Sorted for ease and wiz.

You can tell that Leafhead has pulled out all the stops to entertain me on my visit here to DC, because we started the day by going to the fantastic tourist attraction, located inside your nearest grocery store, that is Coinstar.

Actually, I shouldn't mock, because I enjoyed the entire exercise. We spent some time consolidating all the loose change that was lying around the house, filled a huge coffee can, and then set out to convert it all to bling-bling, or whatever the kids are calling money nowadays. Leafhead is very bad at using his coins, so there was a lot of it to collect. I, in contrast, being the anal retentive person I am, make it a point to spend my loose change whenever I can. Sales clerks all over the world will tell you about all the times I have carefully counted out $4 worth of pennies just for the sake of getting rid of them.

But I really should rethink this practice of mine, because it has obviously deprived me of the joy of Coinstar. And other such machines. Years ago Leafhead used to own a little coin sorter -- a bit like this one -- and I used to love throwing coins into the gizmo just to watch it sort the shit out. But somewhere along the way the sorter broke, and I forgot all about the joys of coin organization.

Until today. Coinstar, I love you, even if you do take 8 cents out of every dollar's worth of coins we feed you. It's a small price to pay for the rush you give me. I'm already itching to go back tomorrow. Right now my hands are trembling; I have the withdrawal shakes. I am going to look around the house -- underneath couch cushions and all -- to see if I can find more loose change.

Posted at 4:07 PM ||

 
Pests and pestilence.

It's a funny week to be in Washington, DC, since the city is being graced by three sets of visitors.

The first are, as you might have read, WWII veterans, who have come to the city for the dedication of the new memorial. I am quite interested in seeing something that by one account looks a little like Stonehenge, but this weekend is not going to the best time. Instead, I simply wander around the city half-expecting to run into the hunky men from Band of Brothers, but then I remember that Ron Livingston and Damian Lewis did not actually fight in the war.

The second important visitor is, of course, me. I didn't mention that when I first landed in the US a week ago, in Ann Arbor, my plane touched down on the runway and taxied towards its gate. We were, I don't know, about a hundred feet away when our pilot told us that a tornado was approaching and we won't be able to actually deplane until it passed. So there we were, trapped in a little oblong box and seeing, outside our windows, the sky get darker and darker, and the storm come through. So close, and yet so far. And I'm thinking: wow, I've arrived, along with weather fit for an apocalyse. Apt. All I need now is a swarm of locusts.

Which brings us to our third set of visitors to DC. Cicadas. They are, as you might know, everywhere. Creeping me out with their red eyes and weird noises. But I am willing to forgive all, thanks to the part they played in the highlight of the day. In Dupont Circle I watch three gay men sitting at the fountain, posing in as butch a fashion as they could muster. Until one of the men starts screaming at the top of his voice: "Get it OFF ME!!!" A cicada had landed on him. There's no way to appear masculine while screeching like a little girl at an inch-long insect, dude.

Posted at 9:34 PM ||

 
Arbor ardor.

Hello. I've been having a blast. Ann Arbor has been very good to me the past four or five days, and here are some reasons why.

1. The town is not what quite I imagined: a little less bustling, less built-up, less overwhelming, which are all good things. It proves once again how much I enjoy towns like these, with their book and music stores. Especially when the kids are mostly off on summer vacation. So, really, I like the college towns, although the "college" bit, not so much.

2. One reason why I would be fine with retiring here is because the record stores are entertaining. Although Wazoo has the funny name, it is Encore, with its shelves and shelves of used CDs, which offered the greatest pleasures. They had quite a few long out-of-print 80s CDs (Tom Robinson, Kane Gang) which, if I were more enterprising, I would have bought to put up on eBay. That would have helped finance this trip.

Instead I was good and merely got two original Blow Monkeys CDs, as well as things like the first Venus Hum CD EP, Frost's Melodica, and Permer's Summerdays attract the pain (more Swedishness). CD purchase count thus far on this trip: a very disciplined 10. But it's still early.

3. I haven't seen Aurora and Leo, my fabulous hosts, in about a year. When they saw me, they said: "Oh, you look great. I don't know what you were complaining about on the blog. In fact, I think you've lost weight." Then: "Like, in your ass area." So, what they give with one hand, they take with the other.

4. Speaking of which, poor Leo busted her middle finger while at work. She sort of works in customer service. Draw your own conclusions.

