Sunday, December 28, 2008

Bruce Vs. the Uppity Pricks: Bruce Campbell LIVE at the NuArt, Saturday, December 20, 2008, Pt. I

Onstage at the NuArt Theatre in Los Angeles, Bruce Campbell referred to the New York Times movie critics, as a whole, as “uppity pricks.”

While I myself read the Times reviewers somewhat thoroughly each and every week, and particularly like A.O. Scott’s writing, I found it hard not to agree. Knowing full well that Campbell was referring to a recent nose-thumbing by someone on that paper towards Campbell’s latest directorial, producing and acting effort, the obsessively self-referential My Name is Bruce, I was pretty certain of the attitude that the review likely took.

Sure enough, returning home that evening and checking out the squat, barely five-paragraph long review from a few weeks back (which I somehow missed, and which therefore adds a touch of truth to my previous phrase “somewhat thoroughly”), I found an article titled “The Evil Dumb” and a statement from writer Stephen Holden which basically posits that My Name is Bruce, a low-budget meta-B-movie venture is the type of film that “only a cultist could love.”

Setting aside for a moment that I am a charter member of the Bruce Campbell cult (anyone that saw the first Evil Dead in a theatre in its initial year of release has immediate and inextinguishable membership), I toss back, softball-style so you cannot possibly miss it, this question: what’s so wrong with that?

We are now (and have been for quite some time) in an age where one trend is replaced without hesitation by the next trend, almost without society taking even the slightest breath before each new indulgence in mass hysteria. The current indulgence is for a film titled Twilight and its source material, a series of books built around a breathlessly romantic, awkwardly family-valued and ultimately phony take on vampirism (though really, aren't most takes on vampirism technically phony? At least, in the sense that we are dealing with myth and fiction for the most part, excluding those in our "real" world who have somehow become convinced that they require blood for sustenance). The media does their job, and then the rest of the world sits by while a couple million randy teenage girls obsessed with promise rings and the perfectly coiffed boyfriend finger one out to thoughts of the glistening, fangy Edward Cullen remaining oh-so-true to his little Bella. And sure, critics such as those at the New York Times pretty much trash such a film in the same manner that Holden dismisses Campbell's far less openly commercial effort, and without really attempting to understand either cult. If there is an attempt to do so, it is usually on the side of the more commercial effort so that they can wring a few extra name-dropping articles out of the film (even if they trash it) so they can sell a few extra papers. That's fine. It's the newspaper game, and I do not fault them for it. But please make some small attempt to recognize or at least understand smaller cults such as Campbell's before telling the remainder of the world to not bother because you just won't get it unless you are a fan.

If a film is made, and without a single shred of doubt, is clearly created precisely to amuse (and simultaneously administer a loving backslap at) the admittedly goofy cultists of the Bruce Campbell camp (amongst whom Jen and I will forever firmly align ourselves), and then this film satisfies the bulk of them in some arcane fashion, is that not some small form of success, however downgraded some might consider it? Certainly I found some fault and one major annoyance within the film, but given that he filmed most of it on his own property on a relative micro-budget, and also given that the film is so purposefully shaggy and self-deprecating, I honestly could see that, if such a film were viewed by those largely unknowing of Campbell's talents, they might actually come to love the big lug like the rest of us. If, do to my cultism concerning Mr. Campbell, you think that perhaps I am not the best person to be judging anything he has created, then you are probably not aware of the main thrust of this blog, which is for myself to remain frightfully honest at all times in these pieces. This includes rating films like My Name Is Bruce appropriately and truthfully, despite my prejudices either for or against the creators of said film as I enter the theatre.

