Montréal

I should formally apologize for the gap in entertainment lately. I've spent the bulk of the last week in beautiful Montreal while everyone in the Greater Boston area was thoroughly drenched. I'm not sure what to make of it, especially when the clouds broke so kindly for my return. The best way to describe Montréal is to call it a bizarro-world Boston where the Subways are clean/run on time, the Museums are free, the panhandlers are bilingual, strip clubs are legal, every meal is accompanied by french fries, and bikes get their OWN two lane road on many streets (complete with median). In short, I wish I hadn't just signed a new lease*. Here a few photos complete with requisite snark

* No I do not hate freedom (America). A little culture never hurt anyone.

 Ann and I were moths to the big lines of people. Our first big line brought us into Schwartz's Deli for corned beef. This was "The Usual". It was delicious, although the bread was just as silly as it is at Blue Ribbon. How skimpy can the bread for it to still be called a sandwich? This is close to the line.

We went to the Jean Talon Market where they had out of this world produce. Of course, we were not terribly interested in perishable goods but it was interesting.

Like I said. Wack-ass produce. Even the little baskets! Adorable really. Except for the ground cherries (the things to the left of the cherry tomaters). They tasted like cheese.

Perhaps this is why the streets were so clean. Inspired by elephants and Ghosbusters.

Beneath this mountain of french fries and sprigs of lettuce is the most succulent chicken you will ever taste. I take great pride in not eating chicken skin. I ate the skin. It ruled. Ann and I were very sleepy after this.

Found Boston.

Base of Parc du Mont-Royale.

Nice views up top after a little hike. I can't imagine why people run up the thing though.

Montreal <3 Bixi bikes. These stations were everywhere. Rental bikes for $5/hr. Cool idea.

Ann <3 Hibiscus beer at the Dieu du Ciel bar/microbrewery. I <3'd it too. Tasted like Hawaiian Punch.

Big chess games in a park. Dude just got his knight tore up.

We went to Old Montreal too but it was mostly a tourist trap. The fountains were pretty though. I don't like to use flash. I should have used flash.

Horses idling.

We didn't see this guy. Montreal bagels are crispy and delicious.

 Montreal Olympic Stadium. I lost by a nose.

Botanical Gardens. Insectarium was closed :(

"Freaky-deakies need love too." Tracy Jordan

Appropriate name. 

Ann <3 Bubble tea. I do too.

Nifty oasis of a beer garden from drab and unassuming exterior.

 Ann <3 Boreal beer.

CHILD LABOR LAWS ARE SILLY AND OUTDATED! As long as these kids keep making delicious Dragon Beard candy, I won't tell the authorities.

Another monster line for Poutine!

Poutine with Bacon, Onion and Sausage. No graceful way to eat it. 

Ann <3 Cafe au Lait. Eggceptional breakfast at Eggspectations. Note the requisite fried taters. 

 

Corrugated chair by Frank Gehry, nifty Picasso, Napoleon's Hat/Gloves/Shirt, Entrance to Miles Davis exhibit I couldn't bring myself to pay $15 for. 

Montreal in a nutshell. Clean, artsy, cultured. Note the violinist. I think I gave him a loonie.

TBC: Lonesome Dove

Forgive the abridged entry today, but tonight is TBC and I had a cool 50 pages of Lonesome Dove to burn through and not finishing the book for book club is akin to putting your saddle on upside down. Lonesome Dove is an epic Western that grabbed the 1985 Pulitzer Prize and inspired a mini-series and a number of sequels. It is deservedly cherished by fans of the genre and generally regarded as the best Western ever written. This being the only Western I've ever read, I would still be inclined to agree.

At 945 pages, the sheer mass of the book is intimidating enough to give one pause. I have read longer books, but never one this massive in scope and depth. The general plot of the novel centers around two aging Rangers in the sleepy Texas town of Lonesome Dove and their final adventure: stealing and driving a huge cattle herd from Mexico up to uncharted Montana. They recruit a diverse and able crew along their journey, but still manage to find more than their fair share of Indians, surging rivers, savage beasts and murderous thieves.

