catalog poses during the songs' instrumental parts.

As I'm sure I've mentioned before, I am not easily moved to dance, but last night was different because you must obey the Dance Commander. I wished Bev had been there to dance with. I specifically wished she'd taken the place of the guy whose version of "dancing" consisted solely of pelvic thrusts. Even when there was no music playing.

CURRENT MUSIC: The Boring World of Niels Bohr, a mix Tim made me.
CURRENT MOOD: Amused beyond all reason at destroyalltacos' "Photos of TV Ripoff" series. (He just takes photos of things his television tells him to look at, and it's fascinating. It's based on Mike Sacks doing the same thing, but is more discerning, to my eye.)
CURRENT FAVORITE LINE FROM THE WATCHMEN: "I don't want to be Devo!" Oh Nite Owl, we're all Devo!

Outside Noodles & Company on State Street, a girl passing out flyers asked, "Are you going to Noodles?"

I've decided that "going to noodles" is a pretty apt description of how it feels when your brain is deteriorating beneath strata of contradictory emotions, stress, and regret. As Lisa pointed out, "going to pieces" still suggests a certain orderliness; individual shards with sharp, defined edges. The suggestion is that you could glue everything back together again, given time. "Going to noodles," on the other hand, removes the possibility of reassembly, if only because it's practically impossible to tell where one ends and the next begins when you're staring at a plate of pasta.

Sometimes you get lucky and it results in an unduplicable Lady and the Tramp moment that you could never have predicted.

Sometimes you wind up chasing that last slippery noodle around your plate with a fork and you ultimately throw it away rather than having to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to pin it down with your tines.

CURRENT MUSIC: The Concussive Caress, or Casey Caught Her Mom Singing Along with the Vacuum by The Blow.
CURRENT MOOD: Ordinary.
DAD'S CURRENT PRONUNCIATION OF LAURA LINNEY'S NAME: "Lana Landry."

I'm living in Ann Arbor again, working for Math Reviews, this time for the forseeable future. It's taken me awhile to get around to this post because I really don't have the words to get into all that went into my decision when Tracy offered me a permanent copy editing job, and although I love and trust everyone who reads this thing, there are still some details I don't feel comfortable posting for consumption by the paparazzi and G-men who scrutinize my every move. So I'm going to gloss over it except to say that Bev has been a total saint about me moving back. This isn't a separation in the "we're on a break" sense; it's merely a geographic one. And although it's terribly painful to be away from her right now, I am confident that this is where I need to be for the time being, and that this will make us stronger in the long run. For the past three years, Bev has worked tirelessly to make a beautiful, comfortable home for me in Bangor, and she succeeded. I wish I could have picked up our house and Cora and my sweetie and moved them all with me, but Bev feels that she belongs in Maine every bit as strongly as I feel that I belong in Michigan right now. We will make it work, because love transcends distance and because Tim Gunn's advice is always correct.

I've sublet an apartment from a girl named Kristen, who works for Google and is transferring to Chicago. She is one of the nicest people I've ever encountered, and she and her boyfriend, Patrick, did literally everything they could have to make this a nice new place for me, from helping me move a sofa to extending an open invitation to Google's free employee luncheons. I also like my building. The hallways are dark and Barton Fink-like, which suits me just fine, and apart from the odd whiff of microwaved fish, there would seem to be an awful lot of interesting and adventurous chefs on my floor. Lots of nice smells.

For my part, I was initially concerned that I was going to irritate the hell out of my new neighbors with the chirping and tweeting of Novi the cockatiel and Gormley and Goldklang the parakeets, who accompanied me on my trip. By hilarious coincidence, though, the apartment directly next to mine is occupied by Violeta the Math Reviews copy editor, who works right across the room from me! Upon making this discovery, she immediately asked me, "Do you have birds?" Thankfully, she finds them musical and not stress-inducing.

The drive from Maine to Michigan was an exhausting slog through New York state; areas in which it wasn't even possible to absorb local color through the magic of AM radio. I wound up scanning the FM dial for the first time in years, bypassing cautious midtempo single after cautious midtempo single, trying to catch snippets of culture from NPR, which unfortunately wound up meaning the stuffy witlessness of The Prairie Home Companion and a reading of Elizabeth Crane's "Ad" on Selected Shorts that was so determined not to let any trace of humor escape its leaden delivery that it reminded me of my high school forensics club. I'd never before listened to Selected Shorts, though if "Ad"'s unsubtle monologuing is typical of the program, I thought it would be really funny if NPR started taking advantage of the safe harbor hours to broadcast an erotica-based spinoff, featuring starched-shirt recitations from the Penthouse Forum by, say, Cady Huffman or Miguel Ferrer.

