I’ll be moderating a live Q&A with David Schwimmer at the Apple Store in Soho at 6:30pm on Tuesday, March 18. We’ll be talking about the movie he directed, Run, Fatboy, Run, and then giving out free iPods.*
*Note: no free iPods.
But come on down anyway!
Thanks to Kim from The Activity Pit for the tips on how to do this.
Okay so I went through this very obnoxious phase where I peppered my prose with footnotes. I apologize in advance. Anyway, I found another OC tale involving Clowny Hands and Toilet Duck, though they aren’t referred to as such in this one:
Slippers
Bamboo Terrace, Costa Mesa
Friday, Nov. 3
“C’mon! They’re the most talentedest1 musicians I know!” said my friend, who knows a lot of musicians and who records bands at his recording studio and who recorded Slippers. He was trying to cajole me into going to see them play at 7:30 p.m. on Friday night. Now, look: I’m just as much a sucker for talentedest bands as the next ravishingly beautiful music critic, but 7:30 p.m.? That’s nap time! That’s get-ready-for-Friday-night time! That’s oh-God-I-hope-he-calls-me time!2 That’s take-a-leisurely-shower-and-apply-makeup-time!3 That’s check-my-e-mail-and-avoid-phone-calls- from-my-mom- who’s-going-to-make-me-feel-guilty-for -not-coming-over-for-dinner time! Hey, that’s dinnertime!
“That early? Why are they playing that early?” asked my roommate, busily flipping back and forth between Jeopardy and Friends.
“It’s like a dinner thing,” said my friend.
“Oh,” said we.
And so it was that all three of us went to a Chinese restaurant called Bamboo Terrace to see Slippers, who were not only very talented but also, one might infer from their generally contented appearance and heavy lids, very stoned.
“We are Slippers from Long Beach,” announced the guitar player, whose beard rivals both Jeremy from Lit and all three members of ZZ Top.4 The five Slippers (guitar, bass, drums, congas and keyboard) wear shiny, satiny, Chinese pajama-looking outfits. “They are wearing authentic Chinese courtship suits,” said my roommate, but I’m pretty sure she pulled that out of her ass. Plus, she’s never been squired by an authentic Chinese man.
Slippers play progressive jazz that’s very noir-ish and atmospheric and moody and full of dynamics and vaguely Eastern-influenced. I’d almost say it’s experimental, but that makes it sound like there are big huge yawning gaps of sound involving nothing more than a rainstick or didjeridu or, even worse, someone rubbing a pick against a guitar string to make that squeaking sound or tapping their guitar pickups or doing weird things with rubber hosing. Slippers don’t even have a rainstick or didjeridu! Plus, they’re more frenetic than that, but in a mellow way. “They’re very yang,” said the aforementioned roommate. Yang, indeed!
The incredible drummer played with bundlesticks, which is always cool, and the incredible keyboard player, at one point, played this keyboard thing you blow into.
“By God, he’s taking bong rips onstage!” I proclaimed to my friends, but I was mostly just crapping around to distract myself from the Happy Hibachi Couple seated behind us, who were furiously making out only inches from their flaming tabletop grill. Then I suggested it might be funny if my friend lit his cigarette on their hibachi, but that’s just because I would appreciate it if no one was in love around me and it’s not like he did it, anyway.
Sometimes, apparently, Slippers have vocals; not tonight. They were entirely instrumental save for the “Woo!” that kept emanating from the stage. I never did figure out who was wooing. Also, their latest CD consists of two songs, one of which is about 20 minutes long and has 15 or so parts. They played this song, but I think they only included about 13 of the parts.
“Since when do you have all this noise?” a little old lady asked the restaurant’s owner at one point. From the back, the little old lady looked frighteningly like my grandmother, but I think my grandma would have liked Slippers. Which is not to say they’re grandma music because they’re not, but rather that they possess amazing, incredible, exhilarating talent, which is something with multigenerational appeal.
Even if the Happy Hibachi Couple didn’t seem to notice. (Alison M. Rosen)
1. Yes, he actually said, “talentedest.” Just like that: talentedest.
2. Now, see, that horrible book The Rules says you should never accept a weekend date after Wednesday, but it also says you should never stay on the phone with a guy for longer than 10 minutes and, to that end, you should keep an egg timer by the phone, to which I respond: Isn’t an egg timer only good for three minutes, and also, what the hell good is a guy who’s all hot for me if I don’t even know whether I like him because I never talk to him for long enough to find out because I’m always getting off the phone?
