A find all my own

Romeo Void is my type of an '80s band that won't be featured on any tired retrospective compilations (I should know, I own a 7-disk collection of '80s radio hits). The now-slightly absurd name might make you think they're a throwaway nostalgia trip, but I'm sure any serious music enthusiast of that day would remember them. So it's kind of like finding an obscure treasure and imagining myself a cool, slightly moody 1983 college freshman being into music I could be proud of these days.

Anyway, I looked up some of their music after I remember my oldest sister, quite some time ago, singing the hook to one of their songs, "I might like you better if we slept together" (not directed toward me, or anyone in particular as I remember it in my naive state). I previewed some songs and just ended up buying the whole best-of iTunes album, "Warm, In Your Coat." It was ultimately worth it. I haven't so much gotten into the moodier pieces, but I love the uptempo stuff and it makes for some unsuspecting great cardio music. The lead singer has an incredibly, naturally sensual voice, someone I imagined (past tense intentional) to be a big, sexy blonde like Alec Baldwin's fling in the movie "She's Having a Baby" (either you get that reference or you don't). Anyway, my research tells me they're a New Wave band for all you genre freaks, but they have a jazzy or maybe a bit of an early ska feeling due to their repeated use of undeniably blissful horn solos.


Here are my top tracks, listed in order of essentialness:
1. Myself to Myself
2. Talk Dirty To Me (the song could be like a minute shorter with all its repititions, but it's still sassy and humorous and not obscene, if that's what you're getting at)
3. Never Say Never (the one that lead me to the album. It's still great, but too long to keep my attention)
4. Just Too Easy
5. A Girl In Trouble Is a Temporary Thing (this was another one of their hits. I like its core, but it doesn't sound as timeless as the others)
6. Wrap It Up (a slight rockabilly vibe on this one)
7. Chinatown (perhaps the sister to Siouxsie's "Hong Kong Garden")

A gender bender, blended

Our friends Mark and Aaron have insisted on the nickname "Kate" due to my wispy similarities to Kate Moss. Whatever. But last week when they were visiting from California, over Paul's home-cooked dinner al fresco, I was asked if I had to be a woman, who would I be? Well, you may find this shocking, but I didn't have a ready response. So I've thought about it for the past few days, and while I can't just name one I would be thrilled to have a Freaky Friday moment with, I managed to narrow it down to four.

This could have several alternate titles, as well. Such as: If you were to go Weird Science (in this case, Fag Hag Edition), who would it be? Another: The ideal woman I'd kill to co-parent with, or at minimum borrow some eggs. Here we go:


Clockwise from top right:
Catherine Keener: Confident, good-bitchy and love the smoky voice. No dainty flower; womanly, not girly.
Penelope Cruz: Mostly physical in reference. Lovely natural body, lovely Spanish complexion, graceful and lends a touch of the exotic.
Polly Jean Harvey: The polite Brit who can unleash fury when needed, and proves you don't have to be a freak to wade in dark waters. But also explorative, unfazed and pretty in a big-featured kind of way. Any musical talent would be very welcome!
Parker Posey: Oh, the funny girl next door...if your neighborhood's the West Village. Always makes me laugh. The consummate bohemian hip nerd.

Honorable mentions, for one reason or another: Amy Sedaris, Fiona Apple, Cindy Crawford, some righteous chick from the past. Others TBA.

Waterlogging

Fortunately, all my time wasn't spent in rural Indiana (no offense to my rural Indianan readers. Holla!). On Sunday afternoon, we returned to Chicago and hit up the Polish district for some breads, pre-made pierogi, kielbasa and pastries. It almost seemed like walking down a street in Krakow, as the vast majority of store signs and market items were in Polish, with Polska women over the PA system announcing the day's specials (or maybe they were informing customers that their pochwas itched, what do I know).

Him: There were just so many sausages in that market! I don't think I could ever get to tasting all of them.

Me: *Long stare to the back seat* I doubt that.

Afterwards, we met Jen's boyfriend's family on Diversey Harbor, located just north of downtown Chicago. They keep a boat there during the summer, so each dock just turns into a seasonal neighborhood lane. Luckily, it was a warm, sunny day and Lake Michigan was as calm as Paula Abdul on Vicodin. So we went for a cruise around Navy Pier, feeling like one of the beautiful people while the landlocked commoners looked on with envy.



