So far, we are not regretting the decision to get Netflix instant streaming for the Xbox. Not only is it free for a month, which means we can be shitheads and cancel out in the next 25 days and pay nothing, nothing! --but in the last 5 days we have watched 4 good movies we would not have seen otherwise, because Redbox, bless its little convenient heart, just doesn't have the foreign film selections. Valhalla Rising. Dead Snow. Arn: The Last Templar. Some fucked up French thing, Sheitan, which is the only one I am not as pleased to have watched. There were eye gouging moments. That's never good. (In a way that Valhalla Rising's skull-bashing scene does not bother me, nor the gore of Dead Snow). But they have Hawaii, Oslo! So we will have to watch that one again.
You will note a trend to the Scandinavian. This should surprise no one.
24 February, 2011
20 February, 2011
if i wait...
...to post until I have a fully formed essay in mind, or the energy to write said essay, this blog will molder away. That may not matter to you, but it matters to me. So the drive-by blog of the day is:
The Lucent Dossier Experience is pretty godsdamned awesome. It's like Cirque du Soleil meets a Steampunk Renaissance Festival. This particular event was in a warehouse down by Little Tokyo. Freezing cold (meaning in the 40s, pouring rain), concrete floors, doors open on both ends to let people in and out (food truck was outside). The stage took up most of the main floor. Sometimes everyone was invited to dance on it (as the cast members dragged, cajoled, and lured people up there), sometimes it was performances--dance, acrobatics, a mix. Best part of that--you were no more than 20 feet away from the stage at any point, and most of the time you were one or two rows back, tops, and the cast would come round and ask the first couple of rows to sit on the concrete so the rest could see easily. No rules, no set seats--interactive art stations (the woman doing a live painting--Jules, if you read this blog, she was amazing), a crepe-maker, street characters, and Too Tall Paul, who would play live and improved music over headphones, just for you. He was a literal one-man band, playing and mixing and making the sounds up as he went, feeding them into his amp, and singing.
The Rat got us tickets; she's a member of their mailing list. I confess I was skeptical with the whole 'unannounced secret location TBA in email at the end of the week!' schtick, imagining some unflattering things about the individuals who might attend such an affair (oh gods, I said to Nous, do you think there will be famous people(tm) there? No, he said. Probably rich douche-nozzles. --And there were a few, oh yes! but there were more cool weird people in costumes and multiple tattoos than we've seen in one place in a while.)
Anyway, this goes down as one of those excellent Only In L.A. experiences.
The Lucent Dossier Experience is pretty godsdamned awesome. It's like Cirque du Soleil meets a Steampunk Renaissance Festival. This particular event was in a warehouse down by Little Tokyo. Freezing cold (meaning in the 40s, pouring rain), concrete floors, doors open on both ends to let people in and out (food truck was outside). The stage took up most of the main floor. Sometimes everyone was invited to dance on it (as the cast members dragged, cajoled, and lured people up there), sometimes it was performances--dance, acrobatics, a mix. Best part of that--you were no more than 20 feet away from the stage at any point, and most of the time you were one or two rows back, tops, and the cast would come round and ask the first couple of rows to sit on the concrete so the rest could see easily. No rules, no set seats--interactive art stations (the woman doing a live painting--Jules, if you read this blog, she was amazing), a crepe-maker, street characters, and Too Tall Paul, who would play live and improved music over headphones, just for you. He was a literal one-man band, playing and mixing and making the sounds up as he went, feeding them into his amp, and singing.
The Rat got us tickets; she's a member of their mailing list. I confess I was skeptical with the whole 'unannounced secret location TBA in email at the end of the week!' schtick, imagining some unflattering things about the individuals who might attend such an affair (oh gods, I said to Nous, do you think there will be famous people(tm) there? No, he said. Probably rich douche-nozzles. --And there were a few, oh yes! but there were more cool weird people in costumes and multiple tattoos than we've seen in one place in a while.)
Anyway, this goes down as one of those excellent Only In L.A. experiences.
14 February, 2011
role-playing
I played my first RPG my senior year of high school. The Rat invited me to play a pre-made character in a Star Trek RPG...Janissa Grenadine, gods help me that I remember it. Had a blast, although I annoyed the GM (who had a thing for the Rat, apparently not grasping that he was not her type on a chromosomal level). Then she started an AD&D campaign, and we were off, and we've been gaming together ever since. That's 20-plus years now. Some marriages don't last that long.
