Nancy Davis Kho's Blog, page 47

Midlife Mixtape Concert Review: Robyn and Röyksopp

The Band: Robyn with Röyksopp June 28 2014. Hailing from Sweden, Robyn is a super creative dance pop queen with a beautiful voice and a wicked sense of humor. Hailing from next door Norway, Röyksopp is an electronic dance music (EDM) duo. Overcoming centuries of intra-Nordic competition to collaborate, Robyn and Röyksopp released an EP earlier this year, Do It Again, that is purpose-built for late night rave dancing.

The Venue: Bill Graham Civic Center, San Francisco, steps away from San Francisco’s City Hall which was lit up in rainbow colors for the next day’s big Gay Pride parade. Last time I was at the Bill Graham was to see Harry Connick Jr. play to an entirely seated audience. This time the chairs were gone, the better to turn the whole 7,000 person capacity space into a dance floor for pre-Pride revelry.

The Company: My darling eldest daughter, my best friend Maria, and her buddy Barbara. My lazy outfit choice was 100% influenced by my younger daughter saying, “That shirt looks Swedish,” which was good enough for me. Here we are looking like we completely missed the Gay Pride memo, with nary a rainbow tutu between us.

The Crowd: Stunning. And I’m not just talking about the hetero couple who looked like Jack Sprat and his wife, engaged in a public flogging in the park between our BART stop and the Bill Graham Civic. (My maternal reaction was to say to my sixteen year old “Look away! Look away!” while she laughed at me.) Six foot tall gorgeous bearded men in fishnets, miniskirts, and stiletto heels; bears in neon pink fur vests with false eyelashes and tiny top hats; girls in sequined rompers waving geisha fans; men in light up ties (but no shirt underneath) and/or kilts. It was a happy, happy crowd letting it all hang out.

I wish I could have gotten a better shot of this boy, who was my favorite: so delicate and beautiful, with his long blue hair and matching Bea Arthur duster coat. He truly was lovely.

Age Humiliation Factor: Decisive.

Hey, guys! It took a while, but I finally found music that makes me feel old: Röyksopp. Even with toilet paper crammed into my ears, and my hands pressed over that, I still was almost physically nauseous at the volume of the EDM music ricocheting off the walls of the auditorium. Add to it the lack of familiarity with Röyksopp’s music and my Swedish Mom On the Town outfit, and I felt incredibly out of my league and as square as the Bill Graham Civic Center. Luckily, once Maria and Barbara found us seats in the balcony to the right of the stage, we enjoyed it a bit more (and didn’t have to deal with the laser show shining straight into our eyes.)

I don’t feel bad about it. It’s not right to be a parent of two teenagers and to still love every single piece of music coming onto the scene. It upsets the natural order.

Cool Factor: Revealing

Between the beautiful gay boys in hot pants and stilettos, the sweet and/or tough lesbian couples, and the co-ed posse of revelers who took over the BART car on the way back to Oakland screaming “Twerk! Twerk! Twerk!” and “Raise your hand if you love [a specific part of the female anatomy]!” I can only repeat what Maria said to me as we pulled into our station:

“A night like this reminds me that our lives are very, very narrow, and that there is a whole wide world out there we know nothing about.”

It’s a good thing to be reminded once in a while.

Worth Hiring the Sitter? Send her in your place.

I don’t want to sound negative because Robyn’s performance was fabulous and I’d go see her again in a heartbeat. She is just a treat to watch: prancing all over the stage, beautiful voice, great engagement with the crowd, and her solo stuff is eminently danceable. During her performance of “Dancing On My Own” she turned her back to the audience and wrapped her arms around herself – you know, the old “pretend you’re making out with someone” trick from 5th grade – and the audience simply took up the verse and the chorus and never missed a beat.

But the Röyksopp music didn’t hold my interest, and I think it’s because I’m not 23. Maria and I agreed that if we knew their music from dancing at clubs, it would have been really fun to see them perform live. I bet it’s how Baby Boomers felt when they heard Erasure back in the ‘80s, which we regarded as the pinnacle of dance music thanks to all the Philly clubs and frat parties where we were hearing their songs play. (And don’t forget – you can join me on August 7 at the Cat Club in San Francisco to relive our ’80s dancing glory – more details here!) Even when Robyn rejoined Röyksopp to perform from their new album, I just couldn’t relate.

I’m also a little out of step with the whole DJ-as-Musician phenomenon. I’ve been pondering this since the Daft Punk sweep at the Grammys; I don’t mean to be contrarian, but how is it fair for a DJ to compete with someone who sings and plays their own instruments for a Best Song or Best Album award? Maybe EDM is a different beast altogether – I mean, Röyksopp had a band onstage and a female singer for some of the songs. Someone educate me please. I am nothing if not willing to learn.

