Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Root, root, root for the home team...

If they don't win it's a shame... for it's one, two, three membersofcongresswe'remissing in good old Deeeeeeeeee Ceeeeeeeeee!!

Monday, February 27, 2006

There's only one word...

Hot. Maybe two... smokin' hot.

Shriek of the Week, Vol. 11

When Damien Rice played the Beacon Theater in New York last year, Claudia Marshall introduced him, saying that on his debut album, O, one would find all the angst and sexual tension missing from the latest Norah Jones album. She wasn't kidding. Let's kick it off with a bang, shall we? When I went to this show, I had O darn near memorized, but had never heard the B-Sides release, where this first song is found. And to be honest, it came as a bit of a shock... there are no f-bombs on O. Damien does not mince words, the driving chorus from Woman Like A Man:

"You wanna get boned,
You wanna get stoned
You wanna get a room like no-one else
You wanna be rich
You wanna be kitch
You wanna be the bastard of yourself
You wanna get burned
You wanna get turned
You wanna get fucked inside out
You wanna be ruled
You wanna be fooled
You wanna be a woman like a man
like a woman, like a, like a man."

Ouch. But this isn't just a diatribe, behind a just-as-angry-as-the-lyrics guitar lurks a cello and soft, almost jazzy drums that just suck you right in. Check out Cheers Darlin' for a similar though a touch less angry feel. O is a bit more level-headed, there's still a lot more cello than on your typical rock record, but there are also smart lyrics and compelling tales. At the show, he told the story of Amie, staying with a platonic friend whom he hoped would be more, looking out the window beside her bed and seeing a spaceship/satellite/some other blinky object in the sky fly past (the "something unusual, something strange" in the lines below) then attempting to use it as a seduction tool:

"nothing unusual nothing strange
close to nothing at all
the same old scenario
the same old rain
and there's no explosions here
then something unusual something strange
comes from nothing at all"

It's also the only song I've ever seen performed with accompanying rhythmic gymnastics. Kooky. The edge to his songwriting was somewhat stripped for the U.S. release of Cannonball, the single chosen to make him into the next David Gray. Which didn't quite work. The album version captures the feeling of being completely wrong for the part of a lover, starting off with the good stuff that remains, "a little bit of your face I haven't kissed," "a little bit of your taste in my mouth," "a little bit of your words I long to hear," and then the fear, "a little bit of you laced with my doubt," "you step a little closer to me, so close that I can't see what's going on," and the feeling of being completely unprepared, even wrongly prepared, to handle emotions beyond the initial infatuation:

"stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life, it taught me to die
so it's not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball."

And I'm hacking him all to shreds because he says all of this so much better than I do, so well that it makes me stop and I can't think of anything else except that. As such I don't recommend it while driving. But one last song to point out, Delicate, which I've listened to about 157 times in the last few days...

"we might live
like never before
when there's nothin’ to give
how can we ask for more?

we might make love
in some sacred place
that look on your face
is delicate

so why d’ya fill my sorrow
with the words you've borrowed
from the only place you've known
why d’ya sing hallelujah
if it means nothin’ to ya
why d’ya sing with me at all?"

Before breaking out on his own, Damien sang with Bell X1 (a future shriek, to be sure). He has released both O and a compilation of B-Sides in the U.S., as well as a few singles that do include some b-sides that didn't make the B-Sides release. There are clips on the site, well worth your time, to my mind. In addition to the songs above, Volcano is worth a listen, as is I Remember, featuring his frequent collaborator Lisa Hannigan. See, there is more to Irish rock than U2... Enjoy!

Friday, February 24, 2006

Peter Angelos is an ass.

We all know that I'm a Mets fan until I die. I love 'em, they're my peeps, I own a jersey for goodness' sake. But, I've also very quickly become a Washingtonian, and as a Washingtonian, I have a soft spot for the Nationals. I love that there's baseball in the nation's capital, RFK's cool, the new stadium could be even more cool (though hopefully less buggy), the chicken is pretty funny, plus it turns buttoned-up politicos into giddy little kids to head to a game without any use of I-95 or the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. However, not everyone in Washington who likes baseball or the Nats can get to the stadium for most games, and frankly, there's little better than settling in to watch a game with a cold drink and a glimmer of the playoffs in your eye on a sultry August night.

