It's been my intent to hibernate a good deal more this winter than I have in the past. Every year I make this resolution that I'll stay indoors, save money, cut down on my exposure, get some writing done, try some new recipes, and I never seem to entirely keep it, succumbing to the wholly irrational urge to go outside. There's not really that much sun and I can get vitamin D from whole milk, for heaven's sake. Inspired by the examples of certain co-workers, I think this year's project will be markedly more successful. Not now, though, as they keep putting on sweet shows at the Blind Pig, probably just to put me out of sorts.

Lightning Love and the Friendly Foes: The sister-brother combination of Leah and Aaron Diehl has been around for a while, ever since the demise of the Minor Planets, in which both Leah Diehl and a former co-worker of mine at Chateau Fluffy figured. They play a sort of intimate electro-chamber-pop, in which Leah Diehl's strange, almost robotic voice plays well with the simple melodies and occasionally childlike lyrics. While their appeal certainly can't be hurt by the fact that Diehl is inordinately attractive (no offhand judgment, this, as I know at least two cases in which this is a factor in attracting interest from the curious, probably a la Rilo Kiley and Jenny Lewis), they're a tight,appealing unit, and were certainly much better than when I'd last seen them, opening for Starling Electric. They seemed a little thin but have really perfected a recognizable sound that works great on CD, copies of which they sportingly gave away free with the ticket purchase. I hadn't seen the Friendly Foes before, and they were quite a pleasant surprise, playing the kind of straight-up, shtick-free rock that one rarely sees these days (around here, anyway) outside of acts like the Ultrasounds (maybe a little harder than the latter). I don't count the Hard Lessons, excellent though they can be, as the straight-up rock actually seems to be the shtick in their case. "My Body (Is A Strange Place To live)" was an especial standout, with a nice, anthemic feel to it.

Texas Prison Rodeo and Counter Cosby: There was a bit of a kerfuffle a few years back concerning the aforementioned Starling Electric and their next-door neighbors, when the former lived at the old "White Lodge" on Third Street. One of the guys badmouthed the next door band in the Metro Times and one of the badmouthed wrote in to protest, and shortly thereafter the lads of S-E decamped further west. Working at my present job, I discovered a couple of months back that probably my most frequent co-worker, Joby, was one of the next-door band. So the town's small enough that I can end up working with and befriending one of my favorite band's mortal enemies. I thought this marvelous, and he and my other co-worker Joel have been osmotically working to make me like metal. Some backstory, unfortunately: I've never understood metal, and missed the bandwagon there the same way I did with graphic novels and post-1990 video games. I thought Black Sabbath was all right, but that was about it. My high school's very irregularly produced paper featured a joke quiz one month in the late 80s in which those who won, they said, must have listened to Slayer while those who lost favored Poison. I knew Poison sucked anyway, but Slayer's appeal shockingly eluded me. Watching the entertaining and informative Metal: A Headbanger's Journey on Joel's recommendation started to clear away some of the mystery, but I don't think I ever voluntarily went to hear a metal show until I checked out Joby's relatively new band, Texas Prison Rodeo, opening for Counter Cosby. Featuring Joby on guitar and the infernal, Cthulhu-y vocals of Tavi Lux Veraldi, it was a very committed form of metal (I'd say "intellectual," but that just feels wrong) that had me alternately shaking in my seat and trying to figure out how the hell they did that. Maybe it was simply down to being my first experience with live metal, but it was a great show and I hope to see them again. Counter Cosby have been around for some time; I kept seeing their flyers all over town but never made it to a show. It was my loss, apparently, as they're both very interesting and hilarious. They follow a complex, mathematically-based approach to composing their music that makes for some jarring and arresting melodies (if that's an applicable word). The music in turn goes to support lyrics both wickedly funny and joyously obscene in songs like "Wahmbulance" and "Rickets on the Crotch," all promoted by a paradoxically welcoming stage presence. They' ve even released a couple of movies, Death and Asshole Drunkard, which I'll be watching later this month as part of a planned "local movie day" at my house. After hearing their show and reading their lyrics, it's hard to express how much I'm looking forward to it.

