Love-will-terrace

For my fellow aging Goth/post-punk friends.

Happy New Year!I have a New Year’s resolution.    It is somewhat daunting yet completely within my capability and will give me a sense of accomplishment and enrichment should I complete it.

 I plan to learn a poem by heart.

I decided this on the day before New Year’s eve.  My in-laws had left a day earlier and even though I had lots of work to do before the neighborhood New Year’s Eve partyI gave myself the morning off. I let the kids play video games in the family room, something they hadn’t done for over a week while their grandparents occupied the space, while I stayed in my pj’s and took to my bedroom like a moody teenager.  Lounging in bed I listened to old cassettes of a music project of mine from the late 80’s and read poems out of college text books.  It was self-indulgent time travel, yet it felt rejuvenating and necessary.  It reminded me how good poetry is for my soul.   That’s when I decided I was done with all the usual self-improvement resolutions.

Obviously the desire to eat better, exercise more, work smarter not harder, all while learning to love yourself for who you truly are, doesn’t work out for most people. If it did, the internet wouldn’t explode each January 1st with articles on how to make this year the year to keep your New Year’s Resolutions,  not to mention the crazy lists about the  7 Surprising Ways You’re Sabotaging Your Diet And Self-Esteem By Reading All These Lists About How You’re Doing Everything Wrong.   I don’t have the energy to think about all the things I’m doing wrong while trying to become a better person who accepts herself.  I think I’ll just live with my foibles, learn a poem and move on.

So then the question becomes – which poem do I learn? I do have a few poems in my repertoire – easy, short poems by W.B. Yeats and Emily Dickinson as well as the very first poem I ever committed to memory, a catchy verse from Kate Greenaway’s Under the Window .   I haven’t worked too hard at memorizing big chunks of words since my college days,  so there’s an inclination to keep it short and sweet, but I want it to be meaningful which brings me to a recent confluence of events:

Back in November, my friend, Nate, who was expecting his third son (born on December 31st 2013 – Congrats Nate and Rose!), told me he and his wife had decided to name the child Eliot after T.S. Eliot.  After learning this I felt the pull to re-read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, and so headed down to the family room to find my old copy of The Wasteland and other Poems.  I was barely there for 5 minutes before my kids appeared and asked what I was doing.  My husband, worried he was missing out on a party, showed up soon after.  I explained I was reading poetry and then without offering anyone a chance to escape, opened the book and began, “Let us go then, you and I . . .”

Both boys listened to the entire poem without interruption which I found amazing because while my inner voice reads the poem with the proper measured tone and inflections, the reading my real voice gave left a lot to be desired.    When I finished, my youngest son asked to hear more poetry. My eldest son seemed lost in thought.wasteland

“If you memorize passages of this poem and quote the right parts at the right time,“ I told my oldest son, “There are  people who will be very impressed and think good things about you.”

“Really,” he asked.

“Yep, especially that part about the mermaids, “my husband chimed in, “Everyone loves that part about the mermaids.” (It’s true.   Many, many years ago, back in the 1990’s, a friend sent me a handmade postcard with mermaids on the front.  On the back she had written “Actually, I do think they are singing to you.”  It was so touching that I have kept it, even though she has long since gone out of my life.)

My husband then put a record on the turntable and we sat there listening to music and, at least in my case, thinking about poetry.  It was one of those rare picture-perfect moments when your kids behave exactly like you imagined your kids would behave, before you actually had kids.  It gave me yet another reason to appreciate “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

My younger self always appreciated the poem because by my humble interpretation, it touches on human frailty and failure, mortality and missed connections, all wrapped in the yearning for something greater that will never transpire.  It’s beautiful and timeless and I know small sections of it already, but it would be wonderful to have it all committed to memory.

And so, this year instead of resolving to take up the 7 habits of highly effective people, or eat only the 5 foods that will melt my belly fat, or try 10 tricks that will cut my workout time in half,  I resolve to learn “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”   It doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t try other things, it simply means I am to making poetry a priority for my mind, body and soul.  After all, learning poetry by heart is the number one purest and safest way to ingest art and make it part of you.  I think it’s a pretty good resolution.

