The Thailand and Indonesia (Bali/Lombok/Gili Islands) photo galleries are now completely uploaded. Unfortunately, if you look at the photos in slide show mode, you won’t be able to see the locations and descriptions I’ve so laboriously typed up for them – you’ve got to view the shots individually to see those. Just sayin’. Up next: Laos and Vietnam…

In other news, Sour Bob, the lovely Lacey, Mimi Smartypants and I, together with several others, will be reading some of our writing this Saturday, February 21 at Uncle Fun‘s upstairs gallery. You should come and see us. Hey, what better way to kick off a Saturday night of hard drinking? It’s $5 at the door, and BYOB (there’s a liquor store on the corner, never fear). See you all there!

I’m almost ashamed to say it, they’re so late, but at long long last I have posted some of the photos I took while travelling… I’ll be doing batch uploads daily regularly-ish until everything’s up from the trip, and then adding other galleries. There may still be some drunken blurry shots here, but they’re drunken blurry shots from other countries, which qualifies them as art, right? Right?

Translation:

Today: after 3 minutes outside, you will not be able to feel your kneecaps. Overnight tonight: try not to touch anything metal. Particularly not with your tongue.

Sunday & Monday: a brief heat wave sweeps across Chicago, bringing with it the possibility of temperatures above freezing from 2:45-2:55 on Monday afternoon. Of course, there will also be a blizzard, so you probably won’t notice.

Tuesday: the snow continues to look pretty during the day. In the evening, the winds pick up again, freezing every inch of pavement in the city into a solid sheet of ice. Advisory: do not leave the house.

Wednesday: you might make it 10 minutes before your jeans freeze to your legs.

Thursday & Friday: see Wednesday, with more snow.

Saturday: ditto, minus the snow

Sunday & Monday: rising temperatures will give you hope that the brutal Chicago winter is beginning to let up a bit. Tuesday’s ice storm will crush those feeble hopes like an orange popsicle under the heel of one of those awful 80s moon boots.

A little word to those of you who have been reading me for some time: I know what you’ve been saying these past months. “This is crap!” It’s OK. I know it, and you’re right. Please accept my apologies. It’s been a weird couple of months. Still, who knew I’d be such a weakling that a single winter of sunshine and warm weather would render me unable to cope with the subzero midwest – what’s the opposite of nitrogen narcosis? Nitrogen lucidity? I must have been suffering from that.

However. Onward, on hopefully a less shitty note than has become the norm of late.

It has been a very good week. Culturally, it has been even better. Wednesday I was at Chicago Lyric Opera seeing Lucia di Lammermoor; Thursday I was at the Vic seeing Gomez. One at a time:

The first thing to note about Lucia di Lammermoor is the dichotomy between its language, its music, and its setting. See, the opera was written by Gaetano Donizetti, who was obviously Italian – not only written in Italian, but moreover in a particularly flamboyantly Italian style (bel canto). The story, however, is an old Scottish tale. The main characters come from the clans of Ravenswood and Ashton. Never mind that Donizetti’s changed their first names to Edgardo, Lucia and Enrico. So the tricky part is, once you’ve sat through the lovely and, again, overwhelmingly Italian overture and the curtain goes up, all of a sudden there’s people wandering across the stage in kilts. And plaid. And for just a few minutes, it all seems terribly, terribly wrong. Especially the first time you hear someone sing ‘Ravenswood’ in the middle of an aria. Trust me, you’ll get over it.

The thing about bel canto is, much as it’s been called the zenith of “park and bark” opera, these days singers are taking it on as a challenge – more than just vocally, as an acting challenge. What do you do when you’ve got 10 minutes of music on 3 lines of lyrics? Make it physical, is what these singers did.

Along those lines, another thing that’s important to note about Lucia is that it’s the operatic equivalent of Giselle. OK, that helped nobody but me. What I’m trying to say is that it’s one of the most technically difficult, most demanding roles ever written for a woman, with a massive and exhausting mad scene that ends in death. In the case of Lucia, I’d gotten used to seeing (or hearing) women along the lines of Dame Joan Sutherland take on this role. Now, don’t get me wrong: Dame Joan was spectacular, but she was a little large to do much more than stride about and plant and gesture – textbook “park and bark”. Our soprano this season at the Lyric is another story entirely.

