Trainwise

Barrymore Begins

trainwise@yahoo.com — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:08:43 GMT

Victor and I had a boozy evening on the town last Wednesday night, which ended with an impromptu reading of BARRYMORE, while completely faced, on my subway ride back to Brooklyn. But considering my character’s immortal indulgences, the whole evening can be handily written-off as good research—and taken in that light, I feel very responsible for having been so irresponsible.

Plus, it’s nostalgic.

* * *

Phill has a way of transforming our apartment into a magician’s workshop in preparation for our productions, and BARRYMORE is no different: The living room has already become a Victorian rehearsal hall, and this time, the set of the play comes complete with a working phonograph, on which Phill’s having me casually play the incidental music for the show, as though Barrymore is simply putting on music for pleasure during the course of his reminiscences.

After going through several vintage jazz albums on Saturday to find appropriate selections for the show, Phill let me try out an as-yet-unplayed vinyl edition of Jason Molina’s LET ME GO LET ME GO LET ME GO as a little bit of R&R. It was haunting, incantational…as ghostly as any of the sounds from those older recordings.

I finally “get” the whole vinyl obsession. It’s theatrical and intimate. It’s a sound that gets into the very woodwork.

* * *

Sunday we shopped for BARRYMORE clothing at Goodwill, and found a pinstripe suit in my size for $20.

This would be serendipitous for anyone, but as I’m 6’5” and intensely superstitious, it has lit a cosmic fire under my ass to do the show proud.

Cross all available fingers, toes.

Neverthelessland

trainwise@yahoo.com — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 21:03:54 GMT

Well, things have been a tad weird lately, but at least said weirdness is not the sort that necessitates capitalization of the W. Here goes:

- My job is going bye-bye.

- The kids’ book I was working on is very likely going away, too.

- Exposition-be-damned, my character has been cut entirely from the film I shot last year.

These are all pretty lousy breaks. However, none are as bad as they sound (or feel): My office already has other options for me, the eliminated kids’ book may only have been postponed, and the movie has put me on the radar with its production team as an employable film actor—the kind who doesn’t even freak out when you tell him that he’s been cut from your movie. At least, not until he hangs up the phone.

* * *

And now for one piece of very good news, and the probable reason for my continued sanity in the midst of the above ego-bruises:

My own book is going really, really well after five months of constant struggle. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate most of what I’ve written--that goes without saying at this point! Nevertheless, I feel like I’ve finally got a strong idea how the story needs to develop, and even some good leads on how to tell it well.

The book is, at long last, a pleasure to write. And with a little luck (and a lot of tough love) it will soon be a pleasure to read, as well.

THE WESTIES by T.J. English

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:22:53 GMT

THE WESTIES
by
T.J. English

Detailing the rise and fall of a brutal Irish gang that terrorized Hell’s Kitchen during the latter half of the 20th Century, THE WESTIES would be fodder for the airport rack were it not for author English, who proves himself to be a formidable reporter (and storyteller) in this debut book.

The Westies themselves were at best a small-time criminal operation, by and large confined to the streets of Manhattan’s West Side. Their history offers little of the glam and glitz most mob aficionados require to fuel their fandom. But English uses the spare backdrop of the docks, bars and construction yards to close his sights tightly on key players, and there he discovers an affecting story of success gone awry. The betrayals that get traded back and forth between boss Jimmy Coonan and enforcer Mickey Featherstone are reminiscent of the less-literal backstabbing normally found in high-power business narratives, and the comparative simplicity of this criminal organization helps render its politics more comprehensible than they would be in a gang as expansive as, say, the Italian mafia.

Furthering the flavor, English steadfastly refuses to tell the tale in sequence, often dumping readers in the middle of a shocking twist before backtracking to show us its roots. It’s like having cold water continually thrown in our faces—not that anyone would have trouble staying awake with all this violence. (One of The Westies trained as a butcher in prison, and passed his skills onto his fellow gang members upon his release—all of whom found predictably horrifying new uses for them.)

A unique crime book, from an author I can’t wait to revisit. But there are times you’ll wish he wrote about fluffy bunny picnics.

