I don't know what to make of the video for this song-- "Periodically Double or Triple" by Yo La Tengo-- but the song is cool, so I post it for your listening (if not viewing) pleasure:
The Maids: Back To Bataan
6 hours ago
For some reason I always got a kick out of seeing characters from one comic strip popping up in another character's world. Here are a few examples. Above is a mish-mash of fifties characters (some of whom, like Popeye, you'll probably recognize) which appeared along with an article on an exhibit of comic work down mounted down in Florida.
Sam's Strip was actually based on the premise that all these characters existed in the same imaginary world, so all kinds of visitors were always dropping by to be the butt of a joke. How many of these guys do you recognize?
Jim Scancarelli, who's been doing Gasoline Alley for the last twenty five years or so, must also like these crossovers, since he often has some classic character drop by the Alley, as with Mutt & Jeff and Howdy Doody above.
A few years back, Blondie was celebrating its 75th anniversary, and there was a whole sequence of strips where other characters showed up to join the party, including the strip seen above. Below is the final commemorative strip with all the well-wishers in attendance. Maybe some of your favorites were in the crowd too.
Beware of raised expectations! A couple weeks ago, I had such a good bowl of soup at a new restaurant in Missoula called the Central Grill, that I couldn't wait to get back to try some more. Today, I had the opportunity, but unfortunately the Tomato Florentine wasn't quite as good as the Lemon Chicken I enjoyed the last time. Oh, it wasn't bad-- homemade and fresh with chunks of tomato and hamburger, topped with fresh basil leaves. But I was counting on spectacular, and felt a little let down; possibly this was because, according to the waitress, I got the first bowl of the day and it hadn't quite cooked long enough for all the flavors to commingle the way they should. At any rate, this mild disappointment doesn't mean I won't go back again, as this was probably the second or third best soup I've had in Montana over the past few months (and I really don't mean that as faint praise); I'll just plan to stop in a bit later in the day.
This week, it's a shot (cropped from a bigger picture) of Helen once again, with Nik (in the background), Ben and Natalie. And the question is... where was this taken? Put your answers in the comments, as always.
Don't forget to get your guesses in for this week's quiz!
There was a time, way back in my teen years, that when I approached a newsstand I gravitated towards the sports magazines, and was apt to pick up the latest copy of The Sporting News or Sport (I was never a big fan of Sports Illustrated though) or one of the many baseball oriented publications. Then, for the longest time, my attention was focused on the rack holding the music mags, and I often took home a copy of The Record, Musician (remember those?) or more recently CMJ, No Depression, Paste, Magnet, Goldmine or Uncut (there are others, like Mojo, that I've subscribed to so I could ignore them on the shelf). But as you probably know, the bottom has dropped out of the magazine market in the last couple of years, and many of those titles no longer exist (at least not in paper copies). The music selection now is so thin that it's barely worth a glance (usually to see what the subject of the Uncut CD that month is). Luckily, however, there appears to be a growth area in magazine publishing and it just happens to correspond with my latest hobby (I must not be the only one diving in) and that's photography-- specifically digital photography. I actually started subscribing to Popular Photography (a venerable publication that I read pretty regularly ten or so years ago when I bought my first SLR) and also another mag called Digital Photography, but whenever I stop in at a Barnes & Noble or Borders, there are at least a dozen others to check out, and I usually snag at least one based on some feature that month (I'm especially a sucker for articles about how to shoot in low-light, or on converting color shots to black and white). This must be a booming market, which is evident from the abundant ads for high end equipment that fills all of these magazines. It's actually a little frustrating to read an article about bargain lenses, or some other gadget, and discover the editors consider something priced at $1200 a steal. But aside from that, I've learned a lot, and the photography section gives me a place to actually browse. I can't tell you which of these publications is the best, because frankly, they mostly all cover exactly the same material, just in slightly different configurations. But the British titles like Practical Photography and Digital Photo (not to be confused with Digital Photography) often include a free CD with editing software or short instructional videos, so they tend to attract my attention. I just find it interesting that as many of my favorite music magazines seem to be going bust, the photography mags are proliferating at an amazing rate. I guess that's got to be a least a little reassuring to the publishing industry as a whole.
Every now and then, I get a little nostalgic for my visits to Italy. It's such a beautiful country-- at least those parts I've seen. Here are a few pictures from my visit to Assisi back in the fall of 2008, starting with the image above: an ancient Roman temple that was converted to a Catholic Church some hundreds of years ago.
Strolling through the narrow streets of the city, one is constantly stumbling upon cool little scenes like the above. I have no idea what all the shoes are doing under the steps.
Here's a view of the huge lawn that spreads out in front of the St. Francis Basilicas. You might recognize the statue on the outer edge as having previously graced the top of this blog.
I spotted these nuns walking up the path just beyond the city wall. Unfortunately, it was a very foggy day, so I didn't get a good shot of the surrounding countryside from this vantage point.
There were a number of these side streets that seemed to lead up to some very nice gardens, but it wasn't clear if they were public or not, so the only look I got was up from the street. I'm really looking forward to my upcoming trip to Germany, hoping I'll see some sights as memorable as these.
