Monday, April 21, 2014

Desperate Endstage Monomaniac Spanish Shaker Goodness

Well, now. Dude's hardcore.

I make furniture, of course, but I never have any sort of competitive feeling when I watch videos by other makers. I either find them interesting or infuriating, but the only way to infuriate me is to do worse work than mine, not better, and so waste my time. I can make furniture faster than anyone that can make it better, and I can make it better than anyone that can make it faster. Those are the damp, moldy laurels I rest on.

This video is plenty fascinating to me though. Guy's working in Spain, I guess, since the video and website is in Spanish, but if my Spanish still works, he's either from Austria, Holland, South African or Nigeria, or all of them. He's making a very American, Shaker design, usually referred to as a "harvest table." It's cherry. I understand everything he's doing, and I could be a docent for the whole thing, but that would ruin the aspect of this video that struck me as borderline sublime. No one talks. There's no goddamn music. The light in that room is remarkable. I have seen a kajillion videos of people making things at this point, and this one has to be the ne plus ultra. No one else has the nerve to shut the hell up and make something with a camera pointed at them.

Un Trabajo Feliz, indeed. 

Sunday, April 20, 2014

It's Cold Again, And That's That

My bed is a canvas. I come to on it every morning like a boxer hearing eight.

He told me while he was dying that he remembered going down three flights of stairs to shovel coal into a furnace if they wanted heat. He laughed in his way and asked no one, "Who doesn't want heat?" Later they moved to a ticky tacky box in the boonies where the train finally gave up, and there was this magic dial on the wall and the house got warm if you simply turned it. He never got over it, the marvel of it. He almost died with it, that wonder, on his lips.

It's gone, all that. I don't know whether I lost it or it was taken from me, but what difference would that make? It's cold again, and that's that. Unnumbered years ago our little faces barely poked up above the plateau of the battered kitchen table while our milk turned our ration of flakes to paste, mom resolutely ironing his breastplate before he went Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more. There was no way we could know that to the man at the end of the table, born into a landscape so bleak I can hardly understand it, we were his offering, a sign of hope; and now you can't help but chew the bitter cud of doubt that his hope was misplaced. You've done so little with it. Barely managed to produce a batch of hope for yourself. You pray that hope, by its very nature, cannot be misplaced.

I don't care about the dimming of my eyes and the ringing in my ears; the stabbing pain like a rebuke, the residue of blows unseen and unprovoked; the passing of the seasons like palings in a picket fence as you drive down the street. I just don't want the referee to count ten before I prove he wasn't a fool to hope after all.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

I've Never Had Any Rustic Overtones

If Portland, Maine is local enough from my perch here in Rumford, then Rustic Overtones is a local band.

They didn't want to be a local band, of course. Hardly anyone wants to be that. All musicians dream of demigod paygrades and sorted M&Ms. I swear I performed in the only band, ever, that explicitly had no ambitions beyond where we could get to from Cape Cod in a Ford F-250, and we still ended up playing in Cincinnati and Denver.

The Overtones had their cup of coffee in the bigs, and made some records and wandered the landscape in search of applause, but they seem to be back to being big men on the small campus of Portland again, from what I can glean reading about them. Musicians like to be famous among strangers, but there's nothing wrong with applause from familiars, either. Someone has to get you to leave Three Dollar Dewey's early and pay a cover. Might as well be them. 

I've never heard of Rustic Overtones before. That's OK, they've probably never heard of me, either, so we're square. I liked their video -- enough to look up the videographers -- and I've heard much, much worse come out of the radio lately. I wish them well. But I have a warning for them, too. If you think you're going to make your way in Maine by dressing in suits, filming in black and white, and mixing in incongruous stock footage, you better be looking over your shoulder. There isn't room in this State for two sets of people doing it, and the set that sleeps at my house doesn't get tired that easy; they're young.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Paris, Texas, The Movie. Sorta (2011)

[Editor's Note: We live in the butt end of nowhere, so we have to buy everything "mail order" as they used to call it. We have an Amazon Prime account. Prime gives you free two-day shipping, and allows you to watch a crummy selection of movies and TV for nada. We almost never use the TV function. Out of curiosity, I turned it on yesterday after a long interregnum, and under "Most Watched Movies," there was Flyboys. I guess I can safely ignore Amazon Prime movies for another three years.]

My son and I watched a movie last night. I hardly ever watch movies, so I thought I'd multi-task and review this one: Flyboys.

