Melinda & Woody & Will

Will as Woody

I happen to be a big fan of Woody Allen, but only a real fanatic would deny that some of his recent efforts have been less-than-stellar. He's a polarizing force, and it seems that ever since that whole shagging his teenage stepchild thing came out, the critical community has been strongly against him. Even the Village Voice has dropped its advocacy of THE New York director.

But there's enough good about Melinda & Melinda that it doesn't deserve to be tossed on the slush pile with Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Hollywood Ending. The premise is simple and unconventional. Two playwrights, one who favors comedy and the other who favors tragedy, argue over dinner whether a particular story would make a better tragedy or comedy. The film then alternates between a tragic and comic version of (basically) the same story.

Both stories have some strong moments, though the comic version is more consistently entertaining. I think it was a mistake to vary a few key details, because it makes them versions of two very similar stories as opposed to versions of the same story. But I'm a firm believer that even lesser Woody Allen is better than most, and worth checking out. My wife and I have an ongoing debate about this. For me, his films aren't so much whole works but pieces in an ongoing conversation. Even in a so-so film like Deconstructing Harry, there are great bursts of ideas. On the other hand, my wife thinks all his films are about a 60-something lech getting it on with another beautiful young starlet. I must concede there is substance to her argument.

But Allen also sidesteps any ill will for his onscreen persona by casting Will Ferrell in what is clearly "the Woody Allen role." I'm a fan of Will Ferrell, but I admit I always feared he was limited to a broad, clowning type of comedy. Not so. Ferrell is the best thing in Melinda & Melinda. Instead of performing some Woody Allen impersonation, Ferrell simply plays the role the way Allen would. It's a fine distinction, but a vital one.

Melinda & Melinda is not a great movie, but it's a pretty good one built around a solid premise. If you're a fan of Woody or Will, I think you'll be entertained.

Indie Film - Cedar Rapids Style

To my devoted readers (Mom, Dad), I apologize for the long lapse since my last post. It's been a hectic few weeks here on the Left Coast. So what do I have to show for it?

I'm proud to announce that my short film The Persecution of Al Kida will be screened April 2 at the 5th annual Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival. Unfortunately, I won't be able to attend myself. But I'm grateful to anyone in the area who takes the time to check it out. Also be sure to check out 'Round Midnight, a documentary short by my pal Andy Brodie.

Shadow Government Hides UFO Phenomena

So I watched Peter Jennings special report "U.F.O.'s: Seeing is Believing" the other night. Among the things I learned were that people who study UFOs but have no other scientific standing refer to themselves as "Ufologists," which sounds about as professional as some frat dude calling himself a "boobologist." I was also convinced that, while some sightings are unexplained and fairly incredible, the Roswell thing was pretty much a crock of shit. Just as surprising, apparently that "alien autopsy" show aired on FOX a few years back was a fabrication. I guess the fact that the most amazing revelation in human history needed a strong lead-in from World's Scariest Police Chases should have been a sign that something was awry.

There's an interesting range in the community of believers, from the straight-up scientists at SETI to those who swear they've been obducted and sodomized by aliens. There have clearly been a lot of unexplained objects in the sky. The logical jump that I don't quite follow is assuming that because the object can't be explained, it must be an alien spaceship. But if you think that's a jump, the blog Jennings read on The Daily Show was out of this world. The blogger suggested that the "shadow government" pressured Jennings into doing a recent report claiming Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman, and in exchange the newsman was being allowed to finally break the truth about our contact with aliens. Now that's some first class crazy.

Whatever you think of ufologists, you can't deny they make for some interesting stories. If you don't believe me, check out Coast to Coast with Art Bell, the most entertaining AM call-in show in America.

Taking a cue from the blog community, I've made sure to include in this post phrases like "shadow government" and "conspiracy theory" in shameless hopes of increasing site traffic.

Other People's Kids

The problem with other people’s children is you have no legal recourse.

Naura and I faced this problem over the weekend, while visiting The Devil’s home on earth – Hearst Castle. We were unlucky enough to land in a tour group full of kids running around like a pre-pubescent Lord of the Flies, not to mention their parents, who clearly decided to leave the responsibility for raising their young to tour guides and other passers by.

