Ahhh...

(Source: flickr)

Listen up, Jason Schwartzman!

Yes, I'm twenty-eight going on twenty-nine...but I still want one!

...and this, too.

I've always wanted to watch The Next Generation, but now I don't.

This license is not valid unless you're wearing pajamas pants without apologizing for them.

Listen up, Elijah Wood!

Look...Just go where you wanna go, ya know?

What's better than a toaster?

Some people have never heard of fashionably late.

Listen up, Kurt Vile!

This seems about right.

Hymn de Fin — 09.28.12

Shades / fedora / sleek black suit—what else do you need? Step into this weekend Cadillac and slip down-street. Keep your cuff-linked arm at all times draped from the window and keep it cool, man—people might stare. Gander at this week's mix if you're having any trouble. Whether it's long-haired Kurt Vile registering little more than a cool blip on the radar, or the trickling keys and cool voice of Jessica Dobson and Deep Sea Diver, or the newest of the new of those coolest of the cool Portland/New Zealand boys in Unknown Mortal Orchestra—the message here is to keep it always and forever, well, cool.

Apocalypse Dreams

— Tame Impala —

Swim and Sleep (Like a Shark)

— Unknown Mortal Orchestra —

Myth

— Beach House —

Confidence

— Deep Sea Diver —

Baby's Arms

— Kurt Vile —

I'm So Lonesome (I Could Cry)

— Atlas Sound —

Take Us Alive

— Other Lives —

No Good

— Starred —

Time to Run

— Lord Huron —

Looking to Remember

— Sparkling Wide Pressure —

Apocalypse Dreams — Tame Impala Swim and Sleep (Like a Shark) — Unknown Mortal Orchestra Myth — Beach House Confidence — Deep Sea Diver Baby's Arms — Kurt Vile I'm So Lonesome (I Could Cry) — Atlas Sound Take Us Alive — Other Lives No Good — Starred Time to Run — Lord Huron Looking to Remember — Sparkling Wide Pressure

What's in the box?

Go ahead, push it! I dare you.

Well, I've been gone for quite some time. Not really...like a day, two, I think, but it feels much longer. It's not my fault though—I started school this week! This fall promises to be one of mystery and intrigue, as I have enrolled in both Detective Fiction and Film Noir of the 1940's. 

Today I spent the morning with this fine chap (the one on the right...well...I guess both of them, technically). We watched The Maltese Falcon, and like, man—that movie never gets old, man. I did enjoy hearing some newbies try to hash out (in excited whispering) just what was going to happen in the end. But, man, they totally got MacGuffed!

Among other things, I've ingested and digested The Murders in the Rue Morgue, Silver Blaze, The Adventure of the Devil's Foot, A Scandal in Bohemia and The Greek Interpreter. Sherlock Holmes, you rock! (No. Not you, Sher-lame!) Now I'm cracking the spine of Agatha Christie's first Miss Marple mystery, The Murder at the Vicarage. These are the exciting reads. I'm dreading The Intentional Fallacy and The Death of the Author—which might sound like murder mysteries, but are actually literary criticism. 

I forgot to mention Shakespeare—does that ex-nay me from English Major eligibility? Yep. Topics in Shakespeare—a pretty general course, four of his plays set in Italy. Pretty cool focus. I'm in the middle of Romeo & Juliet and should probably stop writing this post so that I can get back to homework. 

Soon soon! Happy Thursday!

It's time to get weird.

On your mark...get set...go!

Ahhh.

Be careful when you ask George R. R. Martin for directions.

When Heman cries it looks like a rainbow explosion.

Who's been squatting in those foreclosed mansions, huh?

Gollum VS. Golem

Don't ask George R. R. Martin about clones or Stallones.

Don't ask Stallone to think about burning kittens.

Careful with those matches, son.

He just couldn't get over The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

Where fashion meets function.

Oh, poor Optimus Subordinate.

Thursday Flash!

