Movies

Some of my favorite movies...guess the quotes...no cheating!

1. "Stay on the bomb run, boys! I'm gonna get them doors open if it harelips ever'body on Bear Creek!"

2."If I were creating the world I wouldn't mess about with butterflies and daffodils. I would have started with lasers, eight o'clock, Day One!"

3. "Oh, shit. There goes the planet. "

4. "My thoughts drift back to erect nipple wet dreams about Mary Jane Rottencrotch and the Great Homecoming Fuck Fantasy. I am so happy that I am alive, in one piece and short. I'm in a world of shit... yes. But I am alive. And I am not afraid. "

5. "But, I can't fuck a gorilla!"

6. "Where's the fetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?"

7. "God is not on our side because he hates idiots also."

8. "Very nice. So, what it is it? Mr. Cocksucker now?!"

9. "The Forbidden Zone was once a paradise. Your breed made a desert of it, ages ago."

10. "That man... is a brownie hound."

11. "Stop right where you are! You know the score, pal. If you're not cop, you're little people."

12. "No. No, Mother, I have not been drinking. No. No. These two men, they poured a whole bottle of bourbon into me. No, they didn't give me a chaser."

13. "I think I could turn and live with animals. They are so placid and self-contained. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God. Not one of them kneels to another or to his own kind that lived thousands of years ago. Not one of them is respectable or unhappy, all over the earth."

14. "I know I-tey food when I hear it! It's all them "eenie" foods... zucchini... and linguini... and fettuccine. I want some American food, dammit! I want French fries!"

15. "Charlie, here comes the deuce. And when you speak of me, speak well."

The Orphanage

The clouds were giant white stacks, contrasted by the orangish haze of early sunset, moving like silent leviathans above us through the mugginess and humidity.

The sweat was already rolling down the small of my back and we'd only begun to move the first piece of equipment. The heavy stuff is always better first. The keyboard. The amplifier cabinets. Their corners are hard on the joints of your fingers. Your blood pools in the tips, behind your fingerprints as you try to keep your knuckles from scraping against the door jambs. The worst is going up or down the stairs. Backwards or forwards. The weight of the Fender Rhodes is either pushing you off your feet or seconds away from slipping out of your hands and crashing down on to the steps. Meanwhile, a single bead of sweat leaves your hairline, tickling it's way down your forehead, to be momentarily stopped by an eyebrow, yet inevitably run into your eye.

Once the big pieces have occupied their proclaimed space in the back of Rudy's Suburban, everything else knows it's exact place. It fills up like perfectly, like one of those 3-D jigsaw puzzles. The small places left over are the perfect size for the small things left waiting. Each piece goes just where it went the last time. Keeping that kind of order makes it easier to see what's missing. You always do an idiot check after loading, but if you don't have a system, you'll miss something if in a hurry.

The evening was probably the stickiest we'd had all summer. The heat wasn't so bad, but it was like walking through soup. Rudy's truck is about the biggest monstrosity on four wheels in the city, not something I'd want my bicycle-friends to see me riding in. But, with it's soft cloth seats and cool A/C, it was exactly where I wanted I to be, about as perfect a place for me at the nook the crate full of chords and tuning pedals was sitting in behind me. We were on our way to Bridgeport.

We got off the expressway at 18th street, and then turned left on Halsted by the Skylark. A few more blocks though the sleepy neighborhood and we were pulling up in front of the First Trinity Church Community Center. We all arrived at the same time, trying to figure out how to get into the place. I found the right door and was dismayed to find out we'd need to unload all the gear up 3 flights of stairs. Un-air-conditioned stairs. But, if you keep talking, and keep moving, and have little moments of laughter thrown in, it goes by pretty quickly.

Such as, once Charley and I got to the top of the stairs and the door that said, "Welcome to the Orphanage." Charley opened it, and immediately closed it after a quick, "Oops! Sorry."

"What was that?" I asked, laughing. "Was somebody naked in there?"

Then somebody behind the door told it we were OK and to come in. The door opened wide again, and I was walking though a kitchen, with two people at a giant steel counter preparing a meal. Veggies and bread were spread out and bowls of pasta were being filled. The color of the food was matched by the bigger room were walking into.