Now some people like to say they’ve never met a bad kid, only bad parents. That is complete horseshit. I have met quite a few bad kids. Maybe it was the parents who didn’t set appropriate limits or whatever, but the wanton destruction – that’s all Junior.

The problem with these parents who just let other people deal with their jackass kids is we don’t complete the deal. Most of us are uncomfortable parenting other people’s kids, so we usually react to their bad behavior with nothing but scornful looks to Mom and Dad, who obviously don’t give a shit. The solution is simple: We need to beat these people’s children for them.

I know “spanking” is a contentious issue, so perhaps parameters should be set by the legislature. But once those standards are in place, we the general public should have no remorse about smacking other people’s kids. I think it should be a Federal statute, but Republicans might push to make it a State thing. Fine. Maybe in Oregon you can only issue a stern verbal reprimand, while in Texas you can backhand the child with a leather strap. The point is we will finally have some acceptable recourse against the punks in the movie theater kicking the back of our chairs.

Of course, I’m not suggesting the negligent parents get off free. I think we need to throw these people in prison. Let’s finally bring some sense to our penal system – release the harmless marijuana dealers and make room for parents who let their kids throw garbage out the windows of a moving bus. Imagine this: A kid does something obnoxious in a public place. The person nearest the kid delivers a government approved beating, and any cops in the area track down the parents and handcuff them. Now that’s a police state I could live with.

And if people are really against the whole corporal punishment thing, we could always just arrest the kids too. It would probably serve as a deterrent to any other brats in the area to see a fellow 6-year-old being held face down against a squad car and maced. The LAPD already uses similar tactics with children, I’m just suggesting they be applied regardless of race.

I know even the best children can be a problem sometimes. As an adult without children, I am even mildly sympathetic to the issue. But it’s important that we acknowledge that many parents take their role no more seriously than the night of recreational sex that created the kid in the first place. When it comes to these people, for the sake of society, I think it’s a moral imperative that we beat and or jail the parents and children. After all, it takes a village.

Fear and Mourning

The Good Doctor was always a tough pill to swallow, but the news of his passing is still caught in my throat.

I won't presume to euologize Hunter Thompson, leaving that to those who know him and his work far better than I. But I do reach out to everyone else who is feeling shocked, confused, lost or hurt, and say, I hear you, brother.

What saddens me most is that he has left us at a time we really need him. Just in the last month, I've gone back and read some of Hunter's writing during the Nixon era to remind myself that politics have been a whirlwind shitstorm before and may yet get better. To me at least, that's the beauty of his words. He documented what it feels like to live under a liar like Nixon. Now that we're enduring a liar on the scale of George W. Bush, though it sometimes feels like we're blindfolded and inching ever closer to the edge, Hunter is there to remind us that we've walked here before. It's a sincere comfort.

I heard the news while driving with my wife through a rainstorm along the California Central Coast. Flipping channels, searching for a weather report, the news came to us from the lips of Matt Drudge. Drudge - the Godfather of Get It Now News that pummels us with information but gives us no kind of understanding. I hope there are far fewer Matt Drudges and more Hunter Thompsons.

And I really wish the Doctor were around to lead us on another shark hunt.

'Roid Rage

Anyone who's been following baseball this week has been inundated with Jose Canseco's allegations of personally injecting steroids into nearly every ass in the American League. It's been correctly acknowledged that Canseco is a world class dirt bag, and I sure as hell wouldn't buy a used car from him. But it's still pretty far-fetched to think that he simply made up all of these allegations. So what are we supposed to think?

Every sportswriter has weighed in on what this rampant doping means for baseball, and most have opted for hand-wringing and shame. But suggesting the doping tarnishes the achievements of those players makes some pretty bold assumptions about the effects of steroids and ignores the context in which the doping occurred.

It's obvious how steroids effect a power lifter or a sprinter - sports that turn on raw physical performance. It's less clear how bilking up helps a player with the precision skills required in baseball. I'm sure more muscle makes a great hitter even better. But I've seen muscle-bound guys who can't buy a homer and skinny guys with the hand/eye coordination, bat speed, etc. to get the job done. Steroids also entered the equation at exactly the time when players began rigorous physical conditioning, so it's next to impossible to divine where these . Because steroids have some effect on performance, alarmists assume they determine performance. It just ain't true.