LOW LIFE by Luc Sante

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:20:06 GMT

LOW LIFE
by
Luc Sante

Rendered in impeccable prose, packed to the gills with lists of names and places and acts so bizarre that they resemble Burroughsian poetry, bursting with obsessive fervor, LOW LIFE is more like a cathedral than a book, and it’s impossible to read only once. Sante makes his enthusiasm for New York’s sordid history (largely Victorian and prior) into a communicable obsession, like cooties for your brain. Flip to any page, and immediately you’re lost in multiple examples of awe-inspiring endeavor—most impressive of which is the lassoing of all New York’s archival sin and squalor into a single rollicking fever dream. One of the best books about New York that you will ever read, this is historical spelunkery at its most ecstatic.

SATURDAYS = YOUTH by M83

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:18:27 GMT

SATURDAYS = YOUTH
by
M83

M83’s SATURDAYS=YOUTH represents hard evidence that the cinema of John Hughes, with its seminal soundtracks, just may have permanently established “1980s USA” as the definitive teenage milieu on a global scale: Here is a CD by a 26-year-old in France who reminisces about his early-double-digits by transplanting them to the faraway hills of our far-off country’s far-out decade, fusing the sounds of the era with his own distinguished brand of cinematic, ambient electronic music.

The results are pretty staggering, and from time to time, sweetly familiar. SATURDAYS bounces into the musical ether now and then, landing on earth only for a few songs at a stretch before springing off into space again. But when its feet are firmly planted on the ground, the year is unquestionably 1985, and the place is Shermer High.

PRETTY. ODD. by Panic at the Disco

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 19:16:21 GMT

PRETTY. ODD.
by
Panic at the Disco

Moving (mostly) beyond the snark of their debut, the surprisingly sunny PRETTY ODD proves that Panic at the Disco is actually wearing something under their smartypants. One of the first examples I can think of where a group has come to terms with its Beatles fetish without sounding like a mere tribute act, PRETTY ODD is a hearty stew of a CD filled with pop songwriting that entertains effortlessly, and lyrics that amuse even when stripped of their formerly-characteristic irony. Producer Rob Mathes is partly to thank for the successful sonic overhaul--even when fully orchestrated, the new melodies handily avoid bombast.

Nice to know that, in the Neverland of pop, some bands can “grow up” without getting boring. This might be one of the best of the year.

GAMES PRISONERS PLAY: THE TRAGICOMIC WORLDS OF POLISH PRISON by Marek M. Kaminski

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:31:05 GMT

GAMES PRISONERS PLAY: THE TRAGICOMIC WORLDS OF POLISH PRISON
by
Marek M. Kaminski

Not to be confused with GAMES CRIMINALS PLAY, reviewed earlier this year, GAMES PRISONERS PLAY is about Polish prison culture as it existed in the mid-1980s, written from Kaminski’s recollections of his stint as a political detainee. It’s social anthropology with a peculiarly cerebral twist: Kaminski uses game theory to illuminate how the common interactions of his fellow prisoners proceeded logically from the “givens” of their environment, going so far as to include decision matrixes for key dilemmas.

Kaminski’s certainly adept at examining the “rules” of incarceration—a juvenile etiquette born of aggression and male panic, with fairly horrifying consequences for noncompliance. Some of his looks at the win/loss dynamics of prison are funny (to fart or not to fart in a crowded cell), others are decidedly less so (whether or not to have consensual sex with an inmate, in exchange for protection), but these exercises eventually interlock to form a portrait of degradation at its most concisely inhuman, such that any humor in the book’s approach is pretty well drained from the proceedings by the end.

In fact, GAMES’ attempts to maintain a clinical distance from its subject matter only help the content hit twice as hard—there’s no misguided optimism, or even outrage, to cushion the blow from prison’s endless procession of decisions no one should ever have to make.

It's Over, It's Over, All Over, It's Oh-Whoa-Whoa-Whoa-Ver

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 19:25:49 GMT

Brooklyn Family Theatre has officially disbanded—but our farewell, held back on the fifteenth, was an unqualified success. (As was Brooklyn Family Theatre, to my mind.)

Jenn hosted the farewell show. Kanova, Dawn, Hector and the BFT kids all sang. Many regulars and parents were in the audience to see us off, only two or so of whom were truly nutjobs. And even the nutjobs cried—everyone cried, in fact, except for me and Phill. (I was too worried that the AV equipment I borrowed from work was going to overheat, whereas Phill doesn’t really cry, he just eats cookies.)