Natalie Dessay is French. She’s done highly regarded CDs of arias from famous works. She’s got reviews that say things like:

“The singer who stole the show was Natalie Dessay…She tossed off everything she sang with darting, gleaming ease.”

– Chicago Tribune

Obviously, the woman’s no slouch. But I never would have expected what I saw. First off, she can’t possibly be a hair over 5’2″ tall, and she probably weighs about 46 pounds soaking wet. But she throws her whole body, her entire self, into this role like I’ve never seen anyone do in the opera world. And I mean that as the highest praise. It’s only recently that it’s become somewhat common to see opera singers sit while delivering a particularly tricky passage: this woman was lying on her stomach, face to the ground and still managed to produce the richest sounds I think I’ve ever heard a soprano deliver live and in person. Coloratura is the most challenging of styles to begin with; to deliver coloratura trills and passages while supine on the stage is several orders of magnitude better than anything I’d hoped to see at the Lyric this season, or any.

Did I mention that Marcelo Álvarez as Edgardo was awesome too? A lot was made of lyric tenors about 15 years ago when the Three Tenors madness struck, but I still don’t think people realize how rare it is to see a tenor with both the range and the fullness of voice to make this sort of role really come alive. This man was up to the challenge, and up to his co-star. I realize that I’m not doing him justice in this piece, but he didn’t have a 20 minute (more or less) solo mad scene, either. Just sayin’. Besides, once upon a time I was a soprano too (no, really), so who do you think I’m going to pay more attention to? I have never pretended, thankfully, to be an objective reviewer.

Anyway. I could probably go on for a good deal longer, but I’ll shut up while I’m ahead. Lucia de Lammermoor at the Lyric Opera. Catch it, seriously, if in any way you’re able.

That was Wednesday.

Then there was Thursday.

Thursday went off like my nights often do: I had plans earlier in the week. A few days ago, due to a vicious cold, they were cancelled. Then I had other plans. Those caved too. Something about working (work? what’s that?) late. And then another set, gone more or less the same way. Embarking on plan number four, I decided to call my dear friend Travis, who’s always good for a little boozing and banter. Being in an excellent mood despite the cold, I thought that might be just the ticket. Trav answered on the second ring. I asked him what he was up to.

“Have you heard of the band, Gomez?” he asked.

I know a band called Gomez, but I hadn’t heard anything from them in 5 years. Apparently I missed one. A little bit Manchester bluster, a little bit rock & roll, a whole lot of jazz rhythms thrown in for good measure, they were fondly remembered. Kate and Travis were on the guest list, and did I want to come along? Hell, yes. Let’s hear it for the unexpected – the show was outstanding. If I said that it felt for a moment or ten like I might be getting into a taxi after the show and going home to the house in Bristol, would that sound bad? Well, that’s how it felt. And that felt really, really good.

I remembered enough about Gomez to be grinning like an idiot and singing along when they did their hits, and little enough about them to be impressed all over again when they did their fabulous obscure-rhythm-shifting thing. Seriously, it’s always a bit of an adventure when the instruments outnumber the musicians by a factor of 2, and nothing goes unplayed.

After the show, it was off to my favorite non-local local for some beers and friends and excellent story-swapping. Where was that? Darlings, if I told you that, you could potentially all be there next week, and bless you, but I do like to keep some things to myself.

Now it’s Friday, and I just feel I should probably mention that it is really. Motherfucking. Cold.

We all know about my addiction to the None of the Above ads in the Reader. What, you didn’t know? Well, you do now. They make excellent bar reading. Out loud.

Anyway, every week there’s one or two good laughs, but every once in a longish while, I’ll spot one that stays with me for months and months. This week’s edition contained just such an ad:

SISYPHUS SEEKS SENIOR lady. Sisyphus of Corinth’s sentence in Hades was to push a boulder up a hill. When he neared the top, it would roll to the bottom. That’s me. SWM 47, 5’8″, 150#, tired of struggling. You: late-60s, vibrant, lonely.