"When man reasoneth, he does so as arithmeticians
Old fashioned department stores sure made interesting, and somewhat ubiquitous, settings for movies back in the thirties and forties. Bachelor Mother from 1939 (Hollywood's Greatest Year?) is only one-- remember the great scene in Charlie Chaplin's Modern Times, where he skates around a store at night (he was a security guard), or the really fine pro-labor Jean Arthur vehicle The Devil and Miss Jones? Then there's the Christmas classic Miracle on 34th Street, not to forget the Marx Brothers' The Big Store. Such movies got to play up the consumerist side of American culture, but they seemed much less mercenary than contemporary films, where a store setting is mostly an excuse for endless product placement (which wasn't the case in those earlier classics). It's worth noting that in all of those films, to one degree or another, management was portrayed as corrupt but redeemable, a nice metaphor-- intentional or not-- for reassuring the public that capitalism could bounce back from the Great Depression. But Bachelor Mother, directed by Garson Kanin and starring Ginger Rogers and David Niven isn't really about the store, it's about the kind of confusion at the center of all the great screwball comedies. In this case, it's a baby left with Ginger, and the assumption made by virtually everyone that she's the mother. Needless to say, various hi-jinks ensue and in the end she has a rich daddy for the young'un.
"There have been few periods in history when man
The New York Dolls
I took my camera along on my trip to Butte yesterday, and ended up driving out along the Big Hole River looking for some good shots. Since I was monkeying with my settings, I actually ended up with very few nice pictures (though I did gain some intelligence about how to use the camera), but here are three that I think turned out ok after a little post-production work.
I'm looking forward to revisiting some of these spots once the weather is nicer (or even when there's just a bit more sun out). But it was nice to get out and snap some pictures. Opportunities have been few and far between recently. That should change in a couple weeks, as I have some more extended trips upcoming, and I tend to find more to shoot in unfamiliar surroundings.
Yesterday I had lunch at the Great Harvest shop in Butte. Great Harvest is a bakery known mainly for their bread, and in fact I had a really good turkey sandwich on some exceptional spinach feta bread. The surprise though is that the soup I had, beef barley, was also pretty good (I've usually been disappointed with the other varieties I've had there over the years). However, I'm not certain if it was the soup itself that was so great, or the fact that I sprinkled in some croutons, which were incredibly flavorful. Did they make the soup so good, or vice versa? I guess I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and just appreciate the fine lunch, with all parts contributing to the overall satisfaction.
The plot revolved around Barnaby, a more or less average middle class kid, and his adventures with Mr. O'Malley, his fairy godfather. O'Malley was a bit of a charlatan, but endearingly so, as is evident in these examples.
I hate to admit this, since it potentially calls both my patriotism and sports fandom into question, but I have not been watching the Winter Olympic Games. The problem is that I really have no interest in the sports that comprise the Winter Games-- not skiing, not skating, not sledding; even hockey is something I find only intermittently entertaining. I know that part of the appeal is supposed to be the personal stories of the athletes, but most of that stuff just bores me. In fact the only sport performed at the Olympics that does interest me is curling, but it never seems to pop up on TV when I'm watching, and sitting through the other stuff waiting for it only triggers my channel surfing finger. Before I know it, even curling is the farthest thing from my mind as I become engrossed in yet another repeat of That 70s Show. Part of the reason why I like to watch curling is that it's pretty easy to see and appreciate the drama and strategy of the play-- or at least it seems so to me. Earlier today, I was listening to sports radio on a drive to Butte and the two hosts were going on and on about how incomprehensible curling was. These supposed professionals, whose job is to follow and report on sports (and who presumably didn't just start that job today) were mystified at what they saw on the sheet: couldn't make heads nor tails of what the sweepers were doing, expressed ignorance at what that big round thing was (a rock? an oversized hockey puck?), and likened the scoring system to some equation only an MIT prof could decipher. Hopefully, if I'm lucky enough to stumble on some curling before that part of the games concludes, the commentators will not share the willful ignorance of those bozos. But I suspect the odds are pretty slim (of the former point, not the latter).
“Over all, I think the main thing a musician would
Here's a variation on those quizzes where I asked you to identify someone based on their eyes only: this time, though, it's feet. In addition to guessing whose feet these are, let's also see if you can guess where the photo was taken. Put your guesses in the comments section.
