I figure it's only my sixth real winter ever, and so it's okay for me to act and feel like a six year old when it comes to the snow. Though it's nearing the end of February, it's been a mild winter, and until last week, I didn't have the pleasure of experiencing any real snow. So you can imagine the excitement I felt when, peering out my window, my sights were filled with a world of soft white.
Growing up, my dad would sometimes travel on business to cold climate places, most often to New York, and usually upon his return, he would bestow upon me and my brother some little gift. One particular time while my dad was in New York, I remember he asked if there was anything in particular that I wanted him to bring back for me. I begged him to bring back snow for me, and I'm sure this is not the first time I ever asked this from him. I guess, because I knew that New York is cold in the winter, I assumed there would be snow and decided that my dad bring should be able to bring some back. He tried to reason with me, to explain that there isn't any good way to transport snow from New York to San Diego, but I thought that if he got one of those ice chests that the seafood places in New Orleans used to package the crawfish and crab we would bring back from family vacations, the snow would be just fine in its travel from coast to coast. For all I know, there may not have been any snow at all, but I refused to give up on this request and continued to pester my dad each night when he called home.
When my dad returned from his business trip, he didn't have an ice chest with him, but he opened up his luggage and pulled out a snow globe--a little heart shape filled with tiny snow covered skyscrapers and snow covered streets. Even though I couldn't make my own snowball out of it, the effort my dad had made almost made up for that.
So as I headed out the door, bundled up against the wintry weather, I prepared myself for the walk to the subway, and pressed play on my Ipod. Within my playlist of newly downloaded songs, the first song to randomly come on was "Walk In the Park" by Oh No! Oh My!, possibly the most ironic and perfect song that I could have possibly listened to first thing that morning. While most people in New York seem to consider the snow to be pretty from the inside and otherwise an awful pain, I, as previously established, love the snow inside and out. Granted it can make the walk to the subway a bit tougher, but in general, I find it to be quite exciting.
The song begins with a nice little intro that could be the soundtrack to some 1980's children's TV program--it is sweet and pretty. The first words heard from lead singer Greg Barkley are, "Nice day for a walk in the park. Nice day for a drive through the city. This world is a warm, sunny park. Ba ba ba bada bada….." There is a sunny pleasantness to the song. Since I imagine this song is about a the kind of beautiful spring day where it would literally be a crime not to leave the house, upon entering out into the storm, it seemed entirely ironic. But then I felt a bit of truth to the song. It was freezing, but veiled with snow, the streets looked beautiful. And I couldn't wait until I had time to go for a walk in the park.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
oh, oscar night
Jon Stewart was a good Oscar host. Though it wasn't the most riveting of ceremonies, he made some funny jokes (and perhaps a couple in poor taste). However, one of the best things he did all night was allowing Marketa Irglova to come back onto the stage after a commercial break to speak, since she was cut off after winning the Oscar for Best Song for the movie, "Once". And I'm glad he did, for in a night of relatively un-painful speeches, hers wasn't long, but entirely heartfelt. More so than perhaps any film, "Once" (definitely my favorite movie of the year) was the underdog, a film made for $100,000 that wasn't expected to go anywhere and ended up with a relatively large international release and positive press from just about every meaningful source. Here's what she said:
Marketa Irglova: "Hi everyone. I just want to thank you so much. This is such a big deal, not only for us, but for all other independent musicians and artists that spend most of their time struggling, and this, the fact that we're standing here tonight, the fact that we're able to hold this, it's just to prove no matter how far out your dreams are, it's possible. And, you know, fair play to those who dare to dream and don't give up. And this song was written from a perspective of hope, and hope at the end of the day connects us all, no matter how different we are. And so thank you so much, who helped us along way. Thank you."
Watching the acceptance speeches often leaves me me a bit teary eyed; perhaps a combination of excitement for the winner and a bit of dreamy-ness on my part, for I not-so-secretly hope to be in their shoes one day. For the first time in a number of years, this year I felt most of the appropriate people won. It was less of a political situation--well, he didn't win last year when he really was the best, so we're going to give the little man to him this year--and more of a celebration of the best films this year. The way it's supposed to be.