The Tickled Fancy Burlesque Company: Having a bunch of beautiful women ascend stage and then take most of their clothes off to music would seem like a no-brainer of an idea for a show, and I'm a little surprised that it hasn't happened (to my knowledge) around here before recently. Yet another co-worker of mine, who I'll refer to (as he does on stage and occasionally in real life) as "Leonard G. Moustache," has begun working with this local group, which has been around for about a year and which I saw for the second time Saturday night, both out of general interest and because Leonard would have a starring part in the show, if you know what I mean. Tickled Fancy incorporates the traditional elements of classical burlesque with a more modern sensibility that tries to bring a little more comedy and performance to the proceedings. The show starts with the MCs, Chuck Rock and Annie Thing (the latter somewhat resembling a 60s-era Monica Vitti), playing a husband and wife trying to pretend--with the helpful assistance of booze--that they don't loathe each other, doing their intros and then linking the various acts. These differ in style and appeal: a particular audience favorite is Rita Riggs, whose acrobatic ability lends itself to hula hoops and bending coat handers with her tongue, although Lydia Valentine was very good as well. Mabel Syrup's baking routine ("oh, my apron's so dirty!" etc.) definitely hit closest to home, although part of me sniffed at the product she was wasting; still it was all in a good cause. As for Leonard's performance, words fail me. "That mailman's got too many packages! What are we gonna do?" Etc. The audience, as one might imagine, was very responsive to it all; another co-worker (co-workers were unsurprisingly pretty thick on the ground that night) and I actually wound up kneeling atop barstools to get a better look--starting out like Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1-10) but thankfully escaping the fate of Eutychus (Acts 20:9-12). The spirit of the evening set out to involve people, with raffles and calls and response, and thoroughly delighted everyone (certainly me). As Ms. Syrup put in the new local music journal Sound Notions (a very informative reference which proved quite helpful in writing this entry), they're "more vaudeville than burlesque," and the combination puts a new spin on the kind of entertainment locally possible, at places like the Blind Pig and elsewhere. It's definitely the kind of thing we need more of around here.

Writing as someone a little skeptical of the widespread "change" the presidential campaign I recently supported promised, I have to say that this is pretty awesome. From my perspective, my congressman's had it coming since he decided to go after Lynn Rivers in the wake of the Republican gerrymander.

This post by Jessi Klein and the surprisingly impassioned (or vituperative, take your pick) rebuttal from Ezra Klein (no relation) really dramatize an argument I've been having with myself ever since I decided to go into the food service industry. I enjoy cooking, and I'd certainly like to improve my abilities and my ingredients. That said, I've long had a visceral dislike of the "foodie" craze that's swept the middle class for the last few years, which seems to have less to do with making good food than showing off some kind of cultural accessory, like playing a video game. I've never seen Top Chef, and I've heard mostly laudable things about Tom Colicchio, but good cooking existed long before the show and doutbless will long after. Part of this dislike, of course, may have to do with my jealousy of the access, both temporal and financial, "foodies" seem to have to excellent ingredients and equipment. Cooking for a living doesn't pay very much (at least for me at the present time) and sometimes tends to leave one exhausted to a degree that, yes, Hot Pockets are, at times, the most welcome form of sustenance.

 On the other hand, the tendency to demonize good cooking and good ingredients themselves, rather than the fetishization thereof, is perhaps more ridiculous. I remember that, a few years back, a number of acquaintances would rag on anything "artisanal" as somehow inauthentic, as opposed to pizza and Pabst Blue Ribbon, just the thing to unwind after a hard day down at the mill or factory or graduate internship. The interest in growing and eating well and local became just one more example of bourgeois decadence. Some of the criticisms, to be sure, were well-directed; for instance, at local grocery stores that had to price higher than the big box places out in the suburbs, a legitimate complaint (if not always applicable in my view) as the nearest decent places to buy food in and around a major college campus were, by and large, only financially accessible to "foodies." All too often, though, this concern simply expressed itself in that aforementioned visceral dislike.

I'm still not quite sure where I stand; I suppose my present exploration of cooking is an attempt to find some kind of middle ground.

Listening to the radio and going online over the past week, it's struck me in a kind of rolling barrage how strange the election has made everything. Realizing that sane, centrist, and possibly even liberal policies might actually be possible--infrastructure investment, open acknowledgement of global warming (let alone strategies to fight its effects), narrowing the gap between rich and poor, this diplomacy thing--is a little disorienting. There are going to be hard economic facts to face in the meantime, but if anything, my optimism has increased, to the point where I actually have optimism. So much of my outlook on life had been influenced by the appalling effects of the past eight years, and I suppose I'm trying to wrap my head around visualizing a future again that doesn't involve a post-apocalyptic scenario in which everyone worships Chainsaw Jesus. Josh Marshall of Talking Points Memo has a similar, if more high-minded, reaction. In a way, it's a little disappointing. Had things gone differently, I was provisionally prepared to give up on civic engagement and spend my entire free time watching Harvey Birdman: Attorney-at-Law and eating pizza until I exploded like a punctured zit. So that's cool.

