Dear Mr. President,

As you finish your final months in office, you must have many important duties to fulfill. There are people you have to pardon, post-term speaking engagements to settle, long-term contracting deals to sign, and maybe some final political scores to settle.

Within the last year your administration has begun to publicly acknowledge the economic downturn that the nation currently experiences. There are other negatives that have been reluctantly mentioned as well, such as failures in overseas diplomacy, military action, and the worldview of the United States. Maybe you haven't addressed these directly -- it may just be my optimistic imagination -- but even if you have, I am not entirely certain that you, your advisers, or cabinet members can see our nation's day-to-day collapse due to the blindfold of Wealth.

My girlfriend and I (yes, we live together and are not betrothed) recently moved to another apartment. No, we are not homeowners. Despite the fact that we both have jobs that pay well, we still cannot afford to purchase a home even amidst the current housing market disaster. Our new apartment, mere feet from luxurious Beverly Hills, surrounded by seven- and eight-figure houses, is not of the inexpensive sort, but not unreasonably priced either. The apartment and the building themselves are of quality and the nights are exceptionally quiet by Los Angeles standards. The problem with our place resides with the things within, objects and labor. American products and American work. To summarize:

• Uneven kitchen tiling of different heights that can cut bare feet. Tiling which was installed two weeks later than needed, thus keeping us out of our apartment for two days after we had already moved in.
• A dishwasher that sometimes washes dishes when not activated and does not dry them once it is activated. It is brand new.
• A freezer door that does not seal the same as the refrigerator below it, thus potentially causing high utility bills. It is brand new.
• An oven installed on a slight slant so that burning hot trays can slide out and hit passersby. An oven that may not reach the actual temperatures that it indicates. It is brand new.
• A stove top that is slippery, thus causing burning hot pans to slide off and hit passersby. It is brand new.
• A toilet that was installed under a shelf so that the toilet cannot fully open. Without going into graphic detail, I will just say that it presents a problem for both men and women. This was installed 20 to 30 years ago in every apartment in the building.
• A shoe rack, new in the box, with three broken pieces so that it cannot be assembled.
• A shoe rack, new in the box, with at least two missing pieces so that it cannot be assembled.
• A shower rack, or caddy, with metal so flimsy that it cannot serve its own purpose, bending out even without holding a single bar of soap. It has shelves that cannot stay straight due to flimsy rubber wedges, causing anything placed on the shelf to come sliding off, hitting naked surprised bathers. It is brand new.
• Screen doors that do not open. Screen doors that do not open are no longer doors, but walls for exhibitionists.
• Cabinet doors that either do not open or do not close.
• Closet bars that will collapse under the weight of the clothing hung upon them.
• Front door locks that do not lock.
• Kitchen shelves installed on a downslope causing dishware to, yes, slide off and hit passersby.

I will stop here, Mr. President, because to go further would likely seem to be nitpicking. What I hope is apparent is the shoddy nature of these American-made products, this work, this labor provided in America, this sliding away of the last shards of American quality. My girlfriend and I do not live in a $600 studio in South LA, these things are happening within the middle-class.

When I do my job, I do my best, focusing on the clients, vendors, and people who are affected by the results. If we Americans know that we cannot afford a house, cannot afford to get sick, cannot take any pride in our international standing, cannot assume that our jobs are stable, cannot afford to travel, cannot expect to get our Social Security back when we are old, cannot expect privacy laws to be upheld, and cannot assume that it is okay not to be afraid anymore, what are we supposed to do when we come home from work to an apartment full of broken things. Shoddy labor going into shoddy products. The complete lack of effort and pride.

You, sir, set the example.

Sincerely,
thekrav

Go on singing

In the process of taking care of apartment matters while KP suns in Sweden, I've remained frighteningly sober. Even a run-in with Coppola's Rosso ended earlier than it normally would.

