What would you do for a klondike bar?
September 15, 2009
"The best Italian cheeses money can buy."
I’ve been living in Vancouver for four months, and any day now Comcast is going to hike my introductory cable internet rate up and I’ll respond by heaving a cinder block through the window of their business. Also in that time, I’ve discovered a few primo dining establishments. Now, I’m not a food reviewer nor do I aspire to be one, but I am a huge fan of Pizza Paradise on the corner of Evergreen and Main Street. Sure, their pizza is fantastic and I love that they go to the effort to use green leaf lettuce instead of iceberg for their salads. The free wireless makes them the perfect spot for a lunch break as well. What I truly love about Pizza Paradise is that they prepare their pizza with Grande Cheese. Not just the cheese, mind you, but the slogan:
Grande cheese: The finest Italian cheeses money can buy!
I’m not going to deny it, that cheese is damned good, and with good reason. That’s not my issue though. My question is, if you’ve truly got your hands on “the best Italian cheeses money can buy,” what’s to stop you from having the best Italian cheeses money can’t buy? I mean, if I knew that there was cheese so good that standard currency is insufficient, who knows what lengths I’d go to get my hands on it? Just picture it:
Grande Cheese: Too good for your money. You want our cheese? Give us your kidney.
Now that’s marketing.
“We are but blades of grass tossed in an uncaring wind.”
August 30, 2009
Getting up at a reasonable hour this morning started a causal chain which directly led to my needing to take an emergency trip to Pete’s Bass Shop to repair a gruesome split at the bottom of my beloved upright doghouse. For the record: Pete of Pete’s Bass Shop is a god among men. I’d make a sacrifice to him, but technically I already did and he’s repairing my sacrifice right now. It’s funny, because I was supposed to be exchanging a broken piece of my futon today, but the bass kind of takes precedence. Man, I don’t think I’m safe to be around.
As I drove my injured friend to the repair shop, I resisted the urge to blame certain choices I had made this morning for my predicament (getting up early due to the extra sleep I had gotten, thoroughly cleaning my apartment with the extra time I had, practicing bass in the extra space I had cleared up, etc.). As Janet Drummond, matriarch of the disastrous Drummond family, says: “blame is a lazy person’s way to make sense of chaos.” How fitting then that I would pass the Chaos Café on Powell not once, not twice, but three times as I dropped off the bass, searched for an ATM to pay the repairman, and refueled the car. While I don’t believe in “signs,” the repeated reinforcement did make me hungry.
True to their name, Chaos Café served me a generous helping of chaos, even though I only ordered coffee and a bagel with hummus. Firstly, the place is absolutely gorgeous, displaying original artwork and an all-encompassing color scheme (I would have loved to snap a few pictures, but I forgot my phone. Chaos!). The food menu, offers vegan and carnivore options for nearly everything, as well as a strong selection of gluten free options as well. Coffee mugs came in all shapes, sizes, and colors (one was dropped and broken as I asked for a refill. cHaOs!!!), and each table has salt, pepper, and a bottle of All Natural Bragg Liquid Aminos. Curiosity made me want to put it on my bagel, while a much more random urge made me want to put it in my coffee. They’ve also got wireless, but it happened to be down (c4a()5!!!!!).
Oh, and the not-foreign people a few booths in front of me are chanting in a foreign tongue. That’s not chaotic though. That’s just weird.
Anyways, if you’re a vegan looking for good food or you’re suffering from a debilitating chaos deficiency (or both), I recommend Chaos Café. Really, who can say no to all the bottles of Liquid Amino you could ask for?
“Is that an Elephant…with a violin?”
July 22, 2009
Elephant Revival
In our crazy world where consumer product diversity outnumbers biodiversity (probably), people search for meaning in strange places. This would explain why we have chocolate products named after elegant white birds, dish soap named after the expression of unbridled mirth, and a media & entertainment conglomerate named after the measurement system of duration and sequence of events. This search for meaning extends into the entertainment industry, since the connections artists build with audiences sells CDs and pays the cover at plenty of shows. This meaning doesn’t necessarily have to be definite, but it repels superficiality that can sprout like mold on so many successful touring bands when monotony sets in. I bring this up because I attended two performances of the touring band Elephant Revival, and the group gave me a sincerely meaningful musical experience.