It features a guy that looks vaguely like that other guy that was The Joker in the Batman movie --no, not that Batman movie, the other one. No, not that the other one. The other, other one. Anyway, he died --no, not this guy, he didn't die, the other, other Joker guy died.  At any rate, our hero was a jolly rancher for a while in Texas, but for some reason the Depression showed up early, like twenty years early, and he lost the farm and took to hanging around in a movie theater like Lee Harvey Oswald, until the sheriff comes in and tells him he better join the French air force or go to jail for punching Mr. Potter at the bank for foreclosing on his ranch.

So he goes to France to smoke Newports and fly Nieuports, and I suppose World War One isn't interesting enough, so the scriptwriter gives him a new best pilot friend, who he doesn't like much but is still his best friend, and the guy has a pet lion instead of a dog, and they are, like, pilots and guys and depressed together about stuff, because eighth-grade girls and movie producers think being self-absorbed makes you interesting.

Then someone decided the movie needed Jack Johnson, the boxer, in it, only his name is different, I think -- I don't know; I was too busy wondering if guys like the guy that looks vaguely like the actor that played the Joker would have highlights dyed into his hair in 1917 in the Lafayette Escadrille, so I didn't have time to get up to speed and wonder why this movie needed a poor man's Jack Johnson in the Lafayette Escadrille. I guess French people and guys that keep lions aren't exotic enough.

Anyway, the Jack Johnson-ish dude shoots a German dude right straight down in the top of his head using only an airplane and CGI, and that's hard, and thereby saves a rich, overweight dude with Daddy Warbucks issues who previously didn't care for the black dude because he's black and all, but now he does you betcha. So the fat guy buys the black guy a drink, only he doesn't buy it, he offers him some ritzy booze he stole from his father like Ferris Bueller would, and the fat guy says to Jack Johnson, my rich father is rich, how about yours?  And even though the black guy is noble enough for five movies already if you ask me, the movie doubles down and makes his father a slave, even though it's 1917 and slavery was outlawed in 1865, and that seems like a long time between jobs if you ask me, but who's counting in this movie.

Then the Hindenburg was bombing the Eiffel Tower for some reason, and the guy with the lion gets all shot up and whatnot while defending the spire, and decides he's turning Japanese (I really think so) and becomes a kamikaze pilot and crashes into and blows up the Hindenburg. So instead of dropping bombs on Paris, the flaming Hindenburg falls on top of Paris full of flaming bombs, which doesn't really sound like an improvement if you're a Parisian, but that happens out of the frame so he's still a hero if you ask me.

Then yet another guy who is a brave guy acts like a coward a lot, because we all know brave guys are all cowardly in real life, and that guy hangs out a bit with still another guy, a guy that reads the Bible all the time, so you know he's a weirdo and not a regular person in 1917 in America. We all know everyone normal was reading Chomsky not the Bible back then no matter what Ted Nugent says.

Still another guy, who is wanted in Wisconsin for armed robbery with a toy pistol (to pay the bookie in The Sting, I think) lands his plane in the No-Mans Land between the trenches, which is hard to do indeed, but his hand is caught and he can't run away, which normally would seem easier than landing a plane in No-Man's Land. Just his hand is caught, mind you, nothing else, and he looks like OJ trying on a glove when he's trying to pull his hand out, not like a normal person would look under shelling and machine gun fire. So the brave guy -- not the guy with the lion, he's dead; and not the brave guy that's a coward all over the place -- so the brave guy with the highlights and the ranch near Dealey Plaza who doesn't have it anymore, manages to land his plane in No-Man's Land like it was a Home Depot parking lot and not No Man's Land, and he parks it next to the guy trying on OJ's glove, and immediately chops the guy's hand off with a shovel he borrows from a dead French dude who was lying around handy equipped with a shovel, even though the airplane wing is just made of canvas and a little pine. I guess it's just easier to chop the guy's hand off, don't ask me. So now this guy can only be a one-armed armed robber, not a regular armed robber, and he gets a hook instead of a hand, like in Peter Pan, and the hook improves his flying I guess, because he sucked before but thereafter he's swell at it.

Later the guy with the hook and the cowardly brave guy get together and save the regular brave guy, for a while, anyway -- at least until the regular brave guy can meet up with the villain, who is contractually required to be a German guy who sneers a lot and waves like a crossing guard while he kills all sorts of guys and leaves orphan lions all over the landscape willy-nilly like a really bad guy would. The brave guy would no doubt have triumphed over Snidely von Richtofen, but at the moment of truth his machine guns don't work because a bullet hits them and they bust open like a pinata and spill the wrong kind of bullets for that kind of gun all over the place like Jolly Ranchers, and then the brave guy...