5. If you come this way and get to go to Zingerman's, I recommend getting the #74, "Dave's Open Road." Despite sounding like it would be roadkill between two pieces of stale bread, this is a fab sandwich. It consists of "grilled Amish chicken breast" -- so you know the poor chicken had no fun before its untimely demise, and is thus extra tender -- with "applewood smoked bacon, wisconsin muenster cheese, ranch dressing and lettuce on grilled challah bread," which every sandwich should be on.

6. This first leg of the trip is essentially my Dogs I Have Known and Loved Tour. First up was Murray, who has graced these pages. He seemed to remember me, and was perhaps even happy to see me. This he mostly expressed, as he is prone to do, by leaning on me a fair bit. Because I'm nothing if I'm not as solid as oak; I'm the bark to his bite. I even slept on a futon that Murray normally gets to lounge on, but that didn't seemed to have caused too many hard feelings. Unlike how he was with a previous houseguest, he didn't climb onboard every night, all ready to fight me for it. Not that I'm gloating about my masculine authority or anything.

Indeed, Murray seemed a little protective of me. He often parked himself in front of my door, in case I needed that canine guard, and would also bring his toys and drop them off on the floor nonchalantly. Little offerings. I think the protectiveness also came through when I first arrived. To express his excitement at seeing me, Murray took a flying leap onto the couch that I was sitting on, and thwacked my chest with his front paws. Apparently I was having a heart attack and he thought it best to revive me this way.

7. I've been watching American Idol all season, as you might have gathered. (Ironically, of course.) But last night I actually got to watch it and vote. Between bites of excellent sushi (with cream cheese, which improves anything) and gulps of champagne, I got through one entire time on Fantasia's line. I'm sure my vote will help her. Because I am in America, and this is democracy.

8. If a nuclear war ever takes place, and you need a shelter in which you will never be wanting of a bagel, email me. I know a spot.

See you in DC.

Posted at 10:47 AM ||

 
Sic transit.

I'm currently in Kuala Lumpur, on a long layover. But that's okay, because I'm flying business (bless god for inventing the concept of frequent flyers), and am thus luxuriating in a very nice lounge. It's been years since I've flown this way, and I don't remember the transit experience being quite this nice last time. Mankind is indeed continuing its inexorable march towards civilization; we should be warmly congratulated. Free food! Open bar! A place to shower, even if I did so only two hours ago! If this internet connection were a little faster, I would gladly live here for the rest of my life.

The highlights are the journey thus far...well, the journey is only a few hours old. But I have enjoyed browsing in the airport newstand and seeing a woman's magazine with the following headline on its cover: "Find out his penis size! No stripping required." What's the fun in that?

Going through the hand luggage checkpoint has also been memorable. The security person looked at the xrays of the bag of the man in front of me and said, in the deadest voice possible: "Do you have a chopper in there?" The passenger acted really confused, as if he was not acquainted with the concept of a chopper, so security repeated the question again. In the same affectless monotone. As much as I wanted to find out the outcome of this exchange, I thought it was best to scurry away.

As I while away the hours, I also have time to contemplate the mysteries of travel. Such as: why is it that every time you check in for another leg of a flight, the ticketing agent feels the need to give you yet another little envelope for your tickets and boarding pass? By the end of a multi-stage flight, I usually have enough of them to open my own stationary shop. Which I would be happy to set up here, right in this lovely lounge. Another salmon open face sandwich, please!

Posted at 9:01 PM ||

 
Union of the shakes.

I'm off to the airport later today. I'm looking forward to it all, although also a little anxious, mostly because the length of the trip has sunk in. The nerves aren't about the flying; apart from the discomfort, that never bothers me too much. But then again, I do fly with a lucky charm in the pocket of my (loose-fitting) jeans. This might take the form of a little, inch-long plastic figure of a lime-green manatee, but to state that as a fact would make it the most personal thing I've ever told you.

You already know the reading materials I'm bringing on the flight. But what about music, I hear you cry? Those inflight music channels suck twelve flavors of ass! Well, here's what will provide the soundtrack for all that peanut eating:

If I had an iPod: My entire music collection.
Since I don't: the compilations Twisted Disco, Stereo Sushi v. Sake, Gille Peterson's Worldwide Exclusives, Bon Stanley's Now is the Best Time; Magnetic Fields' i, Agnetha's My Colouring Book, Skin's Fleshwounds, Weeping Willows' Presence, The Decemberists' Castaways and Cutouts.