In the middle of the show, Jenn hosted a BFT-themed Who Wants to Be a Millionaire segment, with costumes and props from our shows as prizes. Max was the first contestant, and he gradually incorporated his winnings into his ensemble as he played--by the end of his round, he was sitting on stage in bat wings, a lion robe and a top hat, carrying a stuffed duck.

Later, Max redistributed all the props and costumes to the kids who had worn them in their appropriate shows; the Robin Hood of the BFT costume trunk.

THE HORROR MANGA OF JUNJI ITO

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 21:19:02 GMT

THE HORROR MANGA OF JUNJI ITO

With horror maven Junji Ito’s manga being reissued by VIZ in brand new English-language editions, now is the perfect time to get acquainted, or re-acquainted, with his work. His ideas alone defy easy description, achieving practically hallucinogenic levels of surreality long before you’ve seen the grotesque, stunning artwork he uses to bring them to life.

Indeed, Ito’s premises are so absurd that logic insists they should be funny. One section of GYO presents us with a group of citizens stricken with a mysterious disease, uncontrollably belching and farting as they wander the streets of their city--until a set of robotic insect legs clomps along and carts them off like stray dogs, running vacuum tubes into their butts and down their throats to harness the escaping gas as fuel. Logic would suggest that this scene should, at the very least, induce a befuddled giggle. Or perhaps an ironic “high comedy” chuckle, as in “ah yes, such a telling commentary on the nature of the industrial blah blah blah…” But Ito knows how to present these concepts so that they dive straight past your mental defenses, the way nightmares do, and his images make short work of any humor involved: These bloated corpselike things, eyes pearly white, bodies lifeless with infection, violated and piled like so much chaff onto the spine-like chassis of a parasitic mechanical insect...you’ll wish you could somehow shake the picture back out of your brain.

Ito’s equally deft at encompassing concepts that become frightening precisely because of their nebulousness, as illustrated by UZUMAKI, his most famous series. This set of linked stories concerns a town whose locals gradually become obsessed with spirals, accompanied by spiral-themed descents into madness and mutation. There is no monster to fight, no disease to cure, no demon to exorcise--only the image of the spiral, at once simple and horribly impalpable, gradually overtaking the minds of the townspeople, and finally their bodies. One character’s father commits suicide by forcing himself into the shape of a spiral. A spiral-shaped scar on a girl’s forehead eventually grows into a devouring vortex that consumes her eyes, her head, her legs... Like the best work of Lovecraft and Blackwood, even the notion of UZUMAKI is unsettling, presenting a horror that manifests itself in the world at large, but originates somewhere in the sticky corridors of the mind, and descends back there once it’s been introduced into your cognitive bloodstream.

To make matters more impressive, Ito wrangles these premises together using surprisingly straightforward plotting. His manga unfold with a queasy internal logic, dragging the reader along like a runaway train. In fact, the stories are so well-crafted that they maintain their effectiveness even after repeated exposures--you'll savor the darkening mood and the cringe-inducing artwork each time…and you'll secretly hope that you will eventually develop an immunity.

MADE IN THE DARK by Hot Chip

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 21:15:22 GMT

MADE IN THE DARK
by
Hot Chip

Hot Chip has a knack for finding the perfect touch to tie a good electronica track together--the kitchenette clang that sets the rhythm for TOUCH TOO MUCH, the retro "human voice" synth effects on WE’RE LOOKING FOR A LOT OF LOVE. Best of all, they've layered so many of these strokes into their new album that the tracks still have the power to surprise after several dozen listens...hence instigating several dozen more listens.

MADE IN THE DARK is a dance-pop variety show: Textured, playful, and impossible to nail down.

FALLING OFF THE LAVENDER BRIDGE by Lightspeed Champion

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 21:12:53 GMT

FALLING OFF THE LAVENDER BRIDGE
by
Lightspeed Champion

Individual tracks of Lightspeed Champion's debut album work very well by their lonesome, but when they come together it’s like a folk-pop suite, each growing naturally out of the other, and kicking a little more ass than the last. Perpetually at odds with the world around him (and the one inside him) lead singer and songwriter Devonte Hynes has a talent for clueing us into his various befuddlements with songs that are sweetly disarming, and prickly as thorns. There’s petulance in buckets, too, but what do you expect from an album inspired by Hynes’ OC fandom? (True story.) A terrific CD to get lost in.