If you go on to IMDB and check out the page for My Name Is Bruce, you will find (at the time I wrote this) that about 3947 people have combined forces to give the film an overall rating of 7.4, which is pretty high on the IMDB scale of things, given that films like The Godfather and Citizen Kane end up around 9.0 or thereabouts as a maximum out of 10, thanks to IMDB's weighted ratings system, which is meant to balance out such occurrences as when a rash of Bruce Campbell or Twilight fans log in and then go apeshit with the "10" ratings. Likewise with people who seethingly hate either one and dole out nothing but "1" ratings as their only way of punishing a bunch of movie people who they insist have slighted them in some way, either by time, money or general overexposure. Either form of fanaticism does no good for anyone who is seeking a balanced look at a movie which they might be tempted to see, and IMDB seeks to even things out with their weighted ratings system. However balanced, 7.5 is pretty damn high for a movie that is not necessarily even close to being as well-made as the bulk of films that end up in that vaunted 7.4 range, so perhaps the weight of the system hasn't really served its purpose to its fully extent in this case. At least, not yet. But setting aside all ideas of Campbell fanaticism, tossing out those tens on our own since surely all of those people are members of Holden's proposed (and assumedly noxious and despicable to the likes of him) Campbell cult, perhaps such a high rating is a sign that there are people are actually getting the film. Is it possible that a film that supposedly only cultists could love could actually be approachable and --gasp! -- found enjoyable by someone who is not necessarily of that ilk? Yikes!!! How could such a mistake be made when the Times has so clearly put forth the notion that to the opposite degree?

I have no specimens with which I might prove this theory, so further experimentation cannot possibly occur at this time. There were only two of us there in the theatre within our personal acquaintance, and those two were us. But I do not find it far-fetched to imagine someone being talked into tagging along to one of Bruce Campbell's theatrical tour stops promoting his newest venture - say, perhaps, the NuArt Theatre on a Saturday night in December? -- perhaps on a date or in a group of earnest pals already converted to the cult, and, with perhaps little or no knowledge of what they are about to see, still leaving out the front entrance of the theatre after two hours having enjoyed the film.

Most likely this would be largely due to Campbell, who, even when he is acting the immense prick -- or perhaps because he is, as this character is his stock-in-trade -- is one charming em-effer. There is a reason he has the cult that he does, and it has little to do with the overall quality of the films or shows in which he has plied his trade. Certainly, for some it could definitely be a factor; some people just love crappy B-movies and that's that. But I would warrant a guess that the vast majority of his fans were created through his performances in the Evil Dead films, and probably another chunk came about from his time on TV as Brisco County, Jr., Autolycus and Jack of All Trades. And, currently, with the huge success of his latest show, Burn Notice, he is undoubtably gathering a collection of new converts to his ever-growing cult.

Here's the deal, and probably the biggest reason that puts the lie to what Holden says: Campbell, in no matter which type of film he appears, big-budget or mediocre, A, B or Grade Z... Bruce Campbell, the actor, does solid work. He usually doesn't play things straight, and the vast majority of his work is without a single doubt in the tongue-in-cheek vein. But he can play it straight if called upon, and he does the smirking, winking, smarmy thing like Miles on the trumpet. Even in what would seem to be such a limited area of expertise, there is a subtle range on display. Yes, he has been in a lot of outright garbage, and most of his fans genuinely wish for him to be in bigger and better films, just as the man himself no doubt would prefer. But the bulk of his fans will eagerly sit through that outright garbage, straight-to-video crap like Moontrap and Alien Apocalypse, just waiting for Campbell to appear in more mainstream, big-budget fare like the Spider-Man trilogy and The Hudsucker Proxy (even if there is a certain form of "pal nepotism" involved in them). However he gets the parts, there is no doubt that Campbell takes full advantage of the big-screen exposure. Or even small-screen exposure. Whatever he appears in, his fans recognize that he is there for them... to entertain them. And, because he gives quality in even the goofiest trash, that them is growing larger all the time.

That Campbell takes the time to trash the Times onstage during an end-of-film Q&A session is a clear sign that this is definitely a man who takes personal umbrage at being written off completely as a B-movie hack by critics at large. And, despite holding outwardly such an air of self-deprecation within the film, he can still be hurt, as anyone would, if something they have poured their time, money and hard work into is dismissed blankly by those that theoreticaly hold a certain amount of critical sway over those who attend the movies.

Of course, then we might be talking about the types of movies that cultists don't necessarily love, and it was with a huge crowd of cultists that Jen and I found ourselves aligned and in line with a couple of Saturdays ago, when we all wrapped around the side and down the alley behind the NuArt Theatre in L.A. to meet our hero, Bruce Campbell. And when we left the film, did we, even as bona fide cultists of the Campbell variety, find ourselves loving such a movie? You know, the type of movie that only cultists could love?

(To be continued...)