In McMurtry's hands, the book becomes a vivid and captivating portrayal of life on the range, reveling in minor details and fleshing out character so thoroughly that you nearly count them as family. I can't fathom how he managed to squeeze out details that made the book such an immersive experience, but I suppose that's what good authors do. I would never have expected a tough Western to have such heart and to chew on so much philosophy, but it is in these moments where the story shines the brightest. It is probably my favorite TBC book to date, and ranks highly among my all-time favorites.

Old Song Review: Desmond Dekker - 007 (Shanty Town)

Nearly a decade before Bob Marley's ascent, and long before the precipitious descent to dreadlocked potheads that are associated with Reggae today, Desmond Dekker was the OG "Rude boy". Together with his backing band, The Aces, Dekker released nearly 40 singles over his career, many of whom charted on the US and UK charts and introduced the world to Jamaica and unique sound of reggae. Sadly, like many artists from impoverished countries, Dekker ultimately lost much of the fortune he amassed over his career, declaring bankruptcy in the 80's and dying of a heart attack in 2006.

Dekker's influence and brilliance is woefully unrecognized today, save for small subcultures of reggae aficionados, but his songs are as clean and warm today as they surely were 40 years ago. For instance,"Israelites", his biggest hit outside Jamaica, is still a gut-wrenching portrait of poverty that directly influenced The Beatles "Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da". His cover of Jimmy Cliff's "You Can Get It If You Really Want" was a huge smash around the globe and arguably eclipsed the original. My favorite song is 007 (Shanty Town), his very first hit and what became something of a rudeboy anthem. I've heard it sampled on several dancehall tracks lately, and it still retains its bouncy energy in every application. The staccato horn bursts and swaying vocals should be on heavy rotation at every summer beach barbecue, and if Don Draper was real, featured prominently in every Corona commercial. 

Review: The Room

I should first say that I had no intention of reviewing The Room, but sometimes profound moments grow and blossom in your head until you can't recall what things were like before it. Experiencing The Room is one such event.

JL subscribes to the absolute value scale for movies, meaning that absolutely abysmal films are almost as enjoyable and entertaining as watching a true masterpiece. I first encountered this phenomenon while watching The Sound of Thunder (at SS's insistence) in 2005. The pitiful CGI, the massive plot holes and the terrible acting all around (even poor Ben Kingsley) made for a perfect storm of cinematic ineptitude. However, at some point (I think it was the Raptoons) this incompetence flipped from repulsive to endearing. It is a 7 on the absolute value scale of film criticism. It is fitting then, that The Room is revered as the "Citizen Kane of bad movies."

Truly bad movies are bad because they have inexplicably passed through tens (perhaps hundreds) of hands before coming to fruition. Every one of these people could have derailed the entire project and deprived the world of its glory, yet somehow it survived and we are all the better for it. The Room exists solely due to director/writer/producer/actor Tommy Wiseau's deep pockets and sticktoitiveness.

The "plot" of The Room centers around a love triangle between Johnny, his girlfriend Lisa, and his best friend Mark. There are gratuitous sex scenes that last about 5 times longer than they should and feature some early 90's slow jams that are impossible not to snicker at. There is dialogue that sounds plagiarized from a middle-school One Act. There are nonsensical plot diversions and characters that are never mentioned again. There are no less than 15 aimless tracking shots along the Golden Gate bridge or other San Francisco sites. All of this would be excruciating if it weren't for Tommy Wiseau's acting which has best been described as "Borat trying to do an impression of Christopher Walken playing a mental patient."