I think this will probably mark the end of EDM concert going days, (and the beginning of my long-intended, never consummated vow to bring earplugs to concerts.) And that’s ok.

It’s good to be reminded of the whole wide world of things that I know nothing about.

Next show on the calendar: Echo and the Bunnymen, Regency Ballroom, August 2

                   
CommentsI keep meaning to take those earplugs you sent me and put them ... by EllenRelated StoriesAny Old Excuse for a PartyOh Yes It’s Ladies Eighties NightStill in Rotation: Skylarking (XTC) 

Still in Rotation: Skylarking (XTC)

Still in Rotation is a feature that lets talented writers tell Midlife Mixtape readers about an album they discovered years ago that’s still in heavy rotation, and why it has such staying power.

What is there to say about Anna Lefler? She’s a fabulously talented, funny writer; she’s got Breck girl hair; she’s one of the most generous, insightful writers I know. Case in point: 18 months ago, when I was running in circles creatively, La Lefler helpfully explained to me what the memoir I was writing was about. So that was helpful. She’s a gem, and after you read her take on XTC’s Skylarking, you’ll agree.

Skylarking (1986)

Sometimes I like to time travel.

Sure, there are albums I listen to again and again for their stunning musicianship or inspired lyric-writing. Mood-wise, I have favorites that activate, elevate…and moderate. (There are also those earmarked strictly for working on my Dougie in my underwear, but Nancy has requested that I save that blog post for another time.)

Occasionally, though, what I want – or even need – is to settle into a collection of songs like it’s a vessel. Like I’m reclining into a Barcalounger. A mobile, musical Barcalounger. I’m not ruling out the possibility of wings here. Are you with me? Less “Dr. Who” and more “Dr. When.”

XTC’s Skylarking is that time-traveling recliner. (Hey, Rolling Stone – I’m available!) And when I strap into it, where – without exception – does it transport me? My apartment on Dwight Way in Berkeley, California, circa 1987.

The situation: a dilapidated, free-standing, two-bedroom “penthouse” where the green industrial carpeting had bigger waves than the San Francisco Bay, and where my roommate for the year was an angry female bicyclist who ate a lot of kale and kept in her room an agoraphobic pet rat named “Señor.”

Highlights of that year included getting my first-ever haircut that required the use of electric trimmers, convincing the attendant of an all-night gas station in Oakland to let me use the employees-only toilet in his pay stall by bursting into tears at Pump #3, and – on a bet – inhaling an unfiltered Marlboro through my right nostril.

I think it’s pretty obvious to all of us why I would want to revisit this particular slice of my personal history.

From its initial cricket chirp, Skylarking is a lush, psychedelic-pop/New Wave album produced by Todd Rundgren and released in 1986. According to Wikipedia (yeah, we’re doin’ that), Skylarking is a “life-in-a-day” semi-concept album. [Note to self: never look anything up on frickin’ Wikipedia again.] You’ll get more than a whiff of Beatles influence here, which accounts for at least part of my pleasurable fixation on it.

And speaking of pleasure, if you’re wondering about the subtext of the album, take a look at the pornographic pelt o’ posies that adorned the original, “banned” cover:

I will now cleanse your mind by telling you that the title of the album was inspired by Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem To a Skylark, and by invoking a word that we can all agree has unassailable high-brow credentials: pastoral.

Skylarking is a nectar-drenched rumination on the nature of life. It is woven with a rich web of musical and lyrical callbacks – a macramé plant hanger of an album. Virtually every song explores the parallels between the cycles of nature and the cycles of human life, love, and loss. I think of this album as a little machine – an engine that endlessly and for the most part joyfully recycles itself as it churns out the auditory equivalent of a Peter Max print.

I’m having a hard time spotlighting individual songs because they truly flow one into the next, much like (wait for it) the seasons of life. New love, insecurity, blissful bafflement, the challenges of everyday existence coupled with the eternal resurrection of hope – it’s one big philosophical/emotional gumbo.

And then, plopped into all of this fecund moisture is the album’s best-performing single, “Dear God.” It’s an arid, accusatory song of anti-theism that rose to Number 37 on Billboard’s Mainstream Rock Tracks – and likely the only song from the album whose title sounds familiar to you.

My unfortunate personal association with this beautiful and thought-provoking song is that it was used in a multi-media presentation by a boyfriend at the time – one whose acquisition was significantly less satisfying than that of my marked-down pair of rayon, mustard palazzo pants. What can I say? It was the 80s. Mistakes were made.

Has Skylarking stood the test of time? I don’t know. Maybe not. Probably not, in fact. But for me, that’s just the point: it’s not a timeless album. On the contrary, it’s an album rooted in a very specific time, one during which the formula for contentment read something like this:

4 pumps of Dep + $1.50 worth of gas in my scooter + 2 rolls of laundry quarters

None of life’s formulas have seemed this simple to me in a very long time, but I remain hopeful that they could be. That’s what drives me to strap myself into that musical Barcalounger, again and again.