The pathos, the drama, the mythological reference. The mental image of this man cruising senior living facilities. Creepy? Certainement. But it’s good, you gotta admit that.

If you’re reading this, it means my new DNS information has finally propagated and I’m fully switched over to my new hosting provider. This is a good thing. Inevitably, there will be some wonkiness, for which I apologize. Speaking of which, I’m working on getting the real photography set up – does anyone out there have any experience with customizing display in a little picture-posting app called Gallery (PHP)? Please?

That said, if you happen to notice anything that looks grievously wrong, please let me know.

I’m behind on movies, comme d’habitude. I have the best of intentions, understand. Occationally I even make lists of what I want to see (curious? OK. Currently: The Battle of Algiers, Les Triplettes de Belleville, Big Fish, Lost In Translation, the list goes on…). And then time gets away from me and it’s not until I’m wandering through the video store months or even years later and I see the DVD cover that I think, “hey, wait – I really wanted to see that!” And then I rent it.

I love movies, don’t get me wrong. Differently from the way I love books or music, but still. That said, it’s pretty rare that I’m actually floored by something. Amelie was like that. So was Fight Club. And the latest: Adaptation. I could, and probably should, give some sort of synopsis here. I could talk about how the film is about longing and fear and loneliness and insecurity and the search for passion and the courage to sustain it and all that sort of tripe, but it’s really better if you just see it for yourself. I will, however, share the bit of dialogue that I rewound twice and wrote down by hand on a piece of paper:

Donald: I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn’t have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.

Charles: But she thought you were pathetic.

Donald: Well, that was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That’s what I decided a long time ago.

My favorite moments in movies – as in books, as in music – are when I am reminded of what’s true. It doesn’t matter how often it’s been said before, or by whom. It’s not news, but that doesn’t make it any less important, or any less moving. So, yeah. Thanks, once again, are in order.

I’m having a pretty good little week here, culture-wise, eh? Tomorrow: football.

Over the summer, I cooked up a big fat barbecue at Phineas’ place – he’s got a fabulous deck and I have a tiny crappy one, you see. Thing is, Phin’s not always so well equipped for the cooking, so I had to bring a bunch of stuff. As always, I forgot something. When I called Coz to ask him to bring tin foil, he sounded momentarily confused. Until we explained that I needed to make a hat.

Maybe you had to be there.

Anyway, therewith I present you with the link of the day (I know it’s early, but it’s Saturday. Gimme a break. What, I’m supposed to sit around here all day surfing for things to entertain you?), via Six Different Ways:

Pet Foil Hat Technology. Yessirree, folks, it’s the ultimate in protection for your beloved pet. Act now and get a lock of cat hair, absolutely free.

Oh, and Thursday’s link of the day, which I forgot to post, was Sex Advice From Cowboys. Because, c’mon. Who’s sexier than cowboys?

You’re welcome.

Last night, after the opera, Lindsay and I were starving. After calling every single sushi place we thought might be open past 11:30 on a weeknight, we resigned ourselves to bar food. Which meant, since it was closest, Bar Louie.

So we’re sitting there, two beers in, over some gumbo and sandwiches, blathering on about whatever in between bites. Normally we’d be eavesdropping, but our few fellow patrons were clearly not worth the focus. Suddenly, the new chick halfway down the bar pipes up with: “What do you mean, you don’t know what philandering means?”

She is talking to the twentysomething bartender.

Said bartender proceeds to take a poll. Of the 8 people in the place (4 men, 4 women, including himself), the only people who have any idea what philandering means are the chick who said it, Lindsay, and me. Eventually, there was a pop quiz (by way of evidence, I can only assume). I was first. “Chronically unfaithful,” I said. Quizzical looks all around. “A philanderer is someone who usually fucks around on whomever they’re with.”

Said our non-focus-worthy friend: “So, like… a philanderess is a slut?”