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Notes on Seattle, November 29, 2008, Pt. II - A Sonic Disappointment, A Visual Skullpoke

Anyone that knows me even slightly well understands how much music means to me. Those that know me pretty well are aware that I have an immense affection for Louie Louie (with comma or without) which gained massive prominence via the music scene in the Pacific Northwest in the 1960s, and that after collecting music most of my life, I now own and cherish a great many versions of the song. Those that know me extremely well know that I rave once in a while about a band from the Pacific Northwest called the Sonics, and that I would devour the souls of those that would come in between me and the music of the Sonics.

And so I find myself in the Experience Music Project, basically a shrine to Jimi Hendrix and the Seattle scene overall throughout the history of music, staring at what amounts to a "oh, yeah... there were these guys" plaque and a couple of album covers as the main testament to the fact that the Sonics even crawled out of the local area. Of course, they would say, space is limited, and most of the bands here, even the really, really famous ones are only given a small area and a handful of pictures and/or merchandising in which to tell their tale. Such a response is understandable. But it is fairly obvious to anyone even remotely familiar with developments of the Seattle sound in the late '80s through the early '90s, or even any punk scene anywhere in the freaking world, that the Sonics played a far larger influence on music than most of their counterparts, even through today, as is often attested to by many current or recent stars of the form. The Sonics were the shit, my friends, not shit itself.

And so it was thoroughly mind-boggling to me that I was staring at this relatively minute, low set section of a window dedicated to what the EMP made look like something they scraped off their shoe on the way into setting up the place, while right across the hallway lied a massive window devoted to Paul Revere and the Raiders. Costumes with frilly shirts, instruments, microphones, 45s and all manner of paraphernalia. Sure, the Raiders had a zillion hits and have toured constantly in various forms (hell, I've seen them live twice in the last 20 years). Certainly they are, in the general public's eye, far more famous than the Sonics ever have been. I grew up loving Revere and the Raiders, even if I constantly confused them with the Royal Guardsmen of Snoopy Vs. the Red Baron infamy. And they are definitely connected forever to Louie, Louie, and in fact, the Raiders' window lies in conjunction with an area devoted to the Battle of the Louies, which occurred in 1963 when the Kingsmen released their amazingly endearing, crazily sloppy version of Richard Berry's original song (who introduced his own minor hit when he toured the area in the late '50s.

The Raiders followed up with their own version (recorded in the same studio in the same month) and the battle ensued. But nearly every local band had a version of Louie Louie in their repertoire, including seminal bands like the Wailers (who also have too small an area devoted to them in the EMP, which my old acquaintance Terrific Counterguy is probably rightly pissed off about way more than I am) and the Sonics. I have always been "eh" about the Raiders' version (though it is clearly the most danceable take out of this group), and naturally I adore the Kingsmen, but predictably, once you hear the Sonics' take on the song, that's it. If you are going to rock up what used to be a lilting, piano-based, Jamaican-flavored triviality, do it right. The Sonics' version is the song done right and done stylistically far ahead of its time, and to hear it is to wonder how Gerry Roslie's vocal chords ever recovered. If it had actually broken huge, the Sonics' version may have been as ground-breaking as the Kinks' You Really Got Me, itself a glorious and highly influential misappropriating of Louie Louie's chord structure (and admittedly so by Ray Davies).

But, apart from the pocket history and those album covers, the Sonics get only a few quick mentions here in this museum devoted to the "Seattle sound." This is not to dismiss the whole of the EMP, but merely to point out in my normal long-winded way that a terrible crime is being committed right before our eyes. Outside of this, though, visually, the place is stunning and the use of space internally very well used considering the dramatic structure in which the museum has been heaped. Naturally, size matters in rock as much as in the bedroom, and this place is all about thrusting massive video screens and giant sculptures created from piles of instruments straight through the visitor's corneas. It is hard not to be impressed by the size of everything, but for me, even with an abiding passion for a good portion of the bands on display (including the Young Fresh Fellows and the Posies, again, with not enough material on hand), I found the place intriguing but essentially soulless. Not quite bringing my experience down the level of going to Knott's, I felt the EMP was the theme attraction equivalent of Jong's zipless fuck: it was there, I did it, and I moved on. Unlike the usual sense of zipless banging, I had to pay to feel nothing.