However, Peter Angelos, owner of the Baltimore Orioles and conveniently for him, the cable channel which carries the Nats he so despises, has relegated DC's boys of summer to minor league status by limiting the availability of MASN. And to make it worse, after a very successful inaugural season, he's now claimed even more games as solely the province of MASN, making it even less likely that the 1.75 million cable TV subscribers in the DC area who choose Cox, Comcast or Adelphia will be able to enjoy that most American of summer evening activities. It's an insult to the people of this city that so many of us can't even watch the team we're so proud of on a regular basis, and a really sad reflection on the state of MLB that it continues to kowtow to a bratty millionaire at the expense of the game. Shame on you, Peter Angelos and shame on you, Bud Selig, for not doing more to build this franchise.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Holy crap Nick has a BLOG!!!

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Hulk smash...

I know that I have a bit of a temper. When I get angry (which is rare, though my displays of annoyance might border on what some people consider angry), it's ugly. I throw things, slam doors, generally act like a three-year-old being forced to take a nap. It's been a while since I've had such a fit, but this morning just set me off.

It all began looking to be a darn good day. I've been awfully sleep-deprived of late, so I went to bed early last night, woke up with enough spare time to snooze a few times, had coffee and milk on hand for a proper wake-up, seems all good. I start in on said coffee and my usual morning routine, a little GMA (which I really watch for the sake of the local ABC traffic lady, she's kind of funny even if I don't really need to hear the traffic report in the morning), checking e-mail, and reading a few Post/NY Times articles. Well, my day got quite a bit brighter upon reading in a Post article that the Arctic Monkeys are playing at the 9:30 Club on March 27. My regular readers will surely remember my enthusiasm for these young lads, and I must say it's only grown since my original Shriek. Aside from Robbie Williams deciding to take a second stab at conquering the States (pretty please with a cherry on top?), there's very little else that I'd like to see more right now than the Arctic Monkeys live.

But alas, there is no joy in mudville. There is not now nor has there ever been a reference to this show on the 9:30 Club Web site (I check regularly and in fact bought a ticket from them through the site over the weekend and was at the club Monday night, so would've snatched up a ticket in a heartbeat had I known). Apparently, the tickets have been on sale through tickets.com and are sold out. This makes me seethe with anger.

But wait, there's more... Angry me proceeds to get ready, though on a slightly behind schedule timeline as one can't properly shower/get dressed while mad at the world, but it's cool because I've already got my outfit picked out. BIG time saver. I got these excellent pants at BCBG over the weekend, and they're going to look smashing with a black button down and some kickin' heels, I'll be all super-profesh for my meeting this evening about my new gig as community service chair for the DC Chapter of the W&L Alumni Association. I set up the iron so the shirt will look properly crisp and mildly regret not having it laundered. Shower, iron the shirt, rest of the way dressed, blow dry hair, go to put on shirt once it's had time to cool and as I'm ready to leave the house... THE M.F. SHRANK IN THE GOD DAMN WASH. It is too short. The bottom button hits at my belly button and the sleeves just look stupid. I have worn this thing once. ONCE. I washed it according to the instructions on the tag. I did not put it in the dryer.

I am now (both in the story and at this moment) borderline implosion-level angry. I don't have time to iron another shirt, already running late, and don't really have another option at this point, so I'm now wearing the too small shirt, feeling insanely uncomfortable and constantly reminded of why I'm so angry by the drafty sides of the fucking shirt since I can't fucking tuck it in. I think I have to go buy something else to wear at lunch, since this. Will. Not. Do.

Someone, anyone, please tell me a happy story. DMize, how about a bit more about naked Ronny Turiaf?

A mid-day update... my day just got a bunch better, I can pretend it's Monday night again!!

Monday, February 20, 2006

Shriek of the Week, Vol. 10

Hurrah! I've made it to 10!! It took way too long, but this is a special, special day... And in honor of the anniversary of the birth of the father of our great nation, I shriek a band from Canada. Not just any band from Canada, lesbian pop-punk sisters from Vancouver, Tegan and Sara. They've released four albums, the first two I don't know very well, and from what I've read they have a very different character than the most recent two. The earlier two are folky, Ani-type stuff, whereas the last two sound sort of like Green Day might if Billie Joe were a woman scorned.

From If It Was You... comes "Monday Monday Monday," the happiest sounding sad song I've heard in ages, so angry but not yet convinced: "This week or last week, I don't really care about it anymore. I write myself this later, I tell myself you let me go. Without me, what's wrong with you?"