Now it'll be like you're there with me, through all 127 hours of the dehydrated flying, and, potentially, the air rage.

By the way, apparently at some point this country joined the EU and I didn't get the memo. Because the CD store was closing, I hurriedly picked up Worldwide Exclusives this weekend, and it wasn't until I left the store that I realized it didn't have the Zero 7 exclusive track "Light blue movers" that I read was going to be on it. Subsequent investigation revealed that the EU version replaces Zero 7 with a Roy Ayers track. (So I guess I'll have to pick up the "Somersault" single after all.) This seems to be the case nowadays -- we get the European, as opposed to the English version of releases. Which means a 10-track Sophie Ellis-Bextor record, the Sia CD minus "Butterflies," or the Scissor Sisters album sans bonus tracks. Gosh, let's hope this doesn't encourage me to download not just missing tracks, but entire albums. Damn you, European Union!

I hope that random rant holds you for a while. I'll check in whenever I have computer access, which should be a good half the time. "My 80s mixtapes" will return when I do, because god knows there are still a million installments in that series, but in the next few weeks this might be a bit of a travelogue. And possibly stories of various dogs.

Finally: happy birthday, Sprockets!

Posted at 10:28 AM ||

 
Process of elimination.

Notwithstanding the title of this post, I enjoy making lists, although, strictly speaking, it's not so much the listing I love as it is the unlisting. For me, the point of making a list is so that I will have items to cross off, tick, cancel, strikethrough. Preferably with a thick marker.

For the past few weeks, as you might expect, I've had a list of "Things to Do Before Leaving." Of course it serves a practical function: reminding me, for instance, of the need to "see doctor about embarrassing rash." A hypothetical example, and not at all one that is actually taken from my list, that.

But really, the whole point of making the list is so that I can cross items off of it gradually, thereby giving me a sense of accomplishment that is otherwise missing from the rest of my life. There have in fact been occasions when I remembered to do something, did it, and then wrote the item down, the better to immediately strike it off. The joy I feel upon seeing a long list of things all negated can best be described, I think, as "sick."

Posted at 5:20 PM ||

 
Celebrity deathmatch: Rocco vs. Boyfriend Ben.

This is why I need a TiVo. Of course, I don't think they're available, or work in this country yet, but it's the wish that counts.

In case you haven't heard -- because I've only been obsessing about it every single day in every single post -- I'll soon be, yes, traveling. For about six weeks. I'm going to beautiful and mystical lands, where the TV is going to be good, bountiful, and never-seen-on-this-country's-screens. Ellen DeGeneres! Queer Eye! Will and Grace! (I sense a trend). Never mind that it'll be summer rerun season; it's new to me!

However, just as I'm leaving, the high TV season is starting here, so I'm faced with difficult, difficult choices about what to program my VCR to capture while I'm gone. Why, I'm practically Sophie, tremulously ready to vomit into Kevin Kline's hands.

But technology threatens to defeat my desire to come home in July to two thousand hours of neatly-sequenced TV. With only the prehistoric VCR (and no friends) to do my bidding, I'm going to, first of all, have to fit everything onto one tape; even with extended play, I think that just means six hours of programming. Six! That's just an hour a week! Jesus, it's like wartime rationing.

Furthermore, thanks to the cable box, all the programs are also going to need to be from the same channel. That means that while I'm eager to see how the first season of The Restaurant turns out, I won't be able to tape the remaining three eps. Oh well; at least the other reality series we get here are very current, so I'll at least be able to pick up in the US right where I left off here -- in time, say, to see Jasmine get raked over the coals and the locusts descend when she wins American Idol.

There's also the battle between old favorites and new risks. Nip/Tuck is starting, tonight as a matter of fact. I've never watched it, but would like to, but will one ep be enough for me to judge its quality and decide on its tape-worthiness? On the other hand, also starting tonight (at last) is the final season of Friends. Of course, I've already read about every plot development, but they're like, you know, old friends. It's not as if I won't catch reruns while in the US, or syndicated eps every hour on the hour, but I need the comfort of seeing the final season in order. Or else I might miss the subtle character development shown by Monica (from shrew to shrewer).

But I'm also hooked on The O.C.. How long before Sandy and his eyebrows go all Iago on Jimmy? How many more times will Luke get shot, and will I ever care? Will Mischa ever learn to act? I need to know. Of course, we've already had the ep where my boyfriend Ben McCormick goes (breathes) to (breathes) prison (breathes), during which I passed out in excitement for three entire minutes, so maybe I don't need to see anymore. But what if they top that -- say, by sending him to Turkish wrestling summer camp?