I have already had to turn one couch cushion upside-down thanks to spilling food on it. (Not my fault; leaky bowl.)

Noa, my new friend Ann (who works downstairs with Noa), and I went to see Rachel Getting Married yesterday. The more I think about it, the better I think it was, and it is a movie you'll think about afterward, if only to discern the meaning of certain shots or characters' actions. For my taste, it's Jonathan Demme's best film since Stop Making Sense, and easily his best narrative one. The story is simple: Anne Hathaway gets out of rehab, only to be thrown into the agonizing, sprinting sensory overload of the run-up to her sister's wedding, and we follow her closely as she attempts to deal with it all. The characters frequently speak in allusions to events only from their shared frame of reference, and Demme and screenwriter Jenny Lumet dole out the explanations deliberately and conservatively, when they arrive at all. Sometimes, instead of explanations, you simply get sequences of tertiary characters interacting, making toasts, or dancing. And if you take the time to connect the dots of the story's ellipses, the film is a portrait of familial love and drama that runs far deeper than anything you get in the pat quirkiness of, say, Little Miss Sunshine.

The wedding itself is a pick-and-choose multicultural fantasy; the family seemingly has unlimited resources with which to host the big day, and rather than splurging on a People magazine orgy of bigger and fancier things, Demme envisions a more communal experience in which the attendees can participate in an all-hands-in cutting of a beautiful, blue, Indian-inspired cake, belly dance at the reception, or enjoy a command performance by indie-psychedelic genius Robyn Hitchcock. Ann was put off by what she saw as self-congratulatory and superficial co-opting of meaningful cultural touchstones, which I think is a fair interpretation, but I personally saw it as a sweet celebration of all the forms love takes around our globe. Despite its many, many intense moments of squirmy familial discomfort, Rachel Getting Married never lets you believe the Buchmans are fractured beyond repair. Very sweet film.

After the movie and some yummy Thai food, I left Ann and Noa to go to Jess's birthday paty that her coworkers had organized. It was being held at Melange, a wretched wine-based club that Jess described as a post-grad hookup bar. You can imagine how pleasant it was. Jess danced and Tim and I pressed ourselves against the wall and talked about Nintendo games as best we were able while the DJ continued playing from his hip-hop compilation Songs That Should Not Be. Jess obviously couldn't leave because it was her party, but Tim could, so after about an hour, he and I took off to the Old Town Brewery, where things were far quieter (even if the absence of thumping Puff Daddy tracks meant we had to listen to a litany of Jackie Martling-level Sarah Palin jokes from the tiresome, "proudly politically incorrect" pseudo-iconoclast next to me). After awhile, I took off and Tim had to go back to the club. Shortly thereafter, he sent me a text message reading, "Oh God! It burns!" It's always nice to see Tim and Jess, in any circumstance, so I'm not sorry I went. I'm just sorry Melange exists.

I think that catches you up!

CURRENT MUSIC: Eugene von Beethoven's 69th Sin Funny by Camper Van Chadbourne. Way to make one of my favorite bands completely unlistenable, there, Eugene Chadbourne.
CURRENT MOOD: Lack. But in the Ikea sense.
CURRENT FAVORITE SPIRITUAL QUOTATION: "The point is not the communication of truth, but truth itself. No one should ever say, 'Come hear this speaker,' but rather, 'There is nothing you can do to make God stop loving you.' Or not saying anything at all and loving someone." --John Campbell, Pictures for Sad Children

Say, most of you likely have cell phones!

Does anyone know of a good, cheap cell phone plan that gives you unlimited nights and weekends and decent reception? That's really all I need. I don't need a phone that has a built-in paddleball game, or will tell me my BMI if I step on it, or will hover cartoonishly next to either my right or left shoulder depending on whether I set it to "good" or "evil." I just need a basic mobile phone that has buttons and speakers for both "sound in" and "sound out."

Anyone offering advice will be entered in a drawing for a reluctant "thank you" muttered under my breath.

Real update in the coming days, hopefully. Big news.

Good news, everyone! I discovered something new to be self-conscious about!

Restaurant servers who don't write down your order.

It's an impressive skill, but every time I encounter such a server from now on, I am going to worry that some mnemonic device requires her to unflatteringly picture my head as a cartoon veggie burger with eyes. Like Mayor McCheese. With Weird Al hair.

CURRENT MUSIC: Saturdays = Youth by M83.
CURRENT MOOD: Tiny.
CURRENT FAVORITE DRUNKEN SANDRA LEE MISPRONUNCIATION: [During Cocktail Time] "Try saying that five times fast after you've had a corrrrcghktail!"