Decorative trees and rich red tapestries. Wall paintings, sculpture of all kinds, and Christmas lights. Tables and chairs. Sofas and loungers. And immaculately clean. And gorgeous, young woman whirling a hula hoop in the center of the room.

Borrowed from The Orphanage myspace.com page:


A large stage was at one of the of the room. This was the Orphanage. A performance space/art gallery/vegan kitchen in the heart of Bridgeport. And apparently, fairly undiscovered. The Orphanage only opens on Sunday nights, and tonights crowd was sparse, mostly made up of the performing musicians, or the volunteers working there. Yet, it was to be probably the most unique and fun gig I've done with The Midnight Shows ever. A classic night that could only come from within the underground scene, a pre-gentrification wave, of Chicago's Southside.

After we loaded in and had a drink of water, Charley, Tonya, Kelly and I headed up to the Skylark for a drink. I love that place. I've only been going there for the past 18 months or so. I always expect to run into people from my recent past in there, but never do. The vibe is chill, there's always a seat, and the food is great. Yet, we just wanted a drink to unwind and get a little louder music into our brains for a second. The space at The Orphanage was so radically different from what we were accustomed - quiet, smoke free, courteous staff - we needed to immerse ourselves is something a bit more familiar to ease the transition into the evening.

We headed back after an hour, and walked in on a pretty blond woman sitting solo at the piano playing a eclectic set. Rudy, Charita, Heather, and her boyfriend were sitting at the tables, along with the rest of the crowd enjoying the music and eating the vegan fare that came along with the requested $10 donation. She announced in between songs she mainly worked with a children's repertoire, and then went into several funny tracks from Super Mario Brother and the Legend of Zelda. She had a light, yet comforting voice, and even as she finished with a couple of darker tunes about misguided lust and love, we all tapped toes, bobbed heads, and rewarded her with vigorous applause.

It was then announced that Inkbat had apparently forgotten to show, so The Midnight Shows were next. It was simple set up. The room was box, as we say in the biz, which means "live" so no extra amplification was needed. We just plugged in, turned on, and away we went. Initially, most of the crowd (which was about 6 people) stood in front and danced, but halfway through, the lack of a bigger group to keep them there had them back in the seats, eating, lounging, and bobbing their heads. The applause got louder and louder, however, and they really seemed to enjoy the set.

It was roasting up there, as always. It didn't help that Charley needed the fan all to himself and that the nearest A/C unit needed to unplugged to accommodate the equipment. Any stage light, only one, will cause me to sweat profusely. Two songs in I was soaked. But dancing, smiling, and really taking in the sounds of us. A great mix, just like rehearsal. The best performance, musically, athletically, in any idiom, happens when you lose yourself in the moment. You just will it - huge thoughts, beautiful sounds - and your body takes over subconsciously and brings it all to fruition. When you stop thinking about your fingers, the frets, and just listen to everything but yourself, and that is when yourself is fully realized.

Heather played great behind her kit. Her first show, she made very few mistakes and took my cues very professionally for the most part, and brought all the style, bombast, and musicality that we loved so much to have her play with us in the first place.

We were cut off a bit early which was fine, for the school night. Grandpa Know was up next. Just a three piece, of two guitars and and drums (and looking for a bass player.) They gave us a mix of White Stripes and Pixies with a touch of very early uptempo Jesus and Mary Chain. Very treble-y, too loud to hear any of the vocals, it didn't matter. Performance-wise, it was hit or miss. Some songs were very together and others sounded as if they were being written right then and there. But it didn't matter. As the set came to a close it all came together and made complete sense and brought on raucous applause.

A few more people had stopped by for the evening, but the crowd remained very diverse and sparse. None of my northside friends, or southside for that matter had made it down. I would have loved for them to have experienced us in this environment - devoid of the usual falseness and pretension - i.e. meaningless shouting, bad-ass fronting, binge-drinking, (although in many situations this leads to some very genuine behavior!), and soul-sapping unoriginality - and filled with genuine expression and attention to detail and the essence of the presentation.