Speaking of: I met both husbands (no, not at the same time) in Vampire: The Masquerade LARPs.
I've done the SCA thing (and will do it again at some point, maybe), and the Ren Faire thing. Not gaming, exactly, but still role-playing, and with the added fun of costumes. We still dress up for Faire, even though we don't work there anymore. It's fun.
So yeah. I love role-playing. I love role-players. I understand us. Even the stereotyped socially inept-so-immersed-in-fantasy-they-can-hardly-function gamers--which I never have been, mind you. I get them. The neopagans and the deviants and the people in black and leather skulking around coffee shops, which I have been all at once before; and I'm still two and three, to some extent (or as much as one can be in a town of only Starbucks).
But I do not, at all, understand role-playing real religion, in either belief or praxis. I mean, my religion sometimes informs and shapes my fiction, or my RPGs, or whatever--but my RPGs and my fiction do not inform my praxis. No. No. No.
There's a lot of theatre in the neopagan ritual scene. Lot of high church elements. You know. Props. Wands and staffs and cups and athames and robes and special jewelry. I grew up Catholic. I get all the costuming and the theatre that goes into (semi)public ritual. I get the "make sacred space argument," and I recognize the underlying purposes behind the pageantry. And since a lot of the neopagans I've met overlap with the RPG, SCA, and Ren Faire crowds, it doesn't surprise me that there's bleed over, and a sense of drama wrapped up in worship. Nothing wrong with it, to a point. Except....
Except. Okay, I'm a revivalist. Hard polytheist. I understand the irritation Asatruers have with Wiccatru, and Theodish aggravation with Asatru, and all the vice versas. Spats over dogma, ideas about hierachies and the proper way to show honor, okay, bring it. We can wave primary sources at each other and quote experts all damn day. If you want approach Them in Wiccan Circles, go right ahead. Just don't be surprised when the recons go batshit on you for it. But this isn't just Wiccatru vs. The Recons, because I see the recons and revivalists doing it, too. Costumes. Garb. Special tools. And I get all that, from the ritualized standpoint--when one performs for an audience, symbols are useful. But I do not understand why one needs a hammer.
I realize this is a very Catholic/Protestant sort of thing, and the irony is killing me; because for a transcendent and omnipotent god, I think the trappings and ritual are vital. But not for the Gods I know. They're... family. Kin. The old uncle who deserves your respect, who comes to dinner, who will help you out if you need it but expects you to be an adult, not a little grabby kid. The sort of uncle who would not be impressed by your fancy dishes or your linen table cloth, but who appreciates good beer or vodka. No nonsense. No bullshit. No pretense. My faith (and it's not, really... it's a certainty, deep as bone) hinges on that kind of...what is the word? Not honesty. Not genuineness. Not simplicity, either. In any case, I approach Them as family, which is to say--of all the beings in the universe, why would you need to perform for Them? They know me. To play at dress-up and theatre seems to me childish, like the little kid who dresses as her favorite character and insists everyone calls her by that name. I acknowledge that some folks out there are genuine, even as they perform; but I distrust the performance and by extension, the performer.
Speaking of: I met both husbands (no, not at the same time) in Vampire: The Masquerade LARPs.
I've done the SCA thing (and will do it again at some point, maybe), and the Ren Faire thing. Not gaming, exactly, but still role-playing, and with the added fun of costumes. We still dress up for Faire, even though we don't work there anymore. It's fun.
So yeah. I love role-playing. I love role-players. I understand us. Even the stereotyped socially inept-so-immersed-in-fantasy-they-can-hardly-function gamers--which I never have been, mind you. I get them. The neopagans and the deviants and the people in black and leather skulking around coffee shops, which I have been all at once before; and I'm still two and three, to some extent (or as much as one can be in a town of only Starbucks).
But I do not, at all, understand role-playing real religion, in either belief or praxis. I mean, my religion sometimes informs and shapes my fiction, or my RPGs, or whatever--but my RPGs and my fiction do not inform my praxis. No. No. No.
There's a lot of theatre in the neopagan ritual scene. Lot of high church elements. You know. Props. Wands and staffs and cups and athames and robes and special jewelry. I grew up Catholic. I get all the costuming and the theatre that goes into (semi)public ritual. I get the "make sacred space argument," and I recognize the underlying purposes behind the pageantry. And since a lot of the neopagans I've met overlap with the RPG, SCA, and Ren Faire crowds, it doesn't surprise me that there's bleed over, and a sense of drama wrapped up in worship. Nothing wrong with it, to a point. Except....