Posted at 5:36 PM ||

 
Yes there's one thing, the one thing that still holds true.

"The '80s was the real punk decade," says ABC's Martin Fry, in the May issue of Word:

Today people see the '80s as a pretty jokey, superficial period but it was a golden age of pop. I always wanted ABC to be a revolution, because I'd been so affronted that groups like The Clash never made in [sic] on to Top of the Pops, never became worldwide international institutions...but every other band had an agenda too. Pop bands were based on ideas. Dexy's Midnight Runners, The Cure, Human League, Culture Club, they were like military operations. Punk had been a unique opportunity to sweep everything clean, so no worthwhile band that followed didn't want to change the world. Every band was defined. Listen to Dexy's Midnight Runners: there's only one group that ever could sound like them, and it's them. Today there are people making very unique records -- you hear R. Kelly and it oculd only be him, he records in waltz time for God's sake -- but there are many, many groups that sound like Westlife. That visionary, artistic edge that even mainstream pop groups used to have has disappeared.

Discuss.

Posted at 4:51 PM ||

 
Less is more.

I've been on a bit of a spring-cleaning jag. I spent the day throwing out a bunch of papers from my office, which was sort of fun, because I just love shredding paper. Love it; would marry it. And tomorrow I'm hoping to clean out my closet, since I've come to grips with the possibility that all the pants that mysteriously shrank in the wash perhaps won't unshrink themselves. Not without a strict exercise and diet regiment, in any case, and I don't believe the pants will be up to that in the next few months.

All the physical cleansing is a cinch compared to the task of trying to clean up my email accounts. I got the inbox of one account down to 77 emails, while the work account now has 308, which is already a huge reduction. And it's not a phantom reduction either. Normally I just create a million folders and shift emails into them: because what I really hate is an overflowing inbox, and as long as I get stuff out of there into some folder that I'll never open -- but theoretically could, if I ever need to -- I consider my job done. But today I was ruthless and actually deleted. I feel as if I've grown as a human being.

I must be overcome by the need to clean because it's the end of a work cycle; if in July I'm going to have shit pile up on my desk, it better be fresh shit. But the spring cleaning also seems to be spurred by the impending travel. It's this thing I have where I need to tidy up, vacuum, mop, and apply a fresh coat of paint to the walls before I take off. It's sort of the bizarre equivalent of making sure you have clean underwear on in case you get in a car accident. If I'm going to be away from my office and, even more, my apartment for a while, it better be impeccable-looking in case someone breaks in, you know?

Posted at 6:37 PM ||

 
Commence sequencing.

Listening to the new Magnetic Fields' album, i, got me thinking about the art of song sequencing.

I wasn't a huge fan of the Fields from the beginning. I knew their early songs, but couldn't get past the plinky-ponk, intentionally cheap and amateurish sound. Indeed, I still don't see the appeal of sounding deliberately underproduced. I like my fi hi, thank you very much. But the songwriting eventually won me over: I think the first Stephin Merritt record I bought was the 6ths' Wasps Nest (no accident there, since it was sung by guest vocalists), and then I moved on to the less lo-fi, more pop-friendly output of Future Bible Heroes. Then I bought 69 Love Songs, and, like everyone else on earth, thought it was near-genius, and from there I finally caught up on the Fields' earlier recordings. And now I even have a ticket to see them in concert, since they'll be in London when I'm there. I'm like, a fanboy or something.

The new album is marvellous, and as a whole probably the Fields' friendliest and most accessible record. Merritt's voice is outstanding -- the monotone, it is jettisoned -- and the production is, gasp, polished. The band actually doesn't sound like it's recording underwater. Or in a whale's belly. "I thought you were my boyfriend" is even a kind of middle-rent electroclash number, with its cheeky use of that familiar Felix da Housecatty keyboard riff. And the songs are, as usual, catchy and witty. For me, one highlight is the already-lauded "It's only time," which, in a perfect world, ought indeed to be a wedding standard (even as Merritt's crooning of the refrain "Marry me, marry me" reminds us of the current gay marriage injustice). More importantly, it makes a toy piano seem like the swooniest thing to dance to. Then there's also "I looked all over town," which is, like, the best song ever about a sad lonely clown. Not that the competition is that stiff, but still.