3. I’m high-maintenance, okay?
4. ZZ Top make me physically ill. Yes, their earlier stuff is good but when I think of them, all I think about is THAT HORRIBLE SLEEPING BAG SONG. I HATE THAT SONG!
The following is going to be a big ol’ hunk of cheese however my friend Yami, the one whose wedding I just attended, put this quote on her myspace page which has been fucking with my head all day. (and yes, the previous sentence is sad for a number of reasons but there’s no time now to dwell.) Here’s the quote:
“love is life. and if you miss love, you miss life. – Buscaglia
Do I agree with this? I remember thinking Buscaglia was vaguely douchey when I first encountered him in high school psych, but the sentiment is kind of chilling. I mean, not to you who are all happily connected to fellow human beings but to someone who spent the last year or so avoiding messy human relationships, it’s got me in a twist.
I could say more, but if I don’t blow dry my hair right now catastrophe is going to happen on my head. To be continued. Maybe.
Is this really the best the Nevada tourism council could come up with? I’m suddenly seeing a bunch of commercials with it again and it sounds more like an unfortunate medical condition than an enticement to come to Las Vegas. Actually, it makes the also kinda lame “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” sound like poetry. Also, it sounds like something someone would say before going on air. In fact, I’m going to drop it into my litany of self-consciousness next time:
How’m I doing? Is my hair okay? Is my jacket okay? Anything weird going on in this section? (waving hands over entire torso). Any muffin top action? Is my Vegas showing? What about my third nipple?
Can you see my goiter? I tried to hide it with goiter-off but I think it’s just making it show more. What about the giant scar I have running from my extra toe to my vestigial tail. Is it showing? Can you see where I had to have that thing frozen off? Correction, things.
Are you sure my Vegas isn’t showing? Okay phew.
I had a long talk with Toilet Duck on the phone last night and I told him that I’d been thinking about our OC adventures and posted about the night he lamented the limitations of my gender vis a vis showing me his crap. He was kind of surprised that I’d chosen that particular night to commemorate, but then he told me that he thought “blog” should be a euphemism for crap, and I was taken with the imminent sense of his argument. Anyway, I wanted to post a few more adventures but now I’m having trouble finding ones which specifically involved him—though I know there are tons—so instead I’m putting up this one. It was about a week after 9/11, hence the flag pursuit.
While in California recently I actually referred to this particular night a couple times because it’s seared into my memory and tangentially involves the aforementioned friend. He called me as I was on my way out the door to go to this show with other friends—which was rare for me/us. I rushed him off the phone in this haughty kind of “I have other friends and other plans la la la,” kind of way. Anyway, when I got back from the show he showed up at my apartment, or maybe called first, but anyway it turned out that it had been his birthday and I’d completely forgotten in my rush to assert my independence. I felt like an asshole. Then again, whatever Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles.
The Donnas
The Glass House
Saturday, Sept. 15
It’s damn near impossible to find a flag these days. I know because I’ve watched my roommate sit on the phone for hours trying to locate a store that isn’t sold out. Unable to turn a blind eye to her frustrated patriotism, I suggested that in lieu of a real flag, she just fly a pair of American Flag boxers out her window. But it’s not as if she has a pair of those lying around (or so she claims). Then I suggested she paint her nails red, white and blue. She went for it, resulting in a little something I like to call “clowny hands.” Unfortunately, when she tries to give someone the finger (perhaps for, say, calling her “clowny hands”), they just start laughing. It’s not all clowny hands and ridicule, though; an eight-year-old asked her if she was a rock star.
But that’s all beside the point. The point is that it’s impossible to find a flag unless you’re the Donnas, whose stage show at the Glass House on Saturday was simply bursting with flags, if by bursting you mean four. There was a big-ass flag affixed to the curtain behind the bass player. There was a flag stuffed into the drummer’s drum set, and there were another two flags stuck to the guitarist’s amp head. Singer Brett Anderson, a.k.a. Donna A (note to self: Or should it be vice versa?), was flagless, unless one of the flags on the amp belonged to her. Is that how it works? Is it like one flag per person? Because I’ll have you know that if you’re hoarding flags, I think Clowny Hands would like to have a word with you.