Every line he delivers is punctuated with a bizarre chuckle, made even worse by the fact that 95% of his dialogue is dubbed over for quality control purposes (seriously). His vocal cadence makes Arnold Schwarzenegger sound like Michael Caine. He can't even make chicken sounds correctly. His complete incompetence manages to sink and salvage the film simultaneously. It is truly a sight to behold, and wholly responsible for raising (lowering?) the film to the Rocky-Horror-level cult status it currently enjoys. If you ever find yourself with 99 minutes to kill and self-esteem that needs a boost, do yourself a favor and get your hands on this film. You will never feel more successful.

ABSOLUTE VALUE SCORE: 10

(Note: Some saucy language in the video)

EDU: Pork Fennel Burgers

When KK leaves town, SS is usually inconsolable and makes me go on all kinds of crazy bike rides. Being the good friend that I am, I usually indulge him, but yesterday he was too slow. Instead he invited me over for a romantic evening of Pork Butt/Anise and 'Gansett and a viewing of The Room. Apparently he found the recipe from The Minimalist in the NYT, and had been itching to try it ever since. Since I find the taste of anise/licorice vile, I was skeptical, but SS is a pretty good cook (don't tell him I said that) so I cut him a break.  

Step 1: Open Beer. Inexplicably, the nearest liquor store did not sell PBR 40's OR PBR Cans, so I settled for 'Gansett and hope SS didn't think it too fancy.

Apparently he did, since he insisted on drinking it out of a glass. That, or he was ashamed and wanted to pretend it was a Red Hook.

This is everything that went into the burgers. Actually, don't count that flat loaf of bread in the back or the fennel seed because SS forgot that until he had already made the patties. I wish I could say I hid the fennel from him because it's disgusting, but I did not. Let's take a closer look at the pork, shall we?

FRESH PORK BUTT. The meat industry has thought up all kinds of fancy names for cuts of beef, but poor pork gets slapped with PORK BUTT. Sad. Also, one would think that Boneless Butt would be redundant, but I'm not expert.

Tuber. Sweet Tuber. For fries.

My contribution: Goat Cheese Croissants. These morsels (and the beer) were just enough to keep SS and I from eating the paper towels while we prepared the burgers as it was nearly 8:30 by this point. They were good but a little bland.

Sam "TARE-ING that Anise up". Last anise joke, I promise.

Sam really going to work on that Anise. Ok that's the last one. He also chopped some garlic but he was too fast for my camera.

This is Sam's food processor. I always think I have no use for a food processor and then I see how awesome it is and I realize I could probably keep my fingers in tact a few more years if I bought one.

See? Just obliterated it. In like 5 seconds. It was like an infomercial, but REAL.

This is the Pork Butt once SS removed the twine. I wasn't sure the purpose of the twine, but I was sure it was a stupid question so I didn't ask. He briefly considered trimming the fat, but then remarked that he was in "Negative Calories" for the day after his bike ride and left it.

He did however, cut it into more manageable chunks for the food processor and tell me an anecdote about ground Filet Mignon making delicious burgers, which seemed like a waste, but also delicious.

Into the food processor it went, and was destroyed. It looked and smelled like ground beef, although SS may disagree.

We mixed errthing together in a large bowl before shaping the burgers into patties. Not especially labor intensive, but since SS's hands were already dirty, I let him do it.

This was my assignment. Onion and pepper duty, which would be thrown into the pan with the burgers and caramelized. I also cut up the sweet potato which was a royal pain in the anise.

Here are the patties in the pan. SS made 9 of them. He thought we would each eat 2. He also thought the burgers wouldn't stick to the pan. He was wrong on both counts.

These are the burgers post-flip. The apartment was smelling great at this point and I was trying to figure out how to get the movie to play so I missed the shot when he threw the peppers/onions in. Needless to say, this smelled even better.

This is the burger.

This is the burger immediately before it entered my mouth. The fries took a bit longer to cook, so the plate looks bare, but it was delicious. The pork was juicy and a little spicy, and the bread was soft and crunchy. I didn't even mind/taste the anise! SS and I agreed that it probably could have used some other spices to enhance the flavors, but it was pretty great just as it was. I think cheese would have been tasty too, but SS had no interest in deviating from the recipe, so I held my tongue. Easy (if you have a food processor) and yummy. Would eat again.