No, not the brave guy with the lion; he's dead, I told you! I was referring to the guy with the highlights in his hair, who's now stepdad to a fatherless lion. Anyhoo, he's been stealing planes to go see a French woman from time to time, even though at first he thinks the French woman is a prostitute -- which I gather is normal for any American sizing up French women for the first time -- but she's just the cleaning lady at the cathouse (which strikes me as a much less desirable job than being a prostitute, but maybe that's just me) where the first guy that originally owned the lion liked to hang around and act like Vince Vaughn would at a French cathouse, but Vince isn't even in this movie, which is a shame because he couldn't have done any worse, really.

Anyway, the brave guy that steals airplanes goes to save this one French girl that isn't a prostitute, because she's hiding from the Germans in her attic quietly like Helen Keller...

... now they've got me doing it. Like Anne Frank, not Helen Keller. Anyway, at first he flies the stolen plane at night for a while, then he flies it at night with the motor turned off for another good long while, and then he lands it like a ninja next door to Anne Frank's house. The Germans don't notice, even though they're in her living room drinkin' wine spo-dee-o-dee; but after a while they decide to notice, and the dastards shoot Anne Frank in the shoulder. But just so you know, I'm swapping back to calling her Helen Keller right now because she gets a Mauser bullet through the chest and doesn't utter a peep, I shit you not.

Anyway, our hero with the frosted hair saves her and gets a medal for stealing the plane, which seems a bit odd, and later he steals a motorcycle instead of the plane for a change of pace, and he goes to another place all bombed out and full of Germans, which is a habitual thing with him at this point, and he finds her again and they decide to meet in Paris, but later -- or at least the part of Paris that survived having a flaming Hindenburg dropped on it --  because she's going to England with some kids that aren't his, or even hers, now that I think about it, and he can't go right away because he's got a lion to take care of.

Where was I? Oh, yes. The brave guy with the highlights and the second-hand lion is saved for a while by the cowardly lion and Captain Hook...

(Dammit, I mean the cowardly brave guy, not the cowardly lion; the lion seems legit, if strung out on barbiturates a little bit; and I don't think Captain Hook is a captain, really, prolly just a corporal or a lieutenant or something, or whatever the French word for lieutenant is, I don't know)

.. but the brave guy gets all shot up by the Red Baron, who inexplicably seems to be the only German not flying a red Fokker triplane in this movie, but that's got to be him, as he's so evil. But anywho, this German guy shoots more bullets into our hero than a carnival attraction with ducks for some reason, and then stops shooting him for some other reason, shits and giggles I expect, and then Rolf or Heinz or Manfred or whatever his name is just pulls up next to our beauty parlor hero like a guy at a red light in American Graffiti, just to wave and smirk. Then the shot-up brave guy -- the guy with the used lion and the only French girl that's more interested in housecleaning than prostitution --  why, he pulls out a revolver of all things and shoots that German Snidely Whiplash right through the eye, which is pretty good shooting indeed, considering he's all shot to pieces and flying a biplane that's all shot to pieces that was made by French people in the first place.

Then the producers evidently ran out of money or unexposed film or something, and they hastily explained over the closing credits that the Jack Johnson guy gets a job at the Post Office, and the rancher with the highlights never meets the girl in Paris, but he gets his ranch in Texas back, only it's another ranch, not the one I told you about already, but the new one is way better so never fear.

I guess it's not his fault the stupid French chick, the one that's not a prostitute, didn't know he meant Paris, Texas.

The End.

Monday, April 14, 2014

There's Only Three Things That's For Sure

Marvin Gaye's greatest work, I think. He's playing all sorts of instruments on it, too.

Trouble Man was one of those mostly forgettable black private eye movies popular in the seventies, like Superfly and Shaft, both of which yielded big hits on the AM radio charts. Trouble Man's music really was a step above the others, though. The words to Shaft have become perennial fodder for parodies, easy pickins because of their comic book toughness; Superfly by Curtis Mayfield, along with Freddie's Dead, had way more grit. But Trouble Man's orchestral musical framework immediately shouts: serious business, and when Marvin Gaye opens up with, "I come up hard, babe", it sounds heavier, more like real life.