Happy-Go-Lucky (2008): Mike Leigh's a director whose work I've enjoyed in the past but haven't really adored, apart from the Mikado biopic Topsy-Turvy (2000). I'm not a big Gilbert and Sullivan fan, but it was one of the best historical films I'd ever see, the conversational nature of Leigh's dialogue dispelling the portentous stench that hangs around so many films set in the past. Life Is Sweet (1991) was pretty good, although I respected Naked (1994) a lot more than I liked it. David Thewlis' scabrous performance won deserved raves, but my heart went out to Clare Skinner's hilarious control-freak character at the end. Some of his more famous works, like Secrets and Lies (1995) or Vera Drake (2006), I haven't seen at all. When I heard about Happy-Go-Lucky, I was intrigued. Poppy (Sally Hawkins) is a primary (elementary) school teacher in London who manages her life with an infectiously goofy good cheer, no matter what happens. The latter include testy interactions with Scott (Eddie Marsan), her driving teacher, her problematic family, and a handsome social worker she ends up dating. It's hard to describe Hawkins' performance save to say that I felt like I'd been run over by a tank--in a good way. In other hands, Poppy could have become intensely annoying (others certainly may find her so), but Hawkins actually makes her a believable character who just happens to be incredibly nice, which I find more than a little subversive in today's cinema. I worried at times that Poppy's free-spirited innocence might turn farcically promiscuous or misogynistic, but such wasn't the case, and it made the whole thing more fascinating. Her relationships with friends and with those her personality throws off-kilter reminded me of Leigh's earlier Career Girls (1997), in which Mark Benton's mentally damaged character finally turns on the two title characters. Poppy's also no pushover, forcefully reacting when bullied, but refusing to let it alter her general personality. In this she reminded me not of one of Leigh's characters but of Kate Dollenmayer's Marnie in Andrew Bujalski's Funny Ha Ha (2002). Marnie's problem wasn't so much that she was overly nice but that she was listless and apathetic. She never let that get in the way, though, when stakes were relatively high, either when stopping a drunk friend from driving or taking her creepy admirer (hilariously played by the director) to task for potentially violent antisocial behavior. Poppy's much the same, only preserving her happiness rather than her apathy.  The supporting cast is excellent, especially Marsan, who makes his character amusing, menacing, and pathetic at once, but it's Hawkins' show, and she left me dazed.

Yeah, this'll do nicely.

Four years ago, I was pretty much the first person in my precinct to turn out on Election Day. As I supported John Kerry for President, that didn't really turn out so well. This year, I didn't wake up until 8:30, and didn't get to my polling place until about 9. There was already a fair-sized line, and an atmosphere of polite but definite excitement among both voters and pollworkers. One girl came out of the booth with tears on her face, wailing (a little redundantly, to be sure) "I'm crying! I'm crying!" At one point a buzzer went off somewhere which some of us unnervingly thought was the fire alarm (that would have sucked). My precinct is an interesting mix of students, shifty service proles like myself, and well-to-do families or childless "professionals" living in a wedge-shaped slice drawn along the edge of the University of Michigan central campus. As a result, I often see strange poll-fellows come election time. It's a pity we didn't have longer lines for the people-watching, but I won't reorganize my priorities when the stakes are so high. It's fun to guess who's going to vote for which candidate; the vast majority of my own precinct, I'm sure, was pro-Obama, as was I, but I know I shouldn't assume things simply because I live in Ann Arbor. I've somehow managed to encounter quite a number of conservatives during my time here: several of my housemates, my former boss, the long-serving mid-shift cook at my job, and my co-worker who's actually pretty liberal but who doesn't vote because of the perniciously undemocratic nature of the Electoral College. I see his point; my position is that the EC is a flawed system that usually works, but his intransigence has gotten me thinking as to how it might be reformed to be a more accurate reflection of the popular will in elections when it doesn't reflect the popular vote--maybe something akin to the veto system between President and Congress. It might be a little cumbersone, but as this is really the civic privilege and responsibility, I think it might be worth a look.

Actually casting my vote proved anticlimactic. This is usually true, but this time it was a little disappointing. This election was historic for a number of reasons. Given the history of this country, it would have been astonishing enough to elect a black President. This choice came, too, at the end of maybe the most disastrous US presidential administration since Buchanan (regardless of that Rolling Stone cover story a while back, I'm not sure I'm ready to rank Bush below the President who practically ensured that the Confederacy started the Civil War on a much stronger military and political footing than they could have otherwise). For all McCain's talk about "not being Bush," he seemed determined to continue the latter's ruinous domestic record and to actually worsen it abroad. Finally, we had a chance to choose a President who seems to understand better than any candidate over the last twenty years (with the possible exception of Gore) the kind of challenges we'll face in the next few decades--the kind you can't just blow up--and with a leadership style that probably surpasses any presidential candidate of the past twenty years. I voted for Barack Obama, and though I may not have been as bright-eyed or bushy-tailed as the volunteers--particularly the young'uns--who turned out in such numbers over the past couple of years, I'm prouder of this vote than any I've ever cast. To quote one of the people with whom I watched the acceptance speech last night, "I can't believe this guy's gonna be our President--this is awesome!"