Things Behind the Sun

Maipel Page shouldered the petrol barrel until it fell, and stood listening to the fluid kalug into her yard. She watched it spill across the long grass, down the slope to the gravel driveway, heard the mourning birds weep in the early sun, already bright and burning. She sang In the Sweet By and By and her voice—a bullet in a tin can—rattled its way through the trees and it didn’t rattle back. She tiptoed over the puddle to the last barrel and pulled a folded sheet of paper and a pen from the small pocket in her flowered dress. She unfolded the paper and crossed “barrels” from her list—the last item—then tipped the barrel over and watched the gasoline flood the yard. Little rivulets like the short curls of her father's hair snaked between the wooden legs of the coffee table and finally pooled against the armoire. When the warped liquid touched the fabric of his armchair it seeped upwards and spread in one dark ring like a bullet wound. She turned a sulphur head between her fingertips. She struck it and heard it hiss. The sun, finally slinking free from the tree-line, drowned the clearing in white hot light, which, glowing off the streams of gasoline, filled the sad caves of Maipel’s eyes with a fury that had never been there before. A fire caught, grew brighter and lit her father’s things with a light like the sun’s and the flames grew bigger until everything was behind the fire and they all looked like things behind the sun, just the frames of things, the edges in the light, the skeletons. She let the light burn awhile against her eyelids, rejoiced in it before turning away from the house and walking back up to the service. 

Welty VS. O'Connor

C and I decided last night that Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor—though like minded and of the strongest southern piquancy—could only be distinguished by one rating system: 

Cool-ass VS. Bad-ass.

Here she is, in all her splendor. Eudora Welty. Have you met her? You should. Welty is definitely cool.  Too cool for school. Too cool for full-length pants. Too cool for a proper desk. Her vision of the American South reflects just such a coolness. 

Even in the midst of that slight apocalyptic feeling that she unravels her readers with—burn everything in the house cause we gave our only clothes to the garden to keep it warm!—she still handles her characters with sincerity and tenderness. She's equal parts portentous and endearing. You'll love watching her world unfold, even if the experience becomes, at times, jarring or down-in-the-dumps. 

Then there's Flannery O'Connor...

  

Just look at her. Flannery could be Eudora's best friend—heck, her cousin!—but don't drop your guard for a second. Where Eudora might tiptoe into the dark, Flannery straps on a pair of combat boots and goes for a waltz. She's not cool. She's bad. Hell's Angels would look for a detour just to get around her without having to look her in the eye.

What makes her so bad? O'Connor never really lets anyone off the hook—even the reader feels like some squirming animal trying to wriggle its tail out from under her foot. She deals, heavy-handed, with the soul. With faith and doubt and consequences. She deals in sweltering, gothic symbols. There is never really anywhere to hide and always always always there's the sense of something lurking in every direction. Read A View of the Woods or The Turkey. Heck—read 'em all. But be sure to keep the light on.

Johnny Appleseed couldn't touch us with a ten foot pole.

C, M and I headed Albany-wise for a sweet treat retreat this weekend past. Our only obligations were to relax, kickback Cloud-style and make some homemade applesauce (and of course: eat a ton of food!)  

The process went a little something like this: after dicing and boiling up apples we ran them through this beast of a device... 

Grind grind grind. Very satisfying. And after cooling off several containers over night, we turned the  applesauce into real applesauce—lots of sugar and cinnamon and heat. 

Then came the jarring!

Wa-la! Now we have several cinnamon-induced, mouth-watering jars of applesauce to spread over our pork chops—and spread we will! Can't wait to totally knock out the palate with this stuff. 

It's time to get weird.

Look. Three things never stop growing on your face: nose, ears and fangs. Some talented writer put those three things together with an extra dosage of bad haircuts, cool jackets and Al Lewis. That writer's name is Michael Heath. Remember him? Me neither.

Ahhh.

So. Would you call it a hot tub then?

Ultimate sunscreen—SPF one billion.

In the future, everything's fat.

Reading time is fun!

What I want for Christmas: USA 1, Eagle, 12 Quarterback.

Training potties is a hard thing to do.

The pigs are coming! Quick, hide in this.

If you're gonna get things done, you'll have to roll up them sleeves.

Reading time is instructive!

Where we're going we don't need 80's dudes with mustaches.