After idling for a few minutes, we entered the locks to the Chicago River, and cut through downtown to the sounds of Frank Sinatra. The river traffic was almost non-existent, so we felt like kings and queens of the City that Blows.

And then there was Pam. I would describe her essence as a (more) energetic SJP who could do seamless voice work for Leah Remini, and with a splash of Elaine Benes for good measure. She was a total blast; energetic, eccentric and spontaneous. It's unfortunate we only have this photo of her on the camera, but hopefully we'll get to hang out some more next visit. She pitched a show idea to me with the working title "Dock D," so I'm considering writing a pilot. But honestly, she could easily have her own reality show because she's a go, go, go kinda girl. Even watching her mix drinks was riveting. Vive la Pam!


We returned to the dock at twilight and feasted on an awesome seafood grill, which included my first cut of the elusive Chilean Sea Bass.

The next morning we shot down to H&M and down came the rain. Just as well, as we had to get to the airport. But in order to retrieve our luggage, we had to walk about eight blocks from the train station to Jen's apartment. Note: Greater Chicago neighborhoods are not cab-friendly, especially during a torrential downpour.

In closing, I would like to issue an apology to Jennifer S. for clogging the toilet before I left. I had to leave everything mid-swirl, but I swear most the brown went down. It's just that I forget that antique toilets can't hold as much TP as my recent-edition crapper. I did what I could with some paper towels, but your brother was yelling at me to get in the cab. Now, if you had come back to drive us to the airport instead of staying at the golf course during what was an obvious all-day weather pattern, this crisis could have certainly been avoided. So actually it's your fault. The saddest part is that I had to say goodbye to your mom with these rushed parting words: "Have fun this week, we'll see you in a few days. And I clogged the toilet, so don't use it until Jen gets back, ok?" *Cab door slams shut*

Bridal Gives Back

I typed out an exhaustive (and rather witty) recap of my recent Midwest weekend, but didn't paste it into blogspot before I had a chance to save it. So now it's lost forever. Lucky break for you.

In essence, I visited Chicago/Indiana for Paul's cousin's wedding, who married a man originally from Crown Point, Ind.

Cousin Angela married into a Macedonian family (close to Greece geographically and culturally), so all sorts of traditions went into the wedding and reception. Of course, food, drink and music were the three major elements. This included the tradition of "Buying the Bride," where the groom and his gang encroach the bride's home and financially bribe but eventually storm the dwelling and seize the betrothed, who is hidden in a back room protected by her kin (that may be the gayest sentence I've ever written, and that's saying a lot). Let's just say Virginia Woolf would not be amused. As you can see, it all kind of looked and felt like a Publishers Clearing House commercial, as there were roughly 50 high-spirited people in the driveway.


After the bride was drug out (by her hair), she danced a pavement jig and headed off to the chapel for an Orthodox union. Festive music marked the entire day (Paul's sister Jennifer was a bridesmaid, so we were there from her updo to the last song), and I'm confident I've been exposed to enough Macedonian music to last me a solid decade or two. I would map it somewhere between Bollywood and Polka with a dash of Europop. I don't even want to YouTube an example; that's how averted I am right now. But let's turn our attention to how stunning Jennifer looked on this day:


It was all in good fun though. As someone who comes from a comparatively reserved Anglo background where weddings are quiet and often sterile affairs, it was a welcome shake-up.


Above: Tony (Jen's boyfriend), Rosario (Paul's mom) and moiself. Below: The bride and the gentlemen of the evening. I had an involuntary gay response when I dropped the regretful platitude, "You go, girl!" during this photo shoot.

Countless shades of Grey

September is a perfect month for a film like Grey Gardens. My first viewing was right before summer of last year, and I didn't initially take to it (ie. I fell asleep). But over a few days of watching and re-watching various scenes, I became a convert to the extremely weird yet totally relatable (for me) ways of Big and Little Edith Beale. After a couple of calls from the independent movie rental store asking me to return it, I purchased my own Criterion Collection copy and now regard it as the best film on family relationships I can think of. It's hilarious, tragic, largely indecipherable, escapist, a life lesson, a warning sign, and a tale of high society gone haywire. Here in the reel lies what happened to a dream deferred, even if that dream is as vague as the stream-of-conscious monologues and dialogues that a master screenwriter cannot and could not trump.

