Harvard Square cinema sucks

Another wasted night at my local theater. I should have learned my lesson two years ago when I went to see “Shine A Light.”

Back then I had sprained my ankle in a frightening fall down the stairs, and I’d tired of putting my leg up on the home sofa to watch more shit TV. Go to a movie! Relax! Escape the cruel, troubled world. At least if I sat in an aisle seat I could put my foot up on the armrest in front of me  and be entertained.

Trouble is, that movie, and the one I tried to see tonight, was in dreaded theater #4. To get there from the ground level you have to traverse a lengthy zizag corridor, go down stairs, up some stairs, and there you are. (Psst: bathrooms are clear on the other side of the building, too.) But I dragged my bum leg all the way, and took my seat expecting at least a couple of hours’ worth of quasi couch potato indulgence.

What a movie! Scorsese. Jagger. The exquisite sound editing. Yes folks, me being an amateur film critic and very picky critic indeed this jumped out at me from the get-go. Martin let the guitars come louder and harder when proper and raised the vocals when that was what mattered. The result was a sound experience that I’d never before appreciated so much and so early on in a movie. (kudos Fred Rosenberg). Those silver-screen sized shots of the Rolling Stones in their glorious, gorgeous prime weren’t so bad, either.

By the time the movie came on I was ready to settle in with my large popcorn and diet Coke and my Bad Boys of Rock up close and personal. I was nearly in Rock heaven 20 minutes into the movie when all of a sudden–unbelievable–yes, the sound went totally out. The only sound to be heard was coming from off the screen (like in the olden days before Dolby, Surroundsound etc.). Tinny, low volume; awful. Horrible. After several interminable minutes of this, and I do mean several, no one in the theater, whom I assume a majority were of the overly-educated 02138 zip code, had gotten up to complain. No one moved. Unfortunately, it fell to me, surely the most dedicated film or Stones fan in the audience,  to complain. Down the stairs, through the maze, to the candy counter, at top speed, bad for a newly-busted ankle.

!*#%&$!  They didn’t get off their asses quickly enough but they did eventually fix it. On my way back to my seat I made a big show of dragging my leg so that others could see what I’d sacrificed to do. Sure enough, the sound came back and I forgot all about how seriously I’d been inconvenienced.

It happened again about 15 minutes later. And no one moved. It sounded awful! And it had sounded so brilliant! Yes, I got up again to complain. And they fixed it. Another half hour or so later, sound went out again. Fuck it. Sat in my seat and stewed. Stewed! To the end! Bitched like a banshee after it was over and all they gave me was a coupon for a free showing. But it was the Rolling Stones, I cried. They just didn’t understand how much they wronged me. Shouldn’t  they keep a customer rep, a manager, or somebody in the projection booth to keep an eye on things? No, because it’s Harvard Square and everybody there has their heads up their asses because they’re so important thinking only of themselves. 02138!

On my way home, practically bawling in pain because I’d overtaxed my simpering ankle, I contemplated the alignment of the planets, the sins of my past, the wages of karma, the never-ending suffering of this world, to try to figure out how such a simple endeavor to give myself a fucking break could have resulted in such a letdown. Sorry, dear folk out there who are still with me, I am a film fan to the bone.

Fast forward to tonight. The world is beating down on me, I have lately born (bore?) witness to some particularly cruel twists of fate–it has aged me, these recent realizations, so I figured, what the hell? Get in the car, go see a movie, leave it all behind ya for a couple of hours. And in a snap I was headed to the 6:45 pm showing of “The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus.” I was so looking forward to the eye candy element of Johnny Depp and Heath Ledger (sniff, sniff). Beefcake: for whatever ails ya!

Uh oh, theater #4. I walked in on a promotion for the National Guard, war action sequences galore, set to a rising, frenetic orchestral score accompanied by screaming Aidas howling their lungs out–scary shit indeed!–and it went on and on and on. I swear to God. The audience was assaulted by at least five minutes of nonstop military-industrial-complex imagery, rockets, fighter jets, gungho Amurrican boys and girls in camo drab saluting and manipulating vidgame-style knobs, like Manchurian Candidate-style mind-altering brainwashing, it seemed. It went on forever! My pacifist principles were seriously offended and I was tempted to scream out every 20 seconds, ‘Enough already!’, but I figured my fellow filmgoers might think me a tad loca, so I didn’t. But Lord almighty if the thing went on for much, much longer. Who on earth figured this national Guard promo would fly in Cambridge, Massachusetts? I was squirming, but it finally ended. Then after the last preview/no talking/turn off your cellphone  shorts ended, no …movie … came …  on–for another ten minutes!

Well, harrumph. Having had experience in this kind of thing, I realized my neighbors, assumedly eddjicated types from the Harvard neighborhood, were going to be complacent and wait forever. They have no worries! Me, I’d parked in an expensive for-pay lot because I didn’t want to be late for the film, I was so anxious for an out-of-my-current-reality experience. So i got up to complain. Did I ever feel superior when I got back to my seat, and presto, the movie started up.

