Filming famous, great musicians doing their thing, in the back of a cab.

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And then there’s the completely useless crap we decide to find because, well, we get to wondering who sang “Radar Love.” (Golden Earring)

And then their costumes lead to talk of the clothes worn by Loverboy in Working for the Weekend. How could it not?

When things slow down for a few seconds in the base room at  Bumbershoot, one’s mind begins to wander (quickly, because you don’t know when you’ll get the opportunity to let it wander again soon) and odd questions tend to pop up. Thanks to wifi, a laptop and Google, this leads to me gaining a lot of knowledge that I never even considered available. For example, since we communicate almost entirely by two-way radio for 14+ hours a day, we use a lot of radio slang such as “What’s your 20?” to ask “Where are you?” You may be thinking the same thing as I did a while ago (“If ‘What’s your 20?’ has more syllables than ‘Where are you?’ why do we say that? And where did it come from?”). Now I understand the history if 10 codes (though I still don’t know why “20″ relates to location).

I do love my time at Bumbershoot.

A few weeks ago I took a video of my friend Dayna’s band Half Light. The video isn’t terribly exciting, but the band is really good. Give it a listen and if you like, check out their site for more.

Feel

I just like this. I really, really like this piece Molly Ringwald wrote about John Hughes.

Yet another 80s icon has fallen. John Hughes is dead. Though I wouldn’t have known him if I saw him walking down the street, and don’t know if I’ve seen a new movie of his in years, I’m feeling his lost today after watching Pitchfork’s musical retrospective of Hughes’ best films. What memories those clips and songs bring back.

Anytime I hear “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds, I invariably slip back in time to my junior and senior years in high school and find myself in Delta Billiards on W. 72 St. in Manhattan. For about 18 months or so, Delta was the place to be. Located steps from the best and cheapest hit dogs in the city, in the heart of the Upper West Side where the children of former hippie parents who had scored too-perfect-too-ever-leave rent-controlled apartments could congregate in packs, Delta played the role of smoky neighborhood bar, and furnished basement rec room for a plethora of underage, old before our time urban kids.

Friday and Saturday nights were of course, the time when it played that role to the fullest. On those nights, the joint was packed to the brim with pretty much anyone who was anyone between the ages of 14 and 18 and living or hanging out on the Upper West Side. There we would gather to pre-func (though we didn’t call it that then), see who was going where, try and catch a glimpse of whomever it was we were after that month (I’m looking for you Katie Niemens, wherever you’ve disapeared to), got high or drunk around the corner and down the block, and listened to lots of loud music courtesy of the DJ in the loft who knew exactly the mood we were all in and what we all wanted to here.

Forever emblazoned in my memory is one crystal clear moment. It was a Saturday night in early spring and  every high school in the city had just started Spring Break. The place was packed and my friends and I had a table right in the middle of the room. (Living just a few blocks away, we spent more time in the off hours there than most, securing a spot in the heart and mind of the guy who controlled such things.) Everywhere I looked were people I knew, if not by name than by gossip. With a full week of freedom ahead of us, the rumor that Katie Niemens was going to be there and all the promise of the first warm spring night, the room was crackling with energy and hormones. We were all getting lucky that night.

And then it came on. The first snare hit and guitar chords shot through the room and everyone–EVERYONE–stopped and sang it together: “HEY! HEY! HEY! HEEEY!”

That song was so invigorating and so full of the tension and hope and fear and excitement and questions and promise we all felt at that point in our lives that we couldn’t help but love it. I couldn’t help but be filled up with its perfect driving beat and completely grabbing hook. Strutting around the table, cue in hand, eyeing the door and waiting for Katie Niemens while laughing with Zoe and Mike and Joy and Troy and all the rest, I couldn’t help but feel part of the crowd. And cool. This was living.

And we all knew that song because of John Hughes.

I have a million more memories associated with John Huges’ movies, like we all do. Sitting on the floor of Jennifer Negovetti’s house watching Breakfast Club for the first time and being blown away by how right on the entire thing was. The thrill of Ferris’ long final jump over the wall. Shit. With “Some Kind of Wonderful” alone, the man is responsible for my firm romanticism and belief in true, ever-lasting love (and an unfortunate period in high school during which I carried around drum sticks where ever I went, even though I never have played the drums).

16 Candles.

Pretty in Pink.

Just say the names and so many images jump to mind.

Hughes’ best work was as a director and writer in the 80s. Anything past that on his IMDB page (or without the director credit) is mostly forgettable, to be honest. But his best movies will live on for a long time, because they spoke to a generation in crystal clear tones as we were forming our deepest memories. John Hughes, you will be missed, but we won’t forget about you.