The label “Trascendental Folk,” while accurate, seems to contradict the sense of focus and unity I get from their show. “Eclectic,” like my favorite buzzword “edgy,” gets tossed around too often today when you’re actually hard-pressed to find any modern group that isn’t, in some way, eclectic. Eclecticism and transcendentalism are natural outgrowths of the sheer abundance of popular culture, and aren’t necessarily “selling points” anymore. What makes Elephant Revival unique is that they are effortlessly and humbly transcendental, incorporating a cornucopia of influences in a way that seemed honest and natural. While all of their members were excellent, I was particularly impressed by the multi-instrumental talents of guitar/banjo/mandolinist Sage Cook who seemed at home with every instrument he touched, and vocalist Bonnie Paine whose captivating, lilting vocals were matched by her throwing down some serious washboard and djembe percussion.
Where the Axe & Fiddle show presented them at their most eclectic electric, the group gathered around an omni microphone at the Alberta St. Pub for a show which took advantage of the acoustically intimate setting. With nothing but church pews and wooden stools, the group treated a small gathering of family and friends (old and new) which grew steadily into a respectable crowd. In the Axe & Fiddle they were on stage, but in the Alberta St.Pub, they were at home, and that made the difference between a good show and a meaningful one. Myself and a cohort from The Student Loan even jammed with them on a few tunes, and that invitation alone added to the feeling that the group was offering more than simply a performance. They were willing to connect with new friends on tour and explore a little, and that means something.
“I love gluten.”
Sage Cook
Morning in Paradise.
July 12, 2009
A familiar part of the morning routine.
Despite the complete lack of behavioral evidence to support this claim, I am a morning person. Early mornings have a way of making the world seem simpler and so much less crowded. The root of this simplicity is routine, and nothing simplifies life more than a routine. Years ago I worked nights at a grocery store, and ever since then I have longed for that sense of routine that had me driving home before most people had left the house and leaving the house after most business had closed for the day. It sounds harsh, but I was pleased to review an old blog post—one of my first—and read the following:
“…its just the same as any full timer only I sleep when they work and vice versa. I love my job though, and not everyone can say that.”
These days, I don’t have a routine and my life is hardly simple, but I am thrilled to say that I have come full circle and I still love my job(s). I do miss really enjoying mornings though, and since I woke up before 11:00 AM on a Sunday, I felt I needed to be rewarded for that.
It appears someone else did too.
I took the opportunity to check out Paradise Café for the first time, and walked away with a cup of coffee that may as well have been my gold star for getting my lazy self out of bed. As a first impression, Paradise Café respects a desire for good coffee experience, serving locally roasted Nor’west Coffee. Tucked into
Paradise Cafe endorses the $2 bill and the $1 coin.
a corner on Main St. at the edge of downtown, they’re easy to overlook but hard to forget once you’ve been there. If you’re a coffee novice, they’ll give you a solid cup o’ joe. For the connoisseur, they’ve got an assortment of loose leaf teas and press pours brewed to order. As an additional treat, I received a $1 coin and a $2 bill in change. Don’t take my word for it. Take a look at their menu and drop in sometime.
At the moment, the owners are considering extending Paradise Café hours to 7:00 or 8:00 PM and seeking feedback on the idea. If there’s anything driving me nuts about Vancouver Cafés, it’s that I’m hard-pressed to find one open past 5:00. If they extend their hours, they’ll certainly have my patronage. I mean, heck, they’ve even got free WiFi…
If the whole world moved to their favorite vacation spots, then the whole world would live in Hawaii and Italy and Cleveland.
-Floyd
“You gotta’ sell it.”
July 11, 2009
Irish Cream Soda & Lincoln's Beard @ The Grind Coffeehouse.