As an aside – I’ve often wondered how many people have a poem or poems committed to memory and what those poems might be.  Let me know if you do.

 

We had a fun little show at 50 Mason Social House on Friday, Dec 20th.  Here’s a clip of “Say Anything”, written by Pauli Gray.

Shot in the DarkWe’ll be back there in March, so stay tuned!

 

50-Mason-House-Flyer2.webjpg

It will be loud.

Join us!

I was almost over it, I swear.  The onslaught of press for Thor:The Dark World had subsided and I’d all but forgotten the plot of War Horse (okay, that’s not  true because the title gives it away:  it’s about war and a horse!)  With the impending holidays providing motivation to get my house in shape for visiting relatives, I was back to reality and feeling confident that my Loki/Tom Hiddleston phase was quickly becoming a thing of the past. Soon it would be just an awkward memory of that time . . . that dark, dark time when I found myself simultaneously checking airfare to London, searching StubHub UK for jacked up Coriolanus tickets, all while calculating how much I could “borrow” from my children’s college fund.

“Sorry kids, I know I promised to fund a few semesters of community college, but mommy had a little bit of a  - Shakespeare problem a few years back . . .”   That was a reality check.

Also, there were no tickets available.

So I moved on.  I was doing really well until my poorly drawn husband, whom I left for Loki a few blog entries back, surprised me with an early Christmas gift.

christmas loki

Yes – it was a life size cardboard cutout of the Norse- God- turned-Marvel- Comics- villain, Loki.

Wow.

Why?!?!? Was this an act of love and support for my mania or a twisted payback for my ill-conceived, poorly rendered comic?   Was he trying to tell me something?  What was I supposed to do with this? More importantly, where would I hide it when the in-laws came to visit?

I put it downstairs in the family room/music studio where it freaked out my kids while they played video games.  My youngest thought he saw it move and both boys felt like they were being watched. The first evening I went downstairs to practice music I turned on the light, turned around and nearly screamed at the stranger lurking in the corner. Loki, you trickster, stop . . .  just standing there!

I had to find something else to do with Loki.  If he were real what would I want from a mischievous Norse god?

Dishes.  I’d want him to do my dishes and maybe even tidy up the kitchen a bit.  After all, there’s nothing sexier than a man working in the kitchen and his brother was easily domesticated.

Thor domesticated

Not only did he serve the breakfast, but you know he was going to clean up afterwards while Jane sipped coffee and worked more on her looney toons astrophysics thing.

Would it kill you to at least create the illusion that  my kitchen wasn't so cluttered?

Would it kill you to at least create the illusion that my kitchen wasn’t so cluttered?

Doesn’t really work.

Maybe some role play?

stormtrooper

“I’m Loki Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you, although I’m not feeling inclined to do so right at this moment.”

Nah.  It’s a little creepy and probably involves more copyright headaches than it’s worth.

Finally, here we are, alone at last in the boudoir.  Loki, quit smirking.  You know why we’re here.

bedroom 1

laundryThat’s right, I need to fold this laundry.

Bonus scene!

bathroom

I’ve faithfully recreated the Asgard prison set in my bathroom. Awesome!

While it’s true that I could have written out and addressed all of my holiday cards in the time it took  to complete this little photo-journal, I will say it did yield one good result. I finally figured out how I will hide Loki when the in-laws arrive.

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Happy Holidays!

Moog FXToday I dug through my all-things-old-and-forgotten cupboard of musical gear and pulled out my Digitech bass effects pedal.  Then I connected that bass effects pedal to my Moog Little Phatty and now I am in love!  Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Moog before.  Nothing else sounds quite like it and I have consciously decided to build my sound in Shot in the Dark, my electro-rock project, around the Moog.  This just gives it an extra dimension.

