OH. MY. GOD.
I can't tell you how excited I am by this news. I have a strange, longstanding and profound fascination with giant squid — and now, I'm beyond thrilled to discover that something called the colossal squid is stalking the waters off Antarctica.
Here there be monsters...
SUCK
As a part of our recent holiday Netflix barrage, we saw The Devil Wears Prada, which was lauded at its time of release as being a smart and funny take on the "boss from hell" scenario. (I'll note here that I didn't bother reading the book.) Subsequently, we figured... "Hey, we like to laugh. And we like Meryl Streep -- especially when she's being funny. Let's watch it!" Bad decision on our parts. This alleged comedy caused me to laugh only three times over the course of 110 minutes, and by the end of it I felt actively pissed off -- not only at the fact that I'd just wasted 110 minutes, but at the lengths the film went to in order to pass off the Anne Hathaway character as somebody worthy of our admiration and sympathy... despite the fact that she spends the first half of the movie condescending horribly toward everyone in her company, then the second half flipping her attitude entirely because it's to her professional benefit (despite what we're supposed to believe are her strong moral and intellectual convictions) - even going so far as to dump her long-term boyfriend and then immediately start sleeping with some other guy who can advance her career - before finally leaving the world of high fashion behind and instantly landing her dream job as a writer/editor/whatever.
Basically... it rubbed me the wrong way. Yeah, Streep was very good (when is she not?), but overall the movie left me seething. Which is not really what I was looking for in a comedy.
NO SUCK
Mark Kozelek's new double-live CD The Little Drummer Boy, which is a gentle, sad and quite beautiful reminder of the kind of magic a guy and his guitar can make.
SUCK
Step two of our Netflix-fest was Miami Vice, which - despite the fact that Peter Travers basically wet himeself reviewing it last summer - turned out to be dark, dull and very, very confusing. What a tremendous letdown, especially considering that Hollywood defied traditional Hollywood logic by actually engaging Michael Mann in the process, rather than turning it over to Brett Ratner (see X-Men III for reference) or Michael Bay (see Pearl Harbor, The Island, and many other bad movies for reference) to transform it into predictable crowd-pleasing slop. Yeah, it looks seductively beautiful - not entirely unlike the way he shot Collateral, now that I think of it - but in all honesty, both TheWife and I were deeply bored and confused throughout.
NO SUCK
The Canon Elph SD700, which Santa brought us this year. It's about half the size of our previous digital camera, does about twice as much stuff, and is basically so cool it's completely absurd.
SUCK
Netflix debacle #3, The New World. God help me, but The Thin Red Line is one of my favorite movies of all time — an absolutely gorgeous meditation on the fleeting nature of love, terror and war against the timeless backdrop of nature itself. (The soundtrack is beautiful, too.) So when I heard that Terrence Malick was bypassing his usual 20-year layoff between movies to produce a new take on the John Smith/Pocahontas story, I was ready to be enraptured.
Silly rabbit. This movie brought to life every negative thing I'd heard about The Thin Red Line -- that it was beautiful, but hopelessly slow and confusing... that you often weren't sure who was talking, or what - for that matter - they were talking about. Not to repeat myself... but what a profound disappointment.
NO SUCK
Watching three small kids under the age of four really enjoy Christmas morning together for the first time. That was pretty cool.
(I still hate children, though. Just to be clear.)
So. How were your holidays? Great. Glad to hear it. Ours was a blur of family meet, greet and eats in which we drove from one end of eastern Massachusetts all the way to... a slightly different end of eastern Massachusetts. Relatives from relatively great distances travelled from various points south on I-95 to come up, visit, make merry, and give our offspring an ungodly amount of toys. It was all very festive, although we are now faced with the dilemma of what to do with the fact that we now have more toys than our home can actually accommodate.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful - because I'm very grateful indeed that our relatives like our children enough to actually go out and get them something cool for Christmas - but there's no way around the spacial limitations of 5 people of varying sizes living in a 1750 sq. ft. home. In other words, when somebody gives us a stuffed tiger roughly the size of a german shepherd, it's actually something of an issue. Similarly, when I decide that TheHurricane will be thrilled with one of those wooden, magnetically-connected train sets - without actually figuring out the logistics of how such a set would dimensionally fit into one of our rooms - I create an entirely new set of headaches.
In other words: we're outgrowing our house. Unfortunately we can't afford to move -- so we're going to have to sell one of the kids, which should free up space while simultaneously improving our cash flow. (I'm very excited about this plan.)
Anyhow. Tuesday, the kids went back to school/daycare -- and TheWife and I decided to ditch work for a couple of days. I should note here that Tuesday and Wednesday mark the first "two consecutive days off from work" thing that I've enjoyed since the birth of the twins in June of 2005... so this break was a long time coming.