I spent most of Election Day at home, baking clove gingerbread and watching Peter Watkins' Edvard Munch (1974) and a DVD of Bill Hicks' live shows (the latter in many ways an ideal manner in which to celebrate Election Day). I later wound up at my friend Margot's to watch the election returns (mostly on CNN, then to ABC and NBC for some variety and to escape the reflexive hypocritical stench Bill Bennett managed to send through the TV screen, and then over to Fox for a few laughs after Obama won--did anyone else notice the so subtle "bling"-style shine over the name they had going for a few seconds?), with her boyfriend Brian and several of their friends. Margot is a valued friend of mine, and an academic of somewhat Marxist inclinations. Anyone who ever harbored the laughable paranoid delusion that our next President will be a Marxist should have a conversation with Margot. She was, as a result, a little more skeptical about our guy than I was, but it was touching and instructive to know that we both felt the same joy at his win, even considering that he'll likely not live up to her desires or, indeed, to my own expectations. Nevertheless, it was a glorious night, especially as I walked home through downtown Ann Arbor, to widespread yells of rejoicing, honking car horns, and a monster rally on the "Diag" in front of the grad library. It was only after I woke up that I think it hit me. I'd fallen asleep with the radio on, and the BBC World News on Michigan Radio was broadcasting reactions from around the country and around the world. At several points, I really did start to mist up.

As the overrated duo of Trey Parker and Matt Stone put it, "America! Fuck, Yeah!!!"

I remember when I was in middle school or so that my dad scolded myself and my little brother for constantly using "like" in our conversation (as does pretty much everyone, I suspect, born after 1960 or thereabouts), identifying it as a conversational pollutant. Ever since then, in one way or another, I've been trying, both consciously and subconsciously, to purge it from my daily use. In doing so, I've been wondering how it might have become so prevalent in daily speech. Its most classic use is as the defining word in a simile--"her lips were like a ripe watermelon." The Merriam-Webster Deluxe Dictionary, in a relatively lengthy commentary, mentions that "like" has been in contention for some time as a more syllabically efficient synonym for "as if": "it was like a syphilitic warthog had been given power of attorney." Whatever controversy this usage has attracted is now apparently over six centuries old, so I assume it's entered the language along with just about every other word that comes from non-European or non-Mediterranean environments. I can only conclude that is present ubiquitous form arises from its substitution for "for instance," or "for example," which I suppose has some sort of existential meaning. It does have a pleasant discursive quality that renders unpleasant events or everday annoyances in one's life part of a greater, unfeeling whole or as the whimsy of some blind, drunk, senile god: "So, the other night, like, Jamal totally cock-blocked us at the Eight-Ball." If the universe just hated you, you could feel better. I don't know where the surfers picked uit up, or how it infected the rest of California, and then the country, and then the English-speaking world, and then eventually myself, but I'd love to find out. Anyone have any ideas? 

I returned home the other day to find a couple of McCain-Palin yard signs in my front yard. Now, I'm a firm Obama supporter (I've been in the tank to varying degrees since the primaries), and not a big believer in yard signs (I even refuse "I Voted" stickers at the polling booth), but I found it funny more than anything else, especially since McCain's given up on Michigan and a couple more yard signs are going to indicate one's own ineffectiveness rather than aid his cause. My money was on our socially bereft, malodorous Russian housemate, who's been getting the wingnut rag Human Events for the past few months. As I said before, while I'm not a believer in yard signs, I'm just as equally not a believer in tearing them down, as they're someone's legitimate political expression, however moronic or delusional. Making one's own sign, say, one that says "I'm afraid of gays," and then planting it in one's yard with an arrow pointing to the McCain sign, is another matter entirely. Unfortunately, I only thought of that the next day, when I discovered that the signs had been ripped down. I figured they were overzealous Obama supporters or indeed local rowdies opposed to all forms of political involvement (after getting to know some of my co-workers, the latter is much more of a possibility). Whichever, I was hoping my aforementioned housemate would jump to the depressingly obvious conclusion and write to Human Events denouncing a vast socialist, LGBT-ally, baby-killing subversive conspiracy which could be publicized, say, by Jonah Goldberg or someone equally deficient on national television. I don't want to be famous, but it would have been a hoot. Sadly, the sign-planter turned out to be our landlord (who, to be sure, was heard in his shop going on about certain presidential candidates wanting to "take his money and give it to poor people on welfare," or something; substitute "rich" for "poor" and you've got McCain's policy, so I knew that wasn't who he was talking about), and another housemate of mine had ripped them down the first time, after which a couple more were planted, the ones I'd seen. It's just too weird, even when you leave aside the ethics or even the legality--I haven't checked--of one's landlord placing them in a yard he legally owns but where he isn't an on-site resident. If anyone has any information on that, I'd be obliged. Great fun, anyway.