The "gimmick" of the album, as widely reported, is that the fourteen songs all begin with the letter "i." But I hadn't realized, until I read this review, that they were arranged in strict alphabetical order too. (I initially thought that Merritt had simply grouped the "I am/did such-and-such" songs in the first half, while the second just had songs whose first words started with "i" -- which is true, but that's an effect of the alphabetization.) Merritt had already thought about using this ordering strategy for 69 Love Songs (according to its sleeve notes), but that attempt resulted in the 3-CD set beginning with overally slow numbers, so he ditched that idea. It works okay here, on i: certainly Merritt must have been delighted to see that the alphabetical order results in the album starting, paradoxically, not with "I was born" but with "I die." Works okay, but not great: the strategy does mean that the second half of the album consists of mostly slow songs, while the quite similarly-arranged "I don't believe you" and "I don't really love you anymore" end up next to each other. I would have regretfully shuffled, I think.

The art of sequencing songs on an album fascinates me. As it does -- or should -- fascinate good artists too, who think of their albums as albums. I have just a wee bit of contempt for artists (I'm sure Celine Dion is disappointed) who simply fling the three catchiest songs and singles at the start, and leave the rest to filler. Sequencing can certainly make or break an album: Neil Tennant, for instance, has always talked about how their Bilingual would have been a better album if more effectively sequenced, for example. (Although I still think it's a great and underrated album, I agree.)

I have neither the time nor the talent to make music or to DJ, but if there is a job solely devoted to sequencing, I'm so there. One of the disappointing things about writing about my 80s mixtapes is that, with a few exceptions, sequencing is not a factor, since I essentially taped the songs in the order they came on the radio. But when I record mixed CDs for friends, I do get to play sequencer. To allow myself a Nick Hornby moment, I'll tell you that I usually start with an immediate song, then top that with an even catchier track 2. I try not to have too big of a discrepancy when moving from song to song; I'm all about the gradual buildup. No sudden moves for me.

Funnily, I'm quite traditional in one way. I still think of a CD as hypothetically having sides A and B, so I sequence songs in two "movements." That's why I usually "restart" a mix CD in the middle, as if we've turned over the vinyl record. It's also funny because I'm flying in the face of technology here. I don't have an iPod yet, but when I get one (I'm eyeing the soon-to-be-released 4th generation one -- feel free to send gifts), it'll be interesting to see if I let it change my traditional ways. Esque tells me that he lets his iPod play on eternal random, from which I recoil in mock horror. Albums need to be listened to in their entirety, I tell him -- letting your iPod play tracks at random totally destroys that, you commie pinko!

And then I pick at my liver spots, get up from my chair using my walker, and arthritically shuffle off to take my meds.

Posted at 3:15 PM ||

 
Breaking it in.

Do you remember when I complained about clothes? Wait -- I complain about clothes all the live long day, so that hardly narrows it down. Let me start again. Remember when I moaned about not having anything -- specifically, no pants that aren't grey -- to wear?

Now that I have a little bit less work and more time, I've been shopping. I find myself mostly buying European clothes. I guess, in general, the stores here are bringing in more of these labels, but it's with good reason: at least where men's clothes are concerned, places like Zara and Springfield are making much sleeker, more forward-looking clothes than CK or DKNY, whose creations seem very tired and boring nowadays. The other advantage I find with European clothes is that I can still pretend that I don't understand their sizes. Hey, an European-sized 46 pants (sorry -- trousers) is just an American 34, right? What? La la la la la la, I can't hear you.

One reason why I'm shopping is that, as mentioned, I'm traveling soon. I don't want the friends who I now see once a year to spot me in what are literally last year's clothes, do I? However, I am also savvy enough of a traveler to know better than to be running around in untested clothes. We don't want that T-shirt to lose its shape after three wearings, or to be in crotchless panties that suddenly constrict inexplicably due to air cabin pressure, do we? So, before I leave, I've been trying to wear all my new outfits at least once. Just to see how they feel, and make sure they are up to my exacting standards of style and comfort. (This may or may not explain why I sashay into work looking as if I'm ready to go to a glitterball. ) But I have just over a week before I leave, and so many outfits. Yikes.

You know that episode of Friends, where they are all going to some shindig for Ross, but no one's ready? The one that's called, um, "The One Where No One's Ready"? And then Joey and Chandler get into some hilariously silly fight over a seat, and so Joey spites Chandler by putting on all the latter's clothes? And he bursts back into the room, and goes, "Look at me! I'm Chandler! Could I be wearing any more clothes?" Hee.

