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.