My life hasn't exactly been uneventful recently; it's just that so much of what happens isn't really visible to others. Also, the downtown library computer lab's pretty much turned into the local homeless shelter by day, and while most of said patrons are quiet, unobtrusive characters, the bad apples are starting to get on my nerves (while I can hardly comprehend what some of these people have to go through in their daily lives, it is supposed to be a library--although such behavior, of course, is hardly limited to the homeless, as witness my housemates). I doubt I'd have blogged anyway, but I suspect it's becoming a more than minor factor in my online reticence. It's mostly been writing (after a month-long break) and reading, anyway, along with work, with film taking an unexpected dive. I've been a little stunned to find myself reading science books--Richard Dawkins' The Selfish Gene, several collections of essays by Stephen Jay Gould, and a book on ecology and gardening (I'm thinking of learning next year). The weather's been fantastic, especially over the past couple of weeks. The tree in front of my window's been turning a brilliant red gold, which makes for some superb reflected sunsets against my wall. The graveyard looks stunning.

Election stuff's always captivating, especially this year. This is hilarious, and be sure to check out "I'm BATMAN!"'s contribution in the comments section.

Work's been adjusting itself to normal, as the novelty wears off and I seem to settle into a groove. It's a hilarious welter of stories and complaints there, most often from the people who've been there the longest. Bitching and back-sniping are a way of life (it is a restaurant, after all), but it'll take more than that to dent my general good cheer (although I tend to wonder about the ethics of staying a forthright, plucky sort partially for the specific purpose of pissing people off--it's not as important as I make out, but sometimes it helps). If you enjoy people-watching and-studying, it's a wonderful envoironment, with much more diversity than my former job (naturally, considering that it boasts over a hundred more workers than the cafe). I've been taking a few classes on cheese, and will probably start learning about olive oil in a couple of weeks. One of the good things, surprisingly enough, is that there's hardly any room for advancement. My immediate supervisor has been there for ten years, and our manager for twelve. One of the mid-shift cooks is, I believe, into his second decade. This will hopefully militate against my staying there (and in Ann Arbor) too long and also encourage lateral moves into some of the other shifts, if possible. There's more actual cooking that goes on in the morning, and more scope for creativity.

Culloden (1964): One of my favorite cinematic discoveries over the past couple of years has been left-wing British filmmaker Peter Watkins, whose massive, astonishing six-hour La Commune--Paris, 1871 (2000) I watched last Christmas Eve. His first major success came with this film for the BBC--like La Commune, a well-researched docudrama on a bloody episode in European history, and one of the most engrossing and thought-provoking films I've ever seen. This is mainly because it's not only a historical film, but also a film about history itself--how it's made, recorded, and rememebred. Having dealt at length in grad school with questions regarding the legitimacy of historical research from both traditional and "postmodern" persepctvies, and then being an amateur cineaste, I loved Culloden. Some will guess simply from the title that Watkins' subject is the last stand of Prince Charles "Bonnie Prince Charlie" Stuart's Jacobite force against the British army at Culloden Moor in Scotland in 1746, the final gasp of Stuart (primarily Catholic) resistance to what was seen as the usurping Hanoverian dynasty and its attendant Protestant commercialism that threatened traditional noble and clan-based society. The scenario, in nationalistic terms, may sound familiar, as it was used thirty years later to portray events four and a half centuries before, and was called Braveheart, a stirring movie in many ways, but a historical film of almost staggering awfulness. Watkins' approach to filmmaking could hardly get any different from traditional Hollywood. Culloden, like La Commune, is filmed as a TV documentary, recording the action as it happens and interviewing participants (played almost entirely by semi- or non-professional actors) like the foppish Bonnie Prince Charlie, some of the Hanoverian commanders (though catching only glimpses of the opposing general, the Duke of Cumberland), and especially common soldiers and noncombatants of either side (some speaking Scots Gaelic to an English-speaking translation voiceover). The result is brilliant, especially given the gritty, verite nature of the fillmmaking and production. The battle scenes are fantastic, eschewing Hollywood noble sacrifice in favor of the genuine horror of war as much as any sort of film with Watkins' budget probably ever could. The chilling--and deliberate--dispassion of the narrator (Watkins himself) works wonders: "This is grapeshot. This is what it does." The fight scenes were orchestrated by Derek Ware--stuntman, bit actor, and founder of frequent 1970s British TV stunt team Havoc (Doctor Who, Elizabeth R)--who would perform similar duties the next year on Watkins' most famous work, The War Game, an Oscar-winning depiction of a possible nuclear attack on Britain, which would be banned in the UK for the next twenty years. The work of cameraman Dick Bush is similarly inspired, giving Culloden a look that still remains fresh and even ahead of its time after four decades. They don't make movies like this anymore, but they were hardly making them back then, either. Watkins manages to convey his deep feeling for the ordinary participant in history without being too preachy (especially through his trademark closeup technique, cutting off the space above actors' heads so audience attention never escapes their faces). Unlike traditional English vs. Celtic and/or American cntests, the warts of each side are clearly revealed for the viewer. Though Watkins obviously feels for the destruction of traditional Highland society at the hands of proto-"globalizers" (an apparently conscious echo of contemporary anti-insurgency campaigns--France had just left Algeria and the US was about to get "serious" in Vietnam--and a theme that would echo much more forcefully in La Commune) and emphasizes the brutalizing effect of conflict on the combatants, he also doesn't shy away from the less savory aspects of clan life, demonstrating both the exploitative nature of the clan system and revealing the rift the rebellion opened up between different families and clans (the most obvious being the pro-Stuart MacDonalds and the pro-Hanoverian Campbells). There are no easy good or bad guys in the film, just as there are relatively few throughout history. If more films like Culloden were made, such truths might be easier to understand.