What everyone seems to be ignoring is the fact that steroid use was NOT BANNED by Major League Baseball in the 1990s. The first official policy was drafted after the 2001 season. It is true that 'roids were illegal, and this may sound like a slippery philosophical argument, but that doesn't mean using them in baseball was cheating. It may have been illegal, unethical or dirty, but it wasn't breaking the rules. If you don't want to like these players because they were juiced, you have every right. But there's no grounds to suggest their records be wiped from the books.

But the record books are what this anger is really about. Comparing players from different generations is a second job for many, and stats are the tools of the trade. But from now until the end of time, anyone who argues Barry Bonds is the greatest hitter of all time will have BALCO thrown in their face. And that's fair. And it's nothing new. From the dead ball to the height of the mound to expansion, the dynamics of the game are in constant change. Steroids are a chapter in the history of baseball, and maybe not a noble chapter, but still a part of the book.

The Death of the Author

The death of Arthur Miller made me think about a lot of things, like his noble use of the theater to reflect social outrage and the awkward status of artists who outlive their prime. But mostly it made me think about how much cooler it used to be to be a writer.

Exhibit A and the tagline to every story about Miller's death is the fact that he was briefly married to Marilyn Monroe. I heard a few literati on my local NPR station lamenting this fact because it might overshadow the importance of Miller's work. I see their point, but it seems to me that this fact actually elevates our appreciation of what it meant to be a writer in Arthur Miller's heyday.

Can you imagine a playwright today being married to the hottest Hollywood starlet? Let me answer that for you: No. I can virtually guarantee you that you won't pickup tomorrow's newspaper to read that Patrick Marber and Cameron Diaz have eloped in Vegas. You also won't tune in on Oscar night and see Salman Rushdie escorting Halle Berry down the red carpet. And this writer/starlet thing wasn't a phenomena isolated to Arthur Miller. In All About Eve, which I regard as accurate as a historical document, the playwright is also pursued by the hottest ingenue of the day.

The glory days of the writer were also recalled indirectly in the aftermath of Johnny Carson's death. As was recounted in several remembrances, The Tonight Show used to run 90 minutes and generally featured the interview of an author at the end. Watching footage of Carson conversing with Gore Vidal or Norman Mailer, I couldn't help but feel that popular culture has regressed.

Now, cynics might charge that I only feel this way because, as a writer, I want to be pursued by beautiful women and spout my ideas on national television. But that's only half the story.

The full truth is that in an era of George W. Bush and reality television, ideas are becoming passe, and those who write their ideas down even more marginalized. It's a crude barometer of the social climate, but if you tune in to the tail end of tonight's late night talk show, you're probably going to see the latest jackass to get kicked off Survivor. Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather see a talented writer with something interesting to say. And if they've got some pretty young thing on their arm, I figure that's par for the course.

The Saddest Music in the World

One of my favorite uses for rock music is wallowing in self-pity. Back in the day, I hosted a Valentine's Day Sucks radio show which consisted of the most depressing, gun-in-the-mouth type love songs I could find. Now that I lack such an outlet, I wanted to at least share a list of my favorite tracks for contemplating the horrible futility of love/life.

I'm not saying this list is comprehensive by any means, but I guarantee if you put these songs on you will feel splendidly miserable:

One Step Up - Bruce Springsteen
Transatlantacism - Death Cab For Cutie
Birds - Neil Young
Mr. Blue - The Fleetwoods
Crying Time - Ray Charles
Misguided Angel - Cowboy Junkies
Radio Cure - Wilco
Ghost - Indigo Girls
I'll Come Running Back to You - Sam Cooke
Those Three Days - Lucinda Williams
Black Star - Radiohead
Martha - Tom Waits
Another Lonely Day - Ben Harper
Famous Blue Raincoat - Leonard Cohen
Hallelujah - John Cale (or Jeff Buckley)
Nothing Takes the Place of You - Toussaint McCall
Don't Think Twice, It's Alright - Bob Dylan

Have a Happy Valentines Day! :)

A Story that Sucks from All Angles

I've recently become aware of the controversy swirling around this University of Colorado prof who made some insensitive remarks about the victims of the Sept. 11 attacks. Like most controversies involving the world of higher education, the situation is a hornet's nest of ego, academic freedom and all-out bullshit.

