PodCasting it!

First off, on the post below, I decided to go with no photos, since I've been too reliant on photos for entertainment lately. So here's the jpeg everybody was waiting for:

If your name is Bobby, you were hoping for this:

Even though it makes no sense whatsoever, it speaks volumes to me, and caused me to rethink my eternal destiny. Anyhow.

Now wit that out of the way, I want to get on to Bigger Things! Let's talk about podcasts! If you're not up on the podcast, well, I don't know what to tell you. It's like a mini radio show via iTunes or PodCaster or whatever. I don't know. Go read Wired Magazine. Anyhow, when I first found these little gems, I was excited by the possibilities. I thought "oo! A shot of Al Franken's righteousness, right when I want it! ESPN dailies, with the ability to skip past the football talk! Maybe some funny or clever people, too!" Yeah, well, as we all know, the funny people hide in a cabin somewhere in rural Montana, never to seek daylight. I don't know of any funny podcasts. Al Franken will have to suffice. But I can tell you this: the podcast that's shot to #1 with a bullet is from that great online mag, Slate.


I get the weird and wacky there, I get the intriguing and the informative. Want to hear about the rise of Ranch dressing in the USA? How about the Seinfelding of modern advertising? Or about America's ever-growing fascination with self-storage? Yeah, check out the Slate podcast. I'm hyping it right here. Right now. Like Jesus Jones.

Someday, the boys down at 3Cow Turd will make a podcast, and it will be worth listening to. They will do this AFTER they write a hit movie for me to star in, though, so they'll be busy for a while. My pal Todd is also tinkering with the podcast concept. Until these ideas 'drop', however, Slate will have to do. And do! it will.

Bulls eye!

If you think I'm a fashion snob, you're wrong. Well, I don't know. Maybe you're right. I won't wear parachute pants, I won't dress up like a goth-er, and I refuse to wear eye shadow on dinner dates. So I guess I do have some lines. I do have some statutes, some prejudices, some opinions. What I don't have, though, is a need to spend a lot of money so I can look like the advertisements. I don't need that.

Having said that, there IS an establishment out there that keeps me dressed in clothing (another one of my prejudices. Did I mention that I refuse to wear discarded fruit skins or seeded sod? It's true: with me, it HAS to be clothing), and keeps me current (When I say current, I mean that I look like I belong in this generation. My belief here--and I learned this from Jorf Davenpolt--is that if I look semi-'normal', I will be more easily overlooked). That establishment used to be American Eagle Clothiers. I know that sounds crazy now, but 10 years ago, they were this little rag tag operation that passed out shirts on the cheap. Same thing with the Gap about 20 years ago (remember "fall into the gap", when they had the Levi's logo on every sign and ad? Much less high-tone back then. Very 'common man'. Also, very cheap). Well now, there is a place where fashion trends have already been sanded down to the middle (yay!), and the prices say so.

That place is Target.

I went into Target last week with my girlfriend, Didi. We picked up some laundry detergent, some milk, and some clothes. I bought a pair of pants. She bought a skirt. This same skirt was worn repeatedly on the famous September SeaTac Wedding Weekend, and she looked as good as anybody (Okay, better. I just didn't think it totally necessary to underline everyone else's inferiority when what I'm talking about is affordable clothing. I mean, this isn't all about the fact that the belle of the ball wants to bed ME. This isn't about the fact that *I* am the object of the prettiest girl you know. I mean, come on). Ahem.

Yeah, Target's got what I need. The clever/ironic 'statement' t-shirt? Sure. The 'Sunday night church' button up shirt that's not quite ready for the boardroom, but still nice looking? Of course. Cargo pants from 2 years ago? Natch. Jackets that say I've been to other cities to buy them? Uh huh. Target's got it all.

So let's stop the charade, people. No more of this "oh I've got to go around to 12 different shops looking for the IDEAL outfit for me! I'm so rare and unusual! I have a 'style' all my own! I can't conform!" Inflated self-opinions are exhausting. We know it's true. Come back down to earth, humans. Come... to Target.

Same Singing Voice

Che-zoos!

Dateline aside, I found this too good to pass on. I have, for a while now, been interested in who I think of as Idealist Revolutionaries, and in that group I include Che, MLK, Jr., Malcolm X, Ghandi, and even John Lennon. These people believe in something so doggedly that they'll go to the mat (or to the grave, if need be) for that which they believe. Their beliefs may be foolhardy (such as Lennon's pointless commitment to "love", however one defines it, or Schweitzer's "the sanctity of every living thing") but there is often a dearth of zeal in modern times. I rather respect that degree of boldness and faith, regardless of its object.