Silent Running (1971): I'd seen bits and pieces of Silent Running over the years, the actual film on VHS, and finally got to see the whole thing on DVD recently. An online chum of mine considers it the best American sci-fi film of the 1970s, and considering the competition from other decades, I might be willing to consider "of all time" status (along with The Thing From Another World, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, 2001--if one considers it American, and Close Encounters--and the last for the musical sequences). It's certainly one of my favorite movies, a conviction reinforced by seeing it again. In the near future, Earth's been stripped of all its forests (how they're possibly getting enough oxygen is left unsaid) and a fleet of spaceships drifting through the solar system carry the last patches of green in colossal geodesic domes. When the news comes that the spaceship crews are to return to commercial service (jettisoning and destroying the domes), botanist Freeman Lowell (Bruce Dern) determines to preserve his charges, and ends up killing the crew of his own ship (including a startlingly young Ron Rifkin) to do so. Lowell manages to steer the ship away from a potentially lethal confrontation with Saturn's rings and faces the prospect of an eternity alone with his two robot servants, "Huey" and "Dewey." It's a remarkable achievement: a stunning employment of special effects matched with an unexpectedly compelling and morally ambiguous story without being pretentious, preachy, or hackneyed. It also features Joan Baez music that doesn't make you want to puke or rip forth your eardrums (she's not that bad, but you probably know what I mean). Director Douglas Trumbull, son of special effects wizard Don Trumbull--who had, among many other feats, made the flying monkeys fly in The Wizard of Oz--was responsible for the look and effects of 2001 a couple of years earlier, and convinced Universal to let him make Silent Running as one of several "hip" films (along with Easy Rider and a few others) that the studio greenlit to capture the elusive "youth market." Everything looks fantastic. The spaceship models are amazingly realistic (whatever that means when discussing futuristic spaceship design), and the interiors are even better, mainly because they were filmed on an old aircraft carrier in the midst of decommission. Trumbull simply redid the interior structure with paint and a few cinematic touches and had a spaceship set. The robots look like oversized space-heaters on legs, and were performed by multiple amputees (one of many interesting details revealed in the DVD's thorough extras). The latter probably had a lot to do with their sympathetic performances (again, robots). The look is similar in some ways to 2001, but with quicker editing and more emotional connection to the events. I might be mistaken, but I think Lowell was the only role Dern ever had where he was the main actor, not co-starring with Jack Nicholson or doing ensemble stuff (for the latter, Michael Ritchie's brilliant 1975 sleeper Smile is well worth a look), and he's absolutely mesmerizing (especially considering that he came to Silent Running after a dry period in his career). It helps that Lowell isn't just some single-minded, fanatical eco-warrior. He likes hanging out with his crewmates, regularly cleans up at poker games (and enjoys it), and has ordinary ambitions (in his case, becoming head of a restored Park Service). The threat of destruction to what he considers "nature's greatest gift" makes him snap, and he spends the rest fo the film agonizing over what he's done, realizing the need for human companionship, and finally (in a way) confronting his crimes. One can sympathize with a motive but not excuse the crime, and this relatively simple dilemma (scripted by future producers and directors Stephen Bochco and Michael Cimino) plays out with fascinating scope and power throughout Silent Running. It really is a wonderful example of the sort of drama one often finds in literary science-fiction (and so rarely in cinematic), and its influence even helped to create Mystery Science Theater 3000 in the 90s. I for one feel considerable pique at its relative obscurity when you consider that Trumbull came up with cute, squat non-anthropomorphic robots years before Star Wars and "future grunge" nearly a decade before Alien or Blade Runner. Trumbull went on to direct a couple of low-profile sci-fi flicks and the special effects on Close Encounters, but he ought to be considered one of the greats just for Silent Running.

