Twitter This

i stare at twitter and don't know what to do or say -
2012 came in like a tired wave lapping against my hungry shore. Drink, drink, drink, it seemed to say.

With the New Year I unearthed all the books I've amassed from book sales, lying in piles here and there and began to organize.

But I started paging thru the first one I picked up and never got back to it. Maybe next year.

I swear, the voice on my new navigational system said, "I told you to turn right, asshole!".

Whoops, wrong satellite.

While organizing, I fantasized about putting all the books in respective genres; fiction, non-fiction, etc.

Oh, what a library it would be.

I read "The Book of Old Silver - English, American, Foreign", by Seymour B. Wyler - all 400 pages and I don't know why.

Saul Bellow. Now there's a name. I read his "Henderson The Rain King" years ago and I'll never forget the roller coaster ride with the circus bear. Bear with me.

So I read one of his very few plays from my book burning pile - the failed, much maligned "The Last Analysis". Broadway bomb of 1964 after much revision.

Revised again for publication, - it's hysterical. My interpretation - once beloved comedian  has nervous breakdown while attempting to build a Freudian School of Comedy in New York City. Picture Milton Berle in a clown suit as a student of Socrates. I loved it.

Speaking of Broadway, I found a rare record in the bins - "Pat Carroll in Gertrude Stein" (Caemdon TRS 367),  a solo show from the late 1970s with Carroll as Stein musing about her beloved Parisian life while Alice B. Toklas naps in the other room.

Brownies.

I rung in the New Year with it. Felt like I was tipping glasses at 27 Rue de Fleurus. Felt the same way about Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast", which I read on a bus trip to NYC years ago, also about the American expatriate artists who graced Paris in the 1920s. Poor Ernie.

But I wasn't enamored by Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris", or is it "Paris at Midnight"? - with Owen
Wilson magically being whisked away to the art colony of '20's Paris.  I certainly didn't dislike it (loved the surrealists), and I was just glad he had a hit movie. It seemed a bit dumb. Pedro Almodovar's "The Skin That I Live In', also let me down a bit. A modern day Frankenstein story about a scientist who creates a synthetic human skin. I thought it was a bit ridiculous. Good chill at film's end, though.

And strangely, art house movie guy that I am, I loved "Mission Impossible 4 - Ghost Protocol". I can't get the Mission: Impossible musical theme out of my head now and I keep looking around for my next assignment.

In the same record bin that revealed Gertrude Stein, I found The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (Philips PCC 616), Ernest Hemingway Reading, (Caedmon TC 1185) and Bernard Shaw's Don Juan in Hell, Directed by Charles Laughton (Coloumbia Masterworks SL-166).

Inside one of those albums was a nice copy of Theatre Arts magazine from April 1952. It extensively covers Broadway and global theatre and it's proving to be as entertaining as any copy in media today. Great vintage advertising; the complete text of "Don Juan in Hell"; a heavy emphasis on the troubling new medium - television (One foreseeing article predicted a near future where people would pay for better television!); and a very funny article, "Second-Nighters" about theatre attendees the night after a Broadway premier: "Second nighters come to see the show, not each other. They are in their seats at curtain time. There is no irritating rustle for place during the entire first act, no dropped programs, crushed insteps, frenzied whispers. There is no rivalry between the center aisle striders and the actors onstage. Coughers are at a minimum, drunks sparse.".

A little while ago I was suddenly dropped by a bunch of unassociated "friends" on Facebook. I was "unfriended" and didn't know why. So I hired a private detective and learned that I was unfriended because of a crack I made about Jesus Christ on this blog. All I could think was, "Jesus, SOMEBODY is READING my blog!!!".

so the heck with you.

I had an incident at 7-11. I was going in the store and some kid standing outside asked me if I would buy him some beer. I said, "sure", took his money, went in the store, pulled out my cell phone, and called the cops. The cops came and hauled him away. I bought a 5th of Vodka with his 20 bucks. He's being executed next week.

Just sayin' - proud to be an American and do my bit to curb teenage drinking.

Theatre Review: Occupy Animal Farm by Justin Karcher at The Subversive Theatre Collective

I'd forgotten what a great story George Orwell's Animal Farm is. I remember reading it in elementary school and the teacher went to great lengths to explain the love declared between male pigs Napoleon and Snowball, the leaders of an animal revolution, was NOT the same as the love between a man and a woman. It was more brotherly and certainly not sexual.