What a gorgeous opening! The fantastic traveling show, the Imaginarium, is a wonder of set design, the costumes are from dreams, it hooked me instantly. I was thoroughly off to another world, my troubles so far behind me when, wait, what’s going on? What’s this? Do I detect a bizarre intentional film effect or are the frames out of whack?

Yes, the fucking frames were off. The registration (or whatever) was out of whack. The light colored images on the film started to flare and trail, like, you know, people’s faces were growing ghostly Jay Leno chins. Tom Waits looked like Jesus Christ and not the devil with an odd luminescence. I eventually decided it was not an intentional Terry Gilliam effect. It was a stupid problem with the projector, and naturally, no one was back in the projection booth taking charge of things!

Shit. I got up, went down the stairs, through the maze, to complain. I hurried back to the theater (my ankle has healed), but stayed standing in the back. I debated whether I should take my seat. It was just too ugly.  A theater usher/dude went to the booth. I waited for him to come out. Is it fixable? Don’t know, he said, gotta get the manager.

I sat down. Squirmed. Couldn’t do it. Can’t sit through a movie that could be so pretty and looks so dumb. Gathered my coat and left. Asked for my money back, the guy said, well the manager’s up in the theater trying to fix it so you’ll have to go outside (in the cold) to the ticket agent. Yes, folks, to get my money back, I had to wait in a line. Arrgh. Walked back to my car to pay the exorbitant parking fee (all for nought!) and realized… I’d left my purse on the chair. The Gods of cruelty and shitluck were laying it on me tonight.

!#$%&*! Sheepishly, I went back in. On my way out I had to tell them how they had really ruined my night. The projector is messed up, they said. They’ve  got two digital projectors already but don’t know if they’ll spring for theaters #3, 4 and 5. But you don’t understand, I continued. The Rolling Stones!  Depp! The manager patiently listened to me spill my sad tale of only wanting a simple movie experience. She gave me a movie voucher, even though I’d already gotten my ten dollars from the agent outside. Maybe my luck is starting to change.

Big sigh. Drove home, decided to blog. Tomorrow is another day, I’ve heard it said, and Netflix is delivering.

Harvard Square sucks

Wall of Guitars, Cambridge-style

CAMBRIDGE, MA–A couple of nights ago I visited my favorite dive bar, the Lizard Lounge, a few streets away from Harvard U. There’s something about walking down a flight of stairs into this basement space, lit only by red bulbs in recessed cans, that makes me think I’m going straight into Hell. The lighting does give the place a certain ambiance. It hides the beer and liquor stains on the ancient Persian rugs, and red is just a tad less flattering than candlelight on the complexion. Decor aside, the Lizard is one of those places that you can always rely on for a night of great live music.

I am a born-again music junkie, but I’m kind of glad I didn’t really know about the place when I lived down the block a few years ago. Otherwise, I could have fallen into a regular habit. With so few friends who like the late-night Rock ‘n’ Roll, this could have created a problem. I happen to be a woman of a certain age. When I was in my twenties I thought nothing of going to a music hall by myself and downing three, four, or more beers. But these days, the thought of doing that just seems… wrong. Plus, it would violate my iron-clad rule of sticking to no more than two beers if I’m driving. For me, live music is just much more enjoyable when enjoyed with spirits and no earplugs.

The Lizard offers live music seven nights a week. But it’s Wednesday nights that hold a special magic for me, because that’s when the Dennis Brennan band usually plays. They are there at least eight months a year, a fortunate thing for their steady fans, and a lucky thing for those who happen to stumble in, unaware of what awaits them. El Senor Brennan pens most of the music. Every once in awhile the band will do a cover; last week their version of  Bo Diddley’s “Who Do You Love” shook me to the core.

Brennan writes music, sings, plays guitar and blows a harp. He’s a superb lyricist, a musician’s musician. His back-up band does great justice to his songs. On drums there is gorgeous goatee-d Billy Beard (we like him), and on guitars, Kevin Barry, Anthony Mazzone, and my choice for Jimmie-Vaughan cult worship status if JV ain’t around, Duke Levine. With Brennan, that’s four guitars, people. FOUR. In my book that qualifies as a veritable Wall of Guitars, a sound guaranteed to make every single cell in my body shudder in a sonic- induced frenzy.

Yep, there’s no prettier moment when an entire audience stops their jabbering, puts down their drinks, and drops their jaws at the sound of one perfect song. This happens several times a night at a DB show. It just gets better as the night gets longer.

Long live rock, I need it every week.

Blistering literary critique

AUSTIN, TX—One of the things I did during my two-week visit here was attend a reading by Chicana author Sandra Cisneros. It was not a fun experience. The event marked the re-printing of her book, House on Mango Street, on its 25^th anniversary.