For this is what The Orphanage is. Originality and the true essence of presentation - qualities that only remain pure in small, handmade batches, and that do not last long once mass-produced.

Go there. Now. It won't be here forever.

Dee Cee? Doo-Zee.

(The following is a repost from 2006.)

Thursday, August 31, 2006

The All-American Boy Series, Part VII: "Dee Cee? Doo Zee." Current mood: drained So I just flew in from Baltimore and boy is my liver...gone. It started boringly enough, with me missing my shuttle bus from BWI airport to the Metro station where I catch the train to my friends John's apartment in Arlington, VA. I was there for the annual Conrad Family Reunion, at my Uncle Dick and Aunt Chris' house in Baltimore. But first I was going to get a couple days in with good friend John, whom I met in Chicago working with at Y&R. He'd then gone to law school and had been working in DC for the last couple years. The missed bus only added about 30 minutes to my total commute and I got to his place around 8:30 that night. My brother was already there. His flight got in from Alaska around 1, and John had arranged access to his apartment for him. We bear-hugged each other, then drank the last of John's Knob Creek while talking on the phone with him at work, getting directions to DuPont Circle in DC proper. We literally met John at the front door of the Big Hunt as we approached. We found a booth and spent the night bullshitting, drinking, eating chili-fries and wings, and catching up. I hadn't seen Duff since my trip to Alaska in March, and John had been to Chicago for work-related things a few times this year. We stayed 'til a little before closing time and then took a cab back to John's place. Two actually, the first less than a block. For you Chicagoans, DC Cabs are pretty sketchy. There is no fare-box, only a zone-map. The distance covered by a $10 cab ride in Chicago could cost you up to $20 in DC. In the first cab, ever-frugal John started a coversation with the driver, casually asking the price to Virginia. About 30 seconds later, the cabbie was telling us to find another cab. About 2 minutes later, we in another back seat, and sure enough, the quoted price was about $3 less. Lesson learned: ask first and keep a mental record. Home, James. Upon getting back we hung out on John's deck, smoked a few cigs, washed 'em down with the last of his beer and crashed. Tomorrow would be a long day. Longer-than-this-blog long. Sweaty: The next morning, after shits, showers, and coffee, we headed to Georgetown and the neighborhood the Exorcist was filmed in. Driving through you instantly recognized the streets and aura of the area, feeling that you were in the movie, any minute expected to see a couple of nuns walking down the street against a brick wall, their robes flapping in the fall wind. The church in the movie was right next door to the house by the way. The stairs were immediately recognizable, and there were others already there snapping pictures. Several residents took ours. They didn't seem annoyed in the least at us, who must have been the 500th tourists that week. I would've been annoyed at me. Up next was the National Mall. This was my first trip to DC in the summer. Previously I'd been just after a snow storm, in February 2003, or just before one, in January 2005, for the counter-inaugural party, with my then-girlfriend Kat. Gone were the barricades, the snow-banks, and the desolate, lonely monuments. I welcomed the green grass, the warm, not-too-humid weather, the sunshine, and the American pilgrims all around us. Although, with school already starting, the crowds were not too bad at all. First was the Vietnam Memorial. The power of the monument lies in its understatement. It is nothing but granite and names. Go visit it, watch a veteran break down in tears at the sight of one name. Then imagine everyone that name was connected to: friends, family, and the effect that one person's death had on all of them. Then imagine that rupture, that chaos, that grief multipied 56,000 times. That sublime power is further represented by the structure's inherent femininity - an aspect that spoke to the nation's need for a healing, nurturing mother's touch. To speak for a generation tired of war, and repelled by its traditional imagery and symbolism. The "V" structure of the monument is evident in two dimensions: in the wall itself, and in its depression into the earth. John related a class discussion in college where the professor asked what words "V" could stand for. "Vietnam" is obvious, but "Vagina" was the answer angled for. Designed by 21-year old Chinese-American undergratuate student Maya Ying Lin, I imagine the monument also as an affront, as a denial, to the surrounding power-base that prosecuted the war. To inspire guilt, as did President Andrew Johnson when he ordered the new national cemetary be built in Arlington, VA, the hometown of General Robert E. Lee. But at it's simplest, the memorial is a woman's take on the war. A woman's focus is naturally on war's effects, it's reprecussions, it's wake. War is an extremely masculine act. In almost all cases one of violent penetration and rape. In the words of George Carlin, "The rockets, guns, and bombs are all shaped like dicks." I was listening to Sinead O'Connor while writing those paragraphs. I think it had an effect. Duff snapped this shot of me and John: The Lincoln Memorial was next: The Korean Memorial: World War II: And my personal favorite, the Jefferson ("What? Was Lincoln too busy?") Memorial: Next was the Holocaust museum. I can't really bring myself to write about it other than I felt guilty for even having witnessed it. To come from such a priviledged life, with relatively little cares, your world-view kind of comes to screeching halt at some of those exhibits, and it was one of the more harrowing things I've experienced.. It was too hard to hold back the tears at the sight of the room with all the thousands of shoes. People actually wore those shoes. Next to it was a truck frame used as a pallet in a human pyre. It was warped and blackened by heat. It