On Saturday, my dad and I went out to Anaheim to watch the Yanks. In typical fashion the Angels beat the crap out of them. We had decent seats but the O.C. sun was burning up the deck. So we went progressively higher and higher up the ballpark to stay in the shade. By the 9th, the view was such:
I did get to see ARod and J. Stach-less Giambi go yard, back-to-back. But we left once the over-praised Yankee relief staff allowed 8 straight runners (7 hits) without being able to get an out in the 8th inning. They've taken their two best relievers (Chamberlain and Giese) and made them starters. That leaves a problem. I witnessed it. It was great to see a game with my dad though. But the blondes with silicone stacks kept getting in the way of my view of the field, even when they were standing in the beer line.

In between unpacking boxes this weekend, I had a chance to get through some DVDs. Finally finished the first Popeye set. Awesome. Highly recommended. Remember these aren't the crappy cheap color cartoons. These were the original ones from the 1930s. Once Jack Mercer signs on as the voice of Popeye, these short violent films become very funny. Mercer ad-libs, mutters grandly terrible puns under his breath, and (if my hearing's right) occasionally comments on the cartoon itself. As far as the un-PC element goes, Olive Oyl gets socked around as much as the boys do. Off-putting at first, it eventually blends in and makes sense, since everyone else gets punched and she takes a hit better than the boys do, sometimes. The racial incorrectness, though, is very dated and seems like laziness on the part of the writers and animators. Otherwise these B&W cartoons are still enjoyable 70 years later. Note: Popeye apparently liked to dance a lot at this point in his life. One out of every six cartoons has him cutting a rug.

Kristen brought me Babe (the one about the pig, not the Ruth picture) as a present a week or so ago. It was in the DVD player as soon as I'd set it up. 13 years ago (wow) I watched Babe -- with Stacy Lydon, I just realized -- in a theater full of children. I hate kids in theatres and I normally despise kid's movies, so I was anticipating disaster. But it was beautiful. Once the movie started, there wasn't a peep from the little people. And as the film came to a close in a striking, zen-like, peacefully composed sequence of shots, I began reading into a film for the first time. I think this was the first time...at least it makes for a decent story.
What's surprising all of these years later is how dark this G-rated squeaker-pic can be. Much of it centers around the accepting of one's destiny to be eaten. When Babe sings Jingle Bells right after being measured for a Christmas ham, I thought that if one were to replace the animals with humans, the irony of his joy would be too gruesome to film. But, alas, Babe has a different destiny. And I was surprised how emotionally connected I still am to the film's final act. I think it's largely due to James Cromwell's commanding, almost wordless, performance as the farmer. If any of y'all watch this one again, keep an eye on Cromwell, he's amazing.

Finally, I watched F for Fake. I've had it sitting around for a month, courtesy of Netflix. It was my loss to have waited so long. It can easily stand with Kane and Touch of Evil as Orson Welles's best cinema. I can't add much more than what has already been written, but I'll try. It's at least 20 years ahead of its time. The editing is fast and brilliant as it tips the film towards the avant-garde, which in turn probably kept any distributor from picking it up back in '76.
It's Orson's last completed film, but he shows no signs of slowing down. The tone is mischievous, youthful but wise. It's about two famous con artists, one who was one of the great art forgers, the other an author of a true biography on a faker and a fake biography on a real person. Besides being full of twists and turns and commentary on the art market, it really is about beauty and truth. If someone can recreate a Picasso or Modigliani (in minutes!) with perfect precision, who's to say that this person is not an artist as well? And what then is art? And why does the artist matter? It is the art that is profound. Once the art is created it belongs to the universe, not one person.

I've never seen anything like this film. It's a documentary, but not. It's a mediation with tons of titillation. My favorite part comes an hour and 2 minutes into the running time. Welles abruptly cuts to a monologue about Chartres which turns out to be the thesis of the whole film.
The monologue follows, below. Imagine the great Welles voice -- like a large sleepy bear sipping Cabernet -- weaving his thoughts in almost a whisper. And as you listen, it's as if the world stands still for a minute:


"Now, this has been standing here for centuries, the premiere work of man, perhaps, in the whole Western world. And it's without a signature. Chartres. A celebration to God's glory and to the dignity of man.

"All that's left, most artists seem to feel these days, is man. Naked. Poor, forked radish. There aren't any celebrations.