"'The world is my idea' is a truth valid for every
I'm guessing that it must be awfully difficult for a comedian whose work is recognized as being on the intellectual side to craft a really effective autobiography. There seems to be a tendency to want to create something deeper, more important than a collection of anecdotes about the road, celebrity encounters, and the development of fondly remembered bits and career-defining material. That'd be great if they could pull off such a feat, since I suspect that guys like George Carlin do have a unique perspective on serious subjects, including comedy and the nature of our popular culture. But they tend to fall short. For example, Mort Sahl's Heartland, while offering a fascinating insight into its author's worldview, comes across as strident and often bitter. Robert Klein's The Amorous Busboy of Decatur Avenue is a bit of a bore, as he depicts himself as a late twentieth century, overly theatrical counterpart to Fielding's Tom Jones. What fails to come across, at least for this reader, is some hint of the fact that these men are entertainers. George Carlin's Last Words, unfortunately, is pretty much in this vein, though it's hard to blame Carlin, given the fact he died before work on the book was completed. Still, his collaborator Tony Hendra some years ago wrote a brilliant survey of the kind of comedy Carlin (and for that matter, Sahl and Klein, too) represented called Going Too Far, so it's hard to believe he's entirely responsible for the failure of the project to entirely come together. The first sections of the book, covering Carlin's childhood are actually quite good, evoking a time and place that long-time fans will recognize as central to the material that marked Carlin's emergence as one of the handful of stand-ups who transformed the art in the 1970s (Richard Pryor and Steve Martin being the other two). But his chronicle of those glory years when he commanded big paychecks and performed long-form routines before crowds in the thousands reads like a transcript of some True Hollywood Story tabloid TV show. I don't mean to belittle the travails (drugs, alcohol, health and family issues) that obviously plagued Carlin during that period, but their recounting here lacks the kind of cynically righteous verve that marked the material he performed on stage, and so it kind of feels like a cheat. Luckily, its exactly that tone that enlivens the last couple of chapters, where he lays out his philosophy in no uncertain terms, and while it's often dark and even frightening in its implications, it's pure Carlin as we've come to know him from his stage persona. I guess I'm arguing that books like this should be continuations of the subject's act, and that's probably unfair-- to deny them the opportunity to discuss other aspects of their lives. But since a big part of their popular appeal (and influence) is built on creating an image of integrity and insight, that they have something more meaningful to contribute than run-of-the-mill mother-in-law jokes, it's a bit of a let down when their written work doesn't quite match that standard-- or, in this case sustain it throughout the book. So, consider this a qualified recommendation, in that the good stuff at least balances out the more mundane parts.
Having some time to kill yesterday afternoon, I drove down to the Clark Canyon Reservoir with my camera and got a few nice shots.
I didn't process these through any arty filters, just adjusted the lighting and contrast and cropped them to give them a little more punch.
Check out the weird jack-o-lantern like face peering through the sunburst in the above picture-- I should've waited until next Halloween to post it!
“Now is the accepted time, not tomorrow, not some
I've been a fan of Doug Sahm's music for thirty years, and for much of that time felt like I was about the only person who even knew who he was, since you rarely saw him mentioned in the standard histories of rock and roll. But Sahm, recording and performing under his own name or that of his bands the Sir Douglas Quintet and Texas Tornados (among others) had a long career that was heavy in terms of influencing others if only intermittently successful in commercial terms (I believe his biggest hit was his first way back in 1965: "She's About a Mover" with the Quintet). Eventually, with the rise of the alt.country genre, he started to get a bit more recognition as a progenitor of the kind of rootsy country rock style that others like Steve Earle, Uncle Tupelo, and Jason and the Scorchers were updating for a contemporary audience. But Sahm's style transcended that label, as over the years he also evinced strong affinities for the blues, r&b, cajun, Tex-Mex, hard country, jazz, and even, if less convincingly, hard rock. When Sahm passed away in 1999, although he was only 58, he had a musical resume that stretched back to the early fifties (as "Little Doug"), and a discography as eclectic as any recording artist of that period. Jan Reid's biography (written with Sahm's son Shawn) nonetheless was a surprise to see, since so much of his subject's career seemed to unfold on the margins of the popular music scene. Reid does a fine job of excavating and explaining just how Sahm was an important figure, despite his relative lack of attention or credit. The book is especially strong on Sahm's late sixties sojourn in northern California during the booming days of the San Francisco sound and his mid to late seventies role in shaping the music scene in Austin, which today is a major center for developing talent comparable to almost anywhere else in the country. From this account, it's clear that Sahm was an inveterate mover, never staying too long in one place, and while Reid chronicles the impact that had on his personal life, the focus generally remains on how that factored into the music he produced, contributing flavors to his ever-simmering musical stew. There are some shortcomings to the book, such as some occasionally spotty chronology and the short shrift given to a couple periods that I was rather curious about (such as Sahm and the Quintet's late eighties Scandinavian residency). This is a subjective point, but I also wish he had spent more space discussing some of my favorite albums like Together After Five and Border Wave. Also, given the length of his career, and the incredible number of folks that Sahm worked with over that period, it seems like personal reminisces of friends and colleagues are pretty sparse, aside from the contributions of his son. Especially surprising is the relative dearth of comments from Augie Meyers, who played with Sahm pretty consistently over the years. Maybe there's a reason for this, but it isn't made clear by Reid, and the few contributions by such folks makes one suspect that there could've been much more. But, considering that I never expected to see any full-length biography on Sahm, especially one so consistently strong on placing him into his proper historical context, those are ultimately minor quibbles. I'm not sure that someone who wasn't a fan before reading the book would enjoy it as much as I did, but I think Sahm comes across as such an interesting and influential character that you'd likely be compelled to seek out some of his recordings once you got through it-- and, believe me, that alone would make the exercise worthwhile.
Jefferson Airplane