And so after a night of winners, most of whom, like Marketa Irglova and Glen Hansard or Marion Cotillard (who won for best actress for portraying Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose) or even the Cohen brothers who stood there barely cracking a smile and have plenty of statues gracing their mantles already, truly deserved to win and really appreciated the recognition, I am feeling a bit sentimental. It makes me long for the time when I really believed I would someday be sitting amongst all those people, even if only for one of the awards during the hour in the middle of the show most people tune out because it is one of the boring awards that the normal-ish people win. But also, for the first time in a while, I feel that perhaps this still could come true. And, if nothing else, while I'm sitting at my desk today answering phones, it's a nice thought to have.
Marketa Irglova: "Hi everyone. I just want to thank you so much. This is such a big deal, not only for us, but for all other independent musicians and artists that spend most of their time struggling, and this, the fact that we're standing here tonight, the fact that we're able to hold this, it's just to prove no matter how far out your dreams are, it's possible. And, you know, fair play to those who dare to dream and don't give up. And this song was written from a perspective of hope, and hope at the end of the day connects us all, no matter how different we are. And so thank you so much, who helped us along way. Thank you."
Watching the acceptance speeches often leaves me me a bit teary eyed; perhaps a combination of excitement for the winner and a bit of dreamy-ness on my part, for I not-so-secretly hope to be in their shoes one day. For the first time in a number of years, this year I felt most of the appropriate people won. It was less of a political situation--well, he didn't win last year when he really was the best, so we're going to give the little man to him this year--and more of a celebration of the best films this year. The way it's supposed to be.
And so after a night of winners, most of whom, like Marketa Irglova and Glen Hansard or Marion Cotillard (who won for best actress for portraying Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose) or even the Cohen brothers who stood there barely cracking a smile and have plenty of statues gracing their mantles already, truly deserved to win and really appreciated the recognition, I am feeling a bit sentimental. It makes me long for the time when I really believed I would someday be sitting amongst all those people, even if only for one of the awards during the hour in the middle of the show most people tune out because it is one of the boring awards that the normal-ish people win. But also, for the first time in a while, I feel that perhaps this still could come true. And, if nothing else, while I'm sitting at my desk today answering phones, it's a nice thought to have.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Evolution of a Song: "Up"
When I first saw the trailer for "The Savages" months ago, aside from becoming terribly excited about this movie, I was entranced by the song in the second half—it has a sweet sound with just a hint of sadness, creating a tangible dissonance that gave me a reason to want to spend two or so hours of my time with these clearly messed-up-yet-loveable characters even greater than that they were played by Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney. I found myself baffled, unable to figure out who sings this song. Finally, after getting thoroughly irritated with not knowing, I asked Google a bunch of questions and found out that it is a song called "Up" by Rob Crow, the lead singer of the super awesome San Diego band Pinback.
I wanted to hear more of the song than the snippet in the trailer, so asked Google some more questions and found the video for "Up." While the video as a whole didn't do much for me other than to stir up a sense of nostalgia with the occasional shots of my hometown, San Diego, there was something else that felt a bit off. I've enjoyed Pinback's music since high school when "Penelope" from their album Blue Screen Life received some air-play on the local independent radio station, but I had never seen what any of the members of Pinback looked like until I watched this video.
I shouldn't have been surprised by what I saw—Rob Crow looks like a typical San Diego guy. On the cover of his album "Living Well" he's wearing Vans skater shoes, long baggy shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. There is nowhere I would think to place him as living other than San Diego. And suddenly this San Diego "look" made me feel awkward.
I never felt the culture shock people told me I would feel when I moved to New York. Sure, there was a lot to learn and get used to, but I felt like I fit in more on my first day in New York than I ever did at home. In San Diego, I always felt like I stuck out in the way I dressed, the music I listened to, the fact that I couldn't get a tan--I was constantly teased (lovingly) by my swim-team teammates for my sparkling white skin, for although we practiced daily from 2-4pm, I always showed up the next day if not the same shade of ghostly pale, a glowing florescent pink. Although living far away in New York City, I've come to love San Diego and sometimes even desperately yearn for it, I still feel out of place in the dominant presence of surfer and skater cultures—it's something, for as long as I did live there, I never felt connected to.
So in watching this video, there was a disconnect between my love for this song and my unease amongst this San Diego culture. How could this song, which greatly moved me, be enmeshed in a culture I had fled? When I see someone dressed as Rob Crow is on the cover of his album, I think of boys who like to hang out at the beach skateboarding and who listen to Blink 182 and Metallica, but this is only a generalization from my formative years in the 1990's. I doubt people are listening to Blink 182 en masse anymore and, clearly, if I was listening to indie rock on the radio, then lots of other San Diegans were too. Unfortunately my ideas of San Diego culture are colored by stupid high school kids, myself included.