Cora's Corner (feat. Bubba):



Cora and Bubba are big fans of the Pet Shop Boys.

CURRENT MUSIC: Tusk by Camper Van Beethoven.
CURRENT MOOD: I just stubbed my toe, so full of swears.
CURRENT FAVORITE NON-DINOSAUR COMICS WEBCOMIC: The Non-Adventures of Wonderella. (Which, er, I learned about through Dinosaur Comics.)

Last night, I dreamt I was living in a 12 Monkeys-style dystopia in which the virus that was wiping out humanity wasn't an act of one terrorist, but of all the multibillionaire corporate plutocrats having engineered a disease to infect and kill anyone whose income was below a certain level, so they could reconstruct the Earth as their private playland for silver luxury cars and fancypants iPhone apps and bottle service lounges, with none of us proles annoyingly trying to revive their consciences. The Globochem Planet would resemble the postapocalyptic Earth of the Twilight Zone episode "Time Enough At Last," only instead of getting to read all the books they pleased, the survivors would simply be able to wander into bank vaults and smell all the money. I woke up as I died in the dream, having become ill with the virus, and I remember my last slumbering thought being, "Well, at least that's over," followed by, "Rats!" (in the voice of Mr. Garrison--yes, that's how my inner monologue sounds) upon waking.

This most likely was a result of the fact that I've been volunteering at my local Democratic Party outpost for the past couple of weeks, putting in two-hour shifts of data entry because that's the sort of thing I am good at. (I don't think I'll be returning, since yesterday's shift involved putting up with a shrieking crotchloaf named Parker, who, whenever I got out of my chair to ask a question, would hop onto my computer to play Minesweeper.) Specifically, I'd been barcoding and tallying responses to phone surveys about which presidential and congressional candidates our county's voters are leaning towards. The majority of those polled who said they were likely to vote claimed to be undecided. Less than a month before the election, they're undecided. Between Barack Obama and John McCain.

Now, Mainers do play their cards annoyingly close to the vest on lots of things. The survey response "refused to answer" probably earned more hash marks than Obama, McCain, and "undecided" combined, so it may well be that a great deal of the "undecided"s were simply polite versions of "refused to answer." I understand that some older generations--which is all we have in Maine--were raised to believe that your ballot is private in the sense that discussing it is unseemly, so that might play into these results. Fine. But suppose they're genuine. What could either candidate say at this point to change their minds? And what happens if neither candidate says those magic words? Do they still plan to vote? I'm honestly asking. Because it's not like we're choosing between two basically identical people like Justin Long and Zachary Levi. Either you're a fan of hatred and bloodshed, in which case you vote McCain, or you like humanity, in which case you vote Obama and cross your fingers and say a rosary if you're into that. If you're undecided at this point, as far as I'm concerned, you're not paying attention and you make me sad.

(And this is saying nothing of the survey respondent who evidently started shouting at the poor volunteer that Barack and Michelle Obama "need to go back to Africa," while I was there.)

I just feel entirely disillusioned by this process. Beyond my lack of trust in the electorate itself, I don't trust any elected official higher than maybe the municipal level to actually take action that is in my best interest or that of my fellow citizens. I realize I'm not saying anything particularly trenchant by being all, "Politicians are untrustworthy!" but I've only recently realized how deep my cynicism on the subject goes. I can't think of a single issue I care about, whether real or hypothetical, on which I feel confident that a single person in a position to effect change for the betterment of humanity could be counted on to do so. Following politics is a lot like watching Survivor and realizing that there's a brilliant-yet-obvious strategic move that should be made to overthrow whichever guy is Probst's favorite power player of the season, only to see the fourth woman in a row get voted out on the flimsy rationale of "keeping the tribe strong."

I'll still vote. I'm not sure why. I guess just because it was branded upon my brain at such a young age that voting is something you do no matter what. But I don't believe my vote matters at all. The only real difference I believe my act of voting will make would require some sort of butterfly effect in which my driving to the polls somehow keeps someone on the other side of the world from becoming grievously injured (or, more likely given the history of my effect on humanity, causes someone on the other side of the world to become grievously injured/get waterboarded/get cockblocked/etc.).

A couple months ago, I was out shopping with Mom, and she stopped at an ATM. I noted that the ATM was manufactured by sketchy voting machine conglomerate Diebold, and made some hacky "Har har, it won't work right" joke before we noticed that the only thing that appeared on its screen, regardless of whether her card was inserted, was the message, "Do you want more time? Y/N." Finally, Mom exasperatedly sighed, "Who doesn't?" pushed "Yes," and drove away. You see my point.