Yeah, a little like that.

Posted at 2:47 PM ||

 
Lingua finlandia vodkada.

It's a lot of fun being at a party where a good 3/4 of the guests are speaking a foreign language. Of course, the fun only kicks in after you realize that people are indeed speaking in Tagalog and not, instead, an English that has been rendered incomprehensible to you by your ingestion of multiple vodka-based drinks.

Posted at 2:09 AM ||

 
Also, the leather brings out the texture of your face.

Trying on a new belt at a store, I get this head-scratcher of a sales pitch from the retail assistant: "It really suits you, sir." You mean in the sense that the belt succeeded in going around my waist?

Posted at 7:10 PM ||

 
My 80s mixtapes (12):
Ironic maidens.

"Music! Volume 9"
A: 1. Love and pride, King. 2. Since yesterday, Strawberry Switchblade. 3. I know him so well, Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson. 4. Things can only get better, Howard Jones. 5. Thank you my love, Imagination. 6. Julia, The Eurythmics. 7. Can't fight this feeling, REO Speedwagon.
B: 1. Terry, Tracey Ullman. 2. No fool (for love), Hazell Dean. 3. Breaking hearts (ain't what it used to be), Elton John. 4. Concealed weapons, J. Geils Band. 5. Nightshift, The Commodores. 6. California girls, David Lee Roth. 7. Ooh ooh song, Pat Benatar. 8. The heat is on, Glenn Frey.

Of course, some people never do. But: at what age, on average, do you think a person develops a sense of irony? When did you? Because it's not inborn, is it? Surely no baby has ever looked at his mother's teat, and drily said, "You gotta love the variety on the menu"? Unless there's a part of the hypothalamus that is responsible for irony. Nah. That's crazy talk!

In the dying months of 1984, it would seem as if I had not yet stocked up on irony. That was when I first heard Elaine Paige and Barbara Dickson's "I know him so well." I liked the song, and my first thought was: ooh, pretty, shiny love song! (My second thought perhaps involved some fantasy of how I would one day find myself auditioning for a Broadway part with that song.) Sure. It's two women! Singing about a man! And they both know him so well! La la la!

I think I knew quite quickly that the song is from Chess, that Tim Rice-1/2-of-ABBA musical that I've already declared the best musical ever. And as I've mentioned, I didn't immediately seek out the soundtrack, although a few months later a friend made me listen to it and sold me on its wonder. I borrowed her vinyl album; I made double tapes. I came to know that Paige plays a Hungarian woman, Florence; she falls in love with the unnamed Russian chessplayer, who defects and only later gets to reunite with his Russian wife, Svetlana (of course), played by Dickson. So I must have heard "I know him so well" hundreds of times, some of which was even in context. (I eventually also bought both the US and UK cast recordings on CD. Very different. The UK version is better, not least because the American show changed the story so that the American chessplayer beat the Russian. Because American audiences have no ability to relate to a show otherwise. *Eyeroll*.)

But it was only many years later when I realized that the song wasn't what I thought. I don't know what spurred it, but one day, out of the blue, I suddenly heard and understood the final lines of the chorus for what seemed like the first time.

These would be the lines in which, first, Paige sings, "But in the end he needs a little bit more than me, more security." Then Dickson chimes in, "He needs his fantasy and freedom," before they both harmonize on the title line. And it struck me that the sentiments expressed by each woman were exactly opposed. Paige thinks that the Russian needs "security," and that's why he may go back to his wife (and Russia), while Dickson believes that he desires "fantasy and freedom." They don't know him well at all.

I was a little stunned to realize that the song and its title was devastatingly ironic, and a little embarrassed that I listened to that song for years without comprehending that. It's generally true that irony in songs often have a hard time coming through. The Pet Shop Boys, for example, always complained that people, especially in the US, take a song like "Opportunities (Let's make lots of money)" with straight faces, and artists like Bobby McFerrin and Bruce Springsteen have likewise known this problem. But you can also see why this might happen: after all, there aren't really any internal cues within "Opportunities" that tells us it's ironic. We only know it is based on, say, what we know of the band. The same isn't true of "I know him so well," though: the contradiction is right there. How could I not have seen it?