There were moments where this could have changed. The Hendrix room is a fantastic place to enter, but with so many people in there, it was nearly impossible to stop and reflect on anything, including the line of guitars and the history of blues in the Pacific Northwest. What I did like was something that I mentioned to the Eel as we hung in a corner of the room watching from mid-'60s footage of Jimi playing onstage in London. I noted that the place, with people sitting about on couches chatting or milling about casually watching the walls and video screens, that the Hendrix room almost feels like a party in someone's home, only without the actual party. I felt oddly at home in the room, but I couldn't wait to leave, since there was really no reason to stay in there. So it was for the Music Lab areas of the EMP, where I had no interest in recording my own music or mixing it or dubbing vocals or any of that bullshit. I love music, but I will never be a musician, so it held little appeal for me. Likewise the photo stage area where you could pose for pix on a rigged stage like you were members of your own band, and while this might be something fun to do with a larger group of people like the Bohemians, now was not the time. Plus, the board at work had already taken a similar photo when they were up there a couple years back, and it is ridiculous thing to behold. The Eel and I walked right past the area once we realized what is was.

What else that did hold appeal for me in the EMP should not have been in the EMP at all, but over near the Science Fiction Museum: a theatre. Inside, we found a quartet of teens watching a video on a big screen of Death Cab for Cutie preparing their next album, and we couldn't care less. While videos and films are a major part of rock culture, to think of such an effect for the rock area but not the science-fiction area smacked to me of horrible planning on their part. If I find out that there are indeed occasional sci-fi flicks shown in the EMP's theatre, and that there is some dual usage going on, I will take back my criticism. But for now, even this proved a disappointment.

The Eel and I did find something of great interest upstairs: the Hatch Show Print Collection, which held tens and possibly hundreds of examples of poster printwork done on the Hatch Brothers' letterpress for musicians, advertising companies and various theatrical acts over the past 130 years. To see the giant printing blocks was amazing, and the artwork, the vast majority of it country artists though it expands more to rock in recent years, was supplemented by a generous sampling of country-and-western costumes for people such as Hank Snow (who looks like he was about 5'2"), Patsy Cline, Minnie Pearl, Loretta Lynn and Hank Williams. Senior, that is... the real deal. The Hatch collection was a nice capper on what was overall rather an underwhelming experience. We left the EMP, and after we took a couple of photos outside, I reflected on my experience and realized that I would probably return to it again, but probably not for a few years, and only to see if they have developed the Science-Fiction Museum more fully. Well, OK... also to see if they pay the Sonics (and the Wailers in tandem) the proper obeisance.

(To be continued...)

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Notes on Seattle, November 29, 2008, Pt. I - Robot Talking All Day Long

Mind wakes up at 4:30, and I can definitely tell the gin is still soaking my system. Didn't have a crazy amount of it last night, but it was more than Thanksgiving night -- Chris made my first G&T especially heavy on it, and my last drink I downed half of it in a slug instead of sipping, and it was right before bedtime. Slept better because of this, but still my unusual amount (and I say "unusual" because it contains the word "usual," meaning the amount sufficed for my own precious self, but would be "un-" for nearly everybody else in my realm of existence). I laid in bed for another hour though, trying to shut down the thought processes long enough to catch a bit of a doze, but it doesn't work, and I arise just after 5:30. Within minutes, I have popped open a giant bottle of Pellegrino to try and flood the gin out of my blood cells, and have started writing on the Maakie (that is my term of endearment for the MacBook Pro I have liberated from the office for this trip).

The bulk of the next three hours or so is spent in writing up my notes for the trip and digging through Chris and Chelz' CD collection, grabbing more than a few tunes from it along the way. Many, many tunes from it, as it were. It's strange how they seem to fill in the gaps in my record collection in much the same way that my collection would more than fill in much of theirs. I am in a very peaceful state, slugging down the Pellegrino and eventually swiping a Vitamin Water from their fridge, before Chris gets up and drink some tea. Once Chelz arises and everyone is showered, we head out to grab some breakfast at a mysterious (to my ears) place in The Junk called Bakery Nouveau.