So. Tuesday, we dumped the monsters brought our beloved children to school, and then immediately fled to the happiest place on earth -- a.k.a. Portsmouth, NH. I don't know if you've ever been there, but it's one of my favorite little cities in America: a great combination of cobblestones and colonial architecture, seaside feel and tons of great little shops (and I'll note here that TheWife brought us into pretty much every artsy-craftsy artisan place in the city, so as to fully appreciate the wealth of pottery and jewelry and clothing and... uh... other crap... therein). It also happens to feature - god bless me - a lovely little brewpub (a sister company to the good people at Smuttynose).
(Let's take a moment here to makes the brilliant observation that wandering through hundreds of little boutiques becomes a far more palatable experience after you've downed two extremely potent belgian-style ales. To quote myself as I tripped over the cobblestones: "Wheeeee!")
Afterward, we came home, picked up the kids and navigated 14 hours of screaming enjoyed our evening and morning hours with them before dumping their bodies once again leaving them with their friends and teachers and fleeing making our way to places better experienced without the company of parasites children -- in yesterday's case, Harvard Square.
It's funny how much Harvard Square has changed over the past decade. Many of the great old, high-character stores (like Wordsworth, God rest yr soul) have departed and been replaced by chain stores -- which is sad, insofar as that a lot of the Square's appeal has departed along with them. That being said... we still had a good time, first hunting down a couple of decent used and indie CD stores (and picking up the newish Mew, which had better be good or else somebody's going to get their ass kicked) before making our way to a splendiferous Indian feast (with accompanying Kingfisher, of course), grabbing a pint of Herrell's mint cookies and cream, and finally returning to the suburban wasteland we call home.
Where the tiger was waiting.
From my famdamily to yours, here's hoping you have a holly jolly one...
UPDATE
* Number of ill children in my household: 0
* Number of ill adults in my household: 1.5
* Number of times I sprinted down the hall yesterday to make a sudden visit to Curt Schilling: 6
* Percentage I feel better today as compared to yesterday: 50
* Percentage TheWife feels worse than yesterday: 42,000 (approx.)
* Encapsulation of TheWife's evening: "Every time I stand, I throw up."
* Number of times Curt Schilling called WEEI yesterday to talk about trading Manny for Jake Peavy, and signing J.D. Drew as a free agent: 1
* Number of times my heart leapt at the prospect of a Sox rotation featuring Schilling, Peavy, Matsuzaka, Josh Beckett and Tim Wakefield: (incalculable)
* Number of times TheWife will think about the Sox rotation today while horking up whatever it is she's horking up: 0
1. As Evil Dan Shaughnessey pointed out in the Globe this morning, the Sox are 8-18 in August. It's goddamned depressing. The only good news is that they've been on a West Coast trip for the better part of the past week -- meaning that 10pm start times have allowed me to miss most of the pain firsthand. My sincere hope is that they A) forfeit the rest of the season, so as to release the Nation from the pain of watching their tortured spiral; and B) instead spend the entirety of September playing exhibition games in the Alaska Fall League. Not only would this ensure that they continue to play games at times when I won't be conscious to watch them, but it also provides for the very real possibility that Josh Beckett will finally be able to pitch two strong games in a row.
2. TheWife spent the weekend in wine country with a friend, touring some of the Russian River's finer vintners and enjoying spectacular food morning, noon and night. Today, she returns to her corporate office in the Bay Area for another week of Big Time bidness stuff before she finally makes her way back to the East Coast.
Meanwhile, the offspring and I enjoyed a spagtacular weekend here in Castle TwoBusy. TwinA brought a double ear infection to full fruition, which meant plenty of fun and yet another visit to the Pediatrician. TwinB, meanwhile, continued to explore the boundaries of human experience by tossing crackers into a toilet and then attempting to go in after them. Granted, they were excellent crackers, but realistically probably not worth the deep sea dive. She also managed to get outside twice, which baffles me insofar as that (at 14 months old) she is not tall enough to actually turn a door handle.
Which leads me to the conclusion that the Hurricane is trying to get rid of his sisters by opening the doors and letting them "return to the wild from whence they came."
3. I was supposed to take today off -- my first, actual, scheduled day off since April (when I took a day off for TwinA's ear tube surgery. Good times.). Fortunately, people at work kept making promises that I could turn things around for them in 2-3 days - without actually consulting me, taking into account my omnipresent crushing workload, or checking the schedule to see if I was going to be out - meaning that if I actually took today off, the world as we know it would come to an end (or the bidness equivalent thereof.) Therefore, I am at work. Again. Staring at the fluourescent lights and waiting for the sweet release of death.
4.