was good to get back in the sunlight afterwards. I say in all seriousness, I needed a puppy to sit on my lap for little while. So! Who's up for an Orioles game?!? On to Baltimore!!! Sandwiched in the backseat lengthwise of John's '96 Ford Probe, we drove to Baltimore to meet my cousins Andrew and Philip (aka Honson, Flollop) for the Orioles game. Traffic was brutal, but we still managed to get there in time to meet with Philip and visit at his apartment, which was just down the block from Camden Yards. We grabbed Philip's six prepared "road sodas" - hyped all week, yet nothing more than rot-gut vodka and gatorade. The prime selling point of these is that the security staff at Camden doesn't really give a fuck what you bring into the park and doesn't check bags. As we walked to the stadium, the comparisons to Wrigleyville were striking. Even though both the Cubs and Orioles are compartively pretty bad, downtown Baltimore was still pretty desolate, even for a Friday night game against a division rival, the Toronto Blue Jays. We all know what a mess Wrigleyville can be even on non-game days. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if Chicago actually had a stadium in the loop. It would probably be the same. We found our seats in the outfield, and met up with Andrew, and his college buddy, Rudy and his younger brother. High jinks then ensued. My brother is Harley Nation's Santa Claus (w/ John): Andrew, Me, John, Duff, Philip: Somebody get Andrew in here for his close-up: Andrew, Me, Philip: After the game, the idiocy began in earnest. We said goodbye to John, and the rest of us decided to head out and go Duckpin Bowling in north Baltimore. If you are from Wisconsin, you might know this as minibowl. However, first we had to get there. As the establishment we were heading to was BYOB (best idea in bowling. Ever.), we grabbed three 12-packs of the local version of Old Style: National Bohemian, AKA Natty Bo, and jumped in the back of Rudy's little brother's pick up. (Worst idea in bowling. Ever. Cue the banjo and baying blue-tick hound.) Such a smart idea, riding in the back of a pick-up with a half-drunk driver. He thought it was super funny to slam on the brakes at stop signs and wait to the last minute for those turns. Ha ha. Very funny. I am getting too old for this shit: Duckpin bowling in Baltimore uses regular lanes, but with much smaller pins and balls: I've saved the best for last: the price of bowling was $15 per person, and included all you can bowl, and all you can eat pizza. This is with the BYOB. Ah'd like tah FALL OUT, BOY!!! Mmmmmmmmmmm: Rudy and his brother: The bowling alley kicked us out at 1am. We passed on getting back into the truck, said goodbye to the Brothers Beer, and caught a cab to a little place called the Ottobar. We walked in and headed immediately upstairs to get away from the horrendously bad band on the stage. On the second floor was a chill crowd, a juke-box, and a pool table. We queued up some songs, and racked up. Halfway through the game this aging hipster with a grey soul-patch and a fading sleeve of tattoos approached us and began to front his pool skills. Started telling us about how the table was re-felted, how fast it was going to be, to hurry up so he could get in and play us. Andrew and I finally beat my brother and Philip and the aging hipster began racking the table. He said he was going to play us by himself, but Andrew deferred to me. I said fine and waited for the aging hipster to break. He sank one or two balls, and then headed to the bar, and animatedly demanded the talc powder. Jesus, this guy wouldn't stop. He missed his next shot, ironically enough, the talc must have threw him off. I then sank one, two, and then three balls. Suddenly I was on a roll. I could beat this guy. However, the next thing I know, I'm breathing in a thick cloud of talcum powder. Andrew has this sheepish grin on his face, Duffy and Philip are cracking up laughing, and in about two seconds the bartender was asking us to leave. They had already turned on the lights after last-call but they weren't hassling anyone yet. Andrew's version of the story was basically: "Let's make fun of this douchebag," so he pulled his pants down halfway on the crack of his ass and told Duff, "Hey, man! I'm chafing! Give me some talc." So of course Duff gives that bottle one big old squeeze and white powder goes everywhere. There were foot prints in the carpet and the back of Andrew's legs were white. I can't believe no one thought to take a picture but I guess we were laughing too hard. It was a cab back to Phillips to crash. We raided his fridge first and played a little Mortal Combat on his old Sega Genesis. I think he has every generation of video game system since Coleco Vision through the last X-box. Duffy slept-walked that night and apparently tried to piss in Philip's closet... OK, this is getting super long so I will wrap it up. We were up relatively early considering and off to Ellicott City by 11:30. We stopped and picked up more beer and got the reunion in time to start drinking, visitng, drinking, snacking, drinking and playing badmitten and drinking. The best part was when we went back out for crabs and brought back 2 dozen steamed blue crabs in a brown paper shopping bag. Fun to eat but messy. The trivial pursuit game tradition was revived in a big way. In past years we put too much emphasis on dividing up teams and it had gotten a little acrymoneous. Is that spelled right? Whatever, the cousins, I, Duff, and a couple uncles decided to just start playing and soon everyone was involved. We made a beer run in the middle, Duff broke a chair, and everyone had a lot of good laughs. Duff, Aunt Judy, and I won the first game. Then most people headed off for hotels and/or to bed, while some of us played a second game. I'll close with a few pics for the family members who'll be reading this... My mom and stepdad Laurie: My uncle Jack's daughter Kara: Dick Conrad: Andrew can balance ANYthing on his chin: And Matthew (Andrew and Philip's older bro) and his (5/23/07 update: now ex-) girlfriend Emily:

