As I'm sure you've noticed, my posts tend to be pretty structured. Everything in a particular post relates back to a certain theme-"Orson Welles and the Cinema", "Music You Need to Know About", "If Only I Had Woody's Glasses and Barbra's Nose I'd Be Happy With Life", etc. etc. This post, not so much. We have my seasonal "favorite things" (it'll help you through your Oprahwithdrawals), a blatant (albeit well-deserved) endorsement of my voice teacher's new CD, a summer reading list, and a hastily composed paean to a member of my family who left us all too soon. Also I've updated the "Simply Streisand" page with some massive news. This is chaotic, meine freunde. But then again, these past few week, my LIFE has been chaos. If you read nothing else, read the last part.
PART 1: My Favorite Things. Or, your summer as dictated by ME:
New In the Lolcats Department:
If you're anything resembling a normal comedian, chances are you'll spend a good portion of your act riffing on the Holy Trinity of Comedic Topics--booze, sex, and religion. But Maria Bamford is not your normal comedienne. Her prize subjects include dog costuming, sea cows, credit scores, and Susan Sarandon. If this material doesn't sound inherently funny, well, it probably isn't. What makes it work is her delivery--her sprite-with-a-sting, Cheno-on-Xanex voice and the biting self-awareness ("And tonight, we have my quiet, odd joke-stories...don't you wish it was just Carlos Mencia?") elevates her weird hodgepodge of merrily macabre observations into a rarefied air of unmitigated hysteria. Listen to bits like "Fun Being Evil", "Alicia Keys", and "Baby Jesus" and tell me I'm wrong. Admittedly, sometimes Bamford's high-wire act goes a little off course (is a minute-long riff on the word "therapist" really necessary?), but when she's on track, what she does is pure genius. Comedy is generally regarded as the art of finding flippant absurdity in the mundane. Maria Bamford, with a tart faux-naivete that puts Chelsea Handler to shame, turns the entire mechanism on its head, making the most ridiculous activities sound as normal as walking down the street. Love her or hate her, but you can't say there's anything like her.
Broadway Babies, Mainstream vs. Indie: When it comes to the Best Musical Tony, I've rooted for the dark horses (Urinetown, The Light in the Piazza, Next to Normal) since I was gestating in the womb, but this year I can say without a single caveat that the Annual Big Hit, The Book of Mormon, has earned its hallelujahs. Molded by the creators of South Park and Broadway's ownAvenue Q, this fudged-up fairy tale for adults takes the most sober of plots--Mormon missionaries go to AIDS-ravaged Uganda to bring the impoverished to Jesus--and improbably mines from it both comedic gold and a measure of genuine emotion. The performing talent is rock-solid across the board, but Mormon's crown jewel is its score, which stakes out a fresh sound of its own while still finding time for riotous melodic roasts of everyone from Harold Hill to Elphaba. Yes, everyone's raising hell about the show's dirty mouth (be prepared to hear every dirty word you've even known used in connection with "God"), but they seem to be missing its pure heart. Indeed, for all its vulgarity, this show doesn't aim to debunk religion, but instead to remind us that, as with all other components of our lives, the shit only hits the fan when we take it too seriously. On the flipside, Women on the Verge of A Nervous Breakdown was this year's bona fide flop, and while it'll never appeal to non-Broadwayites the way Mormon does, true theater nerds will take plenty of guilty pleasure in this one's cast recording. To hear seasoned, serious performers like Brian Stokes Mitchell and Laura Benanti sport Spanish accents, chew scenery, and belt out Latino pop tunes is a once-in-a-lifetime sugary treat. Plus, Patti Lupone, perhaps the Last Great Rialto Diva, seriously socks over her eleven o'clock number. Ay-ay-ay!!!
Sing Out, Mr. Schwartz!: Inspirational music tends to be so generic and syrupy that it leaves me with a toothache. As such, I must say I'm extraordinarily proud of my voice teacher, Jared Schwartz. His debut album, Hope, doesn't pummel you with insistent choruses and obsessive messages, but instead gently offers you a hand out of whatever rut you may be in. Gentle anthems to mature, steadfast compassion ("100, 000 Nights", "Bobby Blue) mingle with soaring affirmations of commitment and togetherness ("No More Darkness", "Fall Into My Arms") to create a listening experience that moves you to believe in something, even if it's just yourself. Jared calls himself a "popera" artist, but he really doesn't need to bother with the label--the passion of these vocal performances transcend boundaries. Listen to his stripped-down cover of "Sparrow", and you'll see what I mean. Music like this, and we make "Party Rock Anthem" #1??
