Prickly Pears vs. Pele's Envy Saturday Oct. 25th

I am such a wuss. Always have been. Probably always will be.
My fear of competitive sports resulted in my quitting swimteam when I was twelve. My abandonment of my favorite sport, soccer, came later. The anxiety would transform my stomach in a tumultuous sickness during the ride to the games. I'd sit in my seat praying that the clear sunny day would take a miraculous turn for the worse, that the sky would cloud up and rain the fields muddy and useless. I was a complete and utter wimp.

Only recently have I found enjoyment from competitive sports. For two seasons, I've been playing on a Division V co-ed soccer team for a league in Austin. It's the lowest division. There's no real pressure, no practice even (although we could definitely use it). This is the kind of atmosphere I like to play in. The game last Saturday gave me a much different feeling.

Perhaps it was because we were playing our rivals, Pele's Envy. This team brings a very egotistical attitude onto the field with them. Go figure. Normally, our games carry on with a few falls, maybe a yellow card from a loudmouth who can't shut up. But what transpired on that sunny Saturday were animosity injected tackles and a desperate effort to annihilate the pride of the opposing team. It began when they argued every call, or lack of call. It was either "Offsides!?" or "Offsides!!" At a certain point, the referee had to remind a player or two that he was the one making the calls.
With each jumble of legs and locked knees, there was a growing sense of purpose. Grudges formed. That girl is not getting past me again, I vowed. I'll have her on the ground before that happens. As one of our half-backs, George, and one of their fullbacks raced towards the corner of the field fighting to gain possession of the ball, tensions rose. The fullback forced George to stumble. What could have been a common, accidental consequence of two people sprinting for the ball, had George screaming a profanity that rang out across six fields (it's a good thing children weren't playing next to us, as usual). In a moment of unfounded male aggression, he threatened to beat the crap out of the other player after the game.
Even though all of this pointless behavior-- the grudges, the snide back and forths, the complete dissolution of 'it's only a game' state of mind-- the sense of urgeny to ruin the other team had an exciting effect that everyone felt.
Suddenly, I was running faster, meeting the balls with better, more decisive kicks, trying to throw elbows in subtle, disabling jabs. One of our occasional players, an optimisitic, smiley guy named Ollie was ruthless, and rude on the field. After each flourished fall (to which one of the opposing team members commented on his Academy award winning performance), he'd get back up and demand that the person who kicked him in the shin man up. "That's dirty," he'd say loud enough for everyone to hear, shaking his head. "Dirrrty... dirrrrty..."

The anti-climatic and sad truth is that...well, we lost. The first half was our Achilles heel, our defense was lacking and two shots flew past the goal. While our offensive managed to muster up one goal in the second half, the game was done before we could achieve the victory we knew we deserved. I have to say though that for all of the dumb, meanspritied shenanigans that occured onfield, I was enlightened that day. For once, my wimpy, "everyone should win" sports mentality changed. For once, damnit, I felt that competitive, ruinous rage, and I relished it.

French Kicks--"Swimming"

The Brooklyn-bred French Kicks hit sweet waves with their fourth full-length album “Swimming,” a collection of fourteen tracks that ring in your head long after they are over. Diverging from their garage rock roots and giving their mod-pop a more effervescent flavor, “Swimming” is what lead singer and drummer Nick Stumpf believes to be “by far the closest we’ve come to getting the sound we wanted." It's easy to tell.

The opening track "Abandon" proves the band can still strike up intriguing momentum with simple percussion. Stumpf's voice resonates, his smooth, delightful whine melting into a soaring harmony with band mates Lawrence Stumpf, Josh Wise, and Aaron Thurston. Songs like "Sex Tourists and "Said So What," are evocative of more innocent times. The quality of the tracks, a conscious or unconscious production choice, creates the impression that the songs are encased within gym walls, invoking chaste prom nights and naive lovers. The tune of "Said So What" dances to a gentle swinging chorus complemented by airy percussion. Wise's bell-like vocals endears this ballad to romantics with its hook "Why tell me why/I don't know." With relaxed lyrics and a flowing arrangement, "Love in the Ruins" embodies the band's desire for a more plush pop sound. The plucking of a ukulele accompanied by a bass line that undulates in rare bounces begins the tune. As Stumpf's lyrics dissolve into the background, the lackadaisical chorus returns like waves on a beach, the repetition reaching a level of indulgence not often shown by mature bands.