I kick myself over this, but I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the astonishingly delicious croissant laden with egg and cheese and ham that I devour almost without blinking upon finally reaching the counter at Bakery Nouveau. It doesn't even have to have a name. All I know is that it is the best thing I have had for breakfast since that time Dad and I drove through the upper reaches of Canada and stopped at that roadside diner and, against all odds, had the tastiest omelette of my life. And now I am sitting at a small table on the street outside the bakery with Chris, waiting for Chelz to get her coffee, and I cannot think past my mouth, and the amazing combination of ingredients that are sliding down my gullet. I want another one straight off, and I swear to myself that I would crawl over every single body in Hades to get another one of these in my hands. That, or dish out another five bucks for one inside Bakery Nouveau. But I don't want cardiac arrest, and I certainly don't want to go to the hospital on this visit, not with my still having outstanding doctor bills from earlier in the year. So, I hold back, knowing that there will be more food to come later in the day. After we eat, we wander through a furniture store, checking out Xmas items on the way, before we take Chelz back to the house so Chris and I can head downtown to hit the Experience Music Project and the Science Fiction Museum.

I had been inside the EMP several years before, but only in the gift shop, and well before I even had an iota there was to be a museum devoted to the history of science fiction attached (of which I am sure Mr. Ellison would dispute much of the content inside). But let's look past what constitutes a legitimate attempt at defining the term "science fiction" (such as those who would claim that Star Wars does not truly belong in such a place) and look blankly at the museum itself. My initial sense is one of disappointment: the Frank Gehry design of the building is, in my mind, so wrapped up with the EMP and not the museum to such an extent that, while its design is so wackily futuristic seeming (personally, I see a mutated whale) so as to connect with the passer-by as being just the sort of place, were one lost, where there just had to be a museum devoted to science-fiction inside, because I only knew it as the EMP previously, the museum seems like a misbegotten transplant to me. This might be entirely appropriate if one is wishing to develop a sense of a Frankensteinian architect running amok in Seattle, slapping on public appendages to buildings willy-nilly, but the outer entrance to the museum doesn't convey such an operation, appearing as bland as nearly any entrance to a public library.

Inside the ticketing area, only a slightly undersized replica of Gort and a couple of movie posters gives one the sense of anything special at hand. The ticket attendant, who is wearing the sort of jumpsuit that one is supposedly to, through its repetitive use in movie after movie, imply some form of space attendant or cadet of lower rank, is polite and helpful, but the ticket taker at the interior gallery entrance is bored and rather gruff,. While I am a man of relative peace, that goes away the instant we are confronted by the ticket taker, and I immediately want to kick his smarmy, Alfred E. Neuman-style, gap-toothed face in. We are told more than once that there is to be no photography inside the galleries, as we are by Mr. Neuman, and while I understand the need for copyright protection and whatnot, it galls me to no end that I cannot at least take some decent overall images of the interior. After all, what I wanted to do was merely to promote and record my visit to this fascinating landmark... why couldn't I take a couple of commemorative photos.

Alas, it was not to be, though there were any number of teenage fiends flitting about brazenly capturing everything on their camera phones. I chose to follow the laws of the establishment for just this once, though even if I got a wild hair up my ass about it, I doubt anything would have come of it once I stepped inside the galleries themselves.

To say that I was immediately in awe of the collection is an understatement. Costumes, original copies of books, set design models, animation models of monsters and spaceships, posters, lobby cards, manuscripts, set-used weaponry... if I weren't already some giant form of space geek going into this place, I surely would have come out transformed! I even found samples from shows and movies I couldn't give a crap about (Independence Day; Stargate) fascinating, and lingered lovingly in front of every section. The nice part is that they didn't choose to go for the timeline approach, which is often the case in such museums, and it is definitely the easy way out. Nor did they group by individual film. Here, they chose to gather items together by categories, at first devoting a rather large gallery to each of the common tropes of sci-fi, or even emerging trends in the genre (nano-technology, etc.) At the end of the gallery lies a wall devoted to the Science Fiction Hall of Fame members, updated to include crystal images of the 2008 inductees. Surrounding this area were more window displays and artwork, and all the while, the visitor is well aware of the video imagery in the galleries, numerous television displays featuring movie clips, interviews and historical discussions of the section being viewed. Especially interesting was a section devoted to science fiction fandom, featuring Mssrs. Ackerman and Bradbury in their youth.