In an essay written shortly after the event, Ward Churchill proclaimed many of the victims were not innocents, but rather "a technocratic corps at the very heart of America's global financial empire." As you might imagine, that touched a raw nerve and has led to calls for Churchill's resignation, which has in turn mobilized an equally strident band of supporters.

I don't know enough about this situation to make any over-arching pronouncements. But I do know a few things about this whole "story" that piss me off.

In none of the stories I've seen has it been made clear why this marginal critic's marginal comments have exploded to the forefront 3 years after the fact. But I would bet my left nut that it began with some small group of right-wingers. These roving clans of outrage are all over the place of late, with one group alone accounting for 99% of the supposed rise in indecency complaints to the FCC in the last few years. I understand there's no statute of limitations on this type of debate, and Ward isn't in any hurry to recant his statements, but I still think the question of "why now?" is an important one.

So the scent of right-wing collusion pushes me toward sympathizing with Mr. Churchill, but then I read his actual essay, pretentiously titled "On the Justice of Roosting Chickens." It's your run of the mill U.S. foreign policy spawned middle eastern terrorism sort of thing. It's a premise I find merit in on a broad level, but he looses me when he seems to suggest that the Iraqi deaths caused by American sanctions are more morally reprehensible than those caused by flying a commercial airplane into a large building.

But my biggest gripe with Ward Churchill came when I saw footage of him at some kind of rally at CU, because the guy is a complete tool. He stands at a podium and barks his martyr's rhetoric while his minions practically salute and goose-step. He's fighting to hold back this shit-eating grin, and it's clear he's getting off on the personal glory and not the power of ideas or whatever.

I'm an absolute supporter of academic freedom, but this story doesn't really seem to have much to do with that. In a struggle between an ego maniac and right wing alarmists, how does one pick a winner?

Bob Dylan and the Crossroads

I just finished Bob Dylan’s Chronicles Vol. 1, which was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award, in case you don’t believe me that it’s really damn good. With autobiography becoming nearly synonymous with self-serving crap, it’s especially exciting to read something that doesn’t make its author/subject out to be some kind of saint.

Let’s face it – he’s Bob Dylan. He could have gotten away with 300 pages of “kiss my ass, I’m Bob Dylan” because, well, he is. But Bob refuses to credit his talents or anyone else’s to something magical that you or I will never touch. I especially like what he has to say about bluesman Robert Johnson:

“There’d been a fast moving story going around that he had sold his soul to the devil at a four-way crossroads at midnight and that’s how he got to be so good. Well, I don’t know about that. The ones who knew him told a different tale and that was that he had hung around some older blues players in rural parts of Mississippi, played harmonica, was rejected as a bothersome kid, that he went off and learned how to play guitar from a farmhand named Ike Zinnerman, a mysterious character not in any of the history books.”

The myth of Dylan isn’t as clearly defined as Johnson’s, but he’s no less mythical of a figure. In speaking about Johnson, Dylan is reiterating what he has been insisting about himself – that he’s not any kind of supernatural talent, just a guy who listened to a lot of music and learned from it.

It’s exhilarating to read an artist of Dylan’s unquestioned talent debunking this idea that the creative juice is passed out at birth and you either got it or you don’t. That idea has given us a lot of lazy writing, lazy music, lazy art. I suppose it’s romantic to think that the great ones just sit down and let it flow with no consciousness of craft, but it’s also pretty naïve.

Super Bowl/Dead Grandma

Always happy to ride the nearest bandwagon, the sportswriters of America are approaching a new low this week by blowing out the dramatic story of how Tom Brady can possibly play in the Super Bowl after the death of his grandmother.

Can you imagine? A 27-year-old man having to deal with the loss of a grandparent? Who among us could deal with that kind of adversity? Given that the woman was 94-years-old and battled a long illness, the news must have been quite a shock.

This is why I don't watch the Olympics, where every single event is preceded by a feature in soft focus about how the athlete triumphed over circumstances as trying as moving to a new town or spraining an ankle. I understand why the overblown Olympics telecast needs this kind of dog and pony show, but the NFL? Can't they just fill time by showing a montage of career-ending injuries set to "Rock You Like A Hurricane"?