My wonderful sister Nina, who lives in South Alabama and throws a great party every year, owns a small business and is one of the few Democrats in her area sent me a movie called The National Debt Road Trip today. Her husband Mike, a Republican whom I love, sent it to her. She forwarded it to me, saying, “wish I had time to see if this is accurate or not?”

As you can imagine, I have some thoughts about it. Here’s my response to her.

True or not, it allows the viewer to assume the math is correct because the narrator sounds so sure of himself. However, it leaves some very salient facts out or shades them a bit….
The speed that Obama has us driving now is based on “projections.” Projections do not equal actual outcomes. It is very possible that Obama will get his way with the budget and we will “travel that fast on the debt highway,” but it is not assured. Nor is it assured that tax revenues (which this little movie doesn’t mention at all) will stay lower than they have been in a long time thanks to the recession. Federal debt is made up of two things: spending and revenues. If revenues rise, the brakes will be hit on the debt car. Yet this movie doesn’t mention the vastly reduced tax revenues that have come about as a result of a recession, the likes of which we have not seen since the Great Depression, and that are the fault of a “failure” of the US economy based largely on Republican efforts to deregulate everything except a woman’s right to choose.

Similarly, the movie leaves out the very salient facts that a large part of the debt spending is due to that recession (which does seem to be slowing if not slowly reversing). Nor does it mention that the first stimulus came under the Bush Administration. NOR does it mention that many, many, many economists say that debt spending now, because of the recession, is necessary. Yes, it’s a big debt. But we’ve got a big whole in the economy and the government needs to fill it. And now! Otherwise, Mike and all of his Republian friends and all us Democrats are gonna be sitting on the breadlines because there will be no economic infrastructure to support the way we live.
And if they tell you that private enterprise can do it better without government interference, point out the health care system, or the banking system, or Enron to them. They’ve done a bang-up job making sure everything runs smoothly for the rest of society, eh?

In short, this movie is a straw-man argument designed to sound intelligent and reasoned. But it leaves out many salient points that make all the difference in this discussion. It makes for an easy to digest sound bite, but it is far from a full picture of the situation.

I meant to put this up earlier this week, but the week just got away from me because I was in Portland, which is the genisis of this post. Somewhat circular, or redundant, or confusing. Or something. Anyway.

I was down in Portland on Tuesday and Wednesday to meet up with my coworkers and to produce a webinar announcing the Sustainable Industries Top 10 Green Building Products (pardon the shameless plug, but I am proud of the book). Tuesday evening, we all met up at this bar (I’ve now forgotten the name Update: it’s called Hedge House) for some beers and I saw a sight that perfectly illustrated what I love about that city:

Lounging on a restaurant lawn

Unfortunately, my minimal talent as a photographer lies in taking pictures of people’s faces, not scenes. But what is going on here is that a full restaurant/bar on a lovely summer evening, the overflow crowd (most of whom have ridden bikes there, natch) are simply lounging on the lawn, drinking beers, tossing balls, and generally goofing around as if they were in a park.

Portland is such a relaxed, subdued town, people think nothing of creating a third place whereever they may be. It’s a lovely place to spend time because of that.

To what do you owe this pleasure? Nudging that this time it’s coming from someone other than Zeke. That’s right! I now have at least three readers! Wa-Who! Yes, it’s true. We need to welcome Don, one of the wonderful people I met while in Alabama, to the fold. I know you all will like him because he does not hesitate to let me know when I should be posting here. Keep up the good work Don, and we’ll all be happier.

Oh, right I was writing a post wasn’t I? I should have pointed this out earlier, but the aforementioned Zeke (AKA Doug) wrote an article about why people abandon blogs for the Times. Sound familiar? It should because I helped inspire that piece. Yes. I inspire the New York Times. Or at least one of its freelancers.

Y’all might remember when I went down to Alabama last year for my sister’s annual crawfish cookout? I’m back again this year, though without the entourage of my wife, two friends and Godson. It’s just me this time which makes for a very different kind of trip. For instance, yesterday I actually had the chance to do nothing, all day long. Nothing. Sweet.

The actual cookout is Saturday, but the party started last night when friends from up North (everything is from up north from South Alabama) started arriving and the drinking got started in earnest (I guess this doesn’t count the five beers that got poured down my throat on Wednesday night, but I digress).

Anyway, in the midst of last night’s festivities, we got to talking about my sister’s trademarked Mint Juleps which are apparently really good. And her husband, in true Southern fashion, told a story about her Juleps that cemented their reputation as “dick in the dirt” drinks.

I love the South.