BEAST MOANS by Swan Lake

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 21:07:41 GMT

BEAST MOANS
by
Swan Lake

Canadian Indie powers, activate--form of Swan Lake! BEAST MOANS brings the vocal hysterics of Frog Eyes' Carey Mercer, Destroyer's Dan Bejar and Wolf Parade/Sunset Rubdown's Spencer Krug together into a kind of quirk-rock supergroup--The New Pornographers for musical mutants. More accessible than it sounds, their song stylings are compelling and lush, even if their collective voices make David Byrne sound like David Cassidy.

MEDUSA by Clan of Xymox

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:59:52 GMT

MEDUSA
by
Clan of Xymox

A high-point in the decadently dour goth-pop craze of the 1980s, Clan of Xymox's MEDUSA is a tragic, theatrical opus of mope--truly a forgotten classic of its kind. The band itself, who got their start back in ‘85 (appropriately enough, opening for Dead Can Dance) continue to offer their brand of drear elegance to a gaggle of die-hards even now, with a new album due this very year. If you like Joy Division and Dead or Alive in equal measure, this is the group for you, and MEDUSA is the place to start.

NEW MOON by Elliott Smith

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:56:04 GMT

NEW MOON
by
Elliott Smith

Most of the rarities collections released in the wake of a major artist’s passing are strictly for completists and ghouls, but this one is so strong that someone unfamiliar with Elliott Smith could actually start learning about him with NEW MOON. Consisting of rarities and tracks that otherwise didn’t make their respective albums during his too-brief career, Smith’s throwaways can truly make the claim to outclassing many artists’ bests. The only drawback is, if you miss Smith already, NEW MOON will make you miss him even more.

SEVENTH TREE by Goldfrapp

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:53:06 GMT

SEVENTH TREE
by
Goldfrapp

Chill-out music was already on its way off the radar screen when Goldfrapp debuted in 2000 with FELT MOUNTAIN, an album that gradually wound its way into hipsters’ headphones and became a kind of retroactive classic. Having since explored sounds as diverse as dance and straight-up glam rock, the duo returns to their days of erstwhile electronica with SEVENTH TREE, providing more tunes for the space-station winebar in your mind. If you’ve strayed from Goldfrapp, or feel they’ve strayed from you, this album is reason enough to kiss and make up—but get it quick, before they start making punk records.

2112 by Rush

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 20:48:35 GMT

2112
by
Rush

Even die-hard Rush fans are willing to concede that the five tracks on “the other side” of this album don’t hold a candle to the eponymous mini-rock-opera that opens it. But how could anything? In a single twenty-minute song cycle, everyone’s favorite Canadian progsters lovingly fuse every dystopian science fiction stereotype of the ‘60s and ‘70s with every Ayn Rand book ever published…and somehow manage to make the whole thing rock out. It’s LOGAN’S RUN meets JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR--and like both of those daredevil narrative oddities, everything that makes it campy somehow also makes it work.

Whatever You Do, Don't Think About Gangsters

trainwise@yahoo.com — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 01:07:44 GMT

I attended a deeply unironic Tupperware Party in The Bronx last Saturday, where I welcomed Diane back from her recent trip abroad; she and The Republican had gone to Hong Kong and Thailand for a couple of weeks. Now she was in a room full of gay men, Italian moms, babies and burpable cocktail shakers--nothing like being reincorporated into your host society at an event that's at least as disorienting as international travel.

* * *

Diane was able to visit Hong Kong Disneyland during her trip, and she tells me that their Space Mountain kicks our Space Mountain's ass. Indeed, the majority of our post-trip discussion related to this portion of her visit.

It's true, in my family we fetishize every potential travel destination in terms of its proximity to theme parks.

* * *

Last week, I had one of those awful days where the book was the only thing in my brain. Story ideas were bouncing around my skull like Lotto balls, but there was no winning number in sight—I finally forced myself to engage in a purgative screening of BLADE RUNNER, and take some time off from writing. Not for long, just a week. Even that was easier said than done: My choice of “leisure reads” included a book about organized crime in Hell's Kitchen, a book about criminal societies in Polish prisons, and a book about an NBA coach...who once worked undercover in the Mafia.