The next gallery, on a separate floor, was devoted mainly to costumes and weapons, before displaying an awesome video screen on which flitted about nearly two dozen famous spaceships throughout science fiction history. At first, Chris and I thought that clicking on the ship's image on one of the three computer screens available to guests would bring it flying into view. But after a couple of minutes, it became clear that the video of the ships, which is remarkably cool to watch as they flit back and forth, around and even through one another, is on a continuously loop, and that the visitor had zero effect on its movements or selection at all. Another giant screen showed future cities, but not nearly enough samples for my liking (where was Logan's Run or the city of the Planet of the Apes?) Mainly The Matrix, Blade Runner and The Jetsons. Nearby, I had to organize a vocal defense of David Brin's The Postman after a very nice couple started to mock the film version openly (and rightly so).

Chris and I listened to a few minutes of Welles' radio version of War of the Worlds on headphones (even though I own the broadcast and have heard it many, many times) and then we checked out the special exhibit devoted to robot toys. Our attention was focused mainly on finding Godzilla, Shogun Warrior and Micronaut toys, which there were in abundance, though I was more than a little peeved when the accompanying toy chart did not say Mechagodzilla on it (even though they used bookended giant photos of the character to promote the exhibit on the walls), instead referring to it as "Giant Robot Godzilla." We also notice that Ghidorah is in the exhibit, even though he is not actually a robot, merely a windup toy. But still, with a couple hundred of toys on display, it is pretty remarkable, though I can't help but think that the tin toy exhibit I saw at Epcot two months previously (at which I could take photos), was just a tad bit more impressive.

And that was it. We were done. A couple of hours, but the Science Fiction Museum was history for us. I knew I would be coming back again... (wait for it)... IN THE FUTURE!! But I also knew that there was so much more that could be done with it, such as a theatre that actually featured examples of these films, so that audiences to the place who may not normally get to do so could see the original versions of The Thing or The Day the Earth Stood Still, or at least clips from them. After we hit the gift store, which is also a tad disappointing (though I did buy a Pez Spaceman fridge magnet) -- I would have liked some form of program to the place -- we hit the bathrooms and meandered over to the Experience Music Project.

(To be continued...)

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Notes on Seattle, November 28, 2008, Pt. III - My Enemies Now Have the Proof That They Need

Chris and Chelz tell me of a Lenin statue in Fremont, and I immediately hear them say "Lennon." In a town so filled with rock history, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if someone erected a statue to John Lennon, even if he had, as far as I know, nothing to do with Seattle, except perhaps in the overall influence he has laid upon the whole planet.

"No, not Lennon," Chris says. "Lenin. Vladimir Ilyich Lenin."

"Oh," I reply, rather bemused. "Fantastic. Everyone calls me a commie at work anyway. By all means... let's go!"

Fremont seems a rather cool place, with a barbershop that we pass holding a copy of Giant Robot in its magazine holder. And sure enough, while more weirdly unbalancing than cool, there is a monstrous 16-foot high Lenin statue standing oddly in front of a Mexican restaurant. Apparently saved from a mudhole in Czechoslovakia by a local carpenter who mortgaged his house to acquire it, Vladimir Lenin is a strange sight to encounter. We really didn't see the guns in the sculpture that the plaque to the side assures us shows the man as a violent revolutionary -- mainly we just thought they were rocks surrounding him -- but the statue's biggest weapon is exactly how oft-putting it is to see it. There is a sense of displacement upon walking up to it, and it is really hard for me to truly put words on how I felt about seeing it. Since I am not actually a Commie Pinko -- my considered to be extremely liberal politics and rampant atheism get me branded as such though, hopefully jokingly for the most part -- and since I know full well the history of his time on Earth, both the horrible and the good he did initially, it is hard to feel anything beyond "Wow, amazing..." Perhaps the sense of displacement is the true mood that the piece requires us to feel, though it was certainly not intended by the artist; perhaps causing us to reflect upon such a past is the ultimate good such an article can achieve.