To satiate my need to figure out my contention with this song, I downloaded the track and began putting it into a somewhat fierce and obsessive rotation on my IPod. Despite having first heard the song at the Angelica (a movie theater quintessentially New York, with it's narrowness and subway rumblings) listening to the song in my New York apartment, walking down New York streets, sitting in a New York subway, the more I listened to it, the more it began to take on a non-New York, more San Diego feel. I envisioned things typically and stereotypically San Diego—it felt like a song that would be the soundtrack to my drives around the city featuring beaches, sunsets, and stucco houses.
San Diego by no means deserves the criticism of my high school antipathy, but since I haven't spent a significant amount of time there since then, that's the lens through which I still view it. Though I know it is more than a city of skater kids--that it is actually a fairly cultured city--when I see someone who dresses in that San Diego way, I'm brought back to that part of high school I never enjoyed. Since I'm more likely to find myself in the company of those in hipster dress--skinny jeans or plaid flannel--or something more generic--The Gap--I experience a bit of backwards culture shock when I encounter anything typically Californian. And in the end, once the shock from the initial impact has subsided, there's a connection more tender and sympathetic than might otherwise have been possible.
I wanted to hear more of the song than the snippet in the trailer, so asked Google some more questions and found the video for "Up." While the video as a whole didn't do much for me other than to stir up a sense of nostalgia with the occasional shots of my hometown, San Diego, there was something else that felt a bit off. I've enjoyed Pinback's music since high school when "Penelope" from their album Blue Screen Life received some air-play on the local independent radio station, but I had never seen what any of the members of Pinback looked like until I watched this video.
I shouldn't have been surprised by what I saw—Rob Crow looks like a typical San Diego guy. On the cover of his album "Living Well" he's wearing Vans skater shoes, long baggy shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball cap. There is nowhere I would think to place him as living other than San Diego. And suddenly this San Diego "look" made me feel awkward.
I never felt the culture shock people told me I would feel when I moved to New York. Sure, there was a lot to learn and get used to, but I felt like I fit in more on my first day in New York than I ever did at home. In San Diego, I always felt like I stuck out in the way I dressed, the music I listened to, the fact that I couldn't get a tan--I was constantly teased (lovingly) by my swim-team teammates for my sparkling white skin, for although we practiced daily from 2-4pm, I always showed up the next day if not the same shade of ghostly pale, a glowing florescent pink. Although living far away in New York City, I've come to love San Diego and sometimes even desperately yearn for it, I still feel out of place in the dominant presence of surfer and skater cultures—it's something, for as long as I did live there, I never felt connected to.
So in watching this video, there was a disconnect between my love for this song and my unease amongst this San Diego culture. How could this song, which greatly moved me, be enmeshed in a culture I had fled? When I see someone dressed as Rob Crow is on the cover of his album, I think of boys who like to hang out at the beach skateboarding and who listen to Blink 182 and Metallica, but this is only a generalization from my formative years in the 1990's. I doubt people are listening to Blink 182 en masse anymore and, clearly, if I was listening to indie rock on the radio, then lots of other San Diegans were too. Unfortunately my ideas of San Diego culture are colored by stupid high school kids, myself included.
To satiate my need to figure out my contention with this song, I downloaded the track and began putting it into a somewhat fierce and obsessive rotation on my IPod. Despite having first heard the song at the Angelica (a movie theater quintessentially New York, with it's narrowness and subway rumblings) listening to the song in my New York apartment, walking down New York streets, sitting in a New York subway, the more I listened to it, the more it began to take on a non-New York, more San Diego feel. I envisioned things typically and stereotypically San Diego—it felt like a song that would be the soundtrack to my drives around the city featuring beaches, sunsets, and stucco houses.
San Diego by no means deserves the criticism of my high school antipathy, but since I haven't spent a significant amount of time there since then, that's the lens through which I still view it. Though I know it is more than a city of skater kids--that it is actually a fairly cultured city--when I see someone who dresses in that San Diego way, I'm brought back to that part of high school I never enjoyed. Since I'm more likely to find myself in the company of those in hipster dress--skinny jeans or plaid flannel--or something more generic--The Gap--I experience a bit of backwards culture shock when I encounter anything typically Californian. And in the end, once the shock from the initial impact has subsided, there's a connection more tender and sympathetic than might otherwise have been possible.
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