I do not simply include "world changers" in that list. For instance, what I read of Adolph Hitler makes me think of him as an insecure coward, who only knew how to manipulate fear, because it was the world he lived in. That's no good to me, and I'm not interested in what makes those kind of people tick. I'd rather be ignorant of evil. But these passionistas? Yeah, I dig that.

As for the image above, I like anything that will challenge the silly, simplistic notions of Christ in the marketplace. This image suggests that he wasn't merely a peaceful philosopher, but a revolutionary (which he undebatably was) and that he was an outspoken malcontent. I might not agree with all that implies (malcontent? Maybe too strong. Strong, socially deviant beliefs? Unquestionably), but I sure like piquing people's preconceptions.

Blowhard Review For Everyone!

Allow me the crass opportunity to capitalize on the tragedy in the south to harp for a minute about one of my pet peeves: Stone Phillips. He is, to me, the king of the smug breed of television news "personalities" (ha) who rush out to the latest crisis ["ON THE SCENE!"], then act like they 1) understand what's going on, 2) have some answers, and 3) are compassionate in a Can't-You-See-The-Concerned-Look-On-My-Face? My-Word-I'm-Positively-Presidential-Here! kind of way. These people make my eyes cross. I am very, very interesed in whatever coverage the news media can give me about New Orleans, Houston, the surrounding areas, and refugees trapped by horror. Unfortunately, I have to work through all the faux concern of Phillips and his ilk. Let's throw John Quinones and Matt Lauer (not pictured) under that same bus. I have repeatedly wanted to smack these man and their self-satisfied egos. Gagola. Okay, there. I said it. Selah.


By the way, I'm crazy about Ann Curry, also pictured.

In Memorium

Earlier this week, the short-lived trend of the slant stripe shirt was massacred by the Gap's new fall line, which features, once again, the vertical stripe. "Hey, it was a great run," said the sideways stripe shirt pictured above, when informed of his impending death. "We did something nobody ever did before. Who would think of a diagonal stripe? ...Everybody hopes for 15 minutes of fame, and we had something like 18 months. Clubs, bars, dancefloors--we had it all. Don't cry for me, people. I have no regrets. Let's remember the good times." The shirt was subsequently dismantled and resewn into men's boxers.

Gap has issued a statement that it will be pushing the Male Capri harder than ever, as of now.

On the Money Trail

This is from the mind and research of my pal Brian. It's too good to not share. The Thads among us will particularly enjoy this kind of thing. Mehopes. Mehopes.

Through its different brands, The News Corporation (Rupert Murdoch) brings us:

The NIV Bible

The Purpose Driven Life

The Case for Christ
Willow Creek Resources

And also,

“How to make love like a porn star” by Jenna Jamison

“Goddesses in every woman” by Bolen

John Dominic Crossen and his Jesus Seminar work
The Playboy Channel
Direct TV pay per view Porn

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether you buy something from Rick Warren or Bill Hybels or the former chair of the Jesus seminar or the latest hot porn action on pay per view--it all goes to the same place. I’m not sure how Saddleback or Willow Creek or Zondervan rationalize this, but Murdoch is brilliant. He’s selling bullets to both sides and enjoying the war.

More Hot Music!

Homeses: Last Friday night I got this friend named Neal, he goes off and bes married for 15 years, and asks me will I play a couple of songs at his blow-out hodown. I says yes, yes. I grab a friend, he plays a drum or bongo or whatever they do. It gets recorded. I take that recording and add a phony piano on there. Look at what it makes. The songs are toward the bottom of the link page:
Freelove (full band)(this is a cover of a Depeche Mode tune. I have really never listened to this band ever in my life, due to their uncanny dependence on cosmetics and synthesizers, but Neal asked me to cover this song so I did and I have to say, I ended up rather liking the tune.)
I Read My Ring (full band)
Just As Well (full band)

Get your coffee shop vibe on. www.steven.beautifulcity.org

I Will Speak Out

Here's something not a lot of people will make a stand about, but about which I will NOT BACK DOWN, like Tom Petty: Catching On Fire.