 Eggplant Caponata

1-2 lg. eggplants, cut into cubes

1/2 tsp salt

1/3 cup olive oil

1 big yellow onion

4 celery stalks

1/2 cup dried currants

3/4 lb. tomatoes

3 tbsp capers

1/2 cup red-wine vinegar

1/2 cup sugar

pepper to taste

Dice eggplant, let "sweat" in colander with thin layer of salt for 20 min. Saute cubes with 2-3 tbsp olive oil in heavy-bottomed saucepan over high heat, stirring occasionally, 5-10 min until they start to soften. Lower heat and cook 8-10 min. until soft. Transfer eggplant to bowl. In saucepan saute onion with half remaining olive oil over medium heat until tender 10-15 min. Scrape onion atop eggplant. Repeat with celery. Return onion and eggplant to pan with celery. Stir in remaining ingredients and simmer, uncovered, 45-50 min.

 It was probably one of the most complicated recipes I've yet done (mostly due to the eggplant). At one time in my life, I would have greeted eggplant caponata with a gag reflex, and it's undeniable that the texture won't appeal to many. Though the feel, once it's finished cooking, is very thick and rich (particularly the taste--sweet, sour, and salty all at once), the texture is indisputably slimy and could conceivably be an acquired taste. Mine was probably especially so as I had to approximate an amount of currant preserves rather than dried currants. I had it straight and it was fine; my throat didn't rebel once. It was much better, though, paired with an opposite--something relatively bland but with a thick, chewy texture--in this case chicken (and delicious organic Amish chicken at that, which is relatively cheap if you get it frozen at Hiller's). I understand it's good with toast or pork as well.

And...

Mole Verde

3 cups chicken broth 

2 cloves garlic

1 can plum tomatoes

1/2 medium onion, chopped

1/2 cup cilantro

1 tsp vegetable oil

1/2 cup pumpkin seeds

1 small jalapeno, seeded

2 serrano peppers, seeded

3 romaine leaves

1/2 tsp cinnamon

pinch cumin, pinch pepper

salt to taste

Toast pumpkin seeds, stirring occasionally, until browned (c. 5 min.). Cool, then mash in blender or food processor until powdery. Mix in 1 cup broth, remove from blender. Drain canned tomatoes and toss in empty blender with chilies. Add lettuce, onion, garlic, cilantro, cinnamon, pepper, cumin. Blend until smooth. Heat oil in heavy-bottomed saucepan then heat broth sauce c. 5 min., stirring until thick and dark. Add veggies and stir. Gradually add 2 cups broth, depending on thickness, and simmer 25-30 min. Season with salt.

 Mole was fun, and looks and tastes delicious. I made it myself when I worked at that high-end restaurant last year, although I had to go through the somewhat toity step of straining the solid bits through a fine chinois--which didn't quite take as long as shredding and grating horseradish, but it came pretty close. I'm generally wary or disdainful of excessively sensual descriptions of food and cooking, not necessarily due to hostility but because they've become such a hipster cliche. It's hard to avoid, though, when talking about mole. You get to smell the toasting seeds and thrill as they pop like corn kernels from the heat. The pumpkin seed broth made at first looks and smells after a while like cafe mocha or cafe au lait, and stirring the broth/veggie mix is a real pleasure. I tweaked it a bit--adding arugula with the romaine for added pepper, and making up the difference on the pumpkin seeds (I don't think I had quite half a cup) with green pepper seeds. It was fantastic--like caponata, it went very well with a relatively bland but chewy food like chicken, and even better with a gorgeous, lazy Friday evening, a few bottles of Pacifico, a couple of Sweeney episodes, and Ratatouille.

And here's the election boiled down, by the way.