Lindsay and I look at each other. She shakes her head almost impreceptibly. The fuckwit at the bar doesn’t notice. “He probably thought it was spelled with an F, too,” she says.

God help us all.

There are times when all we need is a little something to take us out of ourselves – some small affirmation that the world is in fact a fabulous place and not out to kick you while you’re down; a little catharsis, a little encouragement. In a singular moment of perfect timing, David Bowie came out to play last night, and I was there.

The last time I saw Bowie live on stage was during the Glass Spider Tour, back in 1987. I saw it twice: once in Toronto with Duran Duran opening (from the nosebleeds); once in Detroit with Erasure opening (from the ninth row). The show was one of the more amazing things I’ve ever experienced. It was an enormous production with a cast of thousands (looked that way, at least) – set pieces moved, lighting was overwhelmingly cool; in addition to the band, there was a troupe of dancers choreographed and led by the amazing Toni Basil. It was a little bit circus, a little bit rock & roll, and 100% spectacle. I remember it well – better than a lot of stuff that happened last year, probably. I remember Bowie entering on a moving platform from stage left, singing Fashion. I’m pretty sure the last song in Detroit was Heroes.

Anyway, last night’s show was in many ways the antithesis of that tour. Nothing moved except the lights; the set was minimal and organic. There were 7 musicians on stage, no superfluous backup singers or dancers. Bowie himself was relaxed and charming, stylish and utterly at ease, moving effortlessly through the moods and characters of his music. He joked with us. He capered about and knocked things over and then made fun of himself for it. By all appearances, he was enjoying himself every bit as much as we were. But oh, the music. Performed by everyone with so much love and joy, with no complex overblown rearrangements, the music (and please forgive the cliché here, but I’ve got no other words for it) was a ticket straight out of this world. Walking in, I didn’t think I could love the man any more than I already did. I was mistaken.

He opened with Rebel Rebel, and we were all on our feet before the first word was sung. What’s more, we stayed that way for most of the show, which is not exactly par for the course with Chicago crowds (remember the Peter Gabriel tour last year? I almost got kicked out of the United Center for dancing. In the 5th row).

We sang along to All the Young Dudes; he decided we were in charge of the vocals from then onward. Of course, we got fired when we missed the opening of China Girl. Bowie, who’d been sitting cross-legged on the stage, got up, stopped the music and came back to the edge of the stage.

“That was fucking awful.” [sigh] “All right then, I can take this one. But I’m going to have to leave you on your own eventually… I’ve got things to do, you know.”

He played everything i’d hoped to hear (ok, except for TVC15, but if he’d actually pulled that one out i might have died of shock) – and every last song had an unbelievable vibrance and freshness to it, from the oldest to the most recent. The tracks from Ziggy Stardust, featuring the original keyboardist from the 1972 tour, were every bit as powerful as they were the first time around, despite the fact that we’ve all heard them a thousand times. Under Pressure reduced me to a shaking, grinning, weeping mess. Back to back renditions of I’m Afraid of Americans and Heroes, which ended the main set, brought both songs home in a way I hadn’t felt since the first few times I heard them. Changes, straightforward and unembellished, is every bit as true as it’s ever been. And the encore set, which began with Pablo Picasso by Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers (!!!), moved on through Five Years and a roof-raising Suffragette City, and closed with Ziggy and his guitar, left everyone (in our group at least) utterly speechless.

Coz, who is forever blessed for having procured our tickets, says he offered the second pair to at least 10 people before asking me for help unloading them. I myself got no-thank-yous from a few fairly serious fans. All I can do is shake my head at anyone who had an opportunity to see this and didn’t take it. Yeah, it was expensive. Yeah, it was at the (4,300 seat) Rosemont Theatre and not, say, the Aragon. But seriously? If I could go again tonight, I would. Friday, too. Anybody got a spare ticket?

Nothing’s really changed since yesterday. Most things in my life are still up in the air and beyond my control and frankly scary as hell. But somehow, I feel better. Such is the power of music. If nothing else, it reminds us that on some level, we’re all in this together. I wish I could have 30 seconds with the man, just to say thanks.