Jazz Thursdays: Did You Evah

Two punk icons take Cole Porter's high society shimmer and drag it through a few punk cliches. Not jazz, not punk, all fun. Special mention goes to Rodan, as the party crasher, and Debbie's "la la la la" cresendo: a single moment without irony.

Secret, Secret

Although I love PostSecret.org, I never thought I'd ever want to send a secret in. Why? Because I have a big mouth and had not secrets to share. Or so I thought. I spent some time this weekend thinking about it, and came up with at least a dozen secrets--some barely a secret at all, some I wouldn't share with anyone.

So I sent my first card in on Monday. I have another waiting for next week. Several more are lurking in the wings. (I'm saving the juicier stuff for later).

If any of my cards are posted, I'll mention it here. I won't tell you which card is mine. You'll have to guess that on your own. But it will probably have a shirtless man on it.

Just saying.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Some see online interaction as a way to engage each other, spread influence, change minds.

Perhaps.

And if that's what you think, I encourage you to hop on over to Salon and check out this discussion of atheism. There were 234 comments the last time I looked. Only two of which have been highlighted by the editors as noteworthy.

Let that be your first warning.

Best Comic Book Convention...Ever

Tony and I spent Saturday morning trolling the booths at the SPX, the small press expo, somewhere in the hinterlands of Maryland. I've never thought of myself as a "comic book guy." Shameless fanboy, perhaps. But comic books--while I understood how cool they could be--never really created any passion in me. This show changed my mind.

The floor was small but crowded. Almost every booth had a pile of objects to look through. Many were handmade or one-of-a-kind. Styles ranged from exquisite hand painted abstracts, to postmodern pen-and-ink cartoons. The artists were super friendly and everyone had a great story. (And by "great" I mean funny, weird, inspirational, and/or insane.)

I bought an autobiographical book called Shirtlifter from a supremely hot bear artist named Steve MacIsaac. He said it was more "artistic-y than pornographic-y." Having cruised through it last night, I guess he's correct. But it still plenty pornographic-y for me. I'm not sure I get the point of the whole thing, but I think that's commonplace among the small press people: Hold a magnifying glass up to the most arcane, commonplace, or otherwise invisible speck of reality (or surreality) and let it speak for itself.

On the way out, I bought a silkscreen of 16 little line drawings of the same dumpy little man in various states of dress.

I'll let that speak for itself, too.

PostSecret

PostSecret.org has been one of my favorite website/art installations for years. We had a chance to see Frank Warren, the artist behind the project, speak at a local bookstore. He's a very earnest, thoughtful, and apparently kind man, but I have to say his description of the project dimishes it a bit--just as one would expect any great work of art to eclipse its creator. There wasn't a lot of insight to be had, but we did get to see and hold a few actual secrets in our hands. That alone was worth the trip. There's surprising power in those little cards.

He Might Be an Evil Genius and All...

Went with the usual suspects to see Merrily We Roll Along at Signature last night. A few things:

• When I turned the corner, I thought for one second I was in a retirement home. I haven't seen that much grey hair since the DC Eagle circa 1990.


• I still hate musicals. Maybe not hate. Maybe...don't get. But I still hate wasting my time.


• My friends and family are funny people. And by funny, I mean random and vulgar.


• Lamb vindaloo is so hot, my saliva becomes poison.


• Stephen Sondheim may be an evil genius and all, but cliche is cliche. There, I said it.

Jazz Thursdays: The Jazz Messengers - A Night in Tunisia

Serious jamming from all-stars from the 1960s: drummer Art Blakey, Lee Morgan, and I think that's a young Wayne Shorter.

Home Sweet Homo.

I've returned from the Twin Cities. The week-long work conference was exceptionally busy. Work, what a drag. Sheesh.

Although most of my time was spent in the conference center, I did get to see a bit of both St. Paul and Minneapolis.

One of my co-workers used to live in the Minneapolis, so he took us on a night tour. Very cool city. Small enough to live in, big enough not to be bored. And it's on the Mississippi--who knew!

I also found a quaint little gay bar near my hotel. That came in handy when the boys from work stood me up one night. That's OK. I know how gay men of a certain age are. I had a Plan B already in mind. (No. Not that Plan B. Gross.)

All in all, it's nice to be back.

Roxy Music: Jealous Guy

Less elemental (and more truly full of regret) than John Lennon's orginal, you definitely get the feeling Bryan Ferry is singing directly to Lennon after his murder. It's not a love song. It's a eulogy, from one giant to another.

On the Road: Which Is the Evil Twin?

I'm here in Minneapolis-St. Paul for a week-long work conference. I can't say that this trip has has an auspicious beginning. One of the first things I saw from the window of my cab was an old man vomiting violenting on the side of the street. Then giggling and tiptoeing away. I also found out that a man came into my hotel last week, grabbed one of the domesticated ducks that swim in the interior decorative pond, and bit its head off.

Ahem.

Still, the cities themselves have a groovy, post-industrial feel. The buildings are pleasingly square. And the streets are walkable.

I have six more days for some drunk to gnaw my head off.