And doesn't the inherit drama of professional sport lie in the athlete's superior physical ability? I'm impressed that Tom Brady is such a good quarterback, I could give a shit if he's also dealing with the same stuff the rest of us do every day of our lives.

But alas, what should have been a minor footnote in the coverage of the game is practically leading most sportscasts and was on the front of today's LA Times sports page. And I guarantee you, if Tom Brady throws an interception tomorrow, some yahoo in the announcer's booth will wonder if it wasn't because of his incomprehensible grief. No, Cris Colinsworth, it was just a really shitty pass.

The Five Greatest Songs in the World

There's a lot of stories which illustrate the old wisdom "be careful what you wish for, you might get it." When I took advantage of an offer which got me five free Itunes downloads, I had no idea I was hurling myself into just such a conundrum.

Now I sit with access to damn near every song I can think of - but only five of them. So I am forced to prioritize which five songs in the entire world I want most. Sure, I could always download any other song for 99 cents. Or I could go out and buy any of them on CD. But just as no cheeseburger tastes better than a free cheeseburger, I know damn well that no song sounds better than a free song.

My instinct is to go for one hit wonders. Not necessarily artists who only had one hit, but artists who only had one that I have any interest in listening to. There's a whole world of guilty pleasures out there, like Journey's "Don't Stop Believing." It's great fist pumping music, but does it make the Top 5? I suppose I could pick an artist and download five of their songs, but that seems so limited.

So, if anyone has suggestions, I'm all ears. Whether they be the five greatest songs of all time or just five songs that sound really kick-ass together, I could use some help in breaking this psychological deadlock.

An Empire, but not an Evil One

Like any American worth their salt, I absolutely despise the New York Yankees. But I've been a little confused as of late to hear some people likening their New England Patriot hatred to anti-Yankee sentiment. Now, if Tom Brady nailed your wife or something like that - that's one thing. But the Patriots are a pretty solid example of winning well.

Some people simply choose to hate whichever team is dominant at a particular time. I sympathize with this position and must admit sometimes doing so myself. It's a noble thing to root for the little guy - which makes voting in an American presidential election such a conundrum. But if you're going to base your opinion on anything other than a hatred of success, it will be difficult to build an argument against the Pats.

First and foremost, the Patriots have built a dynasty essentially without star players. Tom Brady is only a "star" because he has won two Super Bowls. And really, his name only dominates the headlines when the playoffs come around, and winning actually overshadows showmanship. The rest of the team is made up of guys willing to play a role, regardless of if it garners them an endorsement deal. The Pats even have a player, Troy Brown, who goes both ways. How old school is that?

I don't buy into all that bloated "team" shit that is often used to justify the importance of sports. The truth is that most of the time, from the pros down to the Little League, everyone is more interested in individual performances than anything else. But the Patriots are rare examples to the contrary. Along with a few teams, like last year's Pistons squad, perhaps they will actually put the t-e-a-m back in team, making the games better to watch in the process. Who knows? If this team spirit really sweeps the nation, maybe I'll even be able to watch Rudy without vomiting. But I doubt it.

Mr. Godar's pick for the Super Bowl is for the Patriots to beat the 7 point spread.

For Your Consideration

The Academy Award Nominations were announced Tuesday, and while I don't put much stock in the awards themselves, it always grates on me to see certain films given the accolades that they are. This year's film: Ray.

With all due respect to The Day After Tomorrow, Ray is one of the worst films I've seen all year. It is the perfect example what's wrong with so many biopics. For those who haven't seen it (congratulations), the central struggle involves a drug-addiction storyline that could have been bought off the rack at a wholesaler's. And of course, the man who invented Soul is also tormented by an incident from his childhood, and the film actually ends with the ghost of his mother telling him it's not his fault. If that is not the worst kind of stock sentimental tripe, I don't know what is.

Of course most of the accolades have gone to Jamie Foxx's performance, and I'm not sure that he's undeserving. But what bothers me is the fact that everyone lauds his performance by saying "I thought it WAS Ray Charles." But isn't there a fine distinction between performance and impersonation? Martin Short does a hell of a Katherine Hepburn, but I'm not ready to call that the performance of the year. It's the kind of stunt acting the Academy Awards tend to recognize - make yourself blind and act like Ray Charles. There are tangible things we can point to, which I guess is preferable for those who aren't confident enough to just say "it was a powerful performance."