 ♪♪♪

Anna Lefler is a writer and comedian. She is the author of the humor book, “The CHICKtionary: From A-Line to Z-Snap, the Words Every Woman Should Know,” which The Chicago Tribune calls, “A wry celebration of modern femininity.” She is also a writer and performer on the Nickelodeon/NickMom television show, “Parental Discretion with Stefanie Wilder-Taylor.” Her work has appeared online at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Salon.com, and The Big Jewel, and she is a faculty member of the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. You can find her on Twitter at @AnnaLefler, on Facebook at facebook.com/AnnaCornettLefler, and on her website at annalefler.com.

                   
CommentsOkay, are you *trying* to make me cry…? XO A. by Anna LeflerOh, man, that's one of my favorite lines, too. Sigh, The Sequel. by Anna LeflerI hope you like it! And thank YOU. Anna by Anna LeflerHere, let me just move the ficus and then we can share this bag ... by Nancy Davis KhoYes please to Skylarking … I was introduced to the album in ... by Betsy DonohuePlus 5 more...Related StoriesStill in Rotation: Barry Manilow Live (Barry Manilow)Still in Rotation: Singles-45′s and Under (Squeeze)Still in Rotation: Black Eyed Man (Cowboy Junkies) 

Any Old Excuse for a Party

Last week when I was slacking off on vacation, albeit a vacation where we covered three states and two college visits and one 80th birthday party and there was little-to-no actual slacking involved, the third anniversary of the launch of Midlife Mixtape passed. What, you didn’t see the network news coverage?

As always when that June date approaches, I am filled with gratitude to anyone who has ever stopped by to read the blog, even you, person who recently found Midlife Mixtape after searching for the term “waitress shoes,” and you, searcher of “rainbow connection funeral song.” As for those of you who come back regularly, subscribe via email, share posts, and even leave comments? Well. I hardly know where to start, but this song from The Karate Kid soundtrack seems apt. You’re the best around, dear readers: so say I, and so says Ralph Macchio.

I’m so grateful, in fact, that I could throw a party. I’d want it to be a dance party, of course, with a hefty serving of the great ‘80s music that played when we were in high school and college, at a cool club with a fun crowd and friendly bartenders. Just like my birthday dance party back in April. But if I’m honest, I’d want it to start on the early side, especially if were on a weeknight; these “doors open at 9” clubs exhaust me before I even get started. Sure, I still want to party! But also be in my pajamas by 11 pm.

Hey guess what?

I’m throwing that party on Thursday, August 7 at the Cat Club in San Francisco, and you are all invited!

Mark your calendars and start rounding up your friends, husbands, wives, coworkers, and parole officers – everyone is welcome!

The Midlife Mixtape I Have To Work Tomorrow Dance Party

Thursday, Aug 7, 7 pm-9 pm

Cat Club SF

1190 Folsom Street, San Francisco

Finally: an ‘80s dance party for those of us who have to be at the office in the morning! Come join humor and music blogger Nancy Davis Kho of MidlifeMixtape.com (“For the years between being hip and breaking one”) for an Early Bird dance party that’ll let you relive your glory days and still get home before the babysitter’s curfew. Doors open at 7 and DJ Damon will spin the best of 80′s pop, rock, and one hit wonders. You could leave when the regular weekly Class of ’84 dance party starts at 9, but why would you? You’ll be all limbered up and ready to execute your finest dance hall moves without pulling any muscles.

$5 cover

First 40 people through the door get a special gift from Midlife Mixtape

I am so excited that the Cat Club Crew got behind this idea, and I hope you will be too…if we get a big turnout this Early Bird dance special could happen on the regular, so please help me spread the word and I will see you August 7th!

***I’m over on NickMom this week with a flow chart that helps you answer the question: Will Your Teenage Daughter Reject Your Fashion Suggestion?and on Tue/Night with Ten Songs To Get You Through That Breakup (Using Kübler-Ross)

                   
CommentsWish I could shake my groove thang with you at the Cat Club!- ... by ShiraAw man, you're on the wrong side of the country!!! In honor ... by LisaWhat fun! I'll be flying back from London that day. If I'm not ... by ChristineSeriously? That's worth a party right there! Bring the whole ... by Nancy Davis KhoOh Em Geeeeeee — in town and on the cal. Can't wait!!! xoxo by AlisonPlus 5 more...Related StoriesOh Yes It’s Ladies Eighties NightPack It InAn Open Letter to the Restoration Hardware Returns Department 

Pack It In

I just read about a new trend in the New York Post: New York City parents can now outsource their kids’ camp packing to a professional, at the cost of $250/hour, or $1,000 for the average camper. Let me repeat that: not $1,000 for the children to go anywhere. Just to get them ready to go.

