Friday, March 31, 2006

Swank Hotel


After leaving a house I had to myself in Fredricksberg, I stayed in the Magnolia, a high-end hotel in Houston.

This place was a let down after staying in a comfortable, lived in home where a next door neighbor had left me banana bread as a welcome gift.

Lyndon Baines Johnson


The first thing I saw when I walked in the Fredrickberg B&B was this original painting of our 36th President and his wife, Lady Bird. Fredricksberg is LBJ country because after leaving the White House, LBJ retired to a ranch just a few miles away from Fredricksberg in Johnson City (there is no coincidence between the name of this city and LBJ's last name), where he lived until his death in 1973.

What makes this painting even creepier is that it was painted in 1969 --- according to the painter's signature --- the year LBJ left office in near disgrace. That year, most people had long forgotten about LBJ's work to improve civil rights in this country and his great society programs. Instead, people were furious with him for leading the nation into the Vietnam War. LBJ's poll number were in the toilet in 1969. I doubt there are many artists who are committing W to canvas right now --- at least in a dignified way.

Accomodations


I just got back from a road trip for work. First stop was Fredricksberg, Texas, which is known for its German immigrant culture and overabundance of Bed & Breakfasts. But these aren't B&B's where you just get a room in an old house and are forced to have uncomfortable chit-chat other B&B guests from Iowa. No. You get a whole house to yourself. I landed in a cool stone house built in 1850 that had a front porch, screen doors, a furnished kitchen and a bathroom with a clawfoot tub for the nice price of $90. I would recommend that you visit F-berg, even if work doesn't pick up the bill.

Mound of Meat


"That's a whole lot of meat for just one person," --- attendant at the unbelievable Cooper's Barbecue in Llano, Texas.

"Just you let me worry about that," --- john_clarke, who devoured most of this pile like a lion attending to a fresh kill.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Garbage for Gold


While listening to Big Dipper's "Slam" --- the only big label release by this criminally underappreciated band from Boston, it hit my why the www.lala.com is a genius web site.

Lala is a CD trading service. You post up CDs you own and can do without and a list of CDs that you want. Lala sends you stamped envelopes. And when someone requests one of your albums, you mail it off. In return, someone sends you a CD off your want list. It cost $1 for each trade.

The reason I'm listening to Slam on my Ipod is it's the only album of their that I have on CD (they broke up around 1991 or so). I'd love to have their three other albums, which are much much better. So I put all of Big Dipper albums up on my want list. I put Slam up on my list of albums to trade. Admittedly, Slam is viewed by Big Dipper fans as their worst album (I think it's great --- "Impossible Things" is a wonderful song.) But I'm willing to let it go for something better in return.

Surely there's someone out there who owns Big Dipper's "Heavens" and can't wait to get rid of it. And maybe that person would love to take my copy of The Gin Blossoms "New Miserable Experience" in exchange. Musical taste is so subjective, my trash is bound to be someone else's treasure.

Monday, March 27, 2006

Detox



For lack of a better pun, I've become addicted to the A&E show "Invervention." The show/documentary series follows a basic three part formula.

The first part --- always the most fascinating part of the show --- is when the life of an addict is filmed. The subject is told that the producers are doing a documentary on addiction. The addict then agrees to be trailed by a film crew. They aren't told about the upcoming intervention. All aspects of the person's life are revealed: bad childhoods; good childhoods; father died at and early age; or mom is a drug addict too. Then cameras show the person scoring drugs, shooting drugs, causing havoc in his or her family and family members frustration with the addict. Sometimes the show will feature a person with an eating disorder or a gambling problem, but drugs are the main story line of this show. Part one of the show never gets old because no matter how many times you've seen a house catch on fire, it's always tragically compelling to watch flames consume what once was someone's whole life.