I’ve been trying to catch Lincoln’s Beard for nearly a month now. In my haste to get to the Grind Coffeehouse to catch their show, I left a stack of demo CDs on the roof of my car and took the wrong freeway entrance from the Rose Quarter to get on I-5, making it nearly to Lake Oswego before I finally managed to exit and turn around. The stress didn’t last long, as the hip–and surprisingly young–atmosphere and great food at The Grind calmed my nerves a bit. Sponsored by Guerrilla Media, Portland’s own social network for artists, the all-ages informal patio show was one of a series of Summer concerts promoting the often overlooked Vancouver music scene.
Lincoln’s Beard strikes me as the illegitimate outcome of a one-night stand between Old Crow Medicine Show and Radiohead, managing to unite a rugged folk and contemporary Indie rock into a coherent, witty whole. Their stage setup said it all. Dwayne Spence alternated banjo and bass (with a smattering of percussion) on one side while Tyler Morgan “punched” the keyboard and chunked a mandolin at the other end (with a little glockenspiel for flavor). Grounding them in the
From this far away, it looks like Lincoln's head on Kris' body. I'm not sure how I feel about that...
middle, guitarist and lead vocalist Kris Chrisopulos contributes to the eclecticism of the group by serving up a wide palette of vocal flavors. In short, Lincoln’s Beard makes the most of the versatility of its members delivering a clever and entertaining musical romparound.
This was my first Saturday night out in Vancouver and I must admit that I’m impressed. I’d never driven through Vancouver on a weekend night before, and I was pleasantly surprised by the vibrant nightlife on Main St. I’ve heard that Portlanders don’t really head up this way very often. Thanks okay. There’s plenty happening in Portland, and it leaves Vancouver to carve out its own unique arts and entertainment culture.
Two words: vaudeville revival.
“I’m trying to sell it, man.”
“You mean well, but you make this hard for me…”
July 9, 2009
Hawthorne Farmer's Market - "Cash or Barter"
As we’ve stumbled into the 21st Century, I’ve noticed an odd preoccupation with getting in touch with our Earthy, 20th & 19th century roots. I assume this is just a silly phase we need to go through before cars start flying, but I’m willing to go with it. Case in point, America has gotten preoccupied with open markets again, and we sure know how to make a stink about it. Anachronism is in, man. It’s been in for a while actually. Granted, I’m not saying this is a bad thing. It’s a bit odd, but not bad. You know, about as odd as seeing a vendor peddling the herbs he grew in his back yard while sipping an iced cappuccino from Peet’s Coffee. We just need to be honest with ourselves and accept that we are, indeed, in the future. We’re in a future run by the past with the “neo” prefix attached to it.
I won’t wear the highbrow musician mask and say that I can’t stand pop music. I can stand pop music, I just don’t typically listen to it. I am, however, a fan of the more acoustic end of the spectrum. Today, “acoustic” is the musical counterpart to “organic” food: plenty of technology guiding the process, it’s just not over-manufactured–and it might cost a little more (vocal harmonizers, looping pedals, and the irony-laden Acoustic Image amplifiers). It’s difficult enough already to justify my preference the acoustic genre without sounding pretentious. I thought about including the label “independent” but I’m not even sure what that means anymore. Saying I’m way into “Indie,” well, that would just make me a card carrying blowhole.
So yes, I bring this up because of Sara Bareilles.
Oh yeah, I said it. Sara Bareilles. I know, I know: The Grammy nominee? That goofy ditty about not writing a love song ? “Dude,” you say, “she is soooooooo last year.” You might even follow that up with, “Man, you may as well go get yourself a passport that says ‘Table Saw’ because you’ve just entered the land of the tools.”
Fair enough. Dual citizenship is hardly a bad thing to have these days.
Bareilles comes on the heels of my recent K.T. Tunstall kick. Where I had come across Tunstall playing solo on Leno one night, I overheard Bareilles’ single “Love Song,” on my lunch break over the sound system in the school store. Now I imagine that the song had appeared in everything from movie soundtracks to advertisements for tampons before I heard it, but it was new to me and I kind of dug it. Being the professional Googlesmith that I am, I pulled up some info and was…conflicted when I pulled up this trippy video (Embedding disabled by request. Just click on the damned video).