I guess maybe I shouldn't so embarrassed. From what I can tell, many people didn't or don't see it either; when I called my friend to explain my enlightenment, for instance, she was dubious and I think to this day still doesn't buy my interpretation, when I in fact don't even think it's an "interpretation" at all. In any case, I've decided to blame it all on a missing gene. 1984: I had no ironic feelers. Some time later: they bloomed. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Having said all that, my favorite song on this tape is really "Since yesterday," which I love love love. Strawberry Switchblade was two Goth-loking girls who first scared me with the way they looked, and then overwhelmed me with the sweetness of their melodies. (That link takes you to a great fansite, by the way, with lots of amazing rarities for download. I only discovered it writing this, as often happens. These 80s mixtapes entries are fun for me for this reason, though that's also why they take a while to write.) They only made one album, but it's a wonderful one -- wonderful enough that five or six years ago I upgraded my tape to the Japanese edition of the CD. At that time it might have been the most expensive CD I bought, although I think it got eclipsed a few months later by my forking out for the Japanese version of Sarah Cracknell's Lipslide. On a student's allowance, those Japanese imports were goddamned dear. But for those prices, you do get those inserts with the hilariously mistranscribed lyrics, so there's that.

Also great on this tape are the Eurythmics's "Julia," which is from their soundtrack to 1984 (I always liked them when they were being frosty), and "No fool (for love)" is my favorite Hazell Dean song. Back then I actually found high energy a little frantic and overarranged, so the comparatively simple "No fool" was something I liked more than tracks like "Searchin'" or "Whatever I do." I also enjoy hearing "Breaking hearts" again: in my fantasy world -- the one where I'm on American Idol -- I might have performed this for Elton night a few weeks ago.

However, I'm sorry to subject you to the sickening "California girls," the bland "The heat is on," the schmaltzy "Thank you my love," the overdone "Can't fight this feeling," the mostly tune-free "Concealed weapons," and even the uncharacteristic "Ooh ooh song." "Love and pr-pr-pr-pr-pride" was another stutter song and thus a bit irritating. Also, Paul King had some mullet action going on, so, really, the thing he should have yearned for is a better hairstylist.

Posted at 11:25 PM ||

 
Stockholm syndrome.

I think today I will be Swedish. Sorry: I theenk tudey I veell be-a Svedeesh.

1.
Or at least Scandinavian. Last week I yakked about the film fest, and how I was mostly disappointed by it. The event ended over the weekend, and I apparently saved the best for last, because since my blog entry I saw two excellent flicks that restored my faith somewhat. One was a poignant French/Belgium movie called Since Otar Left.... But the film I loved even more was the Norwegian Kitchen Stories.

Kitchen Stories is a deapannishly hilarious movie about how the possibly not-apocryphal Swedish Home Research Institute in the 1950s set out to study the kitchen habits of, first, women, and then, single men. This entailed placing scientific observers inside volunteer homes -- seated in lifeguard-type chairs -- who would plot, on a sheet of paper, every move the single male volunteers made while in the kitchen.

So, you see, the topic is a little unusual and original.

The film follows the relationship between three men -- a particularly gruff volunteer, his neighbor, and a stiff-upper-lippy scientist -- and turns out to be a wonderful meditation on being observed. There're some political jabs at Swedes, Norwegians, and Finns that I no doubt would have appreciated more if I knew more; but, actually, a line like "If I recall, you Swedes were also neutral observers during the war" are clear enough as it is.

But really: any movie that includes a tableau in which one man steps out of a tub after a bath, wraps himself in a towel but then takes a moment to encourage his observer to lean in and listen to his opened mouth because his teeth fillings are picking up signals from a radio station, is bound to be recommended by me (and others).

2.
When I was a kid the muppet that weirded me out the most was the Swedish chef. At first I found him utterly hysterical. That hat, pulled down over what must have been his non-existent eyes. That gay daddy mustache. But most of all, the way he sang that little tune, the one that ended "...mmm mok-mok-mok!" (my approximation). Right before he threw his spatula over his shoulder, to the unending dismay of the chicken.

But then one day my sister pointed something out. "Do you realize that the chef's hands are human? They're not part of the muppet." Eeek. 'Tis true. You only ever saw the chef's upper body, and while one puppeter must have had his hands up the chef's butt, another must have provided actual hands. A necessity, really, since the character did things with his hands that no clumsy muppet hands could do. To wit: choking a turkey, and that's not an euphemism.

Things were never the same after that postlapsarian moment.