As repetitive and fascinating as the first part of the show is, the second part is a bit of a let down. It's when the family members gather in some motel room and confront their loved one about his addiction and offer him a trip to rehab while a "intervention specialist" helps. The intervention specialist changes from show to show --- sometimes they're full of psychobabble, sometimes they're a bit too Dr. Phil, and sometimes their speach is the sole reason an addict agrees to get help. A pre-intervention meeting is held, the families get their stories straight and each of them decide what they'll withhold from the addict if he doesn't get treatment. Then the addict arrives, is always surprised by the gathering of those closest to him, and usually breaks down after a few minutes. Sometimes they leave, sometimes they fight and won't go to treatment, and sometimes they're so tired of themselves, they agree to treatment immediately with hardly any coaxing at all. The person almost always agree to go to treatment, the question is how quick will they accept help.

I usually turn the show off by the time the third act rolls around. Addict is flown to a treatment center where the understanding staff deals with the addict. The show then catches up with the addict two months later, reports on the sucess of the treatment and then updates the progress of the addict even months later just before the credits roll. The reason I don't watch this part of the show is after watching parts one and two, I usually know what will happen during part three.

Take last night's show, which was a little unusual because the subject was the son of a minor celebrity, Chuck Negron, a member of Three Dog Night, who had a string of AM radio hits in the 70s. Most of the people on the show are nobodies --- regular people who've signed up for a lifetime ride on meth or crack. And "Chuckie", son of the rock star, is no exception from other people who have less famous fathers. He's a hard core herion addict who sticks a needle in his arm up to 20 times a day. He lives in a motel that his parents (now divorced) pay for to keep him from sleeping on the streets. Mom gives him money and even takes him to buy drugs, letting him shoot up in her car while the cameras are rolling. Aging rock star Dad shows up, but by the way he talks and acts, Dad's been an absentee father most of his life. And the consequences of bad parenting are now right before his eyes. Its not shocking when the show reveals that both Mom and Dad are former addicts --- Mom's drug of choice was herion. In fact she used smack while Chuckie was in the womb.

So when Chuckie agrees to go to treatment --- despite the pleas from his family and the mother of his 5 month old son --- there's no way this treatment is going to be effective. The fact is Chuckie likes dope. He's got a 5 month old son he's seen twice, so that tells you that no matter what he says, smack will always take priority with Chuckie. He agrees to go to treatment for two months, shoots up nine days after he leaves treatment and winds up in prison, doing 16 months for stealing a car for drug money.

The reason part three is so predictable is rooted in the founding principle of Alcholics Anonymous--- that the only people who can be helped are the ones who want help. And an addict who hasn't hit absolute bottom can't be helped.

You have to wonder whether 16 months in prison is the bottom for Chuckie. Only he knows.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Meandering Music


It's easy to get a bit exasperated with the restrictions of the two-and-a-half minute pop song. The initial sugar rush can leave the listener with a bit of a crash after the song ends.

So when that happens, it's time to turn to something different. And one really good option is Stereolab, a band with serious indie pop credentials that takes its time before finishing a tune.

They played at Nokia Live on Saturday with Sam Prekop opening up, making for an irresistible set of the best lounge pop the world has to offer.

Prekop was joined by fellow Sea and Cake member Archer Prewitt who explored the atmosphere of rock alone on stage, delving into thinky guitar work for minutes on end before breaking the trance of their music with words. I wanted more and more of this gentle music. And I could have had that, had I not wait so long on the outside of Nokia for a friend who was late to the show. A bit of advice --- when attending a show at this venue, have a ridiculous $12 in your pocket to pay for parking and show up on time because the bands always get on stage down to the scheduled second.

Stereolab --- all seven of them --- filled up the large Nokia stage. And they filled the auditorium up even better with their sound, maybe too much as the volume was a little loud for their meandering brand of pop. And there was some serious problems with their amplifiers as between song there was a buzz coming through the monitor that caused lead singer Laetitia Sadier to have a long conversation in a heated French accent with the soundman. That conversation didn't seem to solve the problem.

So maybe it was best that Vonal Declosion, and Eye of the Volcano, and French Disko were turned up to 11 to overcome the buzz in the system.

Admittedly, I'm a bit late to the Stereolab experience, which is surprising, considering their origins. The group was formed by Tim Gane, who back in the mid-1980s was the leader of McCarthy, one of the pack of bands that are representative of the Britain's C-86 jangle pop movement. I am a certifiable C-86 junkie. So the best part of the show for me was hearing Gane combine the still jangley rhythm of his guitar alternatively with a French horn, trombone and synthesizer.