The Subversive Theatre Collective, a feisty and tireless political theatre group working out of an old Pierce-Arrow automobile plant in Buffalo, New York is presenting Occupy Animal Farm, an original play based on Orwell's allegorical novella about a political revolution among animals on a farm. Here, there is little doubt Napoleon and Snowball (Jeffrey Coyle and Jonathan Shuey) are gay pigs frolicking in the mud, plotting revolution and very much in love.

They are self-proclaimed leaders of the revolt after convincing the other farm animals that pigs are the smartest of the animal kingdom. Early in the play while scheming to take control of the farm, Napoleon unexpectedly announces to Snowball, "I love you.". It's a funny scene with a finely executed dead beat that caught the audience unaware as if responding, "Did we hear that right?".

I was reminded that the book was a real page-turner, and the integrity of Orwell's vision, a cleverly comic fable with totalitarian thunderclouds threatening a socialist agenda, is intact in writer Justin Karcher's original work, which leans heavily on the humor while never relaxing the muscle that gives the story dramatic weight, even suspense.

Director Drew McCabe incorporates several unlikely theatrical forms into the proceedings: chaotic chase scenes set to the tune of a wacky slapstick soundtrack (think Benny Hill); audience participation that never quite catches on (this only works when the audience is enraptured); and dance choreography (yes, not only do these animals talk, they dance) to Justin John Smith's original, bizarre, and finally memorable music that combines rock and Hindustani influences. The closing dance with the entire cast, a morphing of modern and Asian-Indian dance forms by choreographer Jenny Kulwicki, is strangely effective while having seemingly nothing to do with Animal Farm.

The actors work their tales off. While it would have been more visually fulfilling if the farmyard had several more animals in it - a sheep here, a cow there, everywhere a goat-goat - the seven actors, donning masquerade-like animal masks and sometimes in multiple roles, express graceful acrobatic animal gestures while never hee-hawing the production into farce.

Maria Droz as Mollie, the young horse indifferent to the political revolution and longing for the lazy days of hand-fed sugar cubes and pretty mane ribbons ("No one wants to RIDE me anymore!"), bellies a perfect counterpart of desire to the gang mentality of revolution, as she sashays her way across the farmyard as if on her way to visit Mr. Ed. Brian Zybala as Boxer the work horse masters the sound of a horse snorting (he also does a fine chicken strut in a second role), and, like the hard laborer, is the backbone of this production in a strong sympathetic performance as the genuine believer in political change.

Technical difficulties hampered the show on its second night with one long moment in darkness where nothing happened but a dead stage. The decision to put the only human character in a mask (Matt Kindly as Farmer Jones) lent the stage a bit of confusion as the actor played multiple roles in various masks.

At home after the theatre I lookeed through my books to see if I had a copy of Animal Farm. I need to occupy it again. That is the measure of the success of this production.

Occupy Animal Farm plays through December 17 at The Manny Fried Playhouse in the old Pierce-Arrow automobile plant in Buffalo, New York. For more information call 716-408-0499.


this review was first published by the author at blogcritics.org

MUSIC REVIEW: Kate Bush, 50 Words For Snow

It's marketing strategy that Kate Bush's new album, 50 Words For Snow is released just as the winter solstice is stirring outside. Who better that Kate Bush to hunker down with on a cold winter night, start into a candle flame, tip a glass of wine, and entertain some serious intimacy? Bush's feverish followers, waiting sometimes years between new releases, will indulge in their passion for the art-rock goddess.

The new album finds her conjuring wispy piano chords while musing with her breathy multi-ranged voice on the mysticism of snow. It's an ambitious project that misses very few snowy ideas. Unlike Paul Simon's "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover", we get all 50 words for snow here, assuming phrases like "hunter's dream" and "ankle breaker" constitute words. My favorite here: "poland-sent-it".

The music is often dreary and meandering. An indulgence in mysticism or religion finds her soul deep in her psyche but wallowing in shallow execution. . Opening track "Snowflake" finds the cold white stuff heralding no less than the origin of man with Bush assuming a first-person godlike point of view, "I was born in a cloud", she begins and after trekking the ascent of man allows her son in a choirboy soprano to sing, "I am sky!".

I am tipping my second glass.

This notion, or condition, gets hip deep in the snowdrifts and runs through the entire album. She muses about the man who fell to earth while prancing on simple and amateurish piano chords that seem only the beginning of a creative process. A rough draft of music.