Another favorite from that album, "City Girl," again sounds so happy but listening to (or reading, in this case) the lyrics, one finds a girl confused, aware of her confusion and unable to change it. She is so exposed:

"I get so sad that sad gets to be,
so scared that all my feelings, they up and leave me,
I got so city girl on you,
I go so crazy I don't know what to do
I look so long I get obvious
I look so hard I look obvious
I work so much I miss the sunshine away
I sleep so little, watch the stars fade into day
I get uncertain, promise I'll be perfect from now on
but all my promises are out the window once you're gone."

A second stab at pop punk, sounding a bit more subdued or perhaps mature, So Jealous, hit shelves in 2004, and is hitting alt-rock radio now... I heard T&S on G-Rock coming back from Jersey last weekend and nearly spit out my coffee. "Speak Slow" is the single they're peddling and it seems to be working. They've opened for Cake (a show that is seriously painful to have missed) and are touring Australia at the moment, but they've got lots of audio on the Web site. Check 'em out and don't hate on Canada. Later kids.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

YES! My Thoughts Exactly

Thank you, NYT Ed Board....

Friday, February 17, 2006

This morning's post proven true yet again

If this isn't a crime I don't know what is...

You Simply Cannot Hide From The Ugly Truth

It's already been proven that less attractive people have a harder time finding a job than the beautiful among us, and that if they do get a job, they have a harder time being promoted or earning a comparable salary. Well, it turns out there's another risk for the unattractive: seems they're more disposed to criminal behavior. Given that all I've ever done is lift a pack of gum when I was 5 (which my Mom made me admit and return) and a wee bit of underage drinking, I'm gorgeous, right? Actually, strike that question mark, I'll just assume I'm right on this one.

Did anyone watch the Olympics coverage last night? I was watching for the sake of snowboard cross, which is possibly the coolest thing I've seen in a long time, let's hope Lindsay Jacobelis can live up to Seth Wescott's golden precedent tonight, but had to watch a lot of men's figure skating to make it to the finals. I am now firmly convinced that men's figure skating is the lamest thing ever to appear on TV. So many sequins, yet so little art.

Anyway, back to SBX, the ladies and I have decided that J would be the best SBX training partner ever, so Meg's practically on the team already, we've just got to get her off those damn skis and on a board...

And finally, despite it being a holiday weekend, I'm breaking my no Shrieking on national holidays rule... 'til Sunday, auf wiedersehn.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

27 Down

I've had just three memorable Valentine's Days in my 27 years. The first was not my fault: my parents set three-year-old me up with three-year-old Tommy, son of their friends from Bible study. He brought me a little pink stuffed elephant, which somehow didn't turn me into a Republican.

It didn't take long for cupid to strike again and bring my second memorable Valentine's Day, it happened when I was six. Anthony and I had had one hot date playing Monopoly (he let me win) so Anthony's mom drove him over after school to drop off a little silver ring adorned with a turquoise heart. To my young, naive eyes, it was the coolest thing ever even if it didn't come from Mark Gathmann, and probably raised my expectations for the 21 Valentine's Days since.

However, the third memorable Valentine's Day was a long time coming and was memorable for completely different reasons. It happened in 2000, I was in Italy for Feb break, traveling Florence and Rome alone, having a last fling with myself before the looming transition from college student to functional adult. I spent a good part of that Valentine's Day atop the Duomo, proud of myself and winded for having climbed all those stairs, looking out over the red rooftops to the surrounding hills, considering all those who'd possibly stood there before me and feeling my insignificance. Later that day, I wrote out a postcard to my boyfriend at the time saying how much I wished he was there, but I never mailed it. (On a side note, I also failed miserably at finding candy hearts with little cheesy slogans on them in Italian. Apparently Brach's hasn't crossed the pond, so he wound up with a bottle of Grappa.)

This year's Valentine's Day was much more typical. I awoke with a little daydream of something nice that could have happened, it didn't. It never does. But I still let my mind wander to places reality refuses to go. I saw friends last night and then caught up on Scrubs and the OC, I did the stuff that makes me happy, and really, I haven't done a whole lot of that lately. Ever since Florence, Valentine's Day at its best is a chance to reconnect with myself and remember what the hell it is I'm doing here. As the song goes... "if you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with."