Produced and mixed entirely on their own, French Kicks achieve with Swimming a subtly upbeat sound that begs to be listened to with eyes closed. Their lush melodies and joyful harmonies leave me anticipating the next evolvement in their almost decade-old music-making career.

the Haunted House of Torment (Part II)

I found myself standing in front of the Haunted House of Torment, a gray faced killer at my heels, wielding a chainsaw, realizing just how serious the actors inside would be. I could smell the gasoline of the motor, for heaven's sakes.
I had never ventured inside of a place designed to scare people and like most people, don't prefer to be scared/uncomfortable/surprised.

My brain reasoned with me like one would with small child:
'It will only be actors in masks and makeup. They will jump and scream and try to scare you but they aren't real.'
My neurosis/tendency towards irrational emotions knew better.
'This is going to be horrible. One scare and your heart will jump out of your chest and beat in circles until it dies at your feet!"

It didn't matter. I had to go in. Honestly, those fifteen minutes were absolutely terrible. But in hindsight, I wondered: When is it ever okay to scream yourself hoarse for fifteen minutes straight without people running to your aid or asking you to shut up?

Once outside, exhilarated and a bit raspy, I had to admit that screaming the whole time had to be the most amazingly fun thing ever.

I must say my performance in the haunted house probably made me into a loathsome character.One step into the dark foyer and I was already crying out, seeing shadows jumping from the corners. As the line wound into each room, my mouth was open, a half laugh half cry pouring out. I was louder than everyone, even the actors and I started to sense their annoyance. With each "There! Something's going to pop out from there!", I went about completely ruining each ugly surprise, rendering every guttural moan anti-climatic, a waste of breath.

Huh. All in a day's work.

XL about The Haunted House of Torment, Published in the Austin-American Statesman

The clunk of the heavy exit door as it closed behind me was heaven sent. After being mentally pummeled and provoked for 30 minutes, the Haunted House of Torment finally vomited me back into the real world. We quickly rejoined the rest of the group, checking to see if everyone made it out alive and with dry pants intact. At the suggestion of a group photo, we arranged ourselves dazedly before the gargoyle statue at the front. I didn’t even have time to flash my cheesy smile before the picture had been taken. As we stood awkwardly waiting for the next flash, a high pitched screeching noise exploded from behind us. Everyone turned to see the gigantic gargoyle lurch to life above our heads, flapping its long, ripped wings in all of its animatronic glory, threatening to clobber the taller people in the group. I stumbled back, losing my balance and stepped on someone’s toe in the process. Fed up and a little more than disoriented, I speed-walked to the car.

Obama and McCain Presidential Debate October 15th, 2008

Obama and McCain went head to head Wednesday night answering question regarding the horrible economic catastrophe and finally making statements about their specific plans.

I haven't yet subscribed to the Obama email letter, slapped his face on my bumper, yelled it out loud and proud but this debate set it in stone for me. He has my vote.
He won. And here's why:
+ Whereas McCain responded to every issue by pointing a finger at Obama (how he voted, how he's going to increase taxes, what he did wrong), Obama responded to the question by giving the viewers background. For example, in regards to the question about how the bailout was going to affect everyone, the senator gave a very careful, precise explanation of what exactly was going on. What were the mechanics of this billion dollar bailout and why was it proposed. He explained how it had happened, how these Wallstreet companies were handing out loans right and left and there was no regulations in place (as a result of a steady de-regulation process, as advocated by McCain) to stop them from doing this.

I think the most important fundamental difference about these two, though this may be seen as superficial rhetorical devices, are the fact that they made their points clear about the roles of government.

How are we going to fix the American economy?
McCain's answer (more or less): "We're Americans. We can solve these problems together."
Obama's answer: "This problem requires leadership from Washington."