Previously I had a T.C.Electronics multi-effects unit attached to the Little Phatty for a bit of chorus and reverb or the occasional delay, but it’s a second hand unit and it’s outbound signal is dirty, so it’s not anything I would want to take to a show and put through a PA.   Plus it is a rack unit,and the foot-pedal bass effects just work so much better for me.  I’m pretty excited to integrate it into my current set up for my next show with Shot in the Dark which happens on Friday, December 20th.

This will be the first show we’ve had where we can turn up.  Our maiden voyage, when we weren’t yet a band, happened in the front room of El Rio in San Francisco and we were a little unprepared when it came to understanding how our live sound needed to be handled.  Then we played at Wild Side West and understood we needed keep it down.  Finally we’ll be able to crank up the bass and drum machine and guitar and play the way we (mostly) play in rehearsals.

This will also be my first time out running Ableton as part of the performance.  I feel I use about 5 percent of Ableton’s capabilities, so I’m a little self conscious about getting on stage with a laptop and the Akai controller.  However, I’m also playing keys and singing so it’s not like I have an additional 2 hands to tweak the Ableton tracks on the fly.  Ableton is replacing my Roland SP-555 sampler which I had in my set up for a few years.  I felt really sure of the sampler.  It’s been a bit of learning curve, getting the feel of the controller down, and then I’m left with the question – what constitutes live performance?  If I’m triggering the samples on the fly, but I have a chance of screwing it up, wouldn’t it be better to just sequence everything?  And if I’m just sequencing everything, then what is my added value on stage?  Before I go spiraling out of control on these questions, I’ve promised myself to just keep everything as it is right now and worry about making changes after the December show . . . except for adding in the bass effects pedal; and re-recording a keyboard track for the Ableton tracks; and replacing the high hat part on one of the songs; and re-editing the ending on another song. But after that, I’m on lock-down, practice mode only.  Really. I mean it.

Post script on the War Horse entry – I actually ended up talking about watching War Horse to my therapist.  Isn’t that weird?  Also, that wasn’t even rock bottom. I’ve discovered Suburban Shootout.  I need to get out more!

 

An ode to independent film, San Francisco in the 90′s and my inexplicable obsession with an actor who had a role in War Horse.

I have hit rock bottom.

There’s a red Netflix envelope sitting on my kitchen table.  I meant to mail it yesterday but somehow didn’t find the time.  Today my kids and I are sick, hacking and coughing and generally just being miserable; in short, housebound.  Tomorrow my husband returns from his business trip.  If I haven’t gotten that movie off in the mail by then he will notice it for sure and ask, “Which movie is that?”warhorse

“Oh, just a movie, a movie you don’t want to see.”

“Really?” he’ll ask.  “Which movie I don’t want to see?”

“Oh you know – a movie. There are a lot of movies you don’t want to see, I can’t even remember all the titles.”

“But which one is that?” he’ll ask.

Finally, unable to bear the shame any longer I will exclaim, “War Horse. I’ve watched War Horse!”

How did I get here?

Just two Christmases ago I recall sitting in my in-law’s living room listening to an aunt gush about this amazing movie she’d just seen – Spielberg, horses, war. Epic!  I shot my husband a bemused look.  The amount of overblown, emotionally manipulative tripe contained in just the trailer was enough to cause my past self, a community college film school dropout, to rush outside for a clove cigarette and a snide, Gen-X patented rant on all that is wrong with mainstream movies. War Horse! Really?

I haven’t always been a mainstream movie snob.   My mother loved the movies; musicals were her favorite and she passed that love on to me.  I grew up watching late night TV showings of Gigi and Brigadoon and Singin’ in the Rain.  Movies were beautiful and fun and uplifting.  Never mind that usually after the main feature was over, my mom would change the channel to catch The Twilight Zone or Night Gallery. (Submitted for your approval: The Nightmares of my Childhood.  Demonic dolls in a lavish musical production, singing and dancing their way up my basement stairs to carry me off to the grave!)

