The Big Green House

I got your lounge right here, pal

I was out and about running errands before work today, which is one of the few perks of working at night. Anyway, while I was in one particular store, I heard the most god-awful neo-lounge rendition of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”. It was just absolutely rancid. The term “desecration” comes to mind.

At first I thought it was Harry Connick Jr. (turn off your sound if you click that link, unless you actually want to hear the smug little mofo sing) but a little research turned up this guy – Michael Bublé. Look, I don’t really care which guy did it, to be honest, but whoever was responsible needs to be hit in the face with a red-hot shovel a couple of times. Pronto. Because the song is untouchable? No, of course not. Any song can and should be covered – IF you can match or exceed the quality of the original. If not, leave it alone. In this case, it wasn’t even close.

I’m usually pretty “live and let live” about most musical styles; even if I don’t care for it myself, I can usually (mentally) squint a bit & see how someone else might enjoy it. However, I find myself drawing a line at lounge singers. (I have a similar reaction to opera, too, but that’s not a can of worms I want to dive into at the moment.) That whole faux-jazz, whiter-than-white, pseudo-hipster, finger-snappin’, Sinatra wanna-be crap just gives me the itch, and how. If you want to listen to it, that’s fine. It is, as we used to say, your funeral. But I’ll tell you what: if I had to choose between listening to an hour of Sinatra and blinding myself with a hoof pick, I’d be thinking seriously about shopping for a seeing-eye dog.

“Oh, but he’s the greatest singer of all time”, you say. Well, you’re entitled to your opinion. In mine, he and his ilk rank somewhere below Arthur Ewing and his Musical Mice. (I’m willing to cut Tony Bennett some slack because he seems like a really nice guy, but that doesn’t mean I want to listen to him.) It just strikes me as being a very… dishonest style of music. It hits my ear as false and phony, all technique and no actual passion.

Again, your mileage may vary. I apologize if I’ve insulted your most favoritest type of music, but that’s how it sounds to me. Don’t ask me to give it another chance; I’ve heard enough for this lifetime, and the next few as well.

Chairman of the bored

Blah blah blah. Blah? Blah blah. In fact, blah de fuckin’ blah. Me rabbiting on for seven drawn-out paragraphs about some long-since broken up band you’ve never heard of and don’t care about. Frankly, nobody cares about them, including the former members. You’re just here because you were googling the “green house affect”. I’ve got no answers for you, stranger, but I will give you a tip: try using “greenhouse effect” next time. It's a subtle difference, I know, but I think you’ll find the results more along the lines you’re looking for. In the meantime, blah blah blah.

Zin rant*

OK. I think I’m going to expand a little on the previous post. I haven’t gotten a good rant on in some time; maybe it will help clear out the pipes a bit.

As I think I’ve mentioned a few times here, I learned how to drink red wine by drinking zinfandel. It is, therefore, a wine near and dear to what passes for my heart. And one of the characteristics I love about that particular grape is the rough & ready nature of the wine that comes from it. As my Mom put it once, “You like those wines that you can scrape off your tongue three days later”. How well she knows her son.

So it’s a real disappointment to bring home a zin I’ve never had before, only to find out that it’s been emasculated, for lack of a more descriptive term, in some ill-conceived attempt to please Robert Parker, a man who has single-handedly ruined much of what was interesting and vital about American wines in general and California wines in particular. Head’s up, kids – fruity and jammy and alcohol-hot is not the be-all and end-all, and you can kiss my rosy pink ass if you think otherwise. Zinfandel should taste like zinfandel, rough and rustic, peppery and inky - good, in a word - not like some weak-sister merlot, for chrissakes. If I wanted my wine to taste like a glass full of raspberry jam (Ravenswood, I’m looking at you; “no wimpy wines” my ass!) chased with grain alcohol (you too, Seghesio), then by god I’d save myself some money and mix up such a concoction myself. Don’t get me wrong, now. Fruit has its place, of course, but come on; if that and a high alcohol content are all you’ve got to show me then give your grapes to someone who knows what to do with them and stop wasting everyone’s time. I want a wine with character, one with some backbone to it, and I know I’m not alone.