We are the public. Yes, this is a democracy but the President is the person whom we should be able to trust to prevent and solve our problems before they become national catastrophes.
We trust that the leadership of this enlightened person, this member of society who feels strongly that our national policies should change and be reformed will make wise, ethically astute decisions on behalf of all of us.

Austin American Statesman Adventure

Around 2:30pm on Tuesday afternoon I entered the doors of the Austin American Stateman and sat down to wait for my professor and well-known social columnist, Michael Barnes. The design of the building is a bit trippy. Angular, askew. It always seemed like I was walking into a corner.

Once Barnes arrived, we took the elevator up and entered the newsroom, an open area full of desks, Macs, and newswriters. Everyone was busy. I rubbernecked past every desk, wanting to catch a glimpse of what these people were working on whether it was designing, chunking and organizing information, talking to important contacts ("...turkey on wheat, no mayo and lots of mustard), and revising the good old fashioned way--with a pen, paper, scratchouts, and arrows. The vibe wasn't as frenetic as I expected. I had imagined people running between desks hurriedly, talking seriously, writing a mile a minute, maybe even yelling at each other. Who knows why my imagined model of a newsroom mirrored the Washington Post during Watergate, but it did.

Needless to say, I felt perfectly comfortable in the lax environment and Barnes made me feel at home and less like a pimpled teenager seeing people do what I want to do when I grow up. So he sat at his computer and I sat on a desk and we got down to business.

He replied to emails and I opened this guy's mail. As a former entertainment editor, Michael recieves tons of free music from random record companies. So here I am, this person who only ever recieves bills and paychecks in the mail, tearing open package after package, each one containing a new, shiny album, DVD, VIP invitation, or doodads for your wine glass, or whatever---point is: FREE STUFF. It was the best christmas ever. I even got Billy Bob Thorton's Christmas album! Well, I received it. Michael is the lucky one who gets to keep this stuff.

But I digress. After he checked a week's worth of emails, we walked to the printing room. He pointed out the new vertical printing presses that are worth some millions of dollars and are specialty equipment exclusively made in places like Germany and Switzerland. These machines were massive, stretching the length of ... I don't know, a football field. I don't remember too clearly. Frankly, these monster machines freak me out. I wash my hands of it.

The experience was refreshing. Finally, I could concretize the idea of a career in journalism. And it didn't seem impossible. These people in the newsroom--they looked like you and me. I looked around and thought, "This would be a great place to work."

Plus, there are candy bowls everywhere.

The Woes of Fruitless Talent

I don't see why artists can't make a living doing what they are good at.

I have two friends, young artists, who are the parents of a beautiful, fat baby named Teddy.

Last night we talked about a watercolor Troy was in the process of making, a swirl composed of tiny penciled circles. There must have been at least 1,000 on that piece of paper. He was just beginning the task of coloring each dot, designing the scheme of the piece. Troy has great artwork. It's modern with an appreciation for automatic decoration, spontaneous ink lines that look like foreign languages and calligraphy.

To be honest, I'm surprised that these two young people can provide for themselves and their babe with the money gained from their creations.

I reminded Troy that writers and artists share the same struggle. There's just not enough money, or guaranteed income at that, for one's talent/love to become one's livelihood. Too many people with creative endeavors work day jobs, their talents only complementing their lifestyles. And this isn't a terribly bad thing; people can be happy either way. My point is artists should be able to create art, and there should exist a big enough market for that art so that people can  support their families.

Troy's getting into the t-shirt business. He said he can put an original design on a t-shirt and sell it in a boutique for forty dollars a piece. Wearable art. Way cool. Yet I can't help but lament the fact that there are bare walls in the bedrooms and living rooms of so many and unsold pictures, painting and drawings sitting stale, collecting dust in dark closets.

It's time to tear down your posters. Support your local art scene and put up your friends' drawings.

Season Finale Project Runway

Now that I've decided to own my Project Runway obsession, I think this is an opportune time to discuss the season finale, during which the final three contestants will be giving all they've got in Bryant Park for Fasion Week.