We leave Vlad and drive through the University District as the daylight goes away, and soon we come to one of the places they had told me about before I even arrived in Seatlle: Half-Price Books on Capitol Hill. Sounds grand to me. I love old bookstores, but I am sure to catch hell if I return home to an apartment already crowded with old books to bring back a stack of even more old books. And I can literally spend hours in such a store, but I really have to use the bathroom. Luckily, there is a bathroom; sadly, I cannot use it. That requires going to a back counter and asking for a key, which Chelz does easily, but I have some weird shy thing that pops up in areas relating to the use of public restrooms. It's not pee shyness, a very famous syndrome, but rather "key shyness." I simply cannot ask the owners of a store for a key to go use their restroom, preferring instead places that have open access to their toilet areas. Don't ask me to explain it... it's just a problem I have always had, and probably has something to do with my need to not have confrontations of any variety. I am already nervous enough in public places; don't ask me to commit further by having to explain to a stranger that I am about to whiz my pants.

And so I hold it, and hop from shelf to shelf for the next hour, constantly moving in a bid to make the discomfort of my bladder go away without actually removing the contents of said bladder. Regardless of this discomfort, I am able to maintain myself long enough to make several key purchases, not least of which is finding a copy of Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women by the great Ricky Jay, whom many of you may know mostly from David Mamet and P.T. Anderson films. Jay is probably the world's greatest card manipulator, and even wrote a book a number of years ago called Cards As Weapons. Learned Pigs is a marvelous history of the circus sideshow, and Jay is one of its foremost historians in addition to being a master illusionist. I lost my copy several years back in unmentionable circumstances, so it was good to find not just one, but three copies on the shelf at Half Price Books, giving me a chance to pick the one in the most pristine shape, and still pick it up for only about five bucks.

Also in my book pile is The Ernie Kovacs Phile, which I have never seen before but was more than happy to add to the collection. Having only one volume on one of my favorite comedians at hand, this volume is made up of large script portions from various shows, and the writer seems to think he is doing something unique with the way he is presenting Kovacs' story -- only reading it will tell, but I look forward to catching up with ol' Percy Dovetonsils. Equally important, and likely more time consuming, is The Moose That Roared: The Story of Jay Ward, Bill Scott, a Flying Squirrel, and a Talking Moose, written by Keith Scott, no relation to "voice of Bullwinkle Moose" Bill Scott, but similar in that he did the voice in the most recent film version with the characters. Should be interesting. One more item: a thin little paperback called Sea Monsters, likely written for the scholastic set, but at 62.5 cents, a fun thing to lay next to the much larger, more comprehensive and scientifically sound book of similar intent by Richard Ellis which I have admired for numerous years. Oh, yes... also grabbed a cheapo DVD copy of The Manster, just because I could. (History on this item on another post at another date.) All told, a hardback, two trades (one of them that replaces a lost item), one mass market and a DVD, all for less than 20 bucks combined, and all of them items I would not consider extraneous to the collection. All told, a decent night out for me, though I could have bought the place out if given the chance... and if I really, really didn't have to release a certain large amount of a certain liquid.

Blackness, incredible traffic left over from the tree-lighting and parade jamming up the downtown area as we head back through, and general weariness mean that it is time to go spend the remainder of the evening back at Chris and Chelz' abode. G&Ts for me, beer for Chris and wine for Chelz, and we settle into going through Chris' old drawing books. The Eel is tossing drawing after drawing to me from a stack of endless pages, and I am astonished at just how awesome he became at getting the thoughts from his head to the paper, in a way that I could never do art-wise. There is then an incident which I will relate in greater detail at another time, in which I am confronted with my past as an aspiring young artist, and in a separate incident, as a disaffected youth doing some automatic writing on command from my little brother. I am staggered by these revelations of past... er.. attempts (they are not really glories), but I find it amusing that Chris gives the art back to me after all these years, but keeps the story to himself. We spend the rest of the evening writing, drawing and listening to music. And at this point, Mr. Django Bongo Puppy Boy has all but ingratiated himself to me. Once I get up in the morning, he is my best pal in the world.

