Tokyo Police Club Tonight!

Ok, so I'm kind of really excited for this show.
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Congressional Blues Fest

Last night I was lucky enough to attend the very tony Congressional Blues Fest, a fantastic and free event celebrating the best in jazz and blues. The festival was outside on the South Side of the Kennedy Center, overlooking the Potomac. Now I don't know what I did to get in the good graces of whoever is watching out for me, but the night couldn't have been more perfect.     After meeting up with my friends, we made our way outside to the patio, into the fading light of dusk. The weather was at that perfect point when it stops being weather and it just, Is. We could hear the music coming from the large white tent and for a moment, with all the young hill staffers in their jackets and ties and their dates in sundresses, I felt like i was transported back to another era--the 50's--and the atmosphere felt new and electric and full of a youthful energy, innocence and hope. Inside the tent we were treated to "complimentary"(read: FREE!) food and drink, and we were quick to oblige ourselves many times over.     After eating and drinking and more drinking, we hit the dance floor. It was an eclectic mix of overgrown hippies and hill yuppies which definitely gave me, a professional people watcher, a lot to enjoy. The most exciting moment came when the horns from Mudcat got in a line and marched off the stage and into the crowd, blurring the lines of performance and creating the ultimate interactive musical experience. Again, I felt transported into another era, only this time I felt like I was in a crowded and smoky dance hall in Harlem in the 1920s, jostling up against all the other patrons pushing in so close to the musicians that I could touch my nose to the tip of the trombone. By this point it was probably the free booze that was clouding my vision and thoughts, but nevertheless, it was a great feeling.     Unfortunately I left before I got to see Robert Cray do his thing, but Tapes n' Tapes were playing at 930 club. Although fun, it definitely wasn't as intense a sensory experience as the blues fest. Probably the highlight of Tapes N' Tapes: hitting on the keyboardist post show and making googly eyes at the lead.

More Video for your Monday

Awful or Awesome?

Paul Anka's interpretation of Smells Like Teen Spirit.

shit damn motherfucker: debate wrap up

When I was in fifth grade, D'Angelo's debut album, "Brown Sugar," came out. I still listen to it from time to time. A lot has changed since then. I'm not friends with Luke Goldthwaite anymore. The Larry Johnson Hornets jersey I used to rock is pretty outdated. D'Angelo, apparently, became a cokehead. And I graduated from the fifth grade and--at least nominally--became an adult. But one of the songs from that album, "Shit Damn Motherfucker," remains as relevant today as it did then. The sentiment is timeless. When I was in Philadelphia Wednesday evening for the latest Democratic presidential debate, I kept on thinking about it--turning the song over in my head as Obama was asked to scientifically evaluate his level of patriotism vis a vis his pastor, as Hillary felt compelled to temporarily become an RNC spokeswoman, and the race for the nomination and the presidency descended into madness. Shit damn motherfucker. +/-

Fortunately, because this was the first presidential debate I've had a chance to attend in person, I distracted myself from the night's vapidity by acting all wide eyed about my surroundings. First, let's set the scene: as a credentialed member of the press, I was not actually allowed into the debate. No, the press is herded into an enormous "press file," where everyone gets a little seat and a little table and stares up together at a giant television set showing the debate. This is, as you might imagine, a bit surreal: I drove three hours to watch TV. Not only that, but I'm watching TV with people whom I'm used to seeing on TV. Howard Fineman, Candy Crowley and me. Watching TV together. Shit damn motherfucker. Second, the food and drink: ABC News, which organized the debate, had boxed lunches (even though it was dinner time). I took a roast beef sandwich and I poured myself about three cups of coffee. There was no liquor to be seen, so I had more coffee. Third, the celebs: Obama Girl, most importantly. I had my picture taken with her. I refuse to show it to anyone. Finally, the serious take away: a debate like this probably helps Obama. He's a protest candidate in many ways, similar to Jimmy Carter in 76. He's a vessel for people's immense frustration with our politics and our political class. So even though he didn't seem particularly prepared for the harsh line of questioning, he came out intact. On the way back to Washington, I stopped into a 711 at about 3 AM and conducted an impromptu focus group with the cashier. I asked him what he had thought of the debate. "I like Obama," he said. "He's no bullshit." In a night full of bullshit, the guy who smells the least smells the best.