Except. Okay, I'm a revivalist. Hard polytheist. I understand the irritation Asatruers have with Wiccatru, and Theodish aggravation with Asatru, and all the vice versas. Spats over dogma, ideas about hierachies and the proper way to show honor, okay, bring it. We can wave primary sources at each other and quote experts all damn day. If you want approach Them in Wiccan Circles, go right ahead. Just don't be surprised when the recons go batshit on you for it. But this isn't just Wiccatru vs. The Recons, because I see the recons and revivalists doing it, too. Costumes. Garb. Special tools. And I get all that, from the ritualized standpoint--when one performs for an audience, symbols are useful. But I do not understand why one needs a hammer.
I realize this is a very Catholic/Protestant sort of thing, and the irony is killing me; because for a transcendent and omnipotent god, I think the trappings and ritual are vital. But not for the Gods I know. They're... family. Kin. The old uncle who deserves your respect, who comes to dinner, who will help you out if you need it but expects you to be an adult, not a little grabby kid. The sort of uncle who would not be impressed by your fancy dishes or your linen table cloth, but who appreciates good beer or vodka. No nonsense. No bullshit. No pretense. My faith (and it's not, really... it's a certainty, deep as bone) hinges on that kind of...what is the word? Not honesty. Not genuineness. Not simplicity, either. In any case, I approach Them as family, which is to say--of all the beings in the universe, why would you need to perform for Them? They know me. To play at dress-up and theatre seems to me childish, like the little kid who dresses as her favorite character and insists everyone calls her by that name. I acknowledge that some folks out there are genuine, even as they perform; but I distrust the performance and by extension, the performer.
09 February, 2011
finnish metal
So we braved the drive into L.A. last night to go see the Finnish Metal Tour at the Key Club. I suppose I should feel all properly Angelino, now, having attended a show at such a famous venue. Alas! I am not hip enough to give a damn. I was happiest that the parking was under $10, and close, and that there was a kick-ass pizza place down the street that made calzones the size of a football (seriously). It's probably famous, too; there were many famous people's signatures on the walls. But I don't care about that, either, because the calzone was good. So there.
Finnish metal did not, alas, include Amorphis, but there were parts of old!Amorphis in Barren Earth, and parts of Moonsorrow and Swallow the Sun, as well. Recipe for win! And I loved them live exactly as much as I love them recorded. They're also a poor fit for the LA crowd of bouncy jaded can-I-mosh-to-this metalheads, being doomy and dark and melodic and...okay, I was going to say "talented" but that's not exactly fair. L.A. recognizes talent just fine; it just values flash a lot more, and Barren Earth is not flashy. Still. They were my favorites. They were also the first band (after the competent opening local act), so between them and Finntroll we had a couple hours of other bands--not exactly killing time, because that's not fair, but not as pumped up for them. But bonus! Vreth from Finntroll was wandering the crowd, and ended up spending Rotten Sound's set talking to the VIPs not 5 feet from me. If you don't know why that's a good thing, google him. Assuming you are inclined to slim dark long-haired men, you will see why I approved of his proximity.
And let me just add, as an aside, that I love how the bands do wander the crowds before and after their sets, and sometimes hang out at the merch tables. You can talk to them. They talk back. Or at least--you can wave and mouth "Good show!" or flash them horns or whatever, and they acknowledge and wave back.
I wanted to like Ensiferum, and I guess I did, musically, on their own merit (female keyboardist for the win!)--but their crowd was peppered with baby skinheads (and one elder skinhead), which was distracting. I get that so-called Viking metal appeals to the white power dipshits, but I always depressed when I see those people, especially the young ones, especially in a place like L.A. where 'but I've just never met anyone besides white folks' is not an excuse, and especially-especially when they're sharing a pit with non-white folks who love the same band. I share my spouse's disappointment in universal justice: the refrigerator-sized Mexicans should have crushed the baby skinheads in the pit, but they didn't. Possibly because the baby skinheads were staying near the edges (where we were, letting us get a nice eyeful of their crappy little hate-filled tattoos) and avoiding the middle of the pit itself. The elder skin had no such fear, however, and was more violent than necessary in the pit itself. Doubly vexing: the elder skin, who had to be north of my age by a good handful or so, had a massive Thor's hammer on his (massive) chest, and an Odin scowling out from between his shoulder blades. Fuck you, dude. May Hunin and Mugin feast on your eyes.