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Notes on Seattle, November 28, 2008, Part II - The Path Includes Mole Sauce and Zombie Finger Puppets

While the intent straight upon leaving Fantagraphics was to get some food, after Chris and I wander around Georgetown before finding out Chelsea is already back in the car, we each declared that a restroom was to be called for immediately. We drive to the International District and stop at the Uwajimaya Market, not just for some easy bladder relief, but so that the Eel and I can look at the section of Japanese toys, hoping for some swell kaiju-related items. About a year back or so, I was taken on my first visit to a 99 Ranch Market store, a rather large Asian-based superstore which has several locations in our area. (Raw Meat and I stocked up on tasty and often smelly snacks, which we snuck into a showing of Satoshi Kon's Paprika.) Uwajimaya reminded me of a larger, more hopping version of 99 Ranch, and indeed, "larger" includes its own parking garage, a bank, numerous other services, a food court with about nine different specialty counters and an entire apartment complex. The place is huge, bright and busy as hell. Walking past the butcher area, I can't help but start singing "Oh, I wish I were Uwajimaya wiener!" to myself (and then I do so again when I walk past an especially cute counter girl... it's childish but true. I am a man of brutal honesty, especially about myself).

The Eel and I dig through several shelves of toy boxes, but it almost seems that all of the ones we want to get are the ones no longer for sale, but still teasingly displayed in a locked case next to the toy section. Japanese toy-wise these days, all I care for are giant monsters, so the bulk of Pokemon / Digimon / Whatever-mon / Bleach crap is lost on me. Luckily, we find two separate runs of Ultraman toys, and so I grab a box of each, while Eel just buys the smaller box. I also grab an iced green tea drink, which I will turn out to like not at all, but I am of this opinion on most iced tea drinks of any color. (Apparently, I prefer my tea hot or at least lukewarm.) Regardless, I choke it down out of extreme thirst. Extreme hunger, too, wears on our minds, but we choose to skip the food court in favor of heading to the Ballard district, as Chelsea has expressed a desire to introduce me to La Carta de Oaxaca.

She tells me the mole at La Carta de Oaxaca is to die for, and within about fifteen minutes of ordering (after about thirty minutes of waiting in the not well attended, tiny bar area of this particularly crammed but engaging restaurant), I am digging into their chicken mole with considerable earnestness. The place is loud enough from the rattle of the customers that my din vertigo starts to set off -- with the crew at the next table being particularly annoying -- and I beg Chris and Chelz to start talking so I can focus on something. Luckily, the food arrives quickly, and once that mole hits my taste buds (at just about the time the neighboring table clears out), there is only one thing I could possibly focus on anyway. I also order the empanadas with mushrooms instead of chicken, to give a little variety to my side of the table, and also to maintain my need to discover places for my little vegetarian Jen to eat when I next drag her up to this neck of the woods. The times on this trip that I miss Jen the most, it turns out, are when I go to restaurants. The comic shops, the toy shops, the book shops -- these I can do on my own, and they are not her bent anyway. But part of our relationship revolves around the struggle to find decent places for her to find sustenance of the non-slaughter order. And thus I will spend part of each restaurant visit scanning the menus thoroughly for veggie options, if not ordering them outright, which I do in the case of Oaxaca.

When we leave, it is suggested to me that Archie McPhee is nearby, and I need no further prodding. I have wanted to go to Archie McPhee for numerous years, but had never quite made it through the doors. Now that I have, I don't ever need to again (unless I lived down the street or something). Nothing against the place, but its reputation as a swell spot for novelties and toys far outweighs its actual usefulness as such a store, unless you have a great and fervent need to purchase squirrel underpants -- and by that, I mean underpants that will fit a squirrel. I do have such a need, but that is beside the point. Novelty stores make their living almost purely off of the impulse buy -- the sort of stuff that you grab for the birthday party of someone you either don't know very well or that someone that you know far too well -- and I will certainly spend around five bucks myself at Archie's grabbing a bag of rubbery zombie and monster finger puppets. But I spend most of my time searching, searching, searching for anything that would fall into the category of "Something that I simply cannot live without." The giant medical urinal jar almost falls into that category, and there is certainly a lot in stock there that I would love to add to my own junkpile at home, if my own junkpile at home weren't already of such a size that I could open my own Archie McPhee outlet already. All told, while digging through all of the junk holds a certain joy in itself, purchase-wise, Archie McPhee is a washout, and the second half of their store across the parking lot (who knew?) reveals even less that I wish to get (except the giant, 4-foot, hard plastic iguana). But I have now made the trip, though I will spend the remainder of my Seattle visit finding the same toys in nearly every other shop I visit.

(To be continued...)

The 50 Something or Other Songs of 2017: Part 2

In our last exciting episode, I reviewed tracks 50 through 31 on Rolling Stone's list of the Best 50 Songs of 2017 . How did those ...