In an attempt to unwind, I watched "Silent Hill." This continues my Netflix horror-fest, as TheWife doesn't share my zest for the genre and I figured her 2-week trip to Cali (Cali, Cali... her bikini, small... heels, tall... she said... she liked... the ocean...) would provide me with a great opportunity to catch up on a few that I'd missed. Anyhow, let my experience serve as a warning: "Silent Hill" blows great big vile goat chunks. Horrible, horrible movie. Yeah, there's maybe 2-3 cool visual elements to it, but the movie makes NO sense whatsoever, isn't scary, and features the most annoying child actress I may have ever seen. Jodelle Ferland... you suck.
5. And how was your weekend?
Def Leppard: Hysteria
It only took me 25 years, but I finally picked up Hysteria the other week... and it's everything I hoped and feared it would be. Does it sound awesome? Holy hell yes, it sounds awesome — every explosive drumbeat, chiming/echoing guitar lick and Joe Elliott high note seguing perfectly into a creamy, harmony-driven chorus sounds like the word "awesome" would sound if awesome was a sound. But is it also stupid? Well... yes. Honestly, the lyrics on this album are nothing shy of appalling — bottoming out with immortal "You've got the peaches, I've got the cream" couplet from Pour Some Sugar On Me. (cringes) But when you turn off your brain and allow yourself to get caught up in the gorgeous awesome of all that sound... the appeal of Def Leppard becomes crystal clear.
Alcest: Les Voyages de L'ame
Honestly, I'm running out of ways to describe this music to you. I can call it shoegaze-metal, but that may not mean a thing to you. I can tell you it fuses the aggression and (occasional) blood-curdling screaming of one genre with the gorgeous melodics, atmosphere and graceful, haunting vocals of the other. I can tell you that the fact that it's (mostly) in French doesn't do a damned bit to detract from the breathtaking beauty and emotional resonance of the music, which stands up to the impossibly high standards set by Alcest's first two albums. I can tell you all of this and more, but unless you give yourself the opportunity to actually listen to what they've created... you'll never really understand why Alcest may be my favorite band in the world right now.
Billy Squier: Essential Billy Squier
I finally got my act together a picked up some Billy Squier. And you know what? His best songs hold up beauuuutifully. This is Rawk music with a capital R, and there's not a damned thing wrong with that. Everybody Wants You, In The Dark, The Stroke, Learn How To Live... I can't believe I waited this long to bring this music back into my life. Awesome.
A Winged Victory for the Sullen: A Winged Victory for the Sullen
My 2011 album of the year. Achingly gorgeous neo-classical compositions designed to leave you on the verge of tears. I've been listening to it almost non-stop for months; you should do the same.
Hammock: Longest Year EP
There are few things more frustrating than trying to describe the gorgeous, evocative and profoundly atmospheric post-rock music of Hammock without A) resorting to clichés that, while not necessarily inaccurate, do little to accurately describe the listening experience; or B) having the musical vocabulary to adequately describe just what it is about these lengthy, largely wordless compositions that hypnotizes and moves me so profoundly. So I'll just say: imagine a film. No words; just images. Flashing, semi-grainy images of someone from your past — impossibly beautiful, vibrant and full of life. Someone lost to you forever. Imagine that feeling, of love and impossible longing and desperate, hopeless desire to recapture that moment and make it last forever. Now hunt down the title track to this EP, close your eyes, and listen. And you will know: this is the music for that feeling.
Erik Larson: Thunderstruck
Considering how much I'd enjoyed two of Larson's earlier books - Isaac's Storm and the completely wonderful Devil in the White City - it took me a hell of a long time to get around to reading Thunderstruck. Honestly, there was a pretty good layer of dust sitting on the jacket when I finally picked it up and went to work a couple of weeks ago. Why? Because, for no reason I can really explain, I was afraid I'd find it kind of dull.
Unfortunately, it turns out my apprehension was well-justified. I can certainly understand why Larson was attracted to the subject matter: he parallels Marconi's invention of radio with the then-sensational Crippen "Basement Murder" in London, and how the two intersected in the mid-Atlantic, as Crippen attempted to flee to America. Which sounds interesting, right? Wrong. The Marconi storyline is extremely well-researched, and Larson does his best to bring it to life, but ultimately it comes across as something that is clearly far more important than it is actually interesting. Marconi himself: smart, driven, not a nice guy, and not a terribly compelling subject. And Crippen? Who killed his harpy wife and fled the UK with his secretary/lover? Is a cypher... a man universally described (as is clear through Larson's impeccable research) as a small, quiet, listless little creature. And while I spent the entirety of the book hoping for a revelation in which we come to understand how such a non-entity came to commit such a strange and gruesome murder, I came away frustrated -- as no such revelation ever appears. Larson (like the police) knows Crippen did it, but we never really understand how (functionally) or why (in a character-motivation sense).
In the end, I found myself wishing that I'd left the book collecting dust. Very disappointing.