When the home video industry began to take off in the 1980’s my mom was ready to lay out some cash to watch the movies she wanted to see when she wanted to see them.  There were a lot of flavors of home video  on the market at first and a particularly loquacious sales person at our local appliance shop convinced my mother that the RCA Video Disc players were the wave of the future.  They had an eclectic, but limited (probably because RCA Video Discs were not the wave of the future), rental section and my mom never vetted my choices.   By the time I had graduated high school I had watched The Who’s Tommy and Quadrophenia, Pink Floyd The Wall,  and Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange – those are just the films I felt I “got away with”.  There were plenty more that weren’t as gratuitous with the sex and violence and occasional rock and roll, but those three things summed up my favorite flavors of cinema. 

Once in college I sought out more underground films, but it was Central Pennsylvania in the late 80’s and art house theaters wouldn’t be popular for another 20 years.  I watched a lot of movies on VHS– Sid and Nancy (not really underground, but it had no theatrical release in my hometown), Ladies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains, Suburbia.    I still recall taking my boyfriend/future husband to see Dogs in Space, a film about the Australian punk scene starring Michael Hutchence.  As she handed over our tickets, the theater cashier looked at my husband-to-be and asked earnestly, “Now you know this movie isn’t about dogs or space, right?”  He looked at me for guidance.  I nodded reassuringly.  Did I seem like someone who wanted to see a movie about dogs and space? Did I seem like someone who would grow into middle age and want to see, War Horse, a movie that is actually about war and a horse?

I moved to San Francisco in the 90’s and discovered indie films, art house films, repertory film houses and the Film Arts Foundation.  There was so much to watch!  By this time my husband had decided he could only handle a small portion of the films I found important, so I went to the theater alone quite often.  We lived in the Haight, the famed hippie neighborhood of the 60’s, and just a few blocks away was The Red Vic, a cooperatively owned repertory house where I watched Jan Svankmajer’s Alice for the first time.  The Embarcadero, The Opera Plaza, and The Clay were all owned by Landmark, and showed only independent and foreign films.  In those theaters I discovered Jane Campion, Todd Haynes, and Mike Leigh. Over in the Mission was The Roxie, which showed first-run independent films and repertory films.  It also hosted a lot of film festivals and I had the pleasure of watching two of my own movies on the big screen there.  For everything else there was video rental – Leather Tongue in the Mission; Into Video, my local video store on Haight Street; Le Video over on the avenues.  Le Video is the only rental store that still exists from that list while  The Red Vic is the only theater mentioned here that is closed.

But back to War Horse, and my desperate attempt to illustrate why I am too savvy a film goer to be sitting home alone watching it on DVD.  First, obviously I am not because I did. Second, you can’t really diss Spielberg. He is a master at what he does (But, really?  Did the boy have to return home at sunset?   Did no one in the screening room laugh out loud and say, “You’ve got to be kidding!  He literally rides into the sunset?!?!  That’s so trite, even my grandmother would be insulted”. Perhaps not.  Perhaps you don’t say that if hope to keep your seat in a screening room with Spielberg.)  Even though the movie is clichéd (it is after all based on a children’s book) it hits all the emotional marks at the right time.  I can hate it for that, but I still cried out when it reached its darkest tone and things weren’t looking good for the horse.

But the true reason – well, there’s this actor . . .

Celebrity crushes are embarrassing, particularly at my age, but following an actor’s career, that’s different, right?  Even though I first came across the actor in a Hollywood Superhero Blockbuster movie, this particular Hollywood Superhero Blockbuster movie was written and directed by Joss Whedon and I can’t say anything bad about Joss Whedon.  I named my first born after a character he created for a TV show (no, I don’t have a daughter named Buffy), that connection alone makes Joss practically family.  So I was just being supportive by watching his Hollywood Superhero Blockbuster movie.   Of course after that I had to  watch another Hollywood Superhero Blockbuster movie, just to make sense of the storyline of the first Hollywood Superhero Blockbuster movie.