A Slot for Some Scots:
Whether you're trying to ease the pain of college-time so-longs (I refuse to call them goodbyes) or you just need something different to send skyrocketing out of your open windows as you speed down the freeway on a July afternoon, here's your musical drug of choice. Warning; it will induce wide, stupid grins and spontaneous sing-alongs. Remember The Proclaimers? That band that did the "500 Miles" song ("When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you...")? Well, turns out this Scottish pop-rock outfit has a veritable treasure chest of songs that are just as good as their one hit, if not better. I love all of their work that I've purchased, but their second album is still by far their best, crackling with the ineffable exuberance of young people making great music and having a grand time doing it. Slap-that-tambourine rave-ups like "Then I Met You" and "Come On Nature" call to mind the soaring choruses of, say, the Monkees at their best, but they don't forget to pay tribute to their own heritage on the instantly memorable "Sean" and the achingly beautiful "Teardrops". If you desire sweet, smart summer jam with a dash of nostalgia thrown in free of charge, then you and I are kindred spirits, and I think you'll like this one alot.
Yes, me. Yes, TV. I've Hulu'd the occasional "Glee" and watched "Modern Family" while pretending to work out, but I've never had that show, the one that pulled me in by the neck and wouldn't let go, until now. Adapted from George R.R. Martin's hit books (what is it with fantasy authors and initials?!), Game of Thrones tells the story of four families vying for political power in the blighted land of Westeros--the noble Starks, the boozy Baratheons, the incestuous, insufferable Lannisters, and the vengeful Taragaryens. We get to know every member of these bloodlines, living and dead, which makes keeping up a bit of a strain. But TRUST THIS JEW, it's beyond worth it. This is damn good drama, and the cast is once-in-a-lifetime; Sean Bean, Peter Dinklage, and Lena Headey deserve Emmys for their career work here. Thrones does something else incredible, too; it takes the fantasy genre and cunningly rewires its moral compass. Good men give up their honor and loyalty at the drop of a hat (and aren't always rewarded for it), and the baddies, far from cartoon villains, are driven by a series of increasingly complex modus operandi. This show goes further over the edge than any other, and I'm not just talking about the startlingly graphic sex and battle scenes--there are moments of nihilistic despair here that will freeze your blood. But that makes it all the more moving when righteousness claims its small victories. I don't know much about television, but I've got a feeling shows like this don't come along very often. On-Demand it, folks.
Part 2: But Mason, I Feel Like Being Literate and S@!#t!
Never fear. I've assembled a last minute summer reading list. If last summer was a hunt for the Great American Novel (conclusion; still looking), then this summer finds me continuing my search, as well as making a few excursions into the world of post-modernism and British comedy. I've already read a few. Ask for my thoughts, or wait for the inevitable reviews....
Reading Like A Writer, Francine Prose
The Doctor Is Sick, Anthony Burgess
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, David Foster Wallace
All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren
The Girl In Blue, P.G. Wodehouse
V, Thomas Pynchon
When All You've Ever Wanted Isn't Enough, Harold Kushner
Consider the Lobster, David Foster Wallace
Finally,
And yes, as I journey onward into the land of English Major, I feel the need to re-read the book that made me really want to read; Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison.
PART 3: Announcement Time
As much as I love being your neighborhood critic, trying to accurately judge creations as sprawling as The Tree of Life or as silly as Larry Crowne leaves me exhausted. Time to create something of my own. Expect reviews of all the major movies and some sterling indies, as always, but expect them to share this page with 100% fresh short stories and essays by yours truly. The Babs-Worship, I'm afraid, stays.
And finally....
PART 4: The Dog Days
Dwelling on loss is neither my intent nor what's ultimately best for me, but I'd feel amiss if I didn't take a moment whilst sending my thoughts out into the cybersphere to honor my beloved puppy dog, Maggie, who passed away a week or so ago after an excruciating battle with kidney disease. I refuse to say she lost her battle, because I never saw her stop fighting. She was unflaggingly energetic, consistently sweet-natured, and strikingly loyal--many a door or gate was left open in this house, and never once did she try to run for it. I must also say that as an only child, I needed either a pet or a straitjacket. Maggie was, in a way, integral to the work I did as a writer; she'd put her head on my lap for a bit of encouragement as I tried in vain to strengthen a weak turn of phrase, nudge me if I fell asleep in my spinny chair, and let me drone on and on about how I'll never be half as good as Thomas Pynchon. They say writing is the best way of speaking with being interrupted. Perhaps the most eloquent way, yes, but I think dogs deserve that title a little more. To call her my sibling would be hyperbole, but to call her just a dog would be almost an insult. I'll simply say that she was an integral piece of the puzzle that is me, and if losing her doesn't mean having to put all the parts of it back together, there is a distinct sense that a piece is missing.
Rest in peace, Maggie Moo.
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