I REFUSE to catch on fire: I don't care who else is doing it, I don't care how popular it becomes, and I don't care who's putting pressure on me to become incinerated. I simply won't be swayed, coaxed, prodded, or cajoled. If you think I'm going to catch on fire, THINK AGAIN, PUNK.

oboy!

New songs are up and ready at steven.beautifulcity.org!

The icing is still hot!

The Best Concert I've Seen In Years and Years

I have known The Man They Call Moljer for about 20 years now. Mr. Moljer imagines that there's nothing so noble as supporting "local artists" who play music near your home (relatively speaking). Well, Mr. Moljer, I sure hope you're proud of me today.

Last night, I took about a half mile walk out of my front door and landed at the 20th Century Theater, which was the first air-conditioned theater in Cincinnati. It opened in 1941. Anyhow, this little local place has grabbed folks like Branford Marsalis, Patty Griffin, Jason Mraz, Jonatha Brooke, and Harry Connick Jr.'s jazz trio. Pretty shocking, when you look at the place. Anyhow, when I walked in the doors last night, it was to see the little-known Gabe Dixon Band. Heard of 'em? Of course not.

The only reason I'd heard of them is because I was passed a CD by a buddy of mine, Scott. These 3 guys are all 27-28 years old, graduated together from UMiami (Gabe with a classical piano degree, the drummer Jona Rix with a--get this--jazz piano degree, and Winston Harrison with a jazz bass degree), and are all just wonderful, wonderful players. Gabe sounds like a young Billy Joel with better piano chops (I'm sorry, but...).

Okay, I established that this is a small local venue, and an unknown band. What I didn't expect is that me, Rick, Scott, and Jeff would constitute over 10% of the crowd. Yeah: there were less than 40 people there. At first, this disappointed me greatly, because the GDB deserves a (much) bigger following. But it turned out wonderfully, because it was very close and very intimate. I was able to walk up to Gabe and take photos over his shoulder, like this one:

These guys killed. Did I mention that? Do yourself a favor and at least listen to the little samples on iTunes. Better yet, buy their CDs on www.gabedixonband.com. I bought a t-shirt for me, another for my wife (who is ambivalent about their music, sadly, and couldn't be bothered to join me and the boys), the new live EP, and an old sticker. I'd have bought a folder for school and a personalized pencil if they'd sold them. After their set, the guys walked down and we met them and talked to them and complimented them to no end. Here's a photo taken right before I kissed Gabe:

The musical notes between us look like some sort of strange thought bubble.

With a capital T

If you think this is Tradewinds(r) brand iced tea, oh boy... you fell for a ruse. See, what it is, see, is urine. I was on the phone once here in the office (about 8 months ago), and I really didn't want to end the call, but I really had to go, and this bottle was in the trash. So I uh... you know. Then I thought GEE! THIS LOOKS LIKE TEA KINDA! WON'T IT BE FUNNY WHEN PEOPLE SEE IT AND THINK IT'S TEA BUT IT'S REALLY URINE? OH, HA HA HA! YES IT WILL!

It turned out to be an interesting experiment, because I learned that, after sitting for a month or two, something falls out of the suspension: it's a loamy (!) kind of material that hangs around the bottom of the bottle. [look for loamy remnants in photo below.] Then, at about 4 months, it all turns really dark (more like root beer than tea) and the experiment, for all practical purposes, is over.

Yes, this is an office in which I regularly pray with other humans.


I predict this post will elicit:
1- some sort of gross-out rebuke from moljer
2- an actual description of what really happens, from Dr. Peb

Whence Cometh the Collar?

Anybody remember 1987? I do. I was a sophomore in high school, and the Guess? T-shirt I’m wearing today was pretty new (I didn’t plan on wearing this shirt so that I could write this post and say that: it’s just a very happy coincidence). Back then, the ‘preppy’ culture was in full effect: you could buy dictionaries to learn preppy lingo, Fast Times was coming out somewhere around there, Valley Girl was so known as to be passé, and argyle was being featured as a design element on Michael W. Smith album covers (so you know it wasn’t exactly avant garde at the time). Anyhow, in the very deepest and worst of the preppy culture, and by this I’m meaning (I guess) east coast college life, occasionally Whitley or Thurston or whatever his name might be, would actually take the collar on his polo-style shirt and turn it UP, parallel to his neckline. Nobody could argue that this was a ridiculous, over-the-top display of chutzpah and self-aggrandizement, but there it was. It would happen, though very occasionally. If someone made this move in Houston, he would be instantly considered gay. Instantly.