This piece used to be titled "seven deadly zins". Clever, eh? Well, I forgot that there is a wine by the same name. I've never tasted it, so consequently I have no idea if it's anything like the wines mentioned above. When people started googling for it and ending up here, it didn't seem fair to associate a wine I knew nothing about with my cranky little screed. Hence, the new title.

A loaf of wine, a jug of bread, and how

Well, I just don’t have anything to say at the moment. I’m feeling a bit better, just very very tired.

Oh, wait a minute. I want to whole-heartedly recommend the Noceto sangiovese. Last night with dinner we had a bottle of their ’99 Riserva that we’d picked up last time we were down visiting Mom & Dad. It was just getting to the point where it was loosing its edge, but it had just the barest hint of a bite to it still. I’d been saving the bottle for a “special occasion”, but what could be more special than Sunday dinner? I’m glad we drank it before it had gone soft altogether, as it was quite yummy. Not one of those goddamned fruit bombs that taste like fucking Boone’s Farm, nor some high-alcohol hammerhead that knocks you on your ass after one glass; rather, it was a fine example (in my next-to-useless opinion) of a winemaker getting out of the way and letting the grapes express themselves. The folks at the winery were really nice when we visited there, so I was glad to see that our local wineshop carries one of their wines these days. Yay!

That’s it.

Hold on. Um, also, the rosemary-garlic bread at Three Girls Bakery down in The Market is pretty great, too.

OK, that’s all. Really. Go away.

Woof

Hey kids. I’m writing to you this morning from the kitchen of Science Manor. Science Girl and Lucy are fast asleep upstairs, so it’s just me and Martin down here bein’ niteowls. Martin has an ongoing anti-literacy campaign, usually manifested by his sitting directly on top of whatever paragraph one might be reading at the moment. Just now, he’s been getting up on the desk and sitting on the keyboard from time to time. Everybody’s a critic.

I’m having the first of probably three Mongoose IPA’s. It’s full-bodied and bitter, just like yours truly. It was also on sale, which is where we diverge. On the box is the blues comp that came with the new issue of Mojo I picked up today. So far, so good. That soul comp they put out with the last issue is gonna be hard to top; this one’s much more about the basics. Which is just fine with me. You can’t have too many versions of T-Bone Walker’s “Stormy Monday”, can you?

Outside, the lights across the valley twinkle in the dark. Every now and then I can see a car moving through the night, but for the most part Seattle slumbers on.

Death of a clown

While I’ve been staring vacantly out the window and contemplating the late 70’s catalogue of The Kinks… well, that makes it sound like I was actually thinking. In truth, I had “Permanent Waves”, from Misfits stuck in my head this afternoon. It’s now mutated into “Sleepwalker”, from the album of the same name. There are better songs on both albums, but those are the ones that came to me. What can ya do?

Hmm. Lemme start over, as I seem to have digressed somewhat.

While I’ve been staring vacantly out the window, Science Girl and Science Mom, being who they are, have been researching bald eagles & whether or not they have a taste for pussycats. Here’s what they’ve come up with: according to the bald eagle expert at UW that Science Mom spoke to, there is a mating pair that are currently nesting at a golf course less than a quarter-mile from Science Manor. This would explain why I saw the bird circling the neighborhood. She also said that bald eagles will generally only attempt to pick up critters (usually fish, sometimes hapless bunnies or rats) less than half their own weight, confirming the information Science Girl had found online. Since the upper range for eagle weight is around 12 pounds, and since Martin tips the scales at a robust 16 pounds of very sleepy feline, he’s probably pretty safe lounging in the midday sun on the back porch.

Thank the various gods that someone around here can do something practical.

Dance, Bakerina, dance

Today was blissfully free of attacks by either eagles or my sinuses. This is the good news; in the bad news department, I got nuthin’ for ya tonight. Actually, that should be in the “may or may not be bad news, depending” department.

Hey, go over and read The Bakerina instead. She writes better than I do, she bakes much better than I do (which is not all that difficult, according to several of my former employers), and she’s got very good taste in music*.