The second one was directed by Kenneth Brannagh.  Dead Again is a very good film and hasn’t Brannagh done his share of Shakespeare?  This kind of cred made it perfectly fine to be enjoying mindless, mainstream schlock because it was in fact very entertaining and I was certain it was a higher quality schlock than the usual blockbuster schlock. In the meantime I decided my attraction was for a character not the actor himself.

Then I came across a blurb about said actor having played a vampire in a film by Jim Jarmusch. Jim Jarmusch.  I confess I have not seen Stranger Than Paradise in its entirety, but at some point in every film class I’ve ever taken, the instructor has rolled a media cart to the front of the room and  shown us a scene from this film  as  perfect example of whatever they were trying to teach.  What I do know about Stranger than Paradise is that it features Eszter Balint, and she went on to play in The Linguine Incident alongside Rosanna Arquette and David Bowie. Bowie of course has just recently released a new album, The Next Day, and one of the accompanying music videos features Tilda Swinton who is also in the Jim Jarmusch vampire film with my actor obsession.  (All this in my brain and I can’t remember to pick up cooking spray at the grocery store, not one, not two, but three weeks in a row.)

Suddenly my interest went beyond the character and to the actor.  Suddenly it seemed perfectly reasonable to seek out this actor’s body of work.  I couldn’t let my husband know of course, because he wouldn’t understand, and was already privy to my secret The Avengers viewing habit.  But I had already decided: Let the Tom Hiddleston film viewing frenzy begin!Deep Blue Sea

I started with low hanging fruit, The Deep Blue Sea, a watch-it-now selection on Netflix. I waited until my husband went to bed and then eagerly turned on this post-WWII period piece about a woman who leaves her husband for a younger man.   A promising premise, but the story seemed as inane and lifeless as the main character, a beautiful woman named Hester (a classic name for an adulterous woman) who leaves her stodgy older husband for Tom Hiddleston(‘s character) and then remains mired in indecision and depression.  The lack of any substantial movement or character motivation was the most impressive feature of this film.  I later discovered it was originally a stage play written in the 1950’s, which would explain the spot-on dialogue of the era.  Ultimately there’s no real payoff other than the final visual of a bombed out building suggesting perhaps that Hester’s affair and emotional aftermath are just one small part of the devastation created by the war.

In the morning my husband asked me what I had watched and I told him.  He had the title up on IMDB in less than five minutes.

“Just as I thought,” he teased. “Loki.”

The next movie was Midnight in Paris, which I actually had to add to my Netflix queue, return a Pokemon movie and then wait for it to arrive in the mail.  This was a little more work than I had anticipated and made the whole obsession seem – well obsessive.  However, slipping this movie past my husband was easy.

“Hey, you want to stay up and watch a Woody Allen movie with me?”

“No.”

It was that easy.midnight in paris

For the most part I have enjoyed every Woody Allen film I have seen and Midnight in Paris is no exception. Owen Wilson plays the lead, Gil, a screenwriter with artistic aspirations beyond Hollywood who feels he is living in the wrong time. He’s about to marry Rachel McAdams’ Inez, a shallow woman who cares more about appearances and social standing than supporting his creative endeavors.  Naturally only sensitive writer males are searching for more meaningful work in life while females are simply looking for shopping bargains. If women are not shallow then they are hollow, a beautiful vessel in which to store the sensitive male writer’s hopes and aspirations, a muse like Adrianna, the woman Wilson’s character meets when he mysteriously travels back in time to Paris of the 1920’s.

It’s in the Paris of the past where Gil meets the literary greats – Hemmingway, TS Elliot and of course F. Scott Fitzgerald played by Tom Hiddleston.  Fitzgerald, who in real life only thrived financially by writing for Hollywood in the 30’s, but also found the work disheartening, would seem like  a natural sounding board for Gil’s character, but instead we only get a couple of scenes with him.   That’s okay, because once we get to Paris of the 20’s it’s all about Adrianna, and cramming in as many Jazz age cameos as possible.