And yet, my friends, this upturned collar, so Fringe when preppiedom was at its peak, is now becoming COMMONPLACE among the young and foolish—at least here in Cincinnati Ohio. Is it like this in other places? The high schoolers will never know moderation or self-awareness, and I don’t suppose I look for them to do so, but this display is unexpected at the least, horrifying at the worst. It’s… it’s… gruesome. Can I use that word? I could see turning up my collar to get a laugh or to mimic the Fonz, but I just can’t imagine making it part of my day’s look. But again, I’m rapidly drifting toward the sinkhole called Middle Age, so I guess this general sense of cultural confusion and slip-footedness will only increase. So be it. Cargo shorts are an invention I embrace, and the t-shirt will always work in America. I’ll be fine.

Simp-ly Grating

Okay, everybody, ha ha ha. What a great and entertaining run it’s been. Hoo, boy.

Isn’t it time for Jessica Simpson to go away now? "And your little dad, too!"

Twisted Logic Visits Queen City!

I am regularly trying to force my musical tastes into my best girl's (Didi's) face, so I dragged her out to the Coldplay show when they rolled in on Tuesday. We had fair seats in the terrible outdoor stadium here in Cincinnati Ohio, where it was sweltering. Here was the good, the bad, and the ugly:

THE GOOD

**This Chris Martin guy can sing. Good.
**This band is a good group of guys, all of them very musical. The bassist played the harmonica, the drummer played the electric piano, the piano guy played the electric guitar. Good.
**These songs, I thought to myself after sitting with about 15 of them for about an hour and a half, are very good. VERY good. Solid, not showy, singable, relatable, moving. Extra good.
**As opposed to many major acts, their products were actually of a high quality, both in design and in material. Have we seen Lyle Lovett's t-shirts? LAME ASS. Poor quality material, highly dubious artwork. Reminds one of Sting's "Best Of" CD cover. Everything associated with these guys looks good. That's saying something.
**They are very non-big time. They all wore very simple black outfits, and Chris Martin, the star of the show, was the only guy acting like he was the Star of the Show. I dunno; I like that.
**Chris ran out into the crowd, and even into the indefensible lawn during the encore, singing all the way. About 3 feet in front of us, both coming and going. Woo!
**This doesn't have to do with the concert per se, but I keep reading high integrity stuff from these guys (and Chris is usually the spokesman): they've turned down multimillion dollar ad campaigns, for instance, because they refuse to compromise the meaning of their songs. Nice.
**When we saw Sting here last year, we were presented with all the cans of new Coca-Cola C2 we could handle, upon our exit of the grounds. You know, promotion of the new product to the target demographic and all that. Well, this time, we were loaded up with free coupons for Wendy's new put-some-stuff-in-a-frosty creation that's supposed to compete with the market-dominating Blizzard (yeah, right). But anyway... I'll take the free confections. Yes, I will.

THE BAD

**The sound at this concert was extremely frustrating. The vocal was always distorted, cause that guy sings so good and loud, and whatever hertz makes your ears pierce was pegged to the bleeding point. Ouch.
**The lights were good at this concert, but they had a massive LED screen at the back of the stage, that could raise or lower. This, to me, was the saddest part of the show: it appeared as if they JUST got this thing before the tour started, so a college friend of theirs threw some pictures together in Photoshop Elements and they projected that. NOT creative. NOT innovative. NOT moving. Just disappointing all around. Lame, lame.
**t-shirts: $35. Please. You're millionaires. Talk about Making Trade Fair, for crying out loud.

THE UGLY

**Didi and I might well have been the oldest people at this concert. It was kind of disconcerting to be hanging with the college crowd (Guys: sandals, cargo shorts, t-shirt with a university or city's name on it. Girls: jeans or gauzy ruffle skirt and skimpy top.), but it was also invigorating in a way. It was like a cross-cultural experience. Good for us!