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Happy Valentine's Day

Thank goodness the Times didn't get sappy on me... enjoy, and may you all have the chance to practice the fine art explored in that article sometime today.

Monday, February 13, 2006

I'm a sucker for a good story...

The U.S. Snowboard Team ROCKS!!! I was a Shaun White hater... anyone who makes a DVD called the White Album as a bratty teenager is sure to invoke my ire, however, the kid done good. Such an inspirational story... Love it. AND Danny Kass rocks the silver again. Dirty Jerz in the house. I can't wait to be converted into a Teter fan tonight (I'm already fully on board for Kelly Clark and Gretchen Bleiler, they rock!)... be sure to watch and root on the U.S. ladies!

Speaking of Dirty Jerz... spent my weekend there shredding Mountain Creek for all it's worth. So good to see all the Hoboken people I haven't seen in a really long time and get in two full days of riding all at once. Plus there were breakfast sandwiches. Yum. Completely worth the drive back through the snow, I swear.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Barbie Returns to Her True Wuv...

I can't believe I've had two days in a row of posts involving Barbie, but I saw this article this morning, and just couldn't let it lie. In theory, it's a touching tale of romance reinvented:

"Thus the Ken and Barbie drama, which Mattel hopes will reignite interest in the brand. In February 2004, as every 5-year-old knows, Ken and Barbie called it quits. According to Mattel, which says it relies on customer feedback on its Web site to shape the Barbie-Ken narrative, Barbie was wooed away by an Australian surfer named Blaine.

"Ken, heartbroken, traveled the world in search of himself, making stops in Europe and the Middle East, dabbling in Buddhism and Catholicism, teaching himself to cook and slowly weaning himself off a beach bum life."

How could you not go back to a man who has spent so much time finding his true self and still came back to you? Sigh... That Barbie's one lucky gal... BUT, the article's actually about the stiff competition Barbie faces at the checkout counter from Bratz. I kinda hate Bratz, which is largely due to my nature, I'm a brand loyalist and was raised on Barbie, however, I also think Bratz take the worst qualities of Barbie and amplify them. Barbie's a doctor, an astronaut, a rock star, had a bitchin' Corvette when I was a kid (metallic pink, biotch!) and still comes home to Ken's chiseled abs. It's a sweet life she's got there. Despite the out-of-whack figure, her actual "life" is a lot closer to the reality of a grown-up (granted a polished, perfect grown-up) than the Bratz are. Bratz dress like a 17-year-old emulating XTina and as far as I can tell, have neither ambition to an actual career nor anything else to do except look freaky.

Maybe that's Barbie's problem - her built in story is too much. Perhaps kids don't want to play like they're adults these days, don't want to think about 8 years of med school or all that physics-intensive study to become an astronaut, or hell, how flippin' huge her mortgage payments on the Dream House will be now that Alan Greenspan's left the Fed. But I hope girls come back to her and let themselves make up a way to face those challenges and still face the world with a perfect smile.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Not the Jumpsuit!!!

Project Runway is killing me. I can't BELIEVE they cut Nick and not Santino. I HATE Santino. Blech. That jumpsuit was the ugliest farking thing. It hurts me. Also proves that I shouldn't root for anyone, because they will clearly lose. I've really liked just about everything Nick has done since he did the Barbie doll dress. Sigh...

Mountain Creek trip this weekend, so the blog will probably shriek-less for another week. It'll be back next week though, and way better than the Grammy's (what was UP with Teri Hatcher's dress?) I promise!

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Blogger block...

I have a lot to say, but I'm having a really hard time figuring out how to say it, so I apologize to my dear readers for the silence on the blog lately.

However, I will get this out of the way since a rant seems to get conversations going in this piece... Super Bowl commercials are really freakin' dumb. I can't believe the amount of money that's just burned up on these hideous things when there are much better things that money in such quantities could be spent on (I don't know, a tent or two in Pakistan, some levees in NOLA, more firefighters in the OC...). Really, are procreating monsters worth $20 million? I doubt it. And I bet Pepsi feels real dumb having paid all that money for "Brown and Bubbly." Those are possibly the least appealing qualities of cola, the ad will die quickly, and all those millions are just gone into the ether. Man we suck at managing resources in this neck of the woods... burn all our oil, waste all our money, go back to our mcmansions in the sky... sigh.