"Ours, the scientists keep telling us, is a universe which is disposable. You know, it might be just this one anonymous glory, of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose, when all our cities are dust, to stand intact, to mark where we've been, to testify to what we had it in us to accomplish. Our works in stone, in paint, in print are spared, some of them for a few decades or a millennium or two. But everything must finally fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash. The triumphs and the frauds. The treasures and the fakes.

"Fact of life, we're going to die. Be of good heart, cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced. But what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much."

We are here

If West Hollywood goes by WeHo and North Hollywood is called NoHo, then we're just plain Ho. Actually we're on the Beverly Hills / Hollywood border so we're at BH Ho. Say it out loud. (For those who need to be handheld through this juvenile joke, add an "ass" after BH, so you'll have a BH ass Ho. You're welcome.)

The apartment started to feel like home for a moment this morning, even though we'll still be box-squatting for a couple more weeks. We have no internets there; until I do, these posts will be brief as I pretend I'm cost reporting at work. But we ate an actual dinner and breakfast in our dining room during actual dinner and breakfast times. Our bedroom smells less and less toxic each night. And the most exciting part is that I showered in our shower for the first time. Four mornings. Four different showers. Four different women.

I'm kidding.

Five different women.

OK. I cannot go out on that note today. Here are two pictures:

This is great. Did I already post this? If so, T.S.

And some bananas.

Not very moving

Just a quick update. Our move has been very messy. We have no working apartment to live in. Instead we spent the night at a hotel. Walking into one's new apartment and seeing the toilet in the living room and fridge in the dining room was an experience I'd rather not repeat. KP and I are okay and will not let our lives be interrupted by odd fortune.

In other uplifting news, Joba Chamberlain is hurt. I declare on August 5th that the Yankees' season is over, even if he only misses a few starts. There's a guy from the NY Post who agrees as well. He proves his point via facts. I felt it in my stomach after reading the story this morning. That grand slam given up in the bottom of the ninth (to the RANGERS) by their supposedly stellar relief staff contributed to it. I still predict that despite scoring well at the trading deadline, the Yanks will win 87 wins. That's not enough for the AL East nor the wild card. Keep in mind they're missing Hughes, Kennedy, Pavano (haHA!), Wang, Matsui, and Posada for the rest of the year. Chamberlain and Rivera are hurt. Plus missing Damon and A-Rod for 20-game periods put them at least 4 wins behind. I didn't see them making it too far anyway even with all of those people healthy year-round. I'll jump on the Cubs or Mets bandwagon depending on who gets to the playoffs.

I'll end on a good note. We found a great BBQ place called Zeke's near the Formosa Cafe on SM Blvd. And my commute this morning was a smooth as Giambi's newly-shaven upper lip.

If you are flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

Thank you Mitch Hedberg for today's title.

Yes we are moving, very soon. Signing the lease tomorrow. The apartment is full of boxes. More every day. Won't miss the neighbors. Or the noisy park. I really need to stop writing in short sentences now because that is really not my style and only works best to punctuate action.

An earthquake hit the LA area yesterday. I thought I'd just let you know that in case you missed the media over-covering the event. On the fifth floor of a 12-story building in Burbank, I was discussing data entry procedure with my office-mate when we heard what sounded like something really big slamming down onto the floor. Twice. Someone said, "What the hell was that?" Then things starting shaking in crazy jazz rhythmic patterns. I stood in the doorway. Everyone else who wasn't frozen in her seat filled the other doorways. Once I realized that I was going to live through this, a crazy adrenaline joy ran through me and I may have laughed. Then the shaking stopped. And the building started swaying. I didn't care for that. Standing in the middle of a swaying 200-ft. building felt like being on a boat in the ocean. For a full minute. And not one of those supposed "minutes" everyone references when something seems to happen for a long time. I checked my watch after a while. In a building made of bricks, steel, and glass, the hearts beating inside filled with hormonal panic. Breakfasts churned and may have threatened to escape. I saw no puke but heard much discussion of it. But all was over quickly, and Los Angeles went on its way again within minutes, though the TV reporting tried to stretch it out all day. "There have been no reports of damage or serious injury, BUT THIS MAY CHANGE!" Thanks Shepard Smith. You're an ace.