Closing Time Pt. I

True Life: I quit.

So in all the books, movies and tv shows I've spent a sizeable chunk of my life consuming, I've never come across any good lessons on how to quit your job. Sure, I've learned a lot of useful knowlege: not to watch suspicious looking VHS tapes, how to act around boys, and that there's nothing you can't do if you have a Swiss Army Knife, a roll of duct tape, and your wits. However, when it comes to something as dull and practical as quitting, I was at a complete loss.

I have a real problem taking normal, every day situations and blowing them up into insurmountable obstacles of anxiety and stress--what I've dubbed "the Felicity complex". For those of you who used to watch the WB show, you know exactly what I mean. I gotta start taking my cue from Clint--shoot from the hip and don't hesitate.

So, even without the life lessons from my friends and mentors in Imaginationland, I managed to buck up and quit. Turns out, not shockingly, it wasn't such a big deal. Everyone was really supportive and sympathetic, and none of my worst-case scenarios came true. I think "My First Resignation" experience has constituted an induction into the adult world, whether I like it or not.

Cheers to moving onwards and upwards!

Time Lapse LA to NYC

That Michel Gondry is a clever one...

See more funny videos at CollegeHumor

Okkervil River/The New Pornographers

Last night I was at the 9:30 Club for the Okkervil River/The New Pornographers show. I've been a fan of The New Pornographers for some time now, but I was sadly disappointed with the live show they put on last night. Their live performance lacked the depth and impact of their studio sound, and Carl Newman's voice and presence was overpowered by Kathryn Calder's, who, while talented, is still no Neko Case. Apparently Ms. Case was sick, a sad announcement for her devoted fans (read: me). However, I still got to hear some of my favorite songs and they conveyed the same level of whimsy and fun as do their records.

Okkervil River, on the other hand, blew me away. Their live sound is as layered, passionate and clean as their albums. The intensity of the music and sense of urgency in the lyrics was present from beginning to end. Singer Will Sheff''s somber voice carried above the melody, at times taking on the mournful sound of a dirge, at other times sounding more akin to Brad Corrigan of Dispatch. They mixed it up between Black Sheep Boy and The Stage Names, and kept the crowd's attention by changing the tempo every few songs. Unlike 80% of the indie rock bands out there now, I think Okkervil River has got real staying power. Their songs are unique and expertly crafted, and their live show more than lives up to their albums' promises.

If you haven't already done so, go out and buy Okkervil River's most recent album The Stage Names ASAP! Yes, that's right, go and spend your hard earned money on a compact disc. This is one band that is actually worth the cash.

After May 22nd I Can Die Happy

Top Chef Chicago: Two Knives Down!

My good friend and resident cuisinier Aggie was kind enough to jot down her thoughts on the current cycle of Top Chef:

I used to be one of those people who vehemently swore that they despised reality television. Then came Laguna Beach. And The Hills. And a slew of other not completely worthwhile but highly entertaining reality shows, and I jumped on the bandwagon, fully embracing the mind-numbing crap that is reality TV. Although I have to give props to MTV for its dedication to the reality craze, the guide for my newfound foray into the reality world is Bravo. However, there is one arena in which Bravo’s reality television programming has, in my opinion, failed to maintain it’s initial brilliance. As an aspiring amateur gourmand, I loved Top Chef in the first two seasons more than the Food Network's The Next Food Network Star, Fox's Hell's Kitchen, and all the other food-related reality shows combined. Harold captured my heart, not only with the way he wielded his knife, but with the sexy way he always tucked a pencil behind his ear. Ilan, in my opinion, didn't deserve the title of Top Chef, but the second season as a whole did have some legitimate culinary talent not least embodied by Sam, who was also very easy on the eyes.+/-