Part I of the Season Finale had viewers a bit perplexed over the judges' decision to pull the plug on Jerell's designing dreams. It seemed that Kenley's defensive schoolyard attitude and backtalk wasn't enough to deter the judges from praising her wedding dress, a fantastical feathery McQueen knockoff. It is a nice look...for the prima ballerina in Swan Lake maybe. Perhaps even more confusing was Korto's out of character misjudgement with her "overworked" and "overlabored" papery wedding gown. Her simple bride's maid dress, a halter top with a pleated skirt, did not impress the judges or her fellow designers. It was LeAnne's wedding dress that shined among the rest for its originality and flawlessness. Her architectural take on waves produced a "modern" garment that looked like two chefs hats stacked on top of each other. Really though, it was an impressive garment although I can't see any woman wanting to walk down the aisle looking like a person sized wedding cake.

A series is never interesting unless there is a twist. Jerell's elimination showed that Kenley's abrasive, tough girl attitude not only was overlooked by the judges, but managed to intrigue them. But as long Korto keeps her collection simple and definitive, and LeAnne continues to contruct wearable sculpture, I don't think Kenley's peppy fifties style will be able to hold its own.

Don't leave alcohol near your pumpkins...

Ah ha ha.... Just for a laugh. Halloween is a tricky time of year. It's a sad time for kids too grown to trick or treat, for teenagers too mature to wreak havoc, and for parents too tired to keep glueing sequins to garbage bags, throwing together a last minute costume for one night of the year.

I think that we are starting to resemble the parents more than the others. Putting together costumes is all about using what you already got.
"I guess I'll just wear my hair down and carry around a bottle of Jack Daniels. I'll be Janis Joplin."(appear to be drunk too, it's more convincing)
"I guess I'll strap down my chest and wear a sock. I'll be a dude." (stuff a bra, wear some read lipstick, and you're a chick)
"I picked up some face paint. I'll just paint myself silver and be an alien."

You know, this is why I'm appreciative of costume ideas that have you standing in the corner of the party, silver paint sweat stinging your eyeballs, going "Why didn't I think of that?"

Project Runway Season Finale is going to blow other seasons out of the water

Ok, so I can't hold out any longer. I'm just as addicted as the rest of them and I love Project Runway. Whew. Now that that's over with...

The season finale of the fifth season has viewers anticipating collections from four outstanding designers Kenley Collins, Jerrell Scott, Korto Momolu, and Leanne Marshall. These designers, having survived twelve grueling challenges, are obviously cream of the crop, considering that the judges have changed the rules in order to allow all four to move on to the final round.

The last challenge, a project which required each designer to search the New York Botanical Gardens to find inspiration for an evening gown, had judges boggled. Collins' defensive attitude only worsened the judge's reception to her tasteless, pink skin tight queen of the lizard's gown. Even though Jerell's low cut, bejeweled design was intriguing, his less than perfect execution made judge Michael Kors' nervous about a final runway show. Leanne's creative ruffled accents made distinct her periwinkle dress, but the judges were hard to impress. And for once, Korto's creation dissapointed judges with what appeared to be a cliched chest-bearing pageant gown. Her bold orange fabric was laid to waste by an overall negative reception. So it was an interesting twist when viewers found out that despite Kenley's brashness to the judges, she would be allowed to advance and that there would be four finalists in the final competition. The next episode is a bit of a mystery but the judges will be narrowing down the group and deciding who will be the final three to show collections for Bryant Park Fashion Week.

Based on what I've seen of these designers' work, this will be the most visually stimulating and genuinely creative collections in this history of Project Runway. And thanks to a class cancellation (woo-hoo!!), I will be able to catch the first part of the Season Finale on Wednesday night October 8th with the rest of the addicts. Can't wait.

Choke--A Review

Victor Mancini has had sex with every nurse in his mother's nursing home. He is desperate and traumatized, an unshaved man-child, trying to sift out the truth in his mother's demented meanderings--a paradigm of author Chuck Palahniuk's personas.