Better is her bizarre take on "Frosty The Snowman". In "Misty" she is seduced in bed by Misty the snowman who apparently is a little chilly in the love department. She sings, "so cold next to me, I can feel him melting in my hand", with all the drama of her most serious work. Here she paints a frightening, maybe enlightening picture of a man made of snow melting in her bed with nothing but the empowerment of women left on the soaked sheets.

But there seems little reason for the distant "Wild Man", the first and probably only single off the album, about the discovery of an ancient man and the attempt to communicate with him. "We found footprints in the snow", the lyrics read, constituting an entry in Bush's snow files.

Her duet with Elton John, "Snowed In At Wheeler Street" is god-awful. A creepy cloying song about a tragic 20th Century love affair that sounds like an old Ashford-Simpson composition set against the backdrop of a concentration camp. Is she truly referencing the Jewish Holocaust in a call and response duet with Elton? - "Then we met in '42 but we were on different sides. I hid you under my bed, but they took you away". Ironically, Elton hasn't sounded this good in decades.

As alluring as 50 Words For Snow seems on the verge of, it is as often a cold affair. Its only intimacy is that we all share some kind of poetic notion about snow. Bush comes close to tapping into that shared consciousness, but never succeeds in conveying that to a great piece of music.

On her official website, there are heaps of praise for the album from several major media critics. I'm glad for that because I've always loved her music. But for me, for now, here's a snowball aimed right at it.

This review was first published by the author at blogcritics.org.

Another Lost Weekend

The next 10 random songs on my iPod are not enchanted twists of fate. The next ten songs randomly chosen from the god of cyber-space on my iPod are indeed - astounding in their own familiar quiet way. I'd like to cheat but it's like the honor system in competitive birding. If I want The Rolling Stones and I get Men Without Hats make beer with a twist of lemon. Or maybe it's time to call the playlist executioner. Blame the Cardinals winning the world series. Blame the Occupy Wall Street crowd who I think should be occupying Skid Row. Organize man! You're fast becoming a tourist attraction.

Open mouth and insert foot and swallow whole. I'm at a new job and there was an employee meeting around a large rectangular table. There was a lull so I spoke. I repeated the scene in "Oliver Twist" where he asks for more porridge.

I don't want a friend I want a designated driver.




I won a pack of unopened Topps baseball cards from 1987 with bubble gum intact from Topps.com. I so want to taste that bubble gum but I did a market check on all baseball cards from that year and they need to remain unopened for another thousand years.

The Handsome Family, Don't Be Scared

Poor sensitive Paul lets birds and weather rape him. Sleepy steel guitar ballad from "In The Air" goes nowhere but in the air.



Men Without Hats, Messiahs Die Young

Synthesized horns, a bongo beat box and a pleasant audio drone made this a surprise hit in the American Bandstand of my mind in 1984. Revolution! of the mind.

The Beatles, Can't Buy Me Love

one of the earliest songs I remember loving on the radio but I thought the lyrics were, "Can't Bobby Love". Not until Brian L. and Robert W. staged a mock lyp-synching Beatles concert in an extravagent elementary school 'show and tell' session did I realize the actual lyrics. It's been a lifetime of preferring my original interpretation of lyrics to the actual words - (Elton John's "Rocket Man"- "burning off the shoes of evermore" ... no?). McCartney's raw vocals and Ringo's garbage can top drumming make this a garage rock supreme classic.


Former actor, famed trumpeter, successful songwriter (Ally-Oop, Wonderful World), owner and founder of A&M Records, (he's the "A"), co-producer of the Tony Award winning "Angels in America" on Broadway, not to mention his string of instrumental hits with The Tijuana Brass in the late '60s, Herb Alpert appears to be one hell of a guy. He's the only artist to have two number one songs on Billboard's Top 100 in the category of instrumental : "Rise" in 1979, and vocalist in 1969 with this song, the Burt Bacharach-Hal David written "This Guy's In Love With You". It's pure '60s shmaltz from a guy who really can't sing which lends the song an effective intimacy, like any "guy" can croon to his beloved. Alleged to be one of George Harrison's favorite records, that's two of us.

Sonic Youth, Sunday

A great noisy guitar jam interrupts this laudable would-be hit single from this forever experimenting band. Perfect mental fodder for my second least favorite day of the week. From the album, "A Thousand Leaves".