I don't quite buy into this notion of great performances in awful films. If a great performance is one that really resonates, how can that happen in a film that is laughably shallow? I'm sure Jamie Foxx was working his ass off, but when the entire collaboration produces such a silly film, you can't really go back, separate one aspect of it and say, "this is great." Even the attempt to do this is pretty unique to film appreciation. I've never heard someone say "that new White Stripes song sucks, but Jack White's performance is amazing."

But not to point the finger at Jamie Foxx, who may or may not be deserving of his nominations, when the person most clearly NOT deserving is Director Tyler Hackford. (Insert "Hack" joke here)

To take an artist as uncompromisingly original as Ray Charles and reduce them to a color-by-numbers portrait takes a special talent, and Mr. Hackford delivers in spades. The scene where Ray and his girlfriend compose "Hit the Road, Jack" while fighting with each other is so utterly false, it rings untrue to anyone who has ever written anything, including an e-mail.

I guess the saving grace is that, for all the hoopla of the award season, The Academy Awards ultimately don't define which films become part of the American Cinema Cannon. A stroll through the entrance to the Kodak Theater, where each Best Picture winner is etched on the wall, elicits more than a few "I've never heard of that's." Let's hope Ray becomes one of those films.

Now With 12% More Boobs!

While the FCC has spent the last year trying to cut down on the number of boobs you and I see through the mass media, a new cultural phenomena has been promising us more soft-core thrills. I'm talking, of course, about the "Unrated" DVD.

Every comedy that follows that tried and true formula of the 1980s, splicing in one shot of some boobs, is now released on DVD in a special "Unrated" version that shows upwards of two shots of boobs. Old School, Soul Plane, The Girl Next Door - these are just a few of of the films offering viewers the chance to see that extra bit of skin that wasn't visible in the theater.

These DVDs also imply some sort of artistic rebellion. "Unrated" suggests that this was the version THE MAN didn't want you to see. The irony is that most of these "unrated" cuts wouldn't have pushed the films into NC-17 territory anyway. They were probably released the way they were to give the movie the proper pace. But now the producers have picked up every tit from the cutting room floor and spliced it back into the movie. Sure, it probably hurts the watchability of the film as a whole, but many red-blooded Americans still opt for the bonus nudity. (It should also be noted that the watchability of many of these films is in doubt at any rating.)

Tittilation and repression are the Yin and Yang of our cultural psyche. The average American might not rent a XXX video, but they will buy a slightly dirtier version of Road Trip. It appeals to the same part of the male brain that watches Women's Beach Volleyball. These small, often pathetic indulgences give us a cheap thrill without the nagging guilt of all-out perversion.

So while the phenomena of the Unrated DVD doesn't really illustrate anything new, it is another example of a rather prudish cultural hypocrisy. We want fewer boobs during the Super Bowl but more during high-concept comedies. Don't believe me? Consider that the Amazon sales rank for the Unrated version of Old School is 589. The R-rated version - 7,766.

The Myth of the Album

After lamenting the shortcomings of digital music, my good pal Ed posted a great comment on the history of the single, from 78s through Itunes. I strongly recommend giving his posting a read.

But the issue of the single, or individual song, verses the album or LP is one that I think shapes and often distorts appreciation of rock music. As Ed points out, the notion of an album as anything more than a collection of singles only began sometime around the 1960s. People often point to Sgt. Pepper or Pet Sounds as the first "concept albums," and while these certainly aren't the truly long-form operatic works of a Pink Floyd album, they are probably some of the earliest (mainstream) examples of artists crafting the sound of the album as a whole.

As the pageantry of bands like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin came to dominate rock in the 70s, the album trumped the single as the true mark of musical supremacy. From this notion sprung the belief among rock purists that ALL songs by ALL bands are intended to be consumed only in the context of their given album.

I myself was long afflicted with this condition. Early on, in an effort to hone my rock appreciation, I scoffed at my previously collected Greatest Hits albums as, in the words of Kids in the Hall's Bruce McCullough, being "for housewives and little girls." From that moment on, my collection was built on honest, God-fearing albums and boxed sets. Not only that, but if I liked a song by an artist, I withheld judgment on the artist until I could confirm that the album the song came from was any good. If, as often happens, the song was quality but the album was rubbish, I denied my enjoyment of the song as merely a cheap tease.

