“What are you doing?”
“Hooking up Super Nintendo?”
“Why?”
“Because it’s what i do when i’m sick.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Do you know how to play Secret of Mana?”
by krisis
consume
Damnit, it’s just a sitcom. I am definitely not meant to cry during it.
I don’t have enough time to turn all of these thoughts into what they want to be. I just ate breakfast in front of a one-two punch of Springer’s “Prostitutes Tell All” and Katie Couric ogling Janet Jackson’s abs on the post-Grammy fashion wrap-up. My brain is fried.
Last night was wickedly cold, and if i hadn’t noticed it on my walk down to campus or sprint to the train station, then i definitely noticed it when we wound up waiting a half an hour for the train home after the show My scarf wrapped all around my head in an attempt to retain warmth and Kat edging around to stand so i was between her and the wind, and both of us jumping up and down and trying to find the right key for us both to sing Pinkerton songs in.
I calmly explained my theory on opening acts as we sat at the back of the room and surveyed the crowd. First i place them on my musical spectrum, and then i speculate on if i could vanquish them in unarmed song-to-song combat. A good opening act doesn’t quite fit on my spectrum because they don’t have obvious influences; an amazing opening act convinces me that i couldn’t possibly walk up on stage, pick up a guitar, and please the crowd as much or more than s/he did.
Burning my tongue so badly on chai that i got stuck between try to scream, swallow, or just spit it out. Having to picture the taste of everything afterwards.
Charlie knowing my name and where i lived even though i hadn’t seen him for half a year and letting me off the shuttle at the corner of Walnut street where i knew that, despite the utterly desolate chill in the air, i was close to my door. How i let my scarf unravel from the knot it had formed around my neck until it was just being carried by the wind behind me. Me running down 44th street trailing my monochrome scarf behind me like a kite, giggling into the thin air and barely breathing.
Pillows taking up half my bed.
Speaking of Yum, lots of intelligent new pop music was purchased yesterday — primarily the new Alanis and Lisa Loeb discs. I don’t have any review quality thoughts on either yet, other than to say that both have solidly migrated away from “alternative” to a comfortable position in pop – Loeb with her roots in lush harmony and arrangements, and Alanis all psycho-babbly with shimmery guitars and boisterous bass-lines, both offer up pop gems that could easily deflate the newest Britney hit single.
At a glance, Alanis’s Under Rug Swept scores with the strangely catchy “Hands Clean,” and again with the deadpanned dissection offered up in “Narcissus.” Second single “21 Things I Want in a Lover” and radio-ready “So Unsexy” are both undeniable in their hookiness while coming off slightly awkward… with lines like “do you have a big intellectual capacity” and “i feel so ungood.” The latter song could be Alanis’s new masterpiece; it’s easily as catchy as the equally odd “Hands Clean.” Softer endeavor “Flinch” is a retread of similar material on her previous disc, but will please more casual listeners with it’s simple arrangement. Obviously i’m too busy with the first half of the disc to pay much attention to the sleepy “You Owe Me Nothing in Return,” and the flimsy folk in three/four of “Utopia.”
Lisa Loeb has Ms. Morissette beat hands down all around with Cake and Pie… not only in her mature lyrics & arrangements, but also in graphic design and production. In fact, her disc begins with erstwhile Alanis producer Glen Ballard credited with co-writing the music “The Way It Really Is” (he makes nary an appearance on Under Rug Swept, which Alanis wrote and produced solo). The song is sonically as lush as the more impressive tracks of Firecracker, but has a string laden sense of drama that Lisa doesn’t usually bring to the table. She doesn’t let up on second track “Bring Me Up,” which is as catchy as anything on her debut album with its simple guitar patter and sighing background vocals. Similarly, the melancholy acoustic riffing on “Underdog” gives way to a softly defiant chorus co-written with beau Dweezil Zappa. While the anonymous “Everyday” falls a little flat, lead single “Someone You Should Know” repeats the playfulness featured on her release from the Rugrats movie. “We Could Still Be Together” is resurrected from soundtrack limbo to offer a throbbing 90’s-style rocker to pin down the middle of the album, and “Payback” is an uncharacteristic blues number complete with guitar solos and wurlitzer piano. Nestled between the two, “You Don’t Know Me” sells the disc on its opening riff alone : Lisa’s sweet pop combined with Dweezil’s guitar heroics winds up as a Matthew Sweet brand of perfect pop, and it doesn’t get much more perfect than this ode the the geek girl with a new boyfriend.
Lisa’s album is not as cohesive as her last, and Alanis’s is more rambly — i’m hoping Loeb receives well-deserved attention for her impeccably produced effort, and Morissette learns to embrace the idea of having a little bit of outside input in hers.
There is acting, and then there is playing a role. Acting is straightforward … based on material given to you ahead of time, and meant to be consistent and the same every time. Role playing is something entirely different … slipping into the mind of the character you portray to make decisions and reach conclusions for them. It’s the difference between a movie-star shooting a single film and a soap opera star who has played the same character for decades; with the latter, we expect them to occasionally stray from their normal portrayals, if only because we’ve had a chance to ascertain what normal really constitutes. One is not harder than the other. In fact, to consistently act and to act consistently are two different concepts entirely.
Okay, so, what i’m trying to say is that i didn’t get cast in Fiddler, but in my ever-loving geekdom i started a role-playing campaign of Advanced Dungeons and Dragons tonight with other assorted Drexel Players. We sat around in an attic bedroom for more than three hours, talking to each other as who we were portraying rather than as ourselves imitating a character. Eyes were shifty, and stories were inconsistent. We began to establish the baseline of how we would act from there on out. Stories were told around campfires, relative lack of wisdom was played with Keanu-like naivete, and secrets were kept.
We’re going to meet again next Thursday. Most of the other people have rehearsal most of the nights between now and then, but i don’t. And, really, it’s not a problem.