Still, I did what I could to get clear for a few days. I read BARRYMORE. I started reading some social anthropology books that, for once, had nothing to do with gangsters. Thankfully, I also had some brand-new writing assignments at work, not the least among them will become my first published book! Don't get too excited—it's a kids' guidebook to an online community for virtual pets. But it's money.

And if I play my cards right, pretty soon I'll be writing guidebooks for thirtysomething geeks who think they're Orcs.

You know, my people.

* * *

Tomorrow night the Brooklyn Family Theatre closes for good, with a little farewell show that Phill has been putting together. It's going to be serious. If I don't glue my contacts in, they will surely wash away.

THE RED ALBUM by Baroness

trainwise@yahoo.com — Wed, 27 Feb 2008 22:12:12 GMT

THE RED ALBUM
by
Baroness

Metal has enjoyed some happy dalliances with punk, but as a genre it does not generally cross-pollinate well--even metalcore heavy-hitters like As I Lay Dying can sound unintentionally hilarious to your average rock fan, like one of those duets from THE MUPPET SHOW where they pair Barry Manilow with a tap-dancing Yeti.

Thankfully, Baroness doesn't need to make blind stabs at innovation—their music proceeds from its influences organically, such that the audacity tends to sneak up on you: A long jam with heavy shades of Southern rock will gradually build into a hardcore frenzy with all the ease of a gathering storm, and you won’t even raise an eyebrow when John Baizley’s vocals start filling your ears with thunder.

Which is all the more reason you should raise an eyebrow. Maybe ten.

WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW by Phillippe des Pallieres & Herve Marly

trainwise@yahoo.com — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 19:15:37 GMT

WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW
by
Phillippe des Pallieres & Herve Marly

If you've ever encountered the parlour games MAFIA or WEREWOLF, you already know the basics of THE WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW: Most of the players represent ordinary townspeople, but a small number (usually two or three) are selected to be imposters (either Mafiosi or Werewolves, depending on the motif) who surreptitiously eliminate an innocent player once per round. The others spend their time in-between these attacks trying to unmask their hidden enemies, voting as a group to "kill" one suspect a round...and learning together whether they backed the right horse (or, in this case, shot it). Alas, the imposters are voting, too, and trying to get the ordinary townspeople to do their eliminating for them.

WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW expands the possibilities of this scenario, offering players even more roles. There's obviously The Fortune-teller (known in MAFIA as The Detective), who can ask the moderator to reveal the secret identity of one player to them every round. But there's a host of other twists and turns, with characters like The Lovers, who must preserve each other at any cost, The Hunter, who takes another player with him when he dies, and The Little Girl, who is authorized to cheat if it will help her discover the identities of the imposters. Once you have these modified rules, this game can really be played with a bunch of index cards, but the same can be said for many games, and Alex Tjoyas' folksy illustrations are truly creepy and effective at setting the mood, with their pseudo-occult sensibility.

Like DIPLOMACY, WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW really engages the personalities of its players, with the periods immediately preceding any "vote" becoming rousing debates. Its gameplay is also more than slightly disturbing, revealing quite a lot about how deception works and why. (The Werewolves almost always win, I kid you not.) But you'll be having too much fun playing to realize how much you're learning about the nature of evil.

THE BIG SLEEP by Raymond Chandler

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 16:27:55 GMT

THE BIG SLEEP
by
Raymond Chandler

THE BIG SLEEP is to detective noir what THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING is to fantasy, what DUNE is to science fiction--the pinnacle of a genre that flattered its author's genius with imitation, and imitation, and imitation. Here, you'll encounter cliches before they became tired, better yet understand why they became cliches in the first place.

The plot is self-evidently standard stuff: A dying millionaire (check) hires a hard-boiled private eye (check) to solve a blackmail case (check) that is further complicated by the interference of the patriarch's beautiful and deadly daughters (check, check, check). If it all sounds ho-hum, believe me, Chandler literally wrote the book on this stuff, and you'll find yourself sinking into his dissonant symphony of corruption and double-dealing like it was scribed last week. His prose is like a hypnotist's watch, drawing you into his world for its own sake--one borne of a singularly dark worldview: The men are violent, the women are treacherous, the only people of any humanity are dead, dying, killed or imprisoned. But all this only ups the stakes, energizing the mysterious, often erotic charge of every exchange.