Kate Bush, King of The Mountain

This British art rocker has some of the worst rock videos I have ever seen and the video for this, with Elvis Presley's famed sequined outfit flapping in the wind like a homeward angel refusing to go home, doesn't jive with this king of the mountian. Kate, the song is about bravely taking on middle age with the energy of a newborn, right? From "Aeriel".

Swans, Weakling - Man vs. machine and man wins but is eaten alive anyway. Industrial noise and man mantra sounds like a typical day in a factory I used to work in. From "Filth".

Man vs. machine and man wins but is eaten alive anyway. Industrial noise and man mantra sounds like a typical day in a factory I used to work in. From "Filth".

Bette Midler, Delta Dawn

After intermission, Midler came back to the stage in this early HBO concert recorded live in Cleveland, Ohio, and delivered a rousing version of Delta Dawn that brought the house down. Midler makes this more than just a popular ballad - it's an Evangelical sweat busting workout. From "Live At Last".



Drive-By Truckers, 72 (This Highway's Mean) and Shut Up and Get On The Plane

Two songs from The Truckers' "Southern Rock Opera" fittingly close this iPod session - a doom mongering, life affirming tribute to Skynard.

SHANNON - "Abergavenny" (1969) - YouTube

SHANNON - "Abergavenny" (1969) - YouTube

Spanky and Our Gang I'd Like to Get to Know You - YouTube

Spanky and Our Gang I'd Like to Get to Know You - YouTube

Movie Review: THE BIG YEAR - Birdwatching Extreme

A bird in the hand may be worth two in the bush to a hunter, but to a competitive birdwatcher (a "birder"), a bird in the hand is as worthy a prize as the chirp of a bird on a tree branch a quarter mile away.

That's because the mere sound of a bird, correctly identified, could tally a point of one on a "year list" - a year long count of bird species, a game played as disciplined as a round of gold, by birdwatchers who have advanced their sport to a competitive level.

It is the subject of the new movie, THE BIG YEAR, starring comedy kingpins Steve Martin, Jack Black and Owen Wilson, and if we are to half-believe the tongue in cheek written opening of the film - "This is a true story, only the facts have been changed", - those privileged or passionate enough to spend an entire year documenting bird species do it for the love of the birds, the thrill of the hunt, and the bragging rights to being hailed Birder of The Year by "Birder" magazine. Plus all that comes with that, which apparently doesn't amount to a sack of birdseed.

Hopping on a plane to Alaska or climbing a snowy mountain peak at the mere rumour of a rare species is commonplace to these obsessed adventurers, yet with all the potential for a wild and crazy chase across the continent snapping pictures of birds, (Can't you just picture Jack Black at the weak end of a tree branch with a camera?), THE BIG YEAR scores its points on its gentle nature, even as you feel the hard scribe of a screenwriter avoiding heavy ventures into screwball and sentiment.

So we get a swath of human detail: marital strife, financial strife, meaning of life strife, as groundwork for three guys racing around the country with the passion of a Herculean task and the duty of an office stenographer. After about the 200th recorded species, you begin to care for these slightly cliched characters, (one's rich, one's poor, one is a cocky king of the birders jock), and envy the freedom and single-mindedness they possess on their seemingly insignificant mission. Following a quaint wintry trail in pursuit of a snowy owl with a sparkling limitless credit card in your pocket, becomes a fitting movie ideology.

The three leads deliver expected solid performances and Black is especially inviting as an aimless (except for birds), thirty-something who abandons life's duty for the chance to wear the crown of birding. There is an eye-popping list of actors, including Angelica Huston, Brian Dennehy, Diane Weist, and others offering strong selfless support.

The screen is often a flurry of computer graphics depicting competing bird counts, maps, and images of species, while the camera trails the birder's wayward paths like a bloodhound in pursuit. The birds themselves, more often than not, are just short of genuine, with a Disney-like touch up, making them appear like a distant naturalized cousin to an actual bird.

It's a breezy yet frantic romp in pursuit of something forever elusive. An attempt to define life by the achievement of a task, in this case the number of birds found and recorded in a calandar year. The critics have been harshly negative to this film but it somehow all works, for me anyway. Then again, I can tell the difference between a hairy woodpecker and a downy woodpecker in a heartbeat.


this article was first published by the author at blogcritics.org.