“Hey, we just wanted to take a second to say we’re really sorry about all the tragedies that have been happening, and if you have anything to donate, we have a Red Cross box next to our merch table,” said the singer before going into “Rock & Roll Machine.”
The Donnas, who played a few songs from their new album, The Donnas Turn 21, but spent more time on songs from their previous albums Get Skintight and American Teenage Rock ’N’ Roll Machine, have come a long way. There was a time when they all wore matching T-shirts and barely moved around onstage. Now they all wear different clothes and move around a lot! And the guitarist, bass player and drummer all whip their hair around really well in this way that might be an unconscious nod to hair metal bands. Or maybe it’s conscious; they talk openly of their love for Poison and Kiss and Mötley Crüe.
Other hair band moments? The guitar player’s constant pouty snarl and the way the bass player would ask the audience in this odd squealing voice, “Can you feel it? Yeahhhh?” and then make this weird yelping noise. It didn’t go over too well. The audience looked kind of confused or uncomfortable, and the band themselves seemed to wish they could get back to having the singer, the elected spokesperson for the band, do all the talking. It wasn’t a big deal, though, just a few split seconds of awkwardness. As for the guitarist’s pout, she can do whatever the hell she wants because she’s one of the best female guitar players I’ve seen; she effortlessly shreds™ and rips ™.
Not that the assholes in the pit would have noticed. Before we went into the club, the owner said to me, “Hey, be careful in there.” I thought he was kidding. I had no idea I was moments away from almost taking an adolescent elbow in the side. It was like watching a bunch of human ninja throwing stars. To come within six feet of one of them would be to take your life in your hands. The scary thing is that you wouldn’t know ahead of time what your downfall would be. It could be an elbow. It could be a foot. It could be a knee. It could be a fist. You wouldn’t see it until it happened. All you’d see is a blur of limbs and some sort of funky streetwear. Oh, the terror!
“Hey, if you include me in this story, can my name be Lola?” asked my friend, uh, Lola, as we stood in the back of the club in an effort to both watch the guitar player and avoid the pitting buttmunches. Pretty soon, a few more friends reinvented themselves (including Clowny Hands), and before long, I was hanging out with Lola, Jonzy and Preston, concert veterans one and all.
When the Donnas played their last song and walked offstage and the lights didn’t come up, we knew they weren’t really finished. Before long, the bass player and drummer took the stage again and began playing this funky cowbell-drenched jam thing. I like a smidge of funk from time to time, I must say.
“This song’s called ‘40 Boys in 40 Nights,’” the singer announced. Then Lola, Jonzy, Preston and I began talking about our own touring ratios, none of which has been quite so, well, robust. Go, Donnas, with the robust tour ratios! Now give a flag to Clowny Hands.
I’m sitting next to a cup of urine. There are lots of cops here. And yet, this ER is like neither gray’s anatomy nor law and order SVU. I took a break and went to a store called PUPPIES! I looked around but I wasn’t hungry. I’m engaged in an unspoken war with my sister’s boyfriend over the one seat here. I’m winning right now seeing as my ass is being gently cradled by a vinyl cushion and his is left to graze the cheapo curtain separating us from the scary scary woman in the next bed over. Yeah that’s right, non-blood relative! I can outsit you so don’t get any fancy ideas. MY chair. MY sister. MY perch near the neglected cup of urine.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
My sister, while they’re drawing blood and starting an IV to give her medication in case she feels nauseous: ‘I don’t feel nauseous.’
Me, sitting in a chair watching them draw her blood: ‘I do!’
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
I should have brought a book to this waiting area where it looks like I’ll be spending my saturday. Instead I brought my blackberry and… Let’s check the contents of my pocket, shall we? A receipt, a bandaid, eleven dollars and 48 cents, two packets of equal, two earplugs, a banana and a myna bird.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, but the truth is that I just prefer equal to splenda. I find it to be a bit sweeter and it has less of a chemical aftertaste. As for the myna bird, I’m not going to lie, it’s somewhat annoying to have to watch what I say all the time for fear of it being parroted back to me. At the same time it’s been hugely illuminating to listen to the profound things that come out of his beak, which are obviously things he picked up from me. In bird years, he’s probably about 65. Just a really old soul. And so funny. Sometimes he does this thing where he just looks at me and stands still and I’m like, ‘yep, he’s got my number!’ This one time he ate a grape and, well, you just should have seen it. Also, he’s kept me from making what would have turned out to be a couple massively unwise real estate investments. I’m not going to lie though, he also told me to sell short when I should have hung on. I was mad, but I wrote out my feelings to him in a letter and I think he really got what I was saying. I felt heard, which is so important.