Who f'd up the Michael J proportions, huh? I want answers!


Happy Friday!

Hymn de Fin — 09.14.12

Summertime's a-ticking away. We've already landed in the heart of September and have even seen a few autumnsy days—when the air feels crisp and smells like chimney smoke and burnt leaves. Don't know about you, but fall is my favorite time of year. Yet no fall is complete without the right anthem. Well. Gotcha covered. Here's a mix sure to bring you gently down to the leaf-covered ground. Everything from a blatant Mazzy Star rip-off (though I'm not complaining) to brand new Grizzly Bear to a billowy chapel-induced Paul Simon cover. Enjoy!

Brains

— Lower Dens —

Gun Shy

— Grizzly Bear —

America's Son

— Air Review —

Lemongrass

— She Sir —

Eyes of Love

— Murals —

In the Yard

— Bowerbirds —

You Will Be Here Mine

— Will Johnson —

The Road

— Mirel Wagner —

Duncan

— Bryan John Appleby —

Coming Down

— Dum Dum Girls —

Brains — Lower Dens Gun Shy — Grizzly Bear America's Son — Air Review Lemongrass — She Sir Eyes of Love — Murals In the Yard — Bowerbirds You Will Be Here Mine — Will Johnson The Road — Mirel Wagner Duncan — Bryan John Appleby Coming Down — Dum Dum Girls

Thursday Flash!

A Shortcut Home

Until the sky went red and flat with dust, the boy had looked for Henry, walked the farm out to the dirt road and down along the Pattersons' alfalfa field and back. Now he quit the road and cut through high grass back home. When he came to the fence that lined the cornfields, he stopped and scanned the stalks for the crumpled outline of his grandfather's black hat. He saw it poking from the center of the field, unmoving—crumpled flannel arms too, winged out between the husks. The boy whistled and called out to Henry once more, but the stalks didn't rustle nor the grass behind him. Only grasshoppers rattled back, carving out a place in the silence. He ducked under the top wrung of the fence and entered the cornfield. Though he tried to stay along the outskirts, he still happened upon it without warning—first the hat came into view against the dim light of the sky, then the torn burlap face. The boy stopped and looked back at the long path he'd already cut through the fields and thought about running, but two loud caws rang out behind him and he turned back to look at the figure. A group of crows hobbled across its arms. One without an eye pecked at his grandfather's hat. They laughed across the cornhusks, perched on the figure like old friends, fearless, dancing across its shoulders. Another two rushed up out of the stalks in front of the boy and flapped down alongside the other crows. The eyeless one dove down into the stalks. The others laughed. When it came up again, it was chewing something red. The crows took turns diving from the figure, jostling the stalks along the boy's path. They laughed and chewed. The boy reached down, found a rock in the cracked dirt and threw it at the figure. The rock bounced off its chest and scattered the crows and as they flew away a hard silence crept over the field. Even the grasshoppers stopped rattling and no wind moved along the grounds to whisper through the corn. The boy looked at the uncut path in front of him, too afraid to pass. He turned away from the darkening figure, the darkening fields and ran back down the path he'd come by. He ran in silence and when he returned to the road he gave up calling for Henry.

Where did they go?

The Goonies—quite possibly the greatest film to ever grace the earth with its presence and most certainly the only hopeful piece of cinema to come out of the 80s aside from these little gems. How could 114 minutes contain such star power? Astoria miracles, that's how.

But what happened to all those great faces? Sure—we see Mikey donning a cloak and forgetting to shave his feet, or Brand trying to steal my wife's heart, or Francis reminding us he's still around, or even Stef raising a hopeful career. But where's the rest of the gang?

John Matuszak AKA Sloth

Chunk's soulmate continued to save the day with testosterone-pumping action movies that still beg to shred up your VCR player (if you can find them). Pure gold like this—One Man Force. 

Corey Feldman AKA Mouth

The wonderkid went on to annihilate the 80s with the help of this other Corey. But even the Coreys couldn't keep up with cinematic demands. Eventually, Feldman had to turn away from the kind of high-quality art house cinema that defined his career, resorting instead to roles in huge budget films like Terror Inside.