NOT On Repeat: DJ Khaled - All I Do Is Win

Despite my best efforts, this song was the de facto anthem of VT 2010. I'm not sure if R'OB or C'OB are to blame, but I have a rough count of 30 plays in 30 hours. And I wasn't even up late either of those nights, so 50 is probably a better estimate. In order to more eloquently pinpoint what makes this song so terrible, I've decided to make a list of Pros and Cons.

Cons
-This song is the music equivalent to the 2010 Celtics. 4 over-the-hill hip-hop artists who have no chance at scoring a hit single on their own, collaborate for one last run at a platinum recording. Don't believe me? Let's ask Wikpedia: Ludacris (32), Rick Ross (34), Snoop Dogg (38), T-Pain (24)*.

-Who the hell is DJ Khaled? Since when do producers get artist credit when they have no obvious role in the song aside from yelling his name? Is 99 Problems by Rick Rubin or Jay-Z? Case in point.

-Ludacris is a terrible rapper, and his verse here is no exception. With Ludacris you are guaranteed a cringe-worthy line, an eye-rolling line, and a borderline disgusting line. All I Do I Win has all three. In a row.

"My hands go up and down like strippers booty go.
My verses still be serving, tight like a million virgins,
Last time on a Khaled remix now on the original version.
Ain't never count me out,
Ya'll better count me in."

-Snoop Dogg is a parody of a caricature of his former self. When I'm 38, I probably will be too, but I won't be in a music video rhyming "Snoopy" and "Hoopty" around gyrating young women and bouncing convertibles. Interestingly, he has the most head-scratching verse in the whole song, claiming to have "hung with the worst of 'em, bust till I burst on 'em". My guess is he's referring to his confused sexual experimentation in college, but who's to say. It's more likely that he doesn't even know what he's talking about.

-All I Do Is Win isn't grammatically correct.

-T-Pain says "BUILDING" like a 4 year old.

-T-Pain "T-Pains" himself on his iPhone in the video, which would probably make him sound like Stephen Hawking.

-T-Pain's hair that makes him look like a cross between Princess Leia and Allen Iverson.

Pros:

-Attractive women in the music video.

-The part where T-Pain says "AND THEY STAY THERE!" is a little catchy.

-T-Pain's gesture at :44.

-I want to taste whatever that pink drink is they are all drinking.

-They seem to be having fun.

*While 24 is absolutely not old, no one would disagree that T-Pain is washed up.

On Repeat: Wale - The Black N Gold (feat. Sam Sparro)

Last week Wale released the free mixtape "More About Nothing" (available here), a sequel of sorts to his 2008 Seinfeld-themed "Mixtape About Nothing" that continues to sit comfortably in my mixtape pantheon. The interesting thing about this release, is that it somehow reconciles Wale's pop sensibilities from his disappointing Attention Deficit with the ferocity and verbal gymnastics of his mixtapes. The result is an amalgam of fantastic rhymes with glowing guest spots and hum-worthy choruses. Songs like The War with Daniel Meriweather and The Posse Cut stack up favorably with some of his best work, but perhaps the crown jewel of entire tape is The Black N Gold; a furiously buzzing stomper that finds Wale stuffing double the words on a beat most rappers could barely catch up to. Match this with Sam Sparro's breezy chorus, and you have a song that in a perfect world would be firmly entrenched atop the Billboard Top 40. I'll settle for you just giving it a listen.

Dentist

I went to the dentist today. I don't mind the dentist, and I don't understand why people are so terrified of them. Maybe it's because I didn't have any cavities or get braces or get sedated and have waking nightmares like David (see above). Sure the dentist can be a little rough with her miniature ice pick and she flosses me like a gorilla*; no harm, no foul.