Musica de los Muchachos

Hey guess what muchachos? Well, I'll tell you: Totila, friend, comrade, motorcycle mechanic has made some room for me on his website, beautifulcity.org. It will provide me with what I lack here at blogspot: namely, a place to stick MP3s! This is fun to me, because I would like for youse to be able to hear new demos when I write up a new song or whatnot. Sometimes I'll perform a song on the weekend and rather like the way it goes, and for those that want to hear such things (and by this, I mean Jef), here's an easy way for you to do so. There are only two there now, but there will be more, and I'll notify you when they arrive. Now, you may say to yourself, "my my, Mr. Steven, aren't we just the self-satisfied little so-and-so? Aren't we just the rumpelstiltskins borrowing the totem pole? Aren't we Mt. Ranier in a park full of umbrellas?" And I'm like "what are you talking about? None of your colloquialisms seem to make any sense, and why are you calling me Mr., anyway? And isn't it my music, and can't I throw it around wherever I want without it being arrogant? And why don't you wipe your mouth, anyway? You're a little over the top, if you ask me."

Don't call me self-satisfied, either.

TWIB notes from around the league

…It is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. One must completely abandon any attempt to make something of oneself, whether it be a saint or a converted sinner, or a churchman (a so-called priestly type), a righteous man or an unrighteous one, a sick man or a healthy one. By this ‘worldliness’, I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In doing so, we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings, but those of God in this world, watching with Christ in Gethsemane. That, I think, is faith, and that is how one becomes a man and a Christian.
How can success make us arrogant, or failure lead us astray, when we share in God’s sufferings through a life of this kind?

--Dietrich Bonhoeffer, from prison, 1944


…it is the executive who decides to “take” the meeting, plucking a screenwriter from a large pool of supplicants as Nero might have plucked an apricot or a plum from a basket of fruit. As India has its untouchables, so Hollywood has its untakables, human fruit so spoiled by failure or treachery that no executive is likely to accept it… Where writers are concerned, Hollywood is like the husband who resents his wife because he needs her. Many writers have been made uncomfortable by this resentment, but I haven’t. Like the traffic, it’s just part of the price of L.A. George Barnard Shaw reportedly once made a famous remark to Sam Goldwyn. “The trouble, Mr. Goldwyn,” Shaw said, “is that you are only interested in art and I’m only interested in money.” I can endorse that sentiment. Writers in Hollywood are perfectly free to pursue their art, if they want to: they just aren’t free to pursue it in movies, which, properly speaking, aren’t their art anyway.

--Larry McMurtry, -Roads, 2000


What Jim [Henson] really wanted to do was to sing songs and tell stories, teach children, promote peace, save the planet, celebrate man, praise God and be silly.”

--Jerry Juhl, Jim Henson’s Designs and Doodles: A Muppet Sketchbook, 2001

Roscoe Coltraine: In Memorium

Today I drove by a guy who was getting cuffed and stuffed. It's not something I see every day, and I'm all for seeing something unusual. But I was struck by this, as I passed by that poor man who made a bad decision, or maybe a string of them, and was having his secret misdeeds come back upon him: I think that guy lusted after my motorcycle.


Friends, I see this everywhere I go, and I needn't exaggerate this to make it poignant. Boys from age 5 to 75 ALL look at me when I'm riding my motorcycle, with a look that can only be called desire. It's not the dirty kind of desire, like guys used to give my sister as we walked through the mall together. No, it's a really terrific look of wonder and curiosity. Even if I wasn't the guy on the bike, and I was just a third party observer, I would like watching this look scream across the male visage. It's the look of adventure that was raging so much in that John Eldridge man that he had to write a few books about it. He was probably trying to make a lot of money just so he could get a really great motorcycle.

By the way, my motorcycle's great, but it didn't cost beans. I think I spent $1,500 on it, and it's a beaut. I feel like the kid on My Bodyguard when I ride it--it's such a simple pleasure... why would I care what brand it is, or how loud the exhaust pipes are? Matter of fact, I love the quietness of my bike. I can go out in the morning and not annoy my neighbors, and people don't loathe me driving down their streets. As I just said, people seem to rather enjoy it.

Speaking of adventurousness, Didi and I got our Moab on quite well, thanky. We did some adventuring of our own. Huzzah!



Okay, so Cuff/Stuff Guy might have been simply lusting after the possibility of riding away somewhere other than where he was standing at that moment--yes. I know that's possible. But I think it was the bike. He didn't just look me in the face, he joined his captors and the three bystanders by looking specifically at the bike. He went from wearing a "awwwwww MAN!" expression, to wearing a "wait a second... now WHAT is THIS?" expression. What could I do? I wasn't going to make the fist/eye sign for crying, like I hated riding the bike because it was a living testament to something he couldn't possibly do for a while. What would that accomplish anyway? I smiled.