*I’m willing to overlook her devotion to The Cure, a band whose charms, such as they are, have always been lost on me. Science Girl digs ‘em too, so perhaps I’m missing something. The music’s fine, I guess; Bob Smith is a pretty decent guitarist, after all. As a singer, though… frankly, his voice suggests the sound a queasy ferret might make while being shoved through a funnel. That's just me, though.

On the other hand, anyone clever enough to give Garnet Mimms a shout-out gets a free pass.

Springtime

Spring is here. While you all are out frolicking with the lambs and bunnies and such, or what ever it is you do at this time of year, don’t forget those of us with allergies. All that promiscuous flower sex means lotsa horrible pollen in the air, which in turn means painful throbbing headaches, noses that will not stop running, sneezing, crankiness, etc.

Add to all that my yearly reverse seasonal affective disorder (too much light makes me depressed) and you’ve got a recipe for a deeply unhappy bmarkey. I’m pining for the depths of winter, even as the rest of you are gamboling with the puppies and kitties and, uh, various other baby animals in the vast, sunny, flower-filled meadows of the world.

Well, don’t worry about me. I’ll just sit here in the cool, soothing dark, with my box of tissues and my bottle of benadryl. I’ll be fine, really. Go have fun.

Bastards.

But before you scamper off, let me relate a small portion of my day for you. As I was returning form Lucy’s lunchtime walk (in the relentless sunshine, I might add), I noticed a car idling about twenty feet away from the intersection right in front of Science Manor. The driver was leaning out the window, looking up into the sky. I girded myself to endure the upcoming variation on “What a beautiful day!” as we passed the car, but the driver kept staring off into the sky. It appeared that she was tracking something. Out of curiosity I looked up to see a bald eagle, maybe 30-40 feet up in the air, turning lazy circles around the neighborhood.

(OK, that part was pretty amazing, I have to admit. If you’ve never seen an eagle in the wild, no description I can come up with is gonna do the experience justice. Trust me, though; it’s pretty damn cool.)

Once I got over the initial surprise, I realized that those circles he was turning had tightened around Science Manor. As I was crossing the street, it occurred to me why that might be: Martin the cat loves nothing more than to sun himself on the back porch.

Oh shit.

With visions of getting there just in time to see the bird swoop down and abscond with our cat flashing though my head, I hurried in, got Lucy off her leash & ran out onto the porch. Sure enough, Martin was snoozing right there in plain sight. As I reached down to pick him up and bring him inside, I glanced up in time to see the eagle flying off toward the Arboretum. I don’t know that I thwarted his lunchtime plans, but I think the chances are pretty good that I did.

So, next time you feel like spouting some blithe idiocy about the wonders of spring, keep in mind that Death waits to stoop upon on us all, snatch us up in his powerful talons and rip us to bite-size ribbons of flesh.

Now go enjoy your romp.

Yeah yeah yeah

Oh dear. Take a look at how much of this “concert preview” is devoted to the actual sound of the band vs. how much attention is paid to the way Karen O. looks. It’s not so much a preview as a mash note. Kinda sad.

The Yeah Yeah Yeah’s are Missing Persons for the 21st century, more or less, with a little bit (sometimes a lot) of A Flock of Seagulls thrown in for good (?) measure. This is not entirely a slam on the band, as I will cop to enjoying a couple of singles from both of those bands. Neither is it a ringing endorsement, though. Frankly, I don’t see what all the shoutin’ is about. YYY are an OK band, but they are not nearly as exciting as people are making them out to be.

Then again, I’m old enough to remember when Ms. O’s schtick was new, so maybe that’s what’s keeping me from jumping on the bandwagon as it rolls past the Old Rockers home. That and my trick knee; otherwise, I’m as spry as I ever was, by cracky! Say, could one a’ you young ‘uns give that victrola a crank? I got a hankerin’ to hear that Lene Lovich one more time.

*sings* “My lucky number’s one! AH oo AH oo!”

Heh heh.

*snores loudly*

Are those the 2004 models?

OK, somebody help me out here. When you go to an auto show, you’re going to look at cars, right? Same thing with boat shows – you’re checking out the new line of boats.

So what do you do at a women’s show? Surely not what I’m thinking.

And while we’re at it, what is that guy from Queer Eye doing there?

The gaining of knowledge is the asking of many questions.