My first impression was, “Wow, that’s a strikingly attractive (or adeptly photoshopped) person overdressed in inside a giant analog karaoke machine.” My second impression was that she appeared to be playing the piano. Intrigued by the possibility of genuine talent, I decided to investigate further, and pulled up this video.
No, it’s not the acoustic version of “Love Song.” It’s Peter Gabriel’s “Your Eyes,” and not a bad version of it if I may say so. The girl’s no Harry Connick Jr., but she’s an able pianist and a respectable vocalist. Her songwriting isn’t particularly ground-breaking, but overall she’s a solid artist capable of passing the intimate-live-setting-with-limited-EQ test. Fair play to you, Sara. As it turns out, you can actually get this and four “stripped” versions of songs from her album, but only if you buy the whole, non-stripped album as well. I haven’t checked out iTunes yet, but I’m just not a fan of the purely digital realm.
It’s fascinating because I wonder how many pop songs I would love if they didn’t carry the stigma label of being top 40 hits. A friend of mine “admitted” to purchasing a Colbie Calliat album because he knew that “if she were playing around the corner at the coffee shop, [he]‘d totally go see her.” Yeah, “Bubbly” did kind of lose its luster when I saw it in an ad for…what was it? Allergy medicine? Genital herpes treatment? You know what I mean. It’s often difficult, in this day and age, to determine whether we are enjoying something because we like it or because it’s being marketed specifically to us.
I guess if someone’s doing their job right, there’s no difference.
“Is that why you wanted a love song?”
“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?”
July 6, 2009
Despite what the titles says, not all of these people are "smart."
It’s been a while since I’ve rented a movie, and this blog deserves a little constructive film criticism. I took the marketing bait and rented Smart People because it is to Ellen Page and Juno what Rounders was to Matt Damon and Good Will Hunting. What on Earth do you do with the potential energy of Oscar success? Well, if you’re Miramax, you harness that beloved red-nosed reindeer of the “Best Original Screenplay” to another film and see if you can re-create the Christmas Eve magic. Well, I couldn’t finish Rounders and I really shouldn’t have stuck out Smart People.
Smart People isn’t predictable, but it’s certainly not original. It’s not bland, but it damned sure isn’t particularly funny. It’s edgy, though. I will give it that. Quite literally, you’ll be hard pressed to find a smooth edge anywhere in this film. Interpersonal conflict basically forms the skeleton of the story, with tendons of bitter self-loathing. Actually, watching this film made me want to drink a bottle of wine in my underwear and harass everyone on my cell-phone contacts list at 2:30 AM while listening to Alanis Morissette cranked up to 11.
If have a positive self-image and functional relationships, and would like the equivalent of a Vulcan mildmeld into the world of the lonely and desperate, enjoy Smart People.
Oh, and hurrah to National Blog Posting Month 2009.
Jay: Miramax? I thought they only did classy pictures, like “The Piano” and “The Crying Game.”
Brodie: Yeah, but then they made “She’s All That” and it went downhill from there.
Some might say that’s my big problem.
July 5, 2009
The Boondocks: Public Enemy #2
The Boondocks begins by chronicling the adventures of Riley and Huey, two African American boys who live with their grandfather in the suburban community of Woodcrest. Where Huey represents the ignorant, pop-culture brainwashed side of contemporary black youth, Huey represents the informed, radical antithesis. As the comic progresses and McGruder finds his voice, the plot and supporting characters fall to the wayside in favor of McGruder’s message. This shift coincides with the comic’s Doonesbury-esque shift from the funnies to the op-ed section, and this seemed to only fan McGruder’s flames and he took blatant shots at everything from the Bush and Regan administrations, to Kobe Bryant, O.J. Simpson and Michael Jackson, to Star Wars, Vivica A. Fox, and Anna Kournikova.