Lupe Ontiveros AKA Rosalita

Lupe's been all over the place, running up a large list of films, made-for-tv movies and shorts. And though she can boast appearances in the likes of Desperate Housewives, Weeds, Storytelling and Real Women Have Curves, nothing competes with 1991's Dolly Dearest.

Robert Davi AKA Jake

Sure—he's a bit of a mama's boy in The Goonies, but in 1996, Robert Davi is one bad mama jama not to be trifled with! See him break all the rules in the most accurate realization of 2011 ever set to celluloid. Absolute Aggression—watch it if you dare.

So. Only one question remains after sifting through this wreckage of films: It's been nearly two decades—will the cast finally get back together for a Goonies sequel???

Welcome back, sunshine.

The sun's out again after yesterday's autumn-y hiatus and I'm listening to the trip-y, Hindu-y, Temple of Doom-y acoustic mini-set that Animal Collective recorded at KEXP (both tracks are from their brand-spanking/ear-spanking new album Centipede Hz, but these recordings are remarkabl-y different—more akin to a float downriver).

Anyhoo. The return of summer weather has prodded my tongue in an appeal for a condensation-y, ice cold pint. Until C comes home I'll just have to watch this here beer commercial on repeat, stolen from the awesome dudes over at popflys (who musta stolen it from some place else).

A way out west there was this fella...

Been watching quite a bit of Lebowski these days—actually, a whole ton of Jeff Bridges this last weekend alone. And in all our Lebowski wandering, I've been noticing some little details worth testing y'all about! Happy Tuesday—here's some trivia for all you Little Urban Achievers out there.

Who sponsors The Dude's yellow bowling shirt

(the one that originally belonged to a fella named Art)?

The Answer

What is on the B-side of The Dude's meditation cassette tape?

(The A-side: Venice Beach League Playoffs 1987)

The Answer

(The B-side is undoubtedly referring to this here gentleman)

What is the second LP in Maude's vinyl collection?

The Answer

What Psalm is written on the mortuary wall 

where The Dude and Walter get Theodore Donald Kerabatsos' ashes?

The Answer

(and in case you didn't catch it)

The Dude's past employment?

The Answer

&

The Answer

What would have been Smoky's score had he not entered a world of pain?

The Answer

What was the date on The Dude's .69 cent check
made out at Ralph's in the beginning of the film?

The Answer

Want some more? Well, man, like, try this out. What kind of Lebowski stumpers have you got up your sleeves, huh?

It's time to get weird

Technically, I'm a child of the 80s. But...come on man! I had nothing to do with stuff like this. I was too busy pondering the likelihood that Robert Stack was an extraterrestrial and that at any moment, regardless of how careful I was, my arm would be bitten off by a sewer-dwelling clown. Meanwhile a whole generation of youngsters were being plagued by the likes of The Motels. Dios mio, man...

Ahhh...

Eat your heart out, Bridges of Madison County!

What happened to Big League Chew?

How's the job-hunting, America?

Eat your heart out, Rolls Royce!

Beast Man rug for sale (vintage awesome!).

Fantasy map of America—so I guess...eat your heart out, Tolkien!

Eat your heart out, Wes Craven!

Okay, I don't want just normal crocheted socks anymore!

I have to agree...completely.

Be sure to Like Me, postmortem.

Eat your heart out, Dolph Lundgren!

Prepare yourselves for the Harry Potter prequel!!!

Ride on, Evil Emperor Krulos!

Hymn de Fin — 09.07.12

Yep—the weekend. And as always, you'll need some polish for them weekend-ridin' boots. Here're some songs with real sheen. But if you like your boots rough and cow-pied, there's plenty here to do the trick. From dreamy pop to murder ballads—this week's Hymn de Fin has got you covered. So strap on your helmet 'n' give 'er a spin.