While some artists truly produce albums, many do not. Rolling Stones albums, for instance, have never felt to me like any more than a collection of singles written over the same period of time. I defy any album Nazi to explain to me the difference between "Yield" and "No Code" era Pearl Jam. But it would be tough to argue that the Stones or Pearl Jam have never written any music worth listening to.

Nick Hornyby's recent "Songbook" is a great collection of essays paying tribute to the single. The official Rock Guy of Literature outs himself as a devotee of the song, one who spins the same 3-minute cut repeatedly in search of something more. He's also not afraid to confess his admiration for tracks by The Boss and Nelly Fortado.

This is not to say that the album shouldn't be appreciated and revered as a form in itself. The album is the feature film of popular music. Whatever a great song can do for 3 minutes, a great album can do for 45. If the house was burning down, I'd say goodbye to "Gimme Shelter" and "Betterman" and grab a hold of "Revolver" and "Nebraska." As limiting as it is to only appreciate the album, a sole focus on the single is probably worse - spawning "Now That's What I Call Music, Vol. DIE ALREADY!"

I guess the challenge is to appreciate each 3-minute single on its own merits, and hey, maybe even use Itunes to build a collection of them. Maybe digital music will even allow artists who work in smaller chunks to release their material that way - without surrounding the gems with a bunch of filler Album Nazi's will call "essential context."

And for those who do work in terms of albums, give me a disc I can hold onto, cover art and 45 minutes to enjoy.

No Safeway Clerk Left Behind

My friend Mike, a real live Brit, recently ran into the awesome vaccuum that is the California Public Education system.

He was in the checkout lane at the grocery store when the checker, tipped off by his accent (sort of), asked him if he was from France. Mike replied no, he was from London. She replied, "aren't they the same thing."

While many of us would have walked away right then, Mike, always the cultural ambassador, explained that London was, in fact, a city in England. Still convinced that she wasn't being told the whole story, the clerk responded "but, aren't they connected or something."

Again, Mike explained they were nearby, but around 23 miles apart and not connected by land.

Finally convinced that Londan and France were not the same place, the clerk seemed ready to allow Mike to escape with his groceries. But as he moved toward the exit, she hit him behind with yet another astute question.

"What language do they speak in England?"

And people wonder why we Americans are accused of not engaging in the world community. Those who dispute that obviously haven't bought groceries in Orange County.

I Need Cover Art

When I was just a little tyke, it was vinyl. By the time I started buying music, really great stuff like Bon Jovi's "Slippery When Wet," it was all about cassette tapes. When I started getting serious, it was CDs that I built my collection with. So it's not as if I didn't expect the medium in which my music is delivered to change again, but I'm really having a hard time getting down with this digital thing - and it has nothing to do with music.

For one thing, I really like the trip to the record store. It's a great, ritualistic experience. Even if it's just a chance to feel superior to the douche bag behind the counter, it's a social experience. It's like going to a restaurant - sometimes I just need some food, but other times I'm really going out so I can just hang out at a table for an hour or so. Some people have a Sunday service - I have restaurants and record stores.

Like most guys I know, I also have a bizarre fascination with cataloguing. There's a sense of pride in looking at a wall of CDs or vinyl and knowing that it represents your superior taste and value as a human being. But when I download music, I just don't feel I "own it" in the same way I do when it's taking up shelf space.

And on a related note, how are we to survive without cover art? The music purist in me would say that digital-only music allows us to judge each cut solely on its own merits, but I've long since learned to silence the music purist in me. The truth is, we all benefit from the short-hand of cover art. If you see a cover with gothic lettering over a drawing of a blazing hell beast, you know it's probably not a lesbian folk group. Popular music has had a strong visual component for years, and I'm not ready to break that chain.

But, lament as I may, I know the end of tangible albums is near. And it's not just that, friends. We are becoming relics of the mechanical world in the new digital world. I may not be able to build or repair a tape deck, but I have a pretty good understanding of how it works. A CD player uses a f***ing laser. When I was a kid, lasers were only used by evil masterminds trying to take over the world (including Reagan). I have even less understanding of how a digital music file works. Yeah, it's a lot of 1s and 0s that my computer turns into music, but if the song doesn't play I can't exactly look under the hood.