Brian Boone: I Love Rock 'n' Roll (Except When I Hate It): Extremely Important Stuff About the Songs and Bands You Love, Hate, Love to Hate, and Hate to Love
Brian Boone is a funny, funny, funny man... and I was happy as hell (if unsurprised) to discover that the same sharp, sarcastic humor he brings to his blog and tweetstream manifests throughout this book. Now, I'm aware that I'm more or less the ideal audience for this book - I love music, I love lists, and I love sharp, sarcastic humor - but that doesn't mean that the content is appealing only to those who fall into the somewhat limited blue lobster demographic.
Let me put it to you this way. One section of the book is called "Succinct Information In Column Form," and features an item with a number of options beneath the question "Little girl object of fancy or little girl object of fancy that is also the title of a Mariah Carey album?" The answer, per Brian Boone? "Mariah Carey has released Rainbow, Charmbracelet, Butterfly, Daydream and Glitter. She has not yet released albums titled Unicorn, Princess or Sparkles."
If you're the kind of person I think you are, that just made you cackle. And that also makes you the kind of person who would enjoy the rest of the book — which I certainly did.
Ed Park: Personal Days
So... here's the thing: I admired this novel more than I enjoyed it. Ed Park is a smart, talented guy, and Personal Days is a really intelligent and interestingly/challengingly-structured book with a big cast of distinctive characters — but I found myself dreading the experience of reading it. Why? Possibly because it cuts too close for comfort: it's a dark, dark, dark workplace comedy about a once large & thriving unnamed business in an unnamed office building in an unnamed city where the treat of layoff and in-house political subterfuge is constant, inescapable and crushing.
I think, for me, the really important question was: why didn't I enjoy this book the way that I did Joshua Ferris' similarly-themed Then We Came To The End? And I think, ultimately, it's a matter of focus. Ferris' novel brought the (often absurdist) comedy more to the forefront, where it balanced out the growing desperation of the ever-dwindling band of corporate survivors. Park, on the other hand, creates a much more dire feeling, where brief moments of (often absurdist) comedy (and let me be clear: there are a couple of very, very funny moments in this book) appear like fleeting streaks of vivid color in the midst of an infinite, charcoal-gray sky: after they fade, their absence makes the suffocating weight of all that oppressive gray even more tangible and terrible.
That's an accomplishment. And it's one that I admire... but not an experience I'm eager to recreate any time soon.
Daryl Gregory: Raising Stony Mayhall
Man, Daryl Gregory is an interesting writer. This is a zombie novel, but it's utterly unlike any other zombie novel I've read (and let's be clear: from The Angels Are The Reapers to World War Z and Breathers, there's a wiiiide range of very good ones out there). Why? Because our title character is a part of the Living Dead community — and he's as rich and fully realized a character as you'll ever come across: an individual loved by his family, first hidden from and then feared by the world, and desperately curious to explore and understand his nature. What, exactly, is he? How is it possible that he was born dead, is and has always been composed of unliving tissue... and yet still grew up?
Gregory couples this greatly realized characterization with a compelling plot that follows Stony from his "childhood" on an Iowa farm to a growing Living Dead underground community to prison and revolution and beyond — and the result is a truly compelling read that blends some fascinating questions with a sense of fun and engagement that never wavers.
This is a worthy follow-up to Gregory's "The Devil's Alphabet," and while neither of these two novels quite matches the dizzying heights he reached with his stunning debut, "Pandemonium," it's still a terrific read that deserves your attention.
Dennis Lehane: Moonlight Mile
When an author returns to a series years after abandoning it, it's frequently a journey fraught with peril. All too often, they seem to lose their handle on the characters and unique tone that made their earlier work so fun and successful, and you finish the book kind of wishing they'd never gone down this road. Having said that, I was grateful to discover that Dennis Lehane's return to Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro in "Moonlight Mile" is an energetic and very successful reintroduction of the deeply sardonic (and funny) dialogue and dark & twisty plotting that made his early novels such an incredible pleasure.
It's been more than a decade since Lehane left them behind to move on to "Mystic River" (still one of the best things I've ever read)... and when we rejoin Patrick and Angie, we discover that a decade has passed in their lives, as well. They've grown older (and possibly a little wiser), just another couple in Boston doing their best to make ends meet — when suddenly they find themselves launched into a search for Amanda McCready, a 16yo girl who a dozen years previously was the missing girl at the heart of Lehane's wonderful "Gone Baby Gone" (as well as Ben Affleck's outstanding film adaptation of the same).
What happens from that point forward is nothing if not tremendously satisfying, and while as a novel this may not reach quite the same dizzying heights of some of Lehane's other work... it's an absolute, uncompromising pleasure and a welcome reminder of why we fell in love with his writing and these characters in the first place. Great, great stuff.
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