Spitball Army

“Do you view yourself as an independent?” she was asked. “Well, I titled my book after an SNL skit, and they’re kinda indie, so…yeah.” 

– Written by @EdBankson.

The host lambasted his guest for pronouncing Cheney as “chainie” and not “cheenie.” Even so, he said, “you’re more sane then not.”

– Written by @Ralphley.  Based on an episode of Hardball with Chris Matthews from 17 November 2009, in which Matthews converses with Republican Party strategist Todd Harris.

Sunday, he tore the crossword from The Magazine and mailed it to Mom. Tuesday, he realized the article was missing its final page.

Jeno mewed like a kitten. Bunky barked, doglike. Gail said Boing! Boing! She was a bunny. I sat, still and quiet, as a monk would.

Three musical things that are making my world a better place:

• Beck  Sea Change  (Mobile Fidelity CD)

  

  I’ve long been an admirer of and cheerleader for Beck’s Sea Change, a languorous downer of a record.  More inviting to me than its slow pace, though, are Beck’s inventive uses of texture to evoke an otherworldly soundscape where, for instance, a slight tambourine shake rising out of a swelling string wave can create a moment of heartbreaking drama.  I’ve previously written (on a website that no longer exists) that the orchestral arrangements on this album remind me of Paul Buckmaster’s work on the early Elton John albums such as Madman Across the Water.  This new Mobile Fidelity mastering of the album retains that sonic allusion and reveals other small details I’d not heard in countless spinnings of the record.  Additionally, a great emphasis seems to have been placed on the staging of  instruments, and the balance between the foreground and background sounds is perfect.  The MoFi price may seem prohibitive at nearly thirty bucks, but this version of Sea Change will be difficult to improve upon.  I recommend listening to it in a well-staged audio room or on headphones.  This edition of the album includes a bonus track – “Ship in the Bottle” – that was not on the original album, but is from the Sea Change sessions.

  [audio:Beck___Paper_Tiger.mp3]
  “Paper Tiger” (2002) by Beck, from Sea Change

• Hem Twelfth Night  (CD or download)

  

  This is a “cast recording” of the Public Theater’s 2009 staging of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night in Central Park.  The members of Hem created the musical settings for the play, recorded them, and the music – what you hear on this album – was played throughout the performance, both as incidental instrumentals and as settings for the Bard’s text.  There are, according to some press reports, tracks on this CD that didn’t make the cut for the stage version, but were added here to flesh out the vision of the composers.  Wise move, guys.

  If you are a follower of Hem-the-group, you will immediately notice the graceful, folk-like esthetic that permeates all of their prior work.  What you will not hear, quite sadly, is the lovely voice of Sally Ellyson, the band’s primary vocalist; the vocals on this recording are handled instead, quite ably, by the cast of the New York production (Anne Hathaway, Audra McDonald, Raul Esparza and David Pittu).  What might have been a crippling minus (Sally’s absence) turns out to be a happy plus, as that ‘Hem esthetic’ reveals itself to be quite readily adaptable outside of the band format.  I’ve always thought that Hem’s chief composer Dan Messé has a distinctly cinematic and theatrical flair – this recording is further proof of it.

  [audio:Hem___Come_Away_Death.mp3]
  “Come Away Death” (2009) by Hem, from Twelfth Night
  Vocals by David Pittu, Raul Esparza and Anne Hathaway

Come away, come away, death,
   And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
   I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
   O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
   Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
   On my black coffin let there be strown.
Not a friend, not a friend greet
  My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
  Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
  To weep there!

 

• The Wooden Birds  Magnolia  (CD or download)

  

  The Wooden Birds were the opening band for Great Lake Swimmers when they played Birmingham last month.  Unfortunately for me, I arrived at the Workplay date during the break between acts.  I wandered over to the merch table, as I am apt to do at any concert, and examined the Birds’ wares, engaging the fellow manning the “store” (as it were) in conversation.  “How was the opening band?” I asked him.  “They were pretty good,” he said.  Then, after an altogether too-brief pause, he added, “They were actually on fire tonight.  It’ll probably be one of those great legendary best-ever sets that goes down in history as redefining music.”  He grinned, and I got the joke.  He was in the band.

  That gentle amiability permeates the Wooden Birds’ Magnolia – which I purchased that night from frontman Andrew Kenny.  Their musical signature is a crisp, live-sounding blend of acoustic instrumentation that seems more sinewy on record than I’d thought the quartet would provide, a stripped-down version of the indie-pop stylings of The Shins and Band of Horses.

  [audio:Wooden_Birds___The_Other_One.mp3]
  “The Other One” (2009) by The Wooden Birds, from Magnolia

Today was going to be a day for results.

That was the thought running through my head as I prepared for sleep last night. The result I was looking forward to the most seemed to be completely out of my control. Thus, when I reminded myself of it, halfway to dreamland, I visualized a pair of crossed fingers, my body being too tired to cross my own by that time.

My male cat has been on a couple month-long barrage of late-night vomiting episodes. Every. Single. Night. For two months. At least. Thinking it was caused by a hairball, I tried kitty laxative first. It always seems to work when his sister throws up. For him, though, it had no effect, other than making him think he was being fed a treat (he loves the molasses flavoring of that goo). Next, I altered his feeding schedule so that all of his food would be consumed before sundown. That way, I hypothesized, he would have next to nothing left in his system to throw up at 3:00 in the morning. All this proved to do was to extract the solid portions of his vomit out; he’d still spit up, without fail, a frothy white puddle of sputum, right in the spot where he sleeps every night.

Though I have been consulting with my vet for weeks now, I made an appearance at his office again on Saturday, looking and sounding desperate and thinking that, barring a whopping surgical bill or a miracle, my viable options were limited and severe. When I mentioned to the doctor that I was beginning to believe that Ziggy (the male cat) might be suffering from some type of reflux disorder, she recommended that I try giving him a quarter of a Pepcid AC pill at night. I stopped at the pharmacy on the way home and, last night, I gave it to him. Ziggy just thought he was getting some candy. He’ll eat anything.

This morning, there was no visible spot of an overnight mishap anywhere. Ziggy was running in circles, begging for food, as always, and the floor and towels on the chairs were clean. So far, so good.

I had awakened in a panic in the middle of the night, remembering that yesterday was the first day I had turned the heat on, then remembering that Ziggy always sleeps on the floor heating grate. If I was to find evidence of his throwing up, it would have disappeared down the vent. Not a cleaning job to look forward to, I reminded myself. I listened, lying in bed, for the whirr of the heating system and, not hearing it, dozed back to sleep, assured that he wasn’t sacked out on the vent. When I awakened, the house was cold. I checked the thermostat and the switch was turned on to “Heat,” yet none was being produced. Down to the basement, I checked the breaker, checked the power switch to the furnace: all okay. Befuddled, I took stock.

One non-vomiting cat. One non-functioning furnace. That’s moderate success, in the balance, I thought. I can always get the furnace fixed; it’s either broken or working. The cat not throwing up is a big deal that I chalked up to luck. I’ll take it. The cost of a monthly box of Pepcid AC would be a small price to pay to get “Vomit Clean-up” off my morning schedule.

Now, onward.  The next result I was looking forward to was a personal physical achievement.

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“One medium hot tea,” said I. “Our medium’s large.” She showed me a paper jug. “OK, small.” Eight ounces later, I ordered another.

Where did you serve? I asked. Fort Dix, Fort Bragg in North Carolina, he replied. Mm, I hmmed. He paused. And 476 days in Vietnam.

Father never spoke of the War, except to show off his appendix scar to impressionable kids, like me, as “where that Jap got me.”