3.
I've been listening to Agnetha Fältskog's latest solo album, My Colouring Book.

You gotta love ABBA, right? If anyone asks, I prefer the group in their late period melancholia, and my favorite ABBA song, appropriately, is probably "Slipping through my fingers." I get weepy listening to it, although the line "I try to capture every minute/The feeling in it" sometimes makes me laugh and ruin the mood. I just always imagine someone -- maybe those funny Goodness Gracious Me guys -- echoing, after the line ends, "yeah, innit?!"

A much-missed friend gave me a DVD of ABBA videos, which is always a hoot to watch. All the videos are done by Lasse Hallström, of course. So, on my favorite clip especially, the one for "Knowing me, knowing you" -- with all its faces shot in half-profile -- it's totally like watching Bergman's Persona set to music. (Persona is like one of my favorite films ever, but even I gotta admit that it might be even better if it had indeed been set to disco.)

So, anyway, Agnetha's album consists of covers of her favorite songs, and her taste is sometimes a little dubious ("The end of the world"? "Sealed with a kiss"?). But running through it all -- from a bleak piano ballad like "Sometimes when I'm dreaming," to a spine-tingling, chiming version of "What now my love," to, most of all, the single "If I thought you'd ever change your mind" (a Cilla Black cover), with its beautiful run at the end -- Agnetha's voice remains wonderfully evocative.


Yeah, so, I'm going to Stockholm in June. For a wedding. In fact it'll be part of a three-country jaunt. America! Sweden! London! Can't wait.

Posted at 5:19 PM ||

 
Or maybe it was a raincoat. Designed to keep the moisture in.

In the middle of dinner the other night I get up and go to the bathroom. I stand at the urinal, and a man comes in and occupies the one several spots over. He is wearing an oversized plastic apron, so presumably works in one of the restaurants that shares this bathroom.

I'm vaguely watching him, but only out of the corner of my eye. (Because that's the way to watch people in a men's bathroom. Unless we're talking about the days when I was sixteen, but let's not).

The man stands there for quite a while, without making any effort to move his apron out of the way. I'm a little unnerved. I begin to think that there is some sort of convenient slit in that thing. It takes all my willpower not to stare and examine the outfit closely.

Finally, after what seems like an inordinately long time, he shuffles the apron off to the side, and does what he came to do. But he made me sweat it for a while.

Posted at 1:50 PM ||

 
O sole mio.

Can your body parts have moral characteristics separate from you? I was wondering this while sitting in my podiatrist's chair, trying to curl all my toes. Maybe it was performance anxiety, but the littlest piggies just refused to curl properly. We're talking full scale rebellion. They presumably got the message from the brain, but the little cuntoes thought, "oh, we think we'll have all kinds of spasms instead."

So my podiatrist said, "Yeah, you can't really curl all of them at the same time. You have lazy toes." Okay. Yes, I know there's no moral judgment there. But it stung a little. Especially when it was was coupled with him casually saying, at another point, that "in some cases, when we have major deformity, then we might see blah blah blah." Pause. Me: "And these feet fall into that 'major deformity' category?"

I've always had the worst feet ever. They're flatter than pancakes that have been run over by a tank. Carrying a team of fat people. So using my feet too much -- being on them, walking, jogging, running my toes through someone's hair -- causes pain in my soles, and then my ankles, and, increasingly in the past few years, in my knees as well. I've attended to the problem on and off, but last year I finally thought I should do something more systematic. Hence, a sports doctor, and also a podiatrist. (For those of you wondering: this week's podiatrist is different from the masked man from last year. The latter upped and left. Sigh.)

Despite casting aspirations on the integrity of my feet and toes, my podiatrist -- who my doctor referred me to -- was good, and actually quite fun to chat with. (At one point, he referred to his own feet; I jokingly asked if they were perfect, and if so, I didn't appreciate his rubbing my face in it. Then I realized that didn't sound right.) He had just started his private practice, in a beautiful spanking new office, so patiently took his time talking things through with me. Medical deformities are actually fascinating when they are properly explained to you.

Still, nice podiatrist pushed his luck. At another point, I'm lying on my stomach on the examining table -- don't even go there -- the better to enable the podiatrist to take measurements for insoles, and he said, "I'm going to draw on the back of your feet with a marker. So don't forget to wash when you get home." Well, no, I won't. I do shower every day, and I will choose to treat the reminder as not a comment on my personal hygiene habits.

Posted at 11:39 PM ||