The dentist office itself is exceedingly pleasant. There's a nice little waiting area with magazines fanned out so perfectly that I can't bring myself to disturb them. Every surface is pristine and gleaming with a shine that can only come from enslaved forest creatures. Even the receptionist greets me by name like an esteemed colleague. I think they may sip the laughing gas between patients.

Every hygienics office is equipped with a plush, golden leather chair and a flat screen television to distract from, or at least muffle the screams of your neighbors. This television was showing Giada on Food Network making some delicious tart, which felt like cruel and unusual punishment when I'm having my mouth gouged and prodded**. The Listerine cup had a layer of parafilm on top like a fancy hotel and the spittoon station was angled in such a way that I could rid my mouth of blood efficiently thereby reducing the chance of my hygienist realizing I need a blood transfusion and allowing me to maintain some semblance of dignity. That is, until the routine floss-related scolding. I try to defend myself, saying, "I do floss, but not usually with such vigor", which earns me no sympathy and a maternal nod. They gave me a goodie bag with a baller toothbrush  (even though she said I brush too hard and should only use an electric) and some single-serving floss packets that will never leave the bag. They didn't even hassle me to make another appointment. If there were more dentists like this the world, well, I don't think it would change anything, but it's still pleasant.

*She gorilla, me boy in chair.

**Military, take note.

Billy G = Str8 Killa

Just when you think Bill Gates can't get any more awesome, he goes and does something like "The Giving Pledge". If you haven't heard, Bill Gates is arguably the largest philanthropist in history, having given nearly 28 billion dollars to charity (as of 2007) through the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. The benefactors of their generosity are many, including billions of dollars for HIV, Polio and Vaccination research; huge grants for US Libraries, Universities, and Scholarship programs; and millions more in disaster relief and hygiene infrastructure in the developing world.

His philanthropy was enough to impress Warren Buffet a few years ago, convincing him to leave his entire fortune to charity at the time of his death, and now Gates and Buffet are tag-teaming fellow billionaires, hoping to add signatures to The Giving Pledge, effectively promising to bequeath at least 50% of their fortunes to the less fortunate. Thus far, 40 wealthy estates (including 30 billionaires) have signed on, with Bill and Warren hosting further meetings in the coming months for gentle arm twisting and general shmoozing. You cold Bill, you cold.

On Repeat: Perfume Genius - Mr. Peterson

Perfume Genius is the alias of one Mike Hadreas, a Seattle-based singer-songwriter (why does that phrase make me wince?). Of course, the actual "Perfume Genius" is Jean-Baptiste Grenouille of Paris, the protagonist of Patrick Suskind's "Perfume" who was born with an incredible sense of smell and used it to create and preserve the "perfect scent".

This Perfume Genius shares the same eerieness of that book on his debut album, singing haunting piano ballads that are as beautiful as they are unsettling. Just as Sufjan Steven's "John Wayne Gacy, Jr" turns one of most prolific serial killers in history into a tender story, Mr. Peterson tells of a young man's taboo relationship with his teacher and the suicide that followed. In someone else's hands, this song could be rife with hand-wringing, but in the capable fingers and voice of Perfume Genius, it's Mad World-level hypnotizing.

Review: Arcade Fire - The Suburbs

At lot has changed since the Arcade Fire released Neon Bible in 2007, a cautionary lullaby to a world on the precipice. Perhaps if they were in the studio when Obama won the election, we'd get a happy record out of them. As things stand now; the economy is shit, Haiti is a pile of rubble, and there's 150 million gallons of oil in the Atlantic that weren't there 6 months ago. If you were looking to the Arcade Fire for a philosophical back rub or confirmation that everything will be alright, consider The Suburbs the fourth horsemen of the apocalypse.