Those who came to Nokia looking for something different got it. Now, if they could just get those sound bugs taken care of.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Preserved


With Dallas City government, the chances for incredible idiocy are always high. Take last night when my neighborhood association went before the City Planning Commission for a critical vote on our historic district proposal. What we wanted was a very loose set of guidelines to protect all of the homes in our neighborhood --- a really cool collection of turn of the century craftsman bungalows, two story prairies and tudor homes. The proposal was not the overbearing kind that makes people go before a board of snobs before you can plant pansies in the front yard. However, it would prevent people from painting their houses flourescent orange, ripping off the front porches and most importantly, keeping developers from bulldozing houses and putting up McMansions.

We worked for nearly 5 years to get to this point. There had been over 20 public meetings about the proposal. After a petition drive, 70 percent of the people in the neighborhood supported the proposal.

So it's the big day before the commission. We presented the members with all of the fundamental reasons for why historic districts are a good idea; they stablize neighborhoods, property values and tax revenues for the city increase, and other historic districts in other parts of Dallas had unanimously changed neighborhoods for the better all over the city.

Then we get questions from the commissioners like the following:

"Well what about the 30 percent of the people in the neighborhood who voted against this? That's a pretty large percentage?"

The code requires we get a majority of signatures from within the neighborhood to pass this. I'm not good at math, but I think 70 percent is a majority --- a really big one. But he's right. We really need to get a 100 percent majority. Aren't most presidents elected by that margin? Americans usually agree on everything after all.

"What about the rising property values? There are poor people who live in the district. Aren't they going to get priced out of the neighborhood?"

Well, you have a point there. We thrive on diversity where I live. But it would seem to me if you're poor, you're no different than any other American --- a house is the biggest investment you have. If all of the sudden your home is worth $150,000 more than it was a year ago, that's a little less than tragic. Sell the house and you're no longer poor. But commissioner, you've really got us there. It's probably in everyone's best interest to protect blight.

"I'm really concerned about the process here. Process, process, process. This proposal seems a little rushed."

Yeah, five years in discussions, 20 meetings, a lengthy petition process and a second balloting process is really jamming this thing through --- a smoke-filled backroom deal if I've ever seen one. But you're right commissioner. Maybe we ought to keep working on this for another five years. By then, as suburbanites who keep moving closer to downtown Dallas bringing their monster sized houses with them to replace the homes we moved here for, we'll no longer even need a historic district. There won't be anything left to protect.

Luckily, I didn't get a chance to speak during this meeting. I sat quietly on the front row, sticking my fist in my mouth for much of the meeting.

The vote? 12-2 in favor of our proposal. I almost had a Fred Sanford "This is the big one Elizabeth!" heart attack.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Charles Horse


So yeah, I attended a baby shower on Saturday. And get this, my fellow baby shower attendants and I floated the keg before 11 p.m. That's got rate a mention in "New Mother" magazine.

There are fewer occasions where I attend events where a large aluminum container of beer is the main attraction. And maybe that's just as well because the consumption of alcohol is starting to do revolting things to my body. At 3 in the morning after the baby shower kegger, I woke up screaming because I got a massive cramp in my leg, probably because my body was dehydrating. I can still feel the cramp 12 hours later. Can I borrow some Mydol?

Thursday, March 16, 2006

A Whole Mess 'O Meat


An 18-wheeler jacknifed on a highway in Austin this morning, spilling its load of hamburger patties all over creation. It was on the overpass that crossed Slaughter Lane when it crashed. Of course.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

False Alarm


On Gaston Avenue, the loud-as-hell beep that warns that there's a low battery in the upstairs smoke dector never goes off at, say, 3 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon. No sir. It always happens at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. And it always occurs during the middle of a delightfully delusional dream --- I've just discovered that it really only takes three hours to drive from Texas to the Colorado ski slopes so I've just purchased my first season lift ticket ever. BEEEEP! Damn it.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Ceaseless


The premeire of the final season of The Sopranos was a reminder of what's wrong with America. We are a nation of people that are more interested in hype than information. Case in point is the celebrity interview --- something our nation apparantly loves for some reason. An interview is, by definition, an exchange of information. Put celebrity in front of the word interview and it means an exchange of information in which the painfully obvious is stated. That's why I was cringing so hard I was gripping my chair during the intro to The Sopranos. All of the featured actors were interviewed druing some sort of premeire even. And guess what they all said? "Uh, yeah, this is going to be the best season of The Sopranos ever." Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. And maybe we'd all be better off if we didn't ask questions of people who have little if any responsibility for the scripts they read. Just start the show without making me vomit.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Hungry


I'll eat anything, especially if it's an unindentifiable food product for sale in a machine in a foreign country.