McGruder–like another author whom I admire but have mentioned waaaaay too much–likes to play with extremes. He uses caricatures, rather than characters. He’s rarely subtle and when he is, it goes over my head. More so than most comics, The Boondocks give you near-unfiltered access to the mind of the author. Reading a Boondocks anthology can be compared to getting to know a highly functioning sociopath: initially the quirkiness is funny, but eventually you read their interviews and realize they’re actually bat s**t crazy. In this case, however, it’s still funny to me and I’m not sure why. What perplexes me most is that in most cases, listening to artists/writers/directors rant through their characters makes me want to set things on fire. For some odd reason, Aaron McGruder’s blatant rants entertain me. The possible reasons why can only be troubling:
Possible Reason 1) Rather than the comic, I’m actually taking delight in the frustrated dissatisfaction the radical left.
Possible Reason 2) I find the decline of our society–and particularly black culture–side-splittingly amusing.
The Boondocks: A Right to be Hostile
Possible Reason 3) I’m entertained merely by the fact that this “anti-comic” of sorts sticks it to mainstream media.
Perhaps I don’t mind because when it’s all said and done, I don’t really disagree with him. In a spirited interview with Hard Knock TV, McGruder admits that in regards to the problems with our country and particularly our government, awareness of the issues is no longer the problem. I’d agree with him. If you’re an activist today (which I’m not), you aren’t fighting ignorance, you’re fighting apathy. Apathy fueled by information over-saturation brought on by conduits like mainstream news media, the entertainment industry, and self-important wannabe muckrakers who regurgitate their dissatisfaction into blogs, tweets, and…
Whoops! This was supposed to be classified as a “review” and not a “rant.” Scratch that last part from the record.
I don’t think Aaron McGruder is bat s**t crazy, he’s passionate. He’s also living proof that when given direct line to the masses such as a nationally syndicated comic (or a blog…) if you’ve really got something to say and try to sugar coat it, it will sooner or later come out in a way that ain’t always pretty. If the syndicated run of The Boondocks comic and the movie Me, Myself, and Irene have taught me anything, it’s that you either let it out or shut yourself away before you hurt someone. In the spirit of that idea:
National Blog Posting Month is an ill-conceived idea that can have nothing but adverse effects our quest to build collective knowledge. Encouraging individuals with an over-inflated sense of self-worth (bloggers, tweeters, etc.) to make a special effort to increase the frequency of their spewing into electronic vomit bags known as blogs only contributes to general epidemic of information apathy that continues to plague our society.
Aaahhhh. That felt good. I’ll see you tomorrow!
It’s all about who you know.
July 3, 2009
I’m a musician for people who hate music. I don’t say this because I’m particularly accessible to the musical layperson, but rather because I’m not really much of a music aficionado. I don’t like buying CDs (or downloading mp3s), listening to the radio, or physically getting off my lazy keister to go appreciate some good live music. I seem to only discover new artists when I’m in their immediate vicinity. I’ve found that this is often the best way to do it, since I then get the pleasure of getting to know the musicians that I so admire. There are many, but I’ll take a moment to selfishly acknowledge a few independent musicians that deserve to be A-listers that could make me feel more important by association.
Joel Smith is fresh on my mind since I am watching him perform with his band The Hands of Plenty at this very moment at a tragically under-attended show at The Mandolin Cafe in my hometown, Tac-town, Washington. Joel holds the distinction of being the first guy to recruit me to play a two-step bass line, which has since proven to be a valuable skill for me to have picked up. Anyways, I experienced my own personal folk revival as I re-listened to Joel’s debut album/senior project River Roads, and was so taken in by his songwriting that I woke up three days later at a cafe in Chattanooga, TN wearing only a pink Snuggie blanet and a pair of brand new Levi Strauss jeans with $230 stuffed in the pockets. The guy’s got so much talent it may very well be dangerous. I hear Spokane, WA may change it’s name to “Joel Smith.”