Let me say at the outset: I get it.

It doesn’t matter whether they are heading into the wild for a month, or attending an academic camp at a local university for a long weekend; camp packing is frustration’s fertile ground. You as a parent have a clear vision of what is appropriate and right in terms of clothing, footwear, and toiletries. Your kid will have a carefully calibrated and diametrically opposed stance.

Here’s how it might look in a movie, one few people would pay to see because why would they need to? They’re living it at home:

INT. CHILD’S BEDROOM-NIGHT

MOM is staring into the recesses of an overflowing duffel bag, while CHILD idly flips through his/her Instagram account nearby and tries to ignore her.

Mom: “If you’re going for the week, you’ll need two pairs of jeans, three pairs of shorts, and four tshirts.”

Child: “No, I put in six pairs of jeans, one pair of shorts, and my TFIOS tank top. And that raincoat won’t fit so I’m leaving it here.”

Mom: “But it’s supposed to rain. I’ve been reading the forecast!”

Child: “I’ll be fine. I need the space for my fourteen pairs of flip flops.”

Mom: “You need two pairs of flip flops per day?” MOM digs around in duffel bag. “All I see are stuffed animals. Where are the underpants?

MOM and CHILD sigh and eye roll. Fade to black.

It really doesn’t matter what the item of clothing is, or the quantities, or who is suggesting what be packed. What matters is the disagreement, and the belief that the other person has no idea what he/she is talking about.

Leaving aside that the Camp Packing Consultant featured in the article says that the reason parents do this is so that they can bring the feeling of home to camp, by duplicating bedding and providing extra shelving…ok, I can’t leave that aside. Have these parents missed that the entire point of camp, which is to give your child experience with a place that isn’t home, a side effect of which is adventure and an increased sense of confidence? In the parlance of the Internet, I have lost my ability to can.

Anyhoo: back to the outsourced packing. First of all, can we agree that, just as giving birth is not necessary to make a person a parent – shout out to all my adoptive and foster parent friends– there are certain experiences which, if avoided entirely, imperil your right to call yourself a mom or dad. Sleepless nights with an infant. A public meltdown by a toddler that causes other diners to shoot you the hairy eyeball. A six hour long elementary school talent show. A herky-jerky car ride with a new driver.

And overseeing the packing of a suitcase when a child is going to be gone for more than 24 hours.

I feel like we are getting to a point with modern parenting where people are so eager to opt out of the boring, unpleasant parts that we may as well just acknowledge it and investigate new parenting models. Here in the Bay Area, there are apartment buildings that offer residents the chance to share a dog who lives by the front desk. Residents can sign the puppy in and out of for walks, snuggles, whatever. Then when they’re done with the pooch, presumably right before the dog needs to relieve itself, they sign it back in to the concierge and go on with their carefree days.

My sixteen year old, for one, says she would happily sign up for a Rent-a-Kid service where people who don’t want to do the dirty work of parenting, but see the appeal of arriving at the boss’ summer picnic with a obedient, clean teenager in tow, could just rent her for a few hours. I think she’d probably make more money as a camp packing consultant, putting to use her past four summers of camping experience that taught her that yes, raincoats were invented for a reason.

But her customers would miss out on the silver lining of helping their kids prepare: it’s so annoying that when the child finally leaves, the separation will be far be less painful than you imagined. Because while you will miss them terribly, you won’t miss the nightly argument about whether anyone needs four nightgowns for three nights away.

Pack it up, pack it in, I came to win (the fight over whether or not you need to pack socks. Yes, yes you do.)

 

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A Street Named Dad

Like so many fathers out there, my dad is incredibly hard to shop for on Father’s Day. He’ll smile and say “Thanks!!” for anything we give him, and if the gift were a clump of dirt wrapped in a leaf that was sealed with spit, he would proclaim it the most glorious leaf, the exact dirt clump he’d been needing, and the cleverest spit anyone had ever received.

His easygoing nature has inadvertently made gift-giving occasions harder. What can we ever give him that is fitting for a guy so affable and low maintenance? I think I finally have something: I’d like to have a street named for him.

Specifically, I am thinking of petitioning the city elders of my hometown to rename the driveway of my childhood home “Larry Lane.” So many of my childhood memories center on that expanse of asphalt, and what my dad was doing in relation to it while I was growing up, that he and the driveway are kind of inseparable in my mind.

We lived on a quiet suburban street with no sidewalks, but tons and tons of kids. We roamed in a ‘70s style pack, ranging from a little kid we nicknamed Chuck the Rock all the way up to the long-haired hippie Cline boys who were really more men than boys. And the pack almost always started its adventures off in our driveway, because it was so roomy.