Excuses

— The Morning Benders —

Hell, Heaven
— Parlovr —

Baby Drugs
— Tristen —

Tea Lights

— Lower Dens —

Trust
— Generationals —

Hard as Nails
— Peter Wolf Crier —

Oh Darling
— The White Buffalo —

High Twilight

— Daniel Isaiah —

Alive
— Armand Margjeka —

Thorns and Brambles
— van der Wel —

Excuses — The Morning Benders Hell, Heaven — Parlovr Baby Drugs — Tristen Tea Lights — Lower Dens Trust — Generationals Hard as Nails — Peter Wolf Crier Oh Darling — The White Buffalo High Twilight — Daniel Isaiah Alive — Armand Margjeka Thorns and Brambles — van der Wel

Thursday Flash!

A Face in the Crowd

The Solipsist arrived at the soiree in his finest suit—gray herringbone, ruby cufflinks, pressed white shirt. Everyone was eager to greet him. They shook his hand and stood by him while the press took their photographs for the evening post. He raised a glass and looked out at the faces of the crowd, the same faces, years of the same faces—he was no longer surprised by anything. Sparkling coupes tinked high in the air as he gave his speech. But he cut himself short. In the back by the baby carrots and celery sticks—a face he'd never seen, of a stern set, eyes without color and lips that wouldn't waver. A face alive and breathing by its own authority. The coupe fell from his hand and broke on a yellow woven flower. He felt something tugging at the back of his neck—a fine strand of hair or wire—and realized suddenly, even after all these years to the contrary, it was he that did not exist.

The Professor's House

I found it almost unbearable to consult my writer's gut about reflecting, pen-wise, on Willa Cather's The Professor's House. Like Death Comes for the Archbishop, this quiet novel eludes any classic form of literary criticism—the impression is too shifting, too flexible. To understand it is to feel it, first and foremost. 

And feel it you will—as long as you don't resist the places Cather wants to take you. It is a novel that requires entry to the pit of the stomach, to the stem of the brain, and what it leaves cannot be traced. For that reason, I'll simply express my undying love, gratitude and reverence for a novel that ultimately breaks the peripheries of the written form—a piece of pioneering in its own right.

Please, with all sincerity, read it.

Happy Tuesday and welcome back.

Sunday—a night of chit chat with the fam, drunken debauchery, half-played board games that turned quickly into bored games, future Saturday Market & picnic promises. 

Wifey, Margaret and I ushered in the holiday at my family's house in Vancouver—fast food Vancouver, ghetto Vancouver, million-miles-wide by million-miles-tall Vancouver, Vancouver of the Washington variety (no, not DC, not the capitol, rather the state: Warshington—the r is silent). 

We had a blast. How was your special weekend?

My dad finally gave a verbal mapping of The Olson family history (sorta) and it inspired me to plan a special road trip...

Norway!

This will take some craftiness on our part. We'll need to fully float-ize the car. But it's well worth the effort. I heard that the O-L-S-O-N spelling of my surname (as opposed to O-L-S-E-N) indicates Norwegian ancestry (as opposed to Swedish). The logical jumping off point is the capitol of Norway: Oslo. Look at it! Frickin' Christmasy as heck!

Nova Scotia!

The second stop has to be Nova Scotia, where I still have some older family members floating around (super older, like triple digits older). We've always wanted to move to Canada. How about Halifax, huh?

North Dakota!

Then it's time to see where the old man was born—North Dakota! Apparently there are some great cousins still plopped down in Bismarck somewheres. From here, my grandfather and grandmother moved my dad and uncle out to Washington—and the rest is history. But...

Kentucky!

Apparently, Gramps (youngest of an 11-kid clan) had a brother who opted for Kentucky, so we'll have to make a pass through this beauty! United we stand, divided we fall!

Someday someday someday...

It's time to get weird

In promoting their new album, Valtari, Sigur Ros has put a call out to film directors—make us some bizarre music videos, couldyaplease? And the result: The Valtari Mystery Film Experiment, a series of 12 conceptual music videos, unleashed every couple of weeks this summer following the album's release date on May 23rd.

Here's director Ragnar Kjartansson's vision of the album's opener, Ég anda. The film's respiratory theme seemed odd until I found the title's English translation: I breathe. Nothing like a breath of fresh air, huh? Check it out below—and for more information swing on by the Sigur Ros website.