Endah and Rhesa
I first heard Endah N Rhesa while setting up for our show at the 2009 Jakarta International Java Jazz Festival. While we bickered with the sound engineers and our mandolinist battled illness, I had a diva-esque hissy fit at our embassy attache demanding that he retrieve the CD of whoever it was performing at “that stage over there.” I had no idea who they were, but from my vantage point, it was a travel-sized guitarista with, like, three voices and a statuesque bassist who could lay down grooves like nobody’s business. While I was unable to go see them myself, they flattered us with their presence at our performance. Afterward, we gushed our admiration for each other (“If I were famous, I’d make you famous!” I believe is what I said) swapped CDs, and took a few pictures together. I’ve since made it a weekly ritual to check YouTube for more videos of them. These two epitomize the trifecta of depth, taste, and chemistry, and their website is a thing of beauty. Love them. It’s the law.
Fruition String Band
I met the musical miscreants of Fruition String Band my very second day in Portland, as Chad and I were giving busking on Hawthorne Blvd. the ol’ college try. It was scorching hot and we made close to nothing, but we did run into some individuals making a more lucrative pull. The lady and gentlemen of Fruition String band sing it up with soul, walking a line between the purely traditional and a fresh, contemporary energy that’ll bite you in the ass if you take it too lightly. The Student Loan split a show with them at the Goodfoot Pub & Lounge a few weeks back and I’m still recovering from their rendition of Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered.” I done danced so hard I broke my femur, and that’s no joke. I mean, dude, the femur is a big bone.
Dear Coupland-aholics (and Douglas Coupland, if you’re listening),
If you’ve had a conversation with me that’s lasted longer than 36 seconds in the last two weeks, you’ve probably heard me mention jPod, a doomed early-2008 Canadian television show based on my second-to-least favorite book written by my favorite author (Girlfriend in a Coma FTW!). I love my favorite Douglas Coupland books about as much as I despise television, which may explain my conflicting emotions when I not only discovered fairly recently that the show was made, but realized that it’s the one of the worst shows ever mistakingly syndicated onto the idiot box we call television…and I couldn’t stop watching it.
The Podsters
After four drafts of this post, I’ve yet to find the right words to properly describe the hearty plot casserole that jPod serves up in every episode, or how prime-time buzzword “edgy” translates to “brutal” in Coupland’s screenwriting hands. I love senseless violence as much as the next person (…), but to see characters fall victim to kidnapping, detonation, murder-suicide pacts, electrocution, assault with a deadly weapon, vehicular homicide (x2), heroin addiction, and assault with a cuddly weapon was a bit much for one season!!! Fortunately the super-saturation of plot actually made me feel like I got a twelve-hour jPod movie rather than one season of a TV show, which I kind of dug in a weird way.
Critics (read: myself and other people vaguely referenced on Wikipedia) chided Coupland for inserting himself into the jPod novel as an insufferably dickish character. In the series, Coupland merely cameos as a character dead in an elevator (woo hoo for gore!), but drops enough references to his books hat he may as well have written himself into the series. The Gum Thief got a few nods through the appearances of Glove Pond, while the series ends with a humorously literal nod to Girlfriend in a Coma. All Families are Psychotic could have been a working title for the series, and Microserfs is basically the show played backwards. He’s even nice enough to foreshadow his next book through a documentary on bees which plays on television in the final episode. I love you Doug, but please get over yourself or get over pretending to be way into yourself, whichever applies.
In the end, Doug, I’m still watching the show, well, because I love it. Not because it’s particularly good, 
mind you. It’s a disaster in every way a tv show can be. In fact, it’s a microcosm of all the strengths and weaknesses of both jPod and what draws me to your books in the first place. Like Ethan, Cowboy, John Doe, Caitlin Kaitlin, and Brie, I always felt like a twisted spawn of Generations X, Y, and whatever the hell we’re in now, conceived by the overactive gland we call the information age. I can’t help but be drawn to the unwatchable mess that is jPod because, good or bad, it presents me with what I’m looking for when I pick up each of your books, an honest interpretation of what it means to exist as an individual in the 21st century.
Thank you, Mr. Coupland, for giving me that experience.
…and thank you, WB for cancelling that gruesome, mindless train-wreck.