The driveway, which I have expertly rendered below using all of my art skillz, looked like an afterthought by the city planners, a continuation of the road that led into it. But it dead ended into a chain link fence. Many were the times when we looked out the window over the kitchen sink to see a confused driver sheepishly and slowly backing out of our driveway, having discovered that Fernboro Road just…stopped. We called that no-man’s land of the dead-end “The Ordinary Woods.” Neither woody nor ordinary, that’s just what we called it, and everyone in the neighborhood knew its name.

Our house sat on one side of that elongated T-shape, and the Clines were on the other side. In between was the most glorious freeform playground known to man.

The driveway was long, flat, and smooth, which meant it was the perfect spot for shaky bike riders and roller skaters and skateboarders to practice while staying out of traffic. Long before I can remember, my dad put up a basketball hoop at one end, so the big boys and girls could shoot hoops while the rest of us rolled around on various wheel sizes. Dad would be out there mowing the lawn or trimming the shrubs while we cavorted, but in those days parents didn’t feel the need to be in on every one of their kids’ activities. We no more cared about my dad and his yard work than he did us and our eternal games of Ten Sticks, and everyone was fine with the arrangement.

There was one exception; he loved to play catch with his three kids. After dinner we all went out with mitts to the driveway while he threw to us, mixing in pop flies with regular throws. I have virtually no hand-eye coordination, but thanks to my dad and his patient throwing I at least survived my solo season in the town softball league.

In the fall, my dad would be out next to the driveway raking, and in the winter he was the man with the shovel. This was probably the time of year when he least enjoyed the copious expanse of blacktop. He wasn’t insane: he paid for a snowplow to clean the Rochester snow out the driveway, which would have been a full time job otherwise. The plow pushed all the snow from the driveway into the Ordinary Woods, creating a short steep iceberg-shaped hill that kept us entertained on our saucers and sleds for hours.

Eventually spring would arrive. Sometimes not until late May, but it would finally arrive. That’s when Dad would carefully remove the custom built wooden a-frames he’d made to protect the azaleas that flanked our front door; by all rights they probably shouldn’t have survived in Rochester, but my father babied them. Lifting those covers off was as much a sign of spring as the buds on the cherry tree.

The driveway was the spot for events that Dad and Mom hosted – garage sales and after parties (what, you people didn’t throw garage sale after parties?) graduation parties, Memorial Day volleyball games and picnics. The driveway social scene wasn’t fancy – bring your own lawn chair and BYOB – and it wasn’t pretentious. But it anchored a happy childhood.

Just like my dad.

Instead of embedding a video today I’ll encourage you to follow this link http://www.thewildernessdowntown.com/ . It’s a very cool Arcade Fire interactive video where the magic of Google customizes the video for your experience. Type in the street that you think you should be named for your dad and report back!

                 
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An Open Letter to the Restoration Hardware Returns Department

Dear Restoration Hardware:

I wanted to let you know that I mistakenly received an item I did not order from your catalog, and wondered if you could send someone by my house to pick it up. It is a doorstop, sized 8.5 inches by 11 inches by 3.5 inches, weighs 13.6 pounds, and looks to be created entirely from your catalogs.

Although I do not need a doorstop at the present time, I allow that I am impressed with the solidity and heft of the object. When the UPS man threw it on my front porch on Thursday, I jumped and the dog barked like crazy. I tried to remember whether I’d ordered a hod of bricks to be delivered to the house. But no, it was just the doorstop sitting there.

Even though I didn’t order it, I had to take a close look because Restoration Hardware used to be one of our favorite places to shop. Your company’s founder grew up in my husband’s small Upstate New York hometown, and it entertained us no end to see the “Rouse’s Point” couch and the “Mooers coffee table.” We have spent time in those tiny hamlets and never found them to be particularly design-forward, but the names and the furnishings did evoke a comforting sense of place. However, at some point your company’s ownership changed and, it seemed to me, the designs did too. The last time I was in a RH showroom, it looked like you were selling the Snoopy Sopwith Camel collection, all the furniture covered in sheets of metal and dark leather, like they were fashioned from a biplane that had crashed onto an island inhabited only by furniture makers.

So I was curious to see the doorstop’s design and, upon closer inspection, I was taken with its sly wit. First there’s the catalog count that comprises those three and a half inches of paper: eleven. Kudos for the Spinal Tap reference– “These go to eleven.” A comment on how willfully ignorant people can be when they want to believe something, like a marketing person who says “You know how many catalogs we should send at once? ELEVEN.” Hysterical! Second is the whackadoodle catalog categories, like Small Spaces and Objects of Desire. And a catalog with the title of “Leather”? What is this, the Folsom Street Fair? That’s satire done right.