As for Chandler's famous protagonist, Phillip Marlowe, there's no fictional character I can think of whom I'd rather spend a book filtering my brain through. He's all implacable honor and barely-disguised frailties, a steel-encased softie whose idealism knew too much to live.

THE HOLLOW CHOCOLATE BUNNIES OF THE APOCALYPSE by Robert Rankin

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 16:27:22 GMT

THE HOLLOW CHOCOLATE BUNNIES OF THE APOCALYPSE
by
Robert Rankin

APOCALYPSE makes for amiably snarky reading, particularly when we're talking about its two central characters: Jack, a human adrift in a corrupt city of living toys, and his buddy Eddie, a talking alcoholic teddy bear who can't use corroborative nouns. (One of many linguistic gimmicks of the author's, all of which are as clever as...)

THE MENSTRUATING MALL by Carlton Mellick III

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 16:26:10 GMT

THE MENSTRUATING MALL
by
Carlton Mellick III

If you were disappointed to find that Nathaniel West’s DAY OF THE LOCUST did not contain any giant grasshoppers, or that THE CATCHER IN THE RYE had nothing whatsoever to do with playing baseball in a grain silo, you will be thrilled to discover author Carlton Mellick III, whose books (THE BABY JESUS BUTT PLUG, THE OCEAN OF LARD) never fail to make good on the surreal, often revolting promises of their titles.

A cross between George Romero’s DAWN OF THE DEAD and Agatha Christie’s AND THEN THERE WERE NONE, THE MENSTRUATING MALL concerns a group of walking American stereotypes (the Jesus-freak, the wanabee-gangsta, the valley girl) who find they can’t seem to bring themselves to leave their local shopping center--a mall that has begun, as advertised, to bleed. Once these losers are left alone with each other, they begin to die at the hands of a mysterious killer, who claims to be punishing them for their conformity to type. They embark on an increasingly desperate quest for new identities, encompassing nonsensical dress codes and randomized vandalism as these cookie-cutter-characters scramble to get a third dimension, pronto.

The story itself isn’t very long, in fact it’s really more of a short story--or, if you like, a kind of picture book for perverts. Food Fortunata's crude drawings, which have little to do with the plot, are the sort of thing you'd expect to find in a defaced middle-school textbook. Mellick's prose is similarly lowgrade stuff, as though he wants us to think that a ten-year-old came up with it.

Indeed, this book raises a question common to both fans and detractors of the outsider art scene: Do Mellick and Fortunata's primitivisms represent a choice, or just the limits of their abilities? In the case of Fortunata, I'd say the latter, in a big way. But in the case of Mellick, there is a sense of misbehavior to his style, like a kid who lets his parents down to piss them off. His plot is also well-served by its brevity, buzzing by too fast for its conceits to collapse on themselves. Whereas an author like Harlan Ellison can prop up his bizarre ideas with powerhouse prose, Mellick keeps the whole thing afloat by rushing you through as fast as possible. It's the fictional equivalent of jalopy-hawking, but either way, it's a successful sale.

Just ask me again in a month if the car still starts.

Full Moon

trainwise@yahoo.com — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 06:00:09 GMT

Had a pretty wonderful time on Thursday night at Union Hall. It was a co-birthday celebration with Erin, our third annual.

Josh B and his wife Becca are within days of Daddy and Mommyhood (respectfully), but Josh miraculously made the trek to The Other Brooklyn anyhow.

We talked about marriage and parenthood in our generation, or at least in our particular set of transplants and college buddies. Many of us, we realized, come from broken homes, and absolutely none of us think of marriage or parenthood as "steps" or "inevitabilities"--we really think of them as choices. This can lead to trepidation sometimes, not to mention overthinking. But it can also unlock a real sense of oneself, if taken in the right light. This feeling of looking down the road as far as you're able, and knowing as well as anybody can all the wonderful (and not-so-wonderful) things that the vanishing point might imply, but soldiering on regardless because we know the choice is a part of who we are--being a father, a mother, a husband, a wife, a writer, an actor, a friend.