Adapted to the screen by newbie director, Clark Gregg (The Usual Suspects),  Choke stays true to the dirty fingernails style of Palahniuk's prose. Gregg is not afraid to explore protagonist Victor Mancini's (Sam Rockwell) past, a childhood peppered with appearances of a wayward, beautiful mother Ida (Anjelica Huston) who coerces him to abandon every loving foster family Victor ever knew. Now, as an adult, he visits the aging Ida under different guises, faithfully nourishing her with chicken parmigiana when, in a moment of lucidity, she reveals information that sends Victors on a mission to find out the truth of his origins.

Rockwell as Victor is cast well enough. He is sleazy and wears unclean like a smart looking tux. His crooked face coveys genuine confusion by what happens to him as the truth becomes more mental than he is. Gregg makes good directorial choices, always maintaining the audience's attention by eliminating dead air, though this may have been detrimental to the development of the self-hating Victor, a character that isn't easily swallowed by the audience. This appeal to our superficial fascination with sex acts, the gross, mysterious, and crazy, may have been too much for Victor's heart to survive in the minds of viewers. In truth, we feel the same for him at the end of the movie as at the beginning: lukewarm.

But take all of the sick curiosities out of a Palahniuk screenplay and you haven't got much to work with. A consistently entertaining film that doesn't require emotional investment. Just like Victor's sex addiction: it's all action with no strings attached.

Religulous

Political commentator Bill Mahrer ruffles some feathers in Larry Charles' new documentary, Religulous, a film dedicated to questioning blind faith and poking God-sized holes in the hearts of Americans.

Bill Maher interviews Jesus at the Holy Land in Orlando, Florida.

It was hard to find someone to see this movie with me. My sister, a person with an open aversion to religion, rejected my invitation, saying that she was not willing to watch Bill Maher be a complete asshole for an hour and a half.

But I must say, before the asshole, Maher's a comedian. And he did wonders with the topic at hand.

Take Mahrer, used to sitting behind a desk yelling at other loudmouthed pundits on his HBO program, and put him at the front of a single-wide trailer in Raleigh, North Carolina. He is inside a roadside chapel, standing before six or seven rustic looking truckers in collapsible chairs. Suspicion is written across their tired faces.

His strategy is simple. Maher asks only for explanations of their belief. The what's, the how's, and the why's. His straightforward, go for the jugular approach could be mistaken for arrogance and condescension. But Maher's reaction to their responses is often times met only with a reiteration, allowing the interviewees to hear the holes in their own reasoning.

Perhaps the most fascinating part of the documentary are the reactions caused by questions that merely scratch the surface of the religion debate. Early on Maher asks "And why is faith so good?" to which a trucker rises from his seat in a huff. "Look, I don't know what your movie is about but I don't like it and I'm leaving," he says, a commonly held reaction to Maher's questions.

Interviews are conducted all over the world, from the desk of one brainless, square jawed Republican senator, to a babbling orthodox Jewish rabbi who denied the Holocaust--the only interview Mahrer walked out on shaking his head in defeat and disbelief. He interviews clergy, doctors, and unforunately, and maybe to his discredit, the kind of faceless Americans that populate places like The Holy Land, a biblical amusement park in Orlando, Florida. These scenes seem too easy, and Maher self-serving.

I wouldn't reccomend this film for people that aren't already engaged in the debate on religion. But for those who can stomach Maher's opinion, there are many belly laughs to be had in the absence of reverence.

Vice Presidential Election Tonite

...someone is going to get schooled and I think we all know who that is going to be.



Should this make me any less excited to see the debate?
I don't think so.
What's going on right now is just tickling me. Tonight a certain female vice-presidential candidate who has demonstrated all the political savvyness of your average American high school student will be up against a certain former senator known for unfiltered, long winded responses that have led to some major slip ups--for one, a recent mistake he made when recalling President Franklin Roosevelt's address to the nation made on TV during the 1929 stock market crash...ouch.

Time magazine captures what kind of verbal calamity and mishaps might ensue tonight in "Biden's Debate Challenge: Keeping His Mouth Shut"

The combination of Palin's desperate attempt to appear informed and Biden's effort to shut up when he can, this debate will make for a good laugh at the least.