The kicker (pun intended) is the subtle but unmistakable humor on the label that’s stuck to the doorstop’s thick outer plastic wrapping: “UPS Carbon Neutral Shipment.” Wink, wink. Say no more. Receiving those catalogs one by one over the course of the year wouldn’t have set off any alarm bells, but seeing them all together: wow. That really highlights the wasteful nature of print catalogs in the digital age.

Considering that I registered with Catalog Choice a couple of years ago to stop receiving catalogs that were going straight from mailbox to recycling bin, including those from RH, I feel like the doorstop does double duty: it can both prop doors open, and provide a clever social commentary on the nature of corporate social responsibility and consumer powerlessness, setting up a dialectic for further discussion. Hats off to you for designing a doorstop that is also a conversation starter.

At any rate, I knew you’d probably want to hear about the rogue doorstop delivery so you could come reclaim your inventory. I’ve had friends mention that they also received these this week – a few of them had to go to their doormen or drive to the main post office to pick up the package in person. So you may want to take a look at your order distribution system, because these unwanted doorstops are showing up everywhere.

My contact information is enclosed if you’d like to let me know when you’ll be by to pick it up.

Best regards,

Nancy

P.S. For one fleeting second it occurred to me that maybe this isn’t a doorstop, but an actual delivery of 13.6 pounds of 11 catalogs that you think I’d be interested in spending hours leafing through, even though I rarely buy anything from RH and then only in person, at your store in Berkeley. But that would be madness. Sorry for even entertaining the thought.

To cop a phrase from the Beach Boys, I got around this week. Check out my post over at Huffington Post that Wendi Aarons and I co-wrote The I-Loved-The-80s, Just-Can’t- Remember-Them-Much Summer Concert Guide.

And my Tasty Playlist is up at Tue Night…ten songs guaranteed to whet your appetite. Where else are you going to get Lyle Lovett and The Fat Boys in the same playlist?

Finally, I was interviewed by an actual Rocket Scientist – the lovely and talented Dr. Portia Jackson, who hosts the Working Motherhood podcast. Check it out!

 

                   
CommentsI received one of these bricks too. What a waste of paper and ... by Lisbeth CoimanIan Dury! Wow, flashback. Loved your interview on Working ... by EllenRelated StoriesTurn Down the Music and Read: Mo’ Meta BluesMy Advice to High School GradsA Few Days Late and a Can of Spam Short 

Turn Down the Music and Read: Mo’ Meta Blues

One of the things I love most about reading is how it opens your world and makes space for dreams you never even knew you had. For instance, after finishing Mo’ Meta Blues by Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson, I now have but one dream: to drive cross country with Questlove, the car radio tuned to Backspin, the ‘80s and 90’s hip hop channel on Sirius XM, and have him explain to me the musical and cultural significance of every song we hear. Three thousand miles ought to just about skim the surface of what this brilliant musician and writer knows about music.

I didn’t know a whole lot about Questlove going into the book besides the fact that his band, The Roots, is now the house band for Jimmy Fallon’s late night show. That, and that the Roots are really terrible at playing Silent Library.

But this warm, funny, entertaining memoir turned me into a rest-of-my-life fan of Thompson, who is a walking music encyclopedia spanning decades and genres. A drummer and DJ, Thompson grew up in Philly in a show biz family, riding along as his parents performed R&B and soul in clubs and theaters during the 1970s. He was steeped in music, but from an early age it was apparent that he had a more deliberate, yearning need to understand and interact with it than your average musically-inclined child.

The night I bought the book, a friend who would know said, “Oh yeah, Questlove’s definitely on the Aspy scale,” alluding to Aspberger’s Syndrome, a developmental disorder related to autism and characterized by higher than average intellect along with repetitive patterns of interest and activities. Questlove points it out himself, how from a young age he was obsessed with the circles in vinyl albums, the face of a drum kit, and his own oversized ‘fro. But his ability to see connections between music and musicians, to dial back to the exact moment he heard not just a song but a particular phrase of a song, is exactly what makes him an able guide to the evolution of hip hop and rap.

At its heart, this is a book about a totally relatable, sweet guy. First: the pictures. OMG, he had that giant hairwoo from the time he was three. There’s a picture of him wearing a conductor’s cap and a tiny pair of striped overalls that made me melt. Second: his favorite game as a child was playing Record Store. Yes, he would take albums and set up merchandise displays in his bedroom, mimicking the Philly record stores that dotted his personal landscape. Questlove’s meticulous attention to detail was evident even at a young age. In the record store, those weren’t actual albums but posters of album covers that were on display, so in his determination to recreate the same curly edged effect of the paper posters with his albums…he cracked the edges of his vinyl collection

Third: he’s just as much a dope when he meets a celebrity as you and I would be. Prince was his number one favorite musician, for so many reasons, but when Questlove finally meets him, he absolutely loses his beans. It’s a hysterical and very honest scene that a less confident man or more egotistical musician would have dropped completely, but the book is better for it. And Questlove seems just that much more human.