Then came the third season filled with nothing but dead weight. The only one that I thought had any real staying power was Trey. After he was eliminated for graciously bearing the blame for a poor performance in a team challenge, the only people left were those who bitched and moaned like pros, but couldn't back it up with the dishes they created. I'll be honest; it got so bad that I stopped watching halfway through the season. If season three were a dish, I'd have to say in the words of head judge Tom Colicchio and Gail Simmons, that it was bland, uninspired, and very poorly executed. Sadly, season four seems to be following in the footsteps of season three, leaving me with one question—have the producers decided to forego talent in search of pure entertainment and drama or is there really no talented chef left who wants to be exploited on national TV?? We have been introduced to a lesbian couple, the ubiquitous bad-ass, an anti-establishment dude named Spike, and a weird jittery guy who clearly needs to get back on his meds. The one shining star in the kitchen chaos is Richard Blais, who has been whipping up beautiful creations while sporting a sweet faux hawk. He not only seems to have a masterful understanding of the culinary arts, but actually listens. So many of the unsuccessful chefs have met their downfall in the show because they disregard the challenge and cook whatever they want. Richard, on the other hand, listens to what the judges want and delivers while using unusual flavor combinations and impeccable technique to create contemporary twists on familiar dishes. My reaction to everyone else's cooking has been "I can make that!" I am by no means a master chef, but I do know how to make a well-seasoned pasta salad and a mac & cheese that doesn't dry out.

The Symbol's the Thing

I feel like I've just woken up from a long dream.

Yesterday I finished reading Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The novel is a brilliant epic of godly--yes, godly-- proportions. Readers follow Shadow, a recently freed convict on an adventure across the American landscape that transcends all genre limitations. Channeling elements from noir, adventure, and mythology literature, Gaiman defines America in completely new terms. Not only a melting pot of people, Gaiman's America is the sorry last stop for the Gods of Africa, the Orient and pagan Europe. Immigration tales embedded within Shadow's story narrate how jinns and piskies, traveling in the minds of their respective immigrants, have found America to be the land of inopportunity. Memories of them quickly fade on this new soil and they come to resemble nothing more than lesser men and women. +/-

While this book contains elements of magical realism, it somehow seems more easily believable. The humanization of the Gods, while not complete, is particularly American, perhaps fostering its authenticity. They are characters familiar to the American landscape--con men, taxi drivers, factory workers and the like. All seem human in their attitudes, actions and morals. American Gods is not quite an indictment of America, and nor is it a glorification. Gaiman's is a complex and layered conception, defining America by our obsessions with money and power, our compulsion to define our lives by what's real and what's not and, most literally, by our treatment of the less familiar gods of yore. In the end, readers will feel like they've emerged from a sweat lodge with a new cultural understanding of the world around them.

Required Reading

I read the cliffnotes of Joseph Stiglitz's new book on the Iraq War in this month's Vanity Fair and I highly recommend either that or the real deal to anyone who reads this. Its simple, wonderfully coherent and well-researched, and devoid of all the high-minded theorizing that conservatives usually love to deride liberals for. The book looks beyond the 'emergency supplemental' budget requests and other official expenses and strives to estimate the full range of Iraq-related costs — including future costs like long-term care for veterans, oil acquisition and workforce losses— that the nation will face for years to come.

Having broken down the War to its dollars and sense, Stiglitz's readers will come to the conclusion that going to war was, inarguably, a mismanaged mistake. To say this isn't to discount the sacrifices made by good men and women. It's meant to both shame and undercut the bravado of the feeble-minded warhawks who have crafted a literal Wag the Dog scenario to fatten their larders and their egos. Please take a look at it!

New Signs of the Apocalypse: McCain and Montag '08?!