[allow me to wax briefly shallow: I appreciate that it's hot in the pit, and I get that taking one's shirt off is some expression of manliness, fine, and I know most men are athletes and that some men have...more fur...than others. But knowing and seeing are two different things, and I'd as soon skip the second thing, kthxbai.]
Anyway, the skinhead sightings made Nous very grumpy. They made me very grumpy, too, but he has an extra special hate for them. I was glad that they all left, like roaches scattering from the light, before Finntroll came on. And Finntroll rocked. Their crowd was nearly as frenzied, if a touch smaller; and it was skinhead free. There were more asshats, though...the sort who are big bulky men, easily three of me, shoving into spaces meant for people half my size who then use me as the padding between their asses and the metal rails as they hold back the pit. I did not appreciate that, and I have sharp elbows. Asshat found somewhere else to go, and after that it was screaming and jumping around and destroying my voice for teaching today. But no pit! I am too wise for pits. Moshers are too much like zombies for my tastes. Hairy, sweaty, bigger-than-me zombies.
Anyway, I am pretty sure my afternoon Ashtanga class is going to kill me.
Finnish metal did not, alas, include Amorphis, but there were parts of old!Amorphis in Barren Earth, and parts of Moonsorrow and Swallow the Sun, as well. Recipe for win! And I loved them live exactly as much as I love them recorded. They're also a poor fit for the LA crowd of bouncy jaded can-I-mosh-to-this metalheads, being doomy and dark and melodic and...okay, I was going to say "talented" but that's not exactly fair. L.A. recognizes talent just fine; it just values flash a lot more, and Barren Earth is not flashy. Still. They were my favorites. They were also the first band (after the competent opening local act), so between them and Finntroll we had a couple hours of other bands--not exactly killing time, because that's not fair, but not as pumped up for them. But bonus! Vreth from Finntroll was wandering the crowd, and ended up spending Rotten Sound's set talking to the VIPs not 5 feet from me. If you don't know why that's a good thing, google him. Assuming you are inclined to slim dark long-haired men, you will see why I approved of his proximity.
And let me just add, as an aside, that I love how the bands do wander the crowds before and after their sets, and sometimes hang out at the merch tables. You can talk to them. They talk back. Or at least--you can wave and mouth "Good show!" or flash them horns or whatever, and they acknowledge and wave back.
I wanted to like Ensiferum, and I guess I did, musically, on their own merit (female keyboardist for the win!)--but their crowd was peppered with baby skinheads (and one elder skinhead), which was distracting. I get that so-called Viking metal appeals to the white power dipshits, but I always depressed when I see those people, especially the young ones, especially in a place like L.A. where 'but I've just never met anyone besides white folks' is not an excuse, and especially-especially when they're sharing a pit with non-white folks who love the same band. I share my spouse's disappointment in universal justice: the refrigerator-sized Mexicans should have crushed the baby skinheads in the pit, but they didn't. Possibly because the baby skinheads were staying near the edges (where we were, letting us get a nice eyeful of their crappy little hate-filled tattoos) and avoiding the middle of the pit itself. The elder skin had no such fear, however, and was more violent than necessary in the pit itself. Doubly vexing: the elder skin, who had to be north of my age by a good handful or so, had a massive Thor's hammer on his (massive) chest, and an Odin scowling out from between his shoulder blades. Fuck you, dude. May Hunin and Mugin feast on your eyes.
[allow me to wax briefly shallow: I appreciate that it's hot in the pit, and I get that taking one's shirt off is some expression of manliness, fine, and I know most men are athletes and that some men have...more fur...than others. But knowing and seeing are two different things, and I'd as soon skip the second thing, kthxbai.]
Anyway, the skinhead sightings made Nous very grumpy. They made me very grumpy, too, but he has an extra special hate for them. I was glad that they all left, like roaches scattering from the light, before Finntroll came on. And Finntroll rocked. Their crowd was nearly as frenzied, if a touch smaller; and it was skinhead free. There were more asshats, though...the sort who are big bulky men, easily three of me, shoving into spaces meant for people half my size who then use me as the padding between their asses and the metal rails as they hold back the pit. I did not appreciate that, and I have sharp elbows. Asshat found somewhere else to go, and after that it was screaming and jumping around and destroying my voice for teaching today. But no pit! I am too wise for pits. Moshers are too much like zombies for my tastes. Hairy, sweaty, bigger-than-me zombies.
Anyway, I am pretty sure my afternoon Ashtanga class is going to kill me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)