Shot during the early fall of 1973 (in the midst of my favorite decade of cinema), with that signature period cinematography, Grey Gardens documents the life of an aged, mostly immobile Edith Bouvier Beale and her middle-aged daughter, Edie. The Bouvier surname is not just a coincidence; they are the paternal aunt and cousin of Jackie O. Amongst the pristine summer homes, Grey Gardens is the dilapidated East Hampton estate reduced from its floral glory to ghastly overgrowth, and a sanitation nightmare municipally condemned. Feral cats roam the halls, raccoons have not only taken residence in the attic (and, eventually, the home itself), but are fed by Little Edie. "Mr. Beale" left sometime in the '30s or '40s, who really knows, and Edie compromised her imminent "big chance" (at 35, no less) in New York City to care for her mother. Fast-forward 20 years later and with no definable life of her own, and what's left is a former beauty who now traipses around in odd clothing and a stunted, if not regressive, emotional state. Big Edie's guilt trips, power trips and manipulation of sympathy and daughterly duty didn't exactly help the duo's current predicament. And though you want to venerate and excuse the defenses of an old woman, it's clear that this feline-lovin' matriarch is not. so. innocent.

The past has shifted into overdrive by the time the Maysles brothers show up to film, and Little Edie's ready to unleash her flirtatious knack for the absurd and eccentric. The female duo more talk at each other than to each other. Little Edie missed her "big chance" but boasts her return to an independent life; Big Edie's too old to care about life's regrets yet tries to save face by claiming her own marriage was a "terrible success." And that's just the top layer of the mold. With no objective voice to balance out the two, the film's mystery and appeal is that the past is only opinion, and these are two very opinionated characters. By making just enough sense in their fragmented banter, their world is whimsical yet jarringly realistic and, at times, completely heart-breaking.


The film really left me with a despairing feeling, but in the grand scheme Little Edie's life (she died in 2002) was not so bleak. Yes, she clearly missed the marriage and children boat, and all a Social Register life could provide (ie. graceful restraint, eccentric repression, adultery and alcoholism). But in exchange, Little Edie gained a cult following, became the subject of several tribute books and photo journals, and her makeshift style has been referenced in fashion spreads and designer collections. In addition, the family's story was the subject of a recent Broadway musical (which I regretfully missed) and an upcoming, big-name HBO film.

Though it may seem like I've said more than enough, there's always something more to be said about this film. If you want to get introduced to a great example of cinéma vérité, start with this movie before it, and its heroine, go (more) mainstream. Acknowledgment or not, any reality show junkie owes quite a lot to this film of a brilliant mess caught on camera.

Drill, Baby, Drill!

Just can't seem to get this chant (and image) outta my head. Go on witcho catchy sound byte-prone selves, RNC!

Sunday brunch banter

Him: This [live] lesbian acoustic jam is not getting me closer to fine.

--------------

Her: You remember Sonique, right? When her mom found out she was pregnant with her, she went on this drinking and smoking binge for like the first trimester to try to get rid of it...I mean Sonique's not mentally screwed up or anything, but she was like born with no teeth.

Him: Oh my God! No teeth?!

Him2: Well, most babies are born with no teeth.*

Him: Oh yeah! That's right, huh?

*I know, technically babies are born with unexposed teeth. And this footnote pretty much reveals me to be the speaker of this line.

A change is in the air

The latter half of Labor Day weekend served as a reminder that while warm days are not gone forever, they will increasingly become the exception, not the rule. In the meantime, our garden is producing a bounty of tomatoes and vegetables, and tell-tale signs of summer's end: the sunflowers are in full bloom and every night brings a cricket's symphony.


Luckily, last week Lucy and I spent some Q.T. wandering aimlessly in the backyard and soaking in the late August rays. Paul's done a bang-up job on the yard, and though it's hard to capture on camera, our recently created flower bed looks kind of like a vivid Mario Bros. 3 level: strange flora I've never before encountered--a bouquet of colors, textures and shapes. One in particular makes a great Asian-inspired hair accessory and you don't even have to pluck it from its 6-foot stalk:


I can't say I'm really looking forward to the change of seasons. I try to enjoy fall on its own merits, but ultimately it's just a reminder of the winters I find increasingly insufferable. I'll be flying solo for three total weeks during a one-month period, so maybe it's just that I'm not looking forward to transitioning into a, shall we say, introspective (and insular?) experience. My stagnant fall wardrobe probably has something to do with it as well. But any way you slice 'n dice it, my lil' autumnal ginger snap will be with her (second-favorite) daddy, taking time out to watch the sun set and keep on the lookout.