Once you read Mo’ Meta Blues you’ll feel like you’ve had the best crash course in American hip-hop/rap/soul ever. It’s a perfect summer read, even if you’re not a huge fan of the music genre.

And here’s another reason to buy it: it’s published by the Hachette Book Group, the one currently in conflict with Amazon over its monopolistic distribution policies. Why not walk into a local indie bookstore this weekend and pick your copy up off the shelf?

So now I have to get myself educated about the Roots, and I’m following Questlove’s syllabus. How I Got Over is their midlife reflection album, so I’m starting there.

                   
CommentsI just borrowed it from the library this weekend and so far ... by EllenRelated StoriesTurn Down the Music and Read: Just KidsTurn Down the Music and Read: Confidence or the Appearance of ConfidenceAnthology-Palooza 

My Advice to High School Grads

It’s graduation season, and time for speeches. I’ll leave it to actual accomplished people to say something inspirational and lofty. High school grads, I’m here to keep it real and give you more pragmatic advice. Here are the ten things I wish I’d known when I was heading off to college.

Wear flip flops into the communal showers. Or buy an industrial sized tub of athlete’s foot medicine. You’re going to have to choose one or the other.
Your professors really don’t care if you do the homework or not. They truly, really don’t. But it turns out, that’s not the get-out-of-jail-free card you think it is.
Everyone is NOT staring at you. Everyone is in a blind panic themselves, worrying that they a.) wore the wrong outfit b.) said the wrong thing c.) don’t fit in here at all and should have gone to State. No one even sees you, because their adrenaline levels are so high it has rendered them insensible to anything but hiding places. Stop feeling so self-conscious.
Whites=hot, darks=warm, colors=cold, red = take it home to Mom and have her wash it over Thanksgiving.
Jell-o shots are not adequate replacement for the dinner you were too cheap to buy or too lazy to cook before you left for the party.
The things that signified coolness in high school may be considered Dork City here. Be prepared to recalibrate, and to send home your vast collection of glitter headbands.
When the 2 a.m. food craving comes, eat all the cheesesteaks, burgers, pizza, calzones, and fries that you can cram into your piehole. Because your ability to metabolize those is going to drop like a rock soon after you graduate.
The shitty bands that are playing in basements and frat houses? That’s real music, because there’s no way they’re doing it for the money. No matter how crappy they sound, respect them for the effort.
Things are EXPENSIVE! Your parents have probably managed to insulate you from that until now, but when you have to buy your own groceries and school supplies, you’re going to get a major lesson in Microeconomics.
This one’s for the ladies. When going to a party, let the Marine Honor Code guide you: leave no drunk girl behind. If you arrive with four friends, depart with the same four friends, even if you have to drag someone away who insists that her current albeit recently formed romantic relationship with the guy she is currently draped on is IT, really IT this time. If he’s a good guy, he’ll still be into her when she’s sober and if he’s not, she can thank you when she wakes up with a pounding headache, safe in her own bed.

And a bonus piece of advice:

This summer, get a job doing something fun that you love, even if it doesn’t pay much or anything at all. This last summer before college starts is your last hurrah as kid. If not for your sake then for the sake of all of us long-graduated grownups: make it count.

One of the bands I got to see play a frat party – Philly’s own Dead Milkmen. My friend Marci remembers that the crowd danced so hard, we broke the floor. Oops.

                   
CommentsJust returning the favor, my friend! by JillAnd thank you for never leaving me at St. A's, no matter how ... by Nancy Davis KhoSemper Fi. by JillI know. BTW you're going to love the Questlove book, he talks ... by Nancy Davis KhoIt was a sad, sad day when Zipperhead closed. South Street just ... by EllenRelated StoriesA Few Days Late and a Can of Spam ShortSad Bastards of InstagramThank the Universe (For My Aunt) 

A Few Days Late and a Can of Spam Short

Last week my friends Tarja, Ann, and Lisa decided to take spam into their own hands, but they weren’t headed for the kitchen. They tackled the spam comments that are the bane of the blogger’s existence, those weird disjointed missives we find posted to our blogs all day long, representing upstanding organizations like “African Tribal Art at Cost” and “Buy Vigria Online.”

My friends decided that these stream of conscious letters deserved the Masterpiece Theater treatment. But I completely chickened out. All three of these ladies have a background in the theatuh, and I didn’t want to look foolish.

Then I watched their videos last Thursday and howled with laughter. Because what can be more foolish than spam itself? I found myself inspired, I found myself jealous, I found myself four corkers in the ol’ spam filter and decided to record them. Better late than never, I hope. Because I’m tryna bring my posts a little livelier.