KP and I watched The Lady Eve this weekend. Barb Stanwyck gleamed in the black and white while Hank Fonda played a total fool. For the sake of men everywhere I was embarrassed by his character, but simultaneously saw the truth in it. The script was structured so strangely that only Preston Sturges's brilliance made it work.

I'm also still absorbing Velvet Underground's Loaded. It's taken about eight listens, but I think I'm finally getting it. In any case, "Sweet Jane" is a fantastic song. And I dreamt (really) to "Oh! Sweet Nothing". I like Lou Reed's pop-structured music but it's still so shocking to listen to after having enjoyed Velvet's first album for 7 years.

Rethinking our favorites

I've just seen a film so beautiful that it has caused me to rethink the way we rank our favorite pieces of art, music, and film.

When we're young and impressionable, or being introduced to or happening upon a new art form, I think we set the standard to which all future forms of that medium are judged. And I'm not sure how often we break that standard. Think of your favorite rock albums EVER. Think of your favorite movies EVER. If you're like me, you probably have dozens of "Greatest" lists. I know my top 10 lists are often established at the start.

For instance, best rock albums? I'm pretty sure that 80% of my top ten were all discovered within the first 4 years of rock 'n roll worship. Best rock band? The Who, of course. They taught me the many definitions and basic themes. Favorite bluesman? John Lee Hooker. Same story with him. My three favorite electronica albums were all discovered within my first year of listening.

And I don't think it's just me. Only recently has Rolling Stone let any recent albums into their top 500. Their top 25 has only two that were released within the last 25 years. Their top 30 songs only have two from the last 30 years.

When compiling their top 10 films lists every 10 years from 250 filmmakers and critics, Sight and Sound seems to have a similar issue.

In 1992, none of the critics' top 9 were from within the previous 34 years. The directors' list has only 3 of the top 12 were from the same time period.

In 2002? Here are the years for the critics' top 10 list:

1941, 1958, 1939, 1972-4, 1953, 1968, 1925, 1927, 1963, 1952

Directors' list:

1941, 1972-1974, 1963, 1962, 1963, 1946, 1980, 1958, 1950, 1939, 1954

And to be honest the critics' list never changes over the years. And you will always know who's going to be no. 1.

Are we getting worse at our art? One would think that we'd be getting better with practice. Were the early works better because they came first? We were younger then, more impressionable. Awe came easier. Are we being unknowingly unfair to new creations?

I feel like this is related to our own individual lists of favorites. (Exceptions to this rule being those who think each new Michael Bay film is the best movie ever.) Those early ones, the first ones which introduced us to new emotional experiences, seem to get priority over all others.

Watching Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors was electrifying. For the first half hour, I felt as if I was witnessing something more important than cinema. By the time the film finished, I'd realized that, no, this was actual cinema. I'd forgotten that feeling, which had last materialized about 8 years ago during Kusturica's Underground.

If you have been reading my blog posts for a bit you may think that every movie I watch is at the top of my list. This is untrue, I just love film that much. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors could break The Top Baker's Dozen (I don't have a top ten) but I wouldn't know who to kick out or why. I won't name names because I won't spill the whole list, but I'll reference when a flick has made the list (like Underground).

To sum up Shadows -- it's a magical realist lovers tale set in the Carpathian mountains. Though the film was shot in 1964, it could take place at any time since language was born. The editing is lightning fast and brilliant; apparently the Russians paid more attention to Eisenstein than the Americans did. Surprise. The acting is delightful because all but the leads were non-professional locals. And then there's the whirling, spinning, flying cinematography. Apparently Sergei Parajanov found an impatient winged forest spirit to operate the camera. The result can be exhilarating or nauseating, like the lives of the dancing, singing, loving, drinking characters. Those who are happy avoid sorrow by never stopping to mourn. Those who mourn are those who suffer. I think I'll move beyond the past too and find a place in the list for this one.