After Midnight in Paris I checked into IMDB for other titles and decided I had tracked down all that were easily obtainable.  Sure there was still War Horse, but I was not going to watch that on principle, not in a million years, even if someone paid me.  I figured I was done.  I’d wait for the new Thor movie and keep an eye out for the opening of Only Lovers Left Alive and hopefully by that time my interest would have passed.

A day or so later I found out that The Hollow Crown was going to be broadcast on the local PBS station.

With my husband still wide awake and playing a video game on his computer in the kitchen  I nonchalantly turned on the TV and kept the sound down as to not draw attention to myself, but all I could hear was my husband’s Diablo III warrior wench yelling “I require aid!” and “I am overburdened!”.  For heaven’s sake, I thought, get thee to an auction house and pay the necessary gold to properly armor that girl and buy her a few more bags for loot.  While you’re at it, would it kill you to get her some pants. What? The auction house wants real money?  Fine, I’ll turn up the sound!  Catching only every third word of dialogue in Shakespeare is a special kind of hell onto itself.  So up went the sound.  Within moments my husband’s head snapped in my direction.

“What are you watching?” he asked.

“Shakespeare, on PBS,” I replied smugly, feeling all kinds of cultured.

He paused a moment and listened.

“I know that voice!”hollow crown_

Busted.  He did end up watching the final two parts with me and admitted that Loki could really deliver a Shakespearean speech.

You can’t criticize Shakespeare.  I tried once when I was an English major at a liberal arts college (before I was a community college film school dropout) and the professor gave me such a tongue lashing in addition to a C on my finished paper that I learned never to speak badly of the Bard again.  That said, The Hollow Crown, a BBC production of Richard II, Henry IV and Henry V, is excellent!  Shakespeare presented with the production value of Game of Thrones, plus Jeremy Irons?  What’s not to love?

I had reached the end of my viewing list.  There were plenty of interviews and such on the internet but I only care about movies. I wanted the damn vampire movie, but the release date seems to be up in the air.

Then my husband was unexpectedly sent out of town on business.  I could watch whatever I wanted in the evenings after the kids had gone to bed.  I could even watch . . . War Horse.

It arrived on a Wednesday, smack dab in the middle of my husband’s leave.  It was in my DVD player by 9 pm that evening, right after the final goodnight to my oldest son.  Tom Hiddleston’s character, Captain Nicholls, shows up early enough.  Just like King Henry in Henry V, he gets sent to fight a war on England’s behalf in France.  However, Captain Nicholls isn’t nearly as lucky as Henry V (although I suppose dying of dysentery at age 35 isn’t particularly lucky either . . .) Without giving too much away, in case you haven’t watched War Horse (and I don’t recommend it)  – he dies, as do a lot of other characters who come in contact with the horse.  War Horse of Death would have been a more apt title.

Here comes the part I have had hard time admitting -even though Tom Hiddleston’s character was clearly out of the picture, I kept watching.  I watched all the way through to the garish, golden-lit sunset ending when the boy, now a soldier who has gallantly faced the horrors of war, rides that damn horse, the only thing he really wanted for the entire picture, up to the gates of his parent’s farm house, proving you can go home again.

And who doesn’t want to go home again?

I myself would  feel at home again sitting in a darkened theater at the Opera Plaza  watching a movie about a depressed rock star vampire (one who is not named Lestat) ; for the duration of the film I could pretend that outside the theater it is still 1995. Why 1995?  Because a film about vampires by Jim Jarmusch starring Tilda Swinton sounds so very 1995 to me.   Because in my San Francisco of 1995 all of my friends are still alive and healthy and hopeful.   The Film Arts Foundation is still the backbone of the local film community and YouTube has yet to arrive.   San Francisco has yet to be remade by the dot com boom and it is still  affordable to all who find themselves drawn to the city. Don’t get me wrong,  I wouldn’t consider abandoning my present,  like Gil from Midnight in Paris.   I love my family, my house by the ocean and all the people who have come into my life since I left San Francisco in 2000.  But an afternoon of brief, inconsequential time travel would be lovely.

Especially if it takes me back to a time and place before I watched War Horse.