I thought after surviving Y2K, Earth was in the clear for at least a century. Well today's headline seems to prove that in fact, hell has frozen over. Heidi Montag, the she-devil of everyone's favorite vacuous MTV program has endorsed John McCain who has scrambled to return the praise. According to Time.com, McCain has responded to the endorsement by saying: "I'm honored to have Heidi's support and I want to assure her that I never miss an episode of 'The Hills,' especially since the new season started."

    Has Heidi confused the presidential election with a wet t-shirt contest in Cabo? This isn't MTV, my dear, and no one gives a crap about what you have to say if it isn't about your hack boyfriend, nose job, or upcoming sex tape. Thats right, because we all know you're not going to let LC upstage you in that arena.

    And McCain, who with each day acts more and more like a showpony than a statesman, may think this somehow endears him to a more youthful population. Well, he's probably right. The under-18 population. What an excellent strategy for attracting a larger voter base.

    How long til the NYTimes breaks the Montag/McCain sex scandal? Let's hope the apocalypse hits first.

Draft Teddy

No matter who wins the Democratic nomination, a lot of party activists and voters are going to be frustrated. If Barack manages to narrowly defeat Hillary, the Clintonistas won’t be consoled by knowing that their candidate ran the most successful losing primary campaign ever. Conversely, if Hillary manages to squeeze by Barack, the African-Americans and young voters who powered his candidacy will be left to feel that their votes didn’t count. There’s an obvious solution to this problem: the introduction of a consensus candidate who can unify the party and lead it to victory. Al Gore has been floated as a possibility, but his disinterest with electoral politics becomes more apparent with each passing day. Fortunately, there’s another leader—a familiar leader, a definitively Democratic leader, and a unifying leader—who might be up to the task. Draft Teddy. +/-

I make this suggestion half in seriousness and half in jest. At first glance, a Ted Kennedy candidacy makes no sense. He turned 76 a little more than a month ago. When he entered the Senate, Barack Obama was still a toddler. But think of this: Kennedy’s would-be opponent, John McCain, is no spring chicken, either. If McCain were to win a second term, he would do so at the ripe young age of—you guessed it, 76. And unlike McCain, Kennedy has never had a serious medical scare. What about Chappaquidick, you say? Well, although I’m sure Sean Hannity would bang that drum repeatedly during a campaign, as long ago as 1979, nearly 79% of Americans said the event does not factor in their evaluation of the Senator. It’s safe to assume that that number has only increased since. There’s no question Kennedy could unify the party. He’s the very definition of a Democrat. He practically invented Medicare, he heroically blocked Robert Bork, and he inveighed against the Iraq War before it was cool. Latinos, union workers, women, African-Americans and white liberals love him—in other words, the groups that are essential to victory but that Obama and Hillary have split. At the same time, the allure of the Kennedy name would ensure him a fair hearing among independents and perhaps even some conservatives (the sort who still uphold his brother Jack as the model of foreign policy excellence). The chance to restore Camelot some nearly five decades after its demise might be difficult for the country to resist. Of course, there’s virtually no chance that any of this happens. Teddy Kennedy is not going to seek, nor will he accept, the nomination of his party for president of the United States. But then again. At the 1968 convention, Mayor Daley wanted Teddy to run. Kennedy declined. It’s forty years later. We’re on the verge of a convention that are some are anticipating will be as chaotic as 68. And there’s still a powerful guy named Mayor Daley. If Denver descends into chaos, Al Gore refuses to commit—well, crazier things have happened.

Travel: Harder Better Faster Stronger.

Vitamin water is so passe. When most music artists choose to brand themselves with second and third careers, they tend to be in fashion. Or in bad movies. Not so with Kanye West. Two days ago, the college dropout launched Kanye Travel to fulfill the travel needs of his legion of white middle class followers. Next time someone compliments me on my low fare to Vegas, I'll just tell them "Kanye got it for me".