Trouble Man was directed by an interesting fellow named Ivan Dixon. If you're of a certain age, you might remember him instantly as "Kinch" on Hogan's Heroes. He's one of those fellows you see from time to time in Hollywood -- he worked. His IMDB for acting has fifty credits, the usual fare for someone that's gotten past just standing around, but not a leading man by any stretch. He was even once a stunt double for Sidney Poitier. He had an almost equal amount of directing entries, some movies, mostly TV, lots of familiar titles like Magnum, PIThe Waltons  Room 222, and The Rockford Files.  I remember one of his roles, in Car Wash, fondly. The movie wasn't good, exactly; but it encapsulated the era pretty well. I imagine archaeologists will someday find a video of Car Wash, and attempt to discover the engineering secrets behind Franklyn Ajaye's righteous fro.

Friday, April 11, 2014

The 3-6-3 Rule Rules. Well, It Used To

[Editor's Note: Originally offered in 2009. Still seems fairly trenchant, I'd say, if I knew what trenchant meant] 

Why did the nascent United States produce so many great thinkers? Where are they now?

Great thinkers come to the fore when they are required. The founding of any great enterprise requires inspiration coupled to intellect. If the intellect is wanting, the inspiration is usually enough, but makes it harder to carry out the fruits of your inspiration except by dogged determination. Intellect alone is not useless -- it's worse than useless. On a good day it's counterproductive; the other 364 days it's destructive. You cannot come up with a worthwhile concept based solely on intellect. It qualifies you only to be a clerk or a sophist. Clerking is hard work, so everybody goes full sophist right away.

Now the world is run by sophists. They think that because they read a few books about people who were great that they are great in their turn. There are two problems with this surmise. One, the people they think were great probably weren't. Secondly, most people are incapable of much more than misremembering and misunderstanding the twaddle they read anyway, because education isn't very rigorous anymore. If you think the world's business is decided by simply choosing wisely between John Galt and Noam Chomsky, I don't know what to say to you. Mozart is never going to show up on American Idol.

I'll answer the question I posed in the opening myself. The reason Hamilton and Madison et. al. sat at the same table once is that it was required just then. There was an enormous market for ideas in the rough, right away. A few years later, the time for thinking like that was over. Old Muttonhead rightly sat at the head of the table and told Jefferson and Hamilton to put a sock in it, and see if they could manage to keep the spittoons emptied in their assigned offices before they got any more bright ideas. We could use some of the Old Muttonhead approach right now.

I read the news in the most desultory fashion because it's so useless to read twaddle filtered through incoherence and basted with a faction reduction. I hear, literally, gibberish. There is no such thing as a "toxic asset," for instance. An asset is pass/fail. It either is, or it's not. A banker prone to adjectives isn't much of a banker. There's that sophistry again. To hear a person with their hand on the levers of vital things utter such bosh indicates to me that the people that formerly put stupid back-seat-driver bright ideas in the suggestion box at their crummy jobs thrice daily are in charge of important things now.

Smart managers know the suggestion box is 99.9% for humoring cranks. The Internet is the world's suggestion box now, with much the same role.

What possible good could it do to read a paper that refers to a capital injection into the money supply and a transfer payment to non-productive sectors referred to interchangeably as "a bailout." It used to be only the journalist that was that ignorant. When the people the journalists are interviewing start talking like that, why listen at all?

My father was a banker. He told me the old saw about the only rule in the bank is the "3-6-3 Rule." Borrow at 3%, lend at 6%, and play golf at three.

It was a joke and pop never played golf and he never left at three and people were always coming in to the bank to rob it and shoot the guard. You see, you don't understand the joke. You think it means that bankers were effete and lazy and thick-headed. It really meant that the wisest of them knew that after you borrowed (judiciously) at 3% and lent (wisely) at 6% there was nothing left to do. If you kept coming up with bright ideas after that, it was all bad, brother.

Everybody's been working overtime in banking and government coming up with new and bright ideas to torture the language and the arithmetic so they could pat themselves on the back about how much smarter they are than everybody else. Can I have my bonus billion now? I'm going to invest it with Bernie Madoff because I'm so smahhht.

You're not captains of industry. You're not visionaries. You're not statesmen. You're supposed to be clerks. I'm sorry, but clerks don't get paid all that much -- and never get a piece of the action. They don't get statues in the park in their honor. I can read well enough to know that real clerks, honorable, hardworking clerks, are going to be taxed into the hereafter, never mind the foreseeable future, to make sure the fake clerks with delusions of grandeur don't have to go back to the real world they fled.

It's an honorable profession, being a clerk. I spend part of my day being one. You intellectual swells should try dabbling in it. To paraphrase Randle Patrick McMurphy: Sell big ideas someplace else; we're all stocked up here.