Don't Lose Your Edge...

All the paceline and path riding with the bike team I've been doing lately has had me missing riding in traffic, I found out this morning.

I left my apartment in Albany Park early to meet up and ride in with a friend who has to be in to work at 8 this morning. My usual route to work is Kedzie and Irving down to Elston, then Courtland to Macy - which runs parallel to Clybourn - to the Goose Island Brewery, where Clybourn opens up quite a bit and I can have a roomy ride down to Division. Then it's over to Orleans, and finally a right on Wells at Chicago, ending up heading east down Hubbard to the Wrigley Building. Here's a taste of it (this is the video I made to recruit my office for last year's "Bike to Work Week"):



She works at Adams and Racine, so after a couple of doppios (maybe you should've stopped with that "dope" Floyd) at the Logan Square Starbucks, we head south to the first leg of the "Cool Kids Route" over to Damen, and take it all the way down to Jackson. I wish I had my camera with me. In fact, I plan on getting a shot of heading east on Jackson at sunset as soon as possible. A wide open, one-way street, and the sun-drenched skyline filling your entire view. It's those moments where I am still amazed that I actually live in this city.

After dropping her off, it was straight into the loop on Madison. Even though it's a full rest day for me it was impossible to resist pacing along with the traffic. Riding through downtown on a solid vintage steel bike gets my heart racing like nothing else. Shooting a narrowing gap between a bus and an Escalade, accelerating with one hand on the down-tube shifters to get to the open blacktop beyond. Using your larynx as a "horn." Belting out a good, hearty "Share the road" to the cager honking behind me.


It just gets my heart rate going and endorphins flowing. It's the only juice I need. And training-wise, it's actually good speed work.

Don't lose your edge. Never pass a chance to ride in traffic.