And please go visit The Flying Chalupa, Smacksy, and Ann’s Rants for the posts that got me started.

                   
CommentsWell first, I love the new haircut! And PAYDAY LOANS…PAYDAY ... by TarjaHahaha! To say the minimum, that was some fine spam! by EllenRelated StoriesAnthology-PaloozaFull DisclosureSad Bastards of Instagram 

Sad Bastards of Instagram

My 16 year old walked into the kitchen the other day and I said, “Do you know about #rkoi?”

“Oh…no,” she said, in the doomsday manner of a movie character who has just glimpsed a skyscraper-sized tsunami wave in the distance, or the lava dribbling over the top of a nearby volcano. She knows when her mother is about to launch a stemwinder, and she gripped the kitchen table to withstand the onslaught.

You may want to do the same.

#rkoi stands for Rich Kids of Instagram. If you post something on the popular photo sharing site, you can give it a hashtag and a description to make it easier for people to find related photos. So if you’re a rich kid on Instagram, you tag your shots #rkoi in case anyone needs to see proof that you are living large. There’s a helpful Tumblr that consolidates those shots into one place, not to mention an upcoming book with the same title. Somehow in my Web wanderings I’d stumbled across it, never to be the same again.

At first glance, #rkoi is where the current unprecedented and obscene concentration of wealth in the uppermost class meets the worst examples of Millennial self-absorption. Every single shot I saw tagged #rkoi could be captioned,”Lookee here, peasants! I’m rich!”

Here is what #rkois really like to document in photographs, based on my non-scientific but time-sucking study of their hashtag:

Breakfast on private jets
Their skills at shoving a Jeraboam of Dom Perignon into an already overstuffed piece of Louis Vuitton luggage
Infinity pools
Their ability to arch one eyebrow while gazing at themselves in a mirror and taking a selfie
Their weekday shopping receipts from the jeweler totaling multiple thousands of dollars, usually with a caption like, “Oops, I did it again!”
Artfully staged arrangements of watches/cars (male #rkois) or shopping bags/shoes (female #rkois.)

At first, the photos enraged me and depressed me. What is wrong with people? What has happened to humanity? What hope is there for the future when #rkoi exists?

Luckily, I finally reached a saturation point of views of arched-eyebrow rich kids brandishing Cartier shopping bags from wrists encircled by three-pound Swiss watches, and that’s when I started laughing out loud. Because I realized the #rkois are actually #sbois: the Sad Bastards of Instagram.

I mean, these are people who are being bred to be functionally useless, and they are documenting their own demise. The highlight of your day is arranging your shoes on your king size bed into a colorwheel and then plopping into the center so your maid can snap your picture? Do you realize how hard your maid is laughing at you on the inside? An #sboi may know how to spot a real Birkin bag from a fake, but my guess is they don’t know how to use a can opener or plunge a toilet. It’s not like I’m hoping for global financial collapse, but if it comes, I know how to pitch a tent and roast a weenie. These poor dummies would be wandering around mewling like newborn kittens and wondering why no one will take their Platinum card.

The more I thought about it, I was filled with pity at what it must feel like to be an #sboi, under constant pressure to acquire and show off expensive objects, to fill the giant hole where most of the rest of us have deep connections to real things. Things that would probably make #sbois shudder: our non-rich families, our janky houses, our Economy class or even road trip vacation travel to places that don’t have infinity pools.

In fact I don’t think I have even one shopping bag in my Instagram feed, nor any selfies taken with my shoe collection, organized by designer. What I do have is many examples of what an #rkoi would consider a sad bastard life, like on Mother’s Day when I tried to get a normal picture with the kids and only one would sit with me:

And another one of the surprisingly plain hat and welcome card I got from the very exclusive and upscale club to which Wendi Aarons gifted me a membership: The Barry Manilow International Fan Club.

And the delicious birthday cake my husband bought me at a local bakery. When they asked how to spell “Nancy” and he answered, “the regular way,” he’d obviously forgotten that we live in Oakland.

Look. I do envy the #rkois. Because I have always wanted to be able to arch one eyebrow – can you imagine how it would amp up my storytelling? But that’s about it. When I compare the images of my non-luxury life with that of the #sbois, I feel like the richest gal in the world.

I’m not so fancy. But you already know.

                   
CommentsI tried arching my eyebrow – I feel like a character from ... by LisaWhat the hell? I can't even look right now because I'm so ... by Liz @ ewmcguireOh no no no no. NO! I'm not in instagram and this is the ... by Julie GardnerThis makes me want to shave my head, wear combat boots and a ... by GerardI can arch one eyebrow, do you think I could crash the party? by EllenRelated StoriesOakland: Take the Bad with the GoodOh Yes It’s Ladies Eighties NightOh Yes It’s Ladies Eighties Night - Enclosure