From the moment the Arcade Fire establish their mise en scene, it's clearly not a pretty place, apocalyptic themes still in full bloom. In fact, if any playwrights are reading this blog, I'd like to formally submit The Suburbs as the soundtrack for The Road: The Musical*. All jokes aside, The Suburbs is a titanic piece of art, whose theatrics and attention to detail is unparalleled. The lyrics vividly paint a portrait of crumbling cities, ashy sunrises, and abandoned buildings. Despite the somber subject matter, the Arcade Fire sure know how to make Armageddon catchy.  

A mastery of orchestration afford a band the opportunity to take chances and experiment in ways lesser bands cannot. No band has recent memory has done more for the violin (or the glockenspiel for that matter) than the Arcade Fire. No band does so much with so much, sounding larger than life one moment and whisper quiet the next. The Suburbs finds them enriching several songs with electronic cues and aggressive electric guitar riffs that they had never dabbled in prior. As songs build to their logical climaxes, they often lapse into brief detours that find new ways to satisfy. On Ready To Start, the bridge is tempered by a rumbling synth pulse just as it's about to burst. The Coldplay-inspired underwater groans of Rococo have a similar effect, a metaphorical deep breath before taking the final plunge. These moments serve to reinforce what makes The Arcade Fire such a seminal band. Because they have so thoroughly mastered the fundamentals they can afford to add a layer of howling guitar to Empty Room, a song that would have been perfectly agreeable without it, but becomes sadly manic in its presence. And for those who have grown accustomed to the Arcade Fire for their "anthem" fix, there's something here for you too. Modern Man and City With No Children stack up favorably with the strongest tracks on Funeral and Neon Bible, and the gorgeous electric growl of Sprawl II defies explanation.

As expected from a production of this magnitude, Win Butler does not shy away from infusing The Surburbs with a hearty dose of melodrama. But heck, we're talking about the end of the world here. By and large, the lyrics are a tasteful blend of remorse and indignation, sounding more resigned and tired than condemning as they did on Neon Bible. He still harbors a bit of resentment for "the kids", who "want to be so hard" but are "already bored" by the time the first bombs fall. Mercifully, Regine is able to swoop in and take the reigns before Win lapses into too much proselytizing, diluting his venom with the beautiful "Empty Room". The middle portion of the album finds Win turned from curmudgeon to castaway, feeling the nostalgia one feels only after destruction. As he wallows deeper into what he's lost, it is Regine again who saves him with Sprawl II, ending the album on a beautiful and defiant note. 

Remarkably, this whole give and take works quite well, so long as the rest of the group manages to keep things interesting in the background. On songs like The Sprawl (Flatland), the production is so sparse that the Win's lyrics are thrust front and center and sound like the incoherent ramblings of an aged beatnik. In fact, I half expected a "...man" at the end of the last sentence. A similar sore thumb is the bewildering Month of May, an energetic, but minor track that has no place on an album already an hour long. These quibbles should not distract from the fact that The Suburbs is a perfectly sequenced and realized album.

The Suburbs catalogues what it feels like to return home again after years away, and coming to terms with what that means. If Funeral embraced childhood wonder and Neon Bible channeled teenage angst, then The Suburbs finds them fully grown and grappling with the possibility that their best could be behind them. A scary thought when you're scarcely 30. 

"Ready to Start"


"The Suburbs"

*In 3D, of course.

Threadless, Eat Your Heart Out

I've been working on an emblem for The 20 Amsden for quite a while, and last night put the finishing touches on it. I think you'll agree that it captures the essence of the place have known and loved for three years. We are planning a party to commemorate this occasion (keep the last week in August open), where I will be selling T-shirts featuring this design at cost (probably $5-10) for those of you for whom The Twenty Amsden has come to occupy a special place in your hearts. *tear* I have also featured a few other uses for the logo, for the more creative types. Note: If you would like any of these, please give me advance notice (R'OB).

Edit: Mad Props to Jenny B for her help with the fontage.

Yeezy Tweets

Kanye West's Twitter feed is almost enough to make me join Twitter.

Almost.