*     *     *

Just so this entry doesn't end on a total downer note, I serendipitously discovered the best method for chasing the blues away that I've found in some time, while driving to pick up our weekly veggie share: Say you're cruising along, listening to some trashy European house music--in this case, "One More Time" by Daft Punk--and you turn onto a road lined with a high school boys' cross-country team, shirtlessly jogging along as part of their afternoon training. The best thing you can possibly do in this situation? Roll down your windows, turn that music up loud, and slow your car down to the runners' pace, so all they can do is jog alongside you to the tune of your disposable club music. For about 20 seconds. Then you speed off, and laugh for the rest of the day. (Even funnier, by the way, if they're jogging next to a cow pasture.)

CURRENT MUSIC: The Cactus Album by 3rd Bass.
CURRENT MOOD: I haven't got it in me anymore.
CURRENT FAVORITE DRUNKEN SANDRA LEE MISPRONUNCIATION Referring to a fork as a "flork."

I usually don't bother posting lyrics to new songs I've written, but I'm pretty proud of these and they may in fact be my favorite that I've assembled. So I thought I'd share, not to fish for compliments but just because I like them and thought it would be satisfying to see them typed. And because who isn't aching for another damn political song?

"Priority Retcon (Previous Statements Embargoed)"

Jimmy the hood, stick a split-shot sinker on the accelerator cable.
Fast wins the race. Fast has always won the race.
You'd better re-read your fable.
Shriek as loud as you can in the anechoic chamber until your throat is raw.
Hope you like yanking the pendulum over and over from the same stupid lion's paw.

Careful what you aspirate when a slogan cuts the smoke:
"Fuck those felled by friendly fire if they can't take a joke!"
We've said that all along.
Priority Retcon.

All the ladybugs are melted onto streetlights
And the orange glow's dismissed as deception
While dispatch is deluged with calls about spiders ballooning mistaken for weapons.

Tears erode your eyes to the point you can't see anything at all.

Careful with the aspartame when the press room cuts the Coke.
Contort to leap your rising gorge if you don't want to choke.
You must have heard us wrong.
Priority Retcon.

Previous statements are embargoed under intellectual property law.
These uncorrected proofs have been superseded.
Quotations must be withdrawn.
They'll methodically smash your piggybanks--the ones you named--
And then gesture at the mess, saying, "You should be ashamed."

CURRENT MOOD: Proud-ish.
CURRENT FAVORITE BLOG: Intimidating Uncle. Some guy makes fun of kids' photos like the most disinterested, impatient jerk of an uncle they could possibly have. You will laugh.

This is a post about the multiple opportunities for musical and artistic expression I was afforded while in Ann Arbor. No, not recording in my apartment. No, not the ubiquitous drum circles. I am referring to the one sure-fire way back into a woman's heart and parts beyond. I speak, of course, of karaoke. ( Click to read more, or at least glance uncomprehendingly at more. )

And on a completely unrelated note, here's why Bev cracks me up:

[I am staring listlessly at our cable guide, looking for anything that will be less dull than Unbreakable, which we are currently watching.]
BEV: Turn it to World's Sexiest Men. Let's see who the world's sexiest men are.
[I turn it to the channel on which World's Sexiest Men is airing.]
COMMERCIAL ANNOUNCER: ... Kellogg's Smart Start.
BEV: Disagree!

CURRENT MUSIC: Palo Santo by Shearwater.
CURRENT MOOD: Vexed beyond all reason by Henry Roth, the ersatz Tim Gunn who is constantly barging into the sewing room on Project Runway Australia. Obviously, only Tim Gunn is Tim Gunn, but the last thing I need is a smug hybrid of Greg Proops and Admiral Stockdale taking that role.
CURRENT MOST BIZARRE PARAGRAPH I'VE EVER READ ABOUT FILMMAKING TROUBLES: Regarding Deepa Mehta's first, aborted attempt to make her film Water: "After two takes into the first shot of the movie, government authorities hustled their way onto the set. Law and order was at risk, they declared, and filming must stop immediately. We were forced to evacuate the location. One key protester had taken a boat out into the middle of the Ganges, consumed poison, tied a rock around his waist, and jumped into the water, yelling that Deepa Mehta and her film were his reason for attempting suicide. Days later the press revealed that the man, who was rushed to the hospital and survived, was a professional suicide attempter, employed by various political parties to attempt his own execution for various political reasons. This had been his sixth suicide attempt, and this was the reason given for closing the film down. Law and order was in jeopardy."