I'll see you all in twenty years, crouching in the bowels of the last record stores, lamenting the death of rock n' roll and just learning how to work our Ipods.

Pure Dylan

I'm about halfway through Bob Dylan's recently released autobiography (of sorts), and I think I can say, without hyperbole, that EVERYONE ON EARTH SHOULD READ THIS BOOK.

I am a bit of a Dylan fanatic, so feel free to take this with a grain of salt. But whatever your personal taste for the man's music, his profound influence can't be denied. Like in one of his great songs, "Chronicles, Vol 1." doesn't burden itself with chronology or other common narrative burdens. Instead, it follows a sort of emotional logic as he opens up first about his early creative development in New York, then the burden of being labeled the "voice of a generation."

For a man who, frankly, could get away with a pompous attitude, Dylan plays it honest. Sure, he admits to modeling his songwriting style after cultural heavyweight Hank Williams, but he also professes a fondness for the likes of Ricky Nelson and Bobby Vee. The most respected songwriter in Rock history doesn't even attribute that gift to some cosmic need to express himself. Rather, he casts his transformation from a traditional folk singer simply as a desire to turn "something that exists into something that didn't yet."

Dylan tells his story in vibrant scenes, often injected with fascinating, bizarro encounters. He talks of a time when he and Tiny Tim (yes, the guy with the ukulele) would hang out in the kitchen of a third-rate folk club hoping to get free cheeseburgers. He remembers meeting the wrestler Gorgeous George, or introducing himself to Thelonious Monk. When Bob said he sang folk songs, Monk replied "we all sing folk songs." Then Dylan paints an image of he and Woody Guthrie in the hallway of Guthrie's asylum-type hospital. Dylan would play Guthrie's songs for the man while patients wailed up and down the corridor.

What really gives moments like this such punch is the realization that such a significant cultural event as Bob Dylan performing with Woody Guthrie aroused the interest of no one at the time. Before he ever set foot in a recording studio and after he became a national icon, Bob never paints himself as an anointed figure outside or beyond the world the rest of us are in.

Young Irony

It's strange the things that can really make you realize you've aged, and I ran into a new one recently: New ironic music.

There's two kinds of bad music: The stuff that's just complete shit and the stuff that's so bad it's funny, and therefore ironic to make reference to. You know how it goes, you're out to dinner with friends, somebody drops a Whitesnake reference and gets a big laugh.

Well, a couple of weeks ago we were in a bar in Chicago with my sister and some of her friends, who are only a few years younger than us. But those few years were enough. This bar had karaoke going on at one end, and as we all know the main point of karaoke is to sing something more ironic and obnoxious than anyone else. The only alternative is to do what one of the bartenders did, singing a Led Zeppelin song with a guttural passion that begged for someone to recognize her as the next Janis Joplin. I went up to her after she was finished and asked for another beer.

But aside from those sad few waiting to be discovered, karaoke is all about finding that odd relic of pop kitsch that has slipped to the back of everyone's collective consciousness. So, I wasn't surprised when a couple dudes decided it would be awesome to serenade us all with Ice, Ice Baby. But when two other dudes opted for some awful song by The Backstreet Boys or N'Sync or one of those garbage groups, I was surprised and confused.

All the younger folks in the bar seemed to be really into it, while all I could think was "isn't this that piece of shit song that was just on the radio like three years ago?" That's when it hit me: This song is ironic to them the same way Ice, Ice Baby is ironic to me.

The leading edge of irony has officially passed my generation by. And every generation has its own ironic music, that's why Will Ferrell and Co. sing "Afternoon Delight" in their wholly ironic ode to the '70s, Anchorman. But it's a little disturbing to realize that my period of irony now has a beginning and an end - a forever frozen piece of the zeitgeist.

Even more frightening is the future. Let's face it, there's a lot of really awful music in the world. Up until now, I've been able to wade through the muck by isolating some of it as funny and ironic. I understand now that, as we age, popular music becomes an ever-growing pile of garbage that is ever harder to sift through. I used to wonder why my parents didn't listen to much new music. Now I understand - they didn't have the stomach for Bell Biv Devoe.