At any rate, here's to another couple who will shortly be joining The Order of Cool Parents, an offshoot of the tiny cult of sanity that exists, against all odds, in this larger world of madness, perpetuating its traditions through secret handshakes, underground meetings and the occasional brunch.

* * *

At the party, we played WEREWOLVES OF MILLER'S HOLLOW several times, and Erin (who played the role of "Cupido" in the game) saw fit to make Phill and Victor "The Lovers", whose object is to save each other at all costs. Victor turned out to be a werewolf, and the townspeople killed him...at which point, Phill was forced to commit suicide from grief. It's in the rules.

My standard prescription these days for a night of boozy fun, as per classic rock's instructions, is one bourbon, once scotch and one beer--but thanks to the generosity of my friends, I came close to double-dosing. Afterward, Phill and I walked home, where we ate Stouffer's pizzas in bed, and Statler-and-Waldorfed network television. I avoided hangover completely...but I swear I'm feeling slightly drunk still, though this may only be the bite of that mythical beast from middle school public service announcements, the natural high.

Barrymore, more, more, more, more!

trainwise@yahoo.com — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 19:58:07 GMT

The books I'm using as research for my novel are waiting at home in a decidedly eclectic pile.  Damon Runyon and Raymond Chandler are represented, as well as lots of nonfiction on the culture of organized crime and imprisonment.

But I'm also researching for an acting role in the Spring, which has necessitated a strategic re-envisioning of the family Netflix queue, and the collection of an entire second mound of material, featuring biographies, Shakespeare plays and lots of audio recordings.

The play is BARRYMORE, and the role is none other than John Barrymore himself.  A bit of a meta-role really; I'm an actor playing an actor who is himself rehearsing a part. Or, more accurately, I'm a fledgling theatre hobbyist playing the greatest American actor who ever walked the stage rehearsing one of his signature Shakespeare performances. No pressure, huh?

At least I'm not expected to portray The Great Profile at the height of his powers; the play takes place at the very end of the actor's life. Remember that montage sequence in THE INCREDIBLES where Mr. Incredible starts powerlifting freight trains to get back in shape and reclaim his position as the world's top superhero? Well, imagine if that didn't work out for the guy. Imagine if Mr. Incredible, long out-of-practice from his many years spent feigning humanity, went to lift those freight trains...and found he couldn't do it anymore. Soon enough he just accepts that his powers are gone for good, that he will never get them back.

So help me, that is what BARRYMORE is about. It's devastating. Thankfully there's also humor, warmth and schmaltz to cut the poison--but under it all, yikes. In a way I'm glad I'm in the thing. Being a part of something, putting any kind of work into it, gives you some distance. But watching it? I'd jump off a fricking cliff.

* * *

I'm sick again, or getting there. That makes three illnesses in less than three months for me, in defiance of daily Airborne.  I'd be creeped out if I didn't know it was my fault--I'm so determined for everything to happen now that it's like I'm perpetually cramming for exams, and often staying up way too late. Even my job's relative (and sometimes absolute) quiet isn't doing much to keep me from stressing myself out. I need to slow down...which seems absurd, considering it's the turtle's pace of everything I'm doing that has driven me to speed up in the first place.

* * *

It's my birthday today, so Phill and I are going to check out XANADU on Broadway. I've been meaning to see it since it opened, the film on which it's based being one of my all-time favorite cinematic disasters. I'm also a huge fan of shows based on cheesy, ubiquitous movies. I count the stage productions KARATE KID: THE MUSICAL and SHOWGIRLS: THE BEST MOVIE EVER, EVER as three of the funniest nights I've ever spent in a theatre. (Yes three: I saw KARATE KID twice.)

Fingers crossed!

SOUND OF SILVER by LCD Soundsystem

trainwise@yahoo.com — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 20:28:42 GMT

SOUND OF SILVER
By
LCD Soundsystem

SOUND OF SILVER is pretty nifty stuff, provided you don’t let its hype overshadow its premise: Simple electronica that brings Bowie-esque crooning and “human interest” lyrics in line with steady beats, mining irony (NORTH AMERICAN SCUM) and even pathos (SOMEONE GREAT) from tracks that could have easily remained cheap excuses to boogie...not that any such excuse needs excusing, mind you.