The Ultrasounds, The Way Things Were (2008): The Ultrasounds recently won Current's "Most Underrated Band" award, an honor they fully deserved. I'm not being flippant or sarcastic here; in a town whose musical scene has been unusually crowded for a burg its size since the days of the MC5 and the Stooges (it has to be said, however annoying it can be whenever anyone brings up Ann Arbor's "glory days"), to win a "most underrated" award is a definite achievement. Of all the groups in town, they really deserve to be better known, especially with the release of their debut CD (and hopefully the so "Ann Arbor," Frederic Jameson-checking Ann Arbor Observer shoutout in the August issue will help). I first met the Ultrasounds--singer/bassist Chris Smith, drummer/keyboardist Sara Griffin, and guitarist Patrick Betzold--at one of Starling Electric's storied afterparties at the old "White Lodge" on Third Street, and they've unsurprisingly had a fairly close association with the better-known group, right down to Jason DeCamillis producing The Way Things Were. They're a notably charming, unassuming bunch, and it's a bigger relief than usual in these cases that their music doesn't suck. I've probably written this before, but what I like most about the Ultrasounds is that they don't have a particular "shtick" or affiliation to any kind of musical practice or ideology. They just bear down and play straight-up indie pop-rock. That alone makes them rather unique in this town, where the often obvious nature of the influences fly thick and fast (witness the avalanche of folk-inspired or alt-country acts). That's not necessarily a bad thing, of course; Starling Electric's my favorite band in Washtenaw County (sharing "best in Michigan" honors with the Dirtbombs) and they're quite open about their loving affection for the sunny-side pop music of the 60s and 70s--it produces fantastic music. The Ultrasounds' reticence in these matters, though, is quite refreshing and equally fruitful. The tunes on the album all have an unvarnished, romantic quality to them, calling up the deceptively placid, secretly tempestuous nature of post-urban life through a variety of sounds--bluesy ("The Easy Way Back"), frantic ("You Don't Even Know"), chill ("Home"), sunny ("Why Don't We Leave"), and anthemic (the title track). The music's steady and sure, the three tight and professional, with Betzold showing more than enough virtuosity to impress but not so much that he overwhelms the other two (not likely anyway, with Smith's impassioned singing and Griffin's pleasantly relentless beat). My personal favorites are probably "You Don't Even Know," with its desperate urgency, and "Why Don't We Leave," where Griffin takes over singing duties with a sweet, clear voice that underlines the band's multitalented nature. Watching them at the Heidelberg's Club Above Saturday night, running through their own mateiral, covering "Roxanne" (with Griffin on vocals again) and using Edison Lighthouse as a warmup riff, made me feel a little privileged, like I was in on some cool secret. Ruin it for me, and go see them (at, for instance, T.C.'s Speakeasy on the 30th).

Karyna McGlynn, Alabama Steve (2008): The poetic lays recording the adventures of the eponymous, protean rogue strive to answer the question posed in "Stephen Brownblatt"'s sidesplitting introduction: "Which came first? Steve or Steveness?" Itself a masterpiece of parody--in this case, the insufferably pompous, pretentious worldview of a literary elite--the intro even nabs a little context when one looks over the back cover. "Alabama Steve" is a Coyote/Trickster figure for the "orange Trans Am on cinder blocks" set, at once reminiscent of the dude who used to live across the street when I was a kid and fire his shotgun in the backyard every now and again just for the hell of it*, and of the gas station attendant in a Beavis and Butt-head episode when the guys tried to buy gasoline--"sorry, dudes, if you want to buy gas, you've gotta have a container." Steve interacts with a number of other Steves (McGlynn's central conceit being Donal Logue's in 2000's The Tao of Steve, that "Steve" is the prototypical American male) including Steve Perry, Gutenberg, Nicks, Steve Beowulf, and, best of all, the loathsome Brownblatt, narrator of my favorite piece, "My 3rd Appointment with the University's Writer-in-Residence": "Anyway, I went to the cabin and all I brought with me was a notebook, a pen, and a collection of erotic verse by the ancient Chinese Poet, Li Po (...good friend of mine, great poet, great poet)." For someone with a distinct allergy to much modern poetry (and someone not terribly passionate about poetry in general), Alabama Steve is particularly enjoyable because it's not standard poetry in free verse or any kind of meter--the pieces read more like one-sided conversations or surrealist tall tales, all chronicling the relationship between the narrator and her Steves, from the Canadian border to Stevie Nicks' underwear to crappy regional flights in Latin America. Having heard some of these read aloud (at Shaman Drum, a perversely ideal location) only underlines how well Steve gets down the rhythm of deceptively vapid aughties speech. Incorporating visiting poetic "Roberts" like Lowell or Browning feels like a nose-thumb at the stereotypes of what constitutes poetry. Matched with the grimly hilarious world of the Steves, it all feels downright exhilarating. Karyna has sadly decamped now for Austin, but in her honor, and that of her marvelous collection, I'd just like to say "good friend of mine, great poet."

*Or maybe to thin out the UFO flocks.

Happy 30th Birthday, Kenissa McKay!

The mass exodus of friends I'd dreaded at the beginning of the year hasn't quite come off yet, but the attrition rate's starting to tell. Tuesday it was Adam and Karyna's turn; I stopped off that evening, getting off work early, to say goodbye, and wound up lingering for several hours. And then there's my friend Jenee, who's leaving her job in town to go to nursing school in Detroit. Dear God, who'll be next?

Fortunately, I think I'm settling into the job quite nicely, and my writing's really taken off in the past month or so.

And... that's it right now, really. Hm.