Dutch Girl


At this point in our February 2005 trip to The Netherlands, everything had become one large cartoon to Will.

Monday, March 06, 2006

I'll say it. Crash wasn't that great.


I'll submit to you that all of the best picture nominees had something in common: they were all message movies. Nothing special about that as the Acadamy loves to give the nod to what they consider are the "important" films --- unless the movie is a multi-billion dollar production crowd pleaser about a sinking boat.

I saw all of the best pictures this year and liked them all, save one. It was the one that had been done many times before. It was preachy, it's characters were designed for maximum effect, and it delved into the difficult topic: racism. That picture is Crash. And while I didn't hate it, I was disappointed that it was nominated as best picture. I thought it was entertaining enough, but had way too many Hollywood mastubatory elements to it --- the ensemble cast, the interweaving story lines, the "racism is bad" message that it just beat me into submission.

I was fully expecting Brokeback Mountain to take the award --- a film that I saw for the first time hours before the awards show. It was a great movie for reasons other than its assumed message --- that gay love during times of hate is a rough road. Sorry, but that movie was about betrayal. I stayed away from Brokeback until the last minute because I didn't think I could identify much with a gay cowboy movie. And now I think that film will stay with me for a lot longer than Crash, which I saw on its opening week and have largely forgotten about.

Vanticipation


It's snuck up on me a bit, but tonight I'll get to see a legendary musician perform, one Van Morrison. Most people in the audience will have been looking forward to this show for months, for good reason. But I'm ambivalent. Here's why:

1. The setting. I am used to being disappointed at musical performances. I see lots of shows and lots of stuff tends to get in the way of my enjoyment of them that has nothing to do with the musician. If the place is too big, I feel detached from the performer. If my fellow audience members talk too much during the show, I'll get angry. If the sound is bad, I'll feel cheated.

2. The familiarity factor. If I'm not familiar enough with a musicians work and the music takes some getting used to, I won't enjoy the show. I've listened to Van's Astral Weeks about 57 times. And I know most of his hits. So this shouldn't be a problem with him.

3. The set list. If an artist takes a "radical departure" as my buddy Rob likes to say, the show could suck. Van's latest album is all covers of really old country songs. Van's great, but I want to hear him do his own stuff, not a stuff from a circa 1954 country jukebox.

4. The look. Van is no longer the long haired skinny guy I see staring up from the cover of 1968's Astral Weeks. That's OK because nobody stays young forever, even me. But sometimes if I can't translate my mental image of a performer with what they actually look like, it'll bother me.

And it's quite possible that all of the items I listed above are complete bullshit. If went to a huge concert hall that had bad sound in which the over-the-hill performer did nothing but Christmas music, and that musician happened to be Johnny Cash, I'd be ecstatic. I never got the chance to see J. Cash.

I will get to see V. Morrison. And It might be the best show I've ever seen.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

When you gotta go . . . .


Karen and I recycle ---- but we do it the East Dallas way. We put all of our cans in a separate garbage bag. And when it gets full, I set it out in the alley behind our house for the benefit of the homeless can pickers who use our Diet Lime Pepsi discards to help fund their 40 oz. habits.

The white plastic bag of cans I put out every month lasts no longer
than a couple of hours before a can picker snatches it up. In fact, the can pickers know our house and check it regularly.

So this week, I was kind of shocked that the white can bag that I put out on Monday morning was still out there on Thursday morning. I go outside the gate to look at it. Then it became clear why the can pickers had passed up a bag with 100 Pepsi empties.

Some homeless person had used the top of the bag as a substitute for toilet paper.