Actually, he and I have really gotten into it because he thinks it’s rude when I read when he’s right there so maybe it’s better I don’t have a book. Still, I wish he’d understand that it’s not personal, I just need some time with my thoughts and it doesn’t mean my feelings about him have changed.
Uh oh, it appears he’s eaten an earplug. Say that again? I can’t hear you! Use words! Enunciate please.
Well this is really frustrating. He does it just to annoy me.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
I’ve been feeling kind of nostalgic for Orange County lately, which is a problem about which I could say more, but I was sitting here thinking about an old friend of mine and all the adventures we used to have, many of which I wrote about in the OC Weekly, and something made me remember the night we nearly missed our plans because, well, you’ll see. Anyway, I went back to see if I could find the column. I found it. Hooray! (for you, of course)
This was from 2001 I think:
CAPTAIN INDIGESTION!
Goldenboy
Din Din at the Bamboo Terrace
Saturday, Feb. 24
Saturday night was heap-loads of fun! It got off to a rousing start when, instead of going out and having a good time as was the original plan, I instead sat around my friend’s house while he repeatedly emptied, into the toilet, the contents of a nutritious meal that didn’t agree with him. Correction—nutritious meals. I don’t know how many he ate, but based on the lengthy duration of his bathroom furlough, it had to have been more than just dinner that was starring, for a limited time, in his toilet. “You know what I wish?” he queried through the bathroom door. “I wish you were a guy because then I could show you what just came out of me!”
“Darn!” I yelled back, gagging. And that, if you must know, is why we were late arriving at Bamboo Terrace, having missed Lo-Fi Champion, who were dressed as Jehovah’s Witnesses. I mean, they weren’t really, but I defy you to tell the difference between the band members, who looked jaunty in white shirts and narrow blue ties, and Soldiers of Christ, who also look jaunty in white shirts and narrow blue ties.
My Weak-Stomached Pal (who has forbidden me to use his name, which is weird to me since he was more than ready to show me the contents of his colon; whence springs this sudden coyness?) and I got there in time to see an entire set by Goldenboy. The three-piece Diamond Bar band features the excellent Shon Sullivan (nicknamed “Goldenboy”), who plays cello, guitar and piano in Elliot Smith’s touring band, on vocals, guitar and keys. Before he got the Smith gig, he played in a melodic psychedelic-ish band I used to really like called Moonwash. Before that he played in melodic psych-edelic-ish band Moonwash Symphony, who performed at my college, so as far as I’m concerned, Sullivan and I go way back. We’re practically family. I think he felt the same way, after I reminded him who I was.
Goldenboy began to play one of their plaintive melodic numbers, made more soothing, plaintive and melodic by Sullivan’s gentle baritone. Actually, I’m not sure he’s a baritone, and sometimes he sings in a falsetto, but it’s all quite soft and syrupy in a good singer-songwriter way. He should do lullabies!
“They’re really soothing,” remarked Captain Indigestion. “I think I’m beginning to feel better.” At this point it gets confusing because I think I said, “Yeah, they make music for your butt,” but Captain Indigestion claims Roberto from Lo-Fi Champion said it and Roberto claims the Captain said it, which is stupid because I’m the one who said it. Regardless, I got all sorts of grief for the rest of the night from Baron Von Light-A-Match-Please for, according to him, trying to take credit for someone else’s phrase. Bite me, Toilet Boy!
Three songs in, Sullivan put down his guitar and began playing electric piano on a song called “Baby Doll,” which, at the beginning, sounds a tiny bit like the theme song from Cheers, which I actually, at the time, said, but Roberto and Toilet Duck probably want to take credit for that one, too.
At some point, Goldenboy played “Savior Pill,” a Moonwash song I remember from their album, which I used to own although I can’t find it or remember what it was called, but I was overjoyed to hear the song as, for a time, it made me forget my troubles with the Duke of Crappy Pants, so for that, I’m eternally grateful. (Alison M. Rosen)