Let me state right away that I have never much liked this book. Perhaps if I’d read it upon first release, I would have embraced it more readily. As it happened, I read it about two years after it came out. Alas, I found the experience cringe-worthy, but I did admire that she was able to put a bunch of short essays together and sell it as a book.

I really wanted to like this book, since this was the first publication by a Mexican American to get major publicity. And it helped bring attention to that period’s wave (mid-1980s) of Latina writers. Who can forget that gushing photo spread in Vanity Fair of “Las Girlfriends?” But of all the writers featured in that article, I felt that Cisneros’ work was the least admirable. Call me crotchety, but I soon tired of her relentless exploration of every Mexican motif, cliché and stereotype: grinding poverty, la Virgen de Guadalupe, Día de los Muertos, the machismo and virility of Emiliano Zapata (or was it Pancho Villa?), lotería, cebolla, ajo, tomate, chiles, tamales, etc.

I guess the most positive aspect of her book was that it explained to non-Latino readers where a lot of our imagery and symbolism comes from—stuff that has become so popularized that it now borders on kitsch. Her work certainly satisfies if you’re not looking for something deep or unforgettable. But I want to see a lot better from my gente—is it too much to ask that somebody out there write a mature, modern novel? And as long as she was mining the cliché minefield, she should have gone all the way and included the Frito Bandito and Speedy Gonzalez.

I had hoped that she would introduce something that indicated a more mature voice, something that went beyond the obvious formula that shot her to fame and fortune (she eventually won a $250K genius grant). But judging from what I heard that night, she’s sticking to her story, and it’s the same old one.

I got there late, and missed her introduction by the highly-regarded author Dagoberto Gilb, but arrived in time to hear her tell the group of 800 that her memories of Austin were sad ones: no job, no friends, no breaks. So she settled in San Antonio and embraced the Tejana image with gusto (she’s a Chicago native).

Before launching into her “performance,” she asked the audience to withhold any questions (meaning, small talk) during the following book-signing session, as she was fighting a cold. But after the readings, when no one came to the microphone, she said, “Okay, if you have questions you can ask me during the book signing.” A gracious rep from the Latinitas website hopped to it, and asked the usual questions, I really can’t remember what, but it was along the lines of where she gets her inspiration, who are her role models, blabla. God bless her for rescuing the moment, though.

It did get the ball rolling and others lined up, wherein we learned that she does not like to volunteer her time or coach beginning authors, preferring to devote her precious talents to her foundation, which according to the website is comprised of writers and artists whose “work is socially-engaged… to serve our under-served communities through our writing.” (But don’t bother applying if you’re a struggling beginner. So much for the under-served community.)

By this time I’d already made up my mind: as the most visible spokesperson for Chicana writers, everything about her left me cold. Starting with her neon-colored huipil (quaint!) and serape (populist!) to her sing-songy voice to her unbearable choices for readings (more on this below), I realized that she may have advanced the cause of networking among her peers, but her material is as fresh as an old avocado. Her first story was about “Mrs. Diego Rivera” (because before she was known as Frida Kahlo she was “Mrs…”) and her dogs and parrots and monkeys, and how these animals made her feel wanted and kept her happy. Unlike her mujeriego husband, who she knew cheated on her but, que tipica es esta Mexicana, stayed true to him. And despite the unending pain from her spinal injury she busted her butt to keep him fed, to keep the house clean and ready for the celebrities that marched in and out, she kept a smile for him because she understood the ugly-faced man needed the adoration of millions, yada yada.

I mean, seriously: isn’t this so twentieth-century?

Her next reading was interminably long, about her search for her lost cat in her upper-class King William (San Antonio) neighborhood. The story involved her approaching at least a dozen of her neighbors with the same question, “Have you seen… (kitty)?” It was formulaic and boring. How many times can an adult audience be expected to enjoy paragraph after paragraph that introduced yet another quirky and distinctive neighbor? I fully expected her to break into repetitive rounds of “row, row, row your boat.”

Yes, that was me disappearing into my seat, embarrassed that this is what qualifies as Chicana literature. I do not begrudge her success, but I do expect that she at least try to push herself beyond her initial accomplishments. Give us something contemporary, challenging, unexpected, NEW. And yes, that was me, snoring, by the time she reached her seventh neighbor.

Good luck with serving your under-served community with your writing, ma’am!

The most disheartening thing about the event is that obviously, publishers haven’t found anything else to publish. Why risk their money on something that’s new? After all, 25 years is enough time to produce an entire generation who needs to learn about our culture’s obsession with long-suffering grandmas and women who stand by their hombres. So pass me the tequila, friends. This muchacha needs a cold shot.

Adventures in Austin, continued

Having a second home eighteen hundred miles away from the primary residence is a constant adventure. I’ve often wondered why I don’t ditch it and buy a shack somewhere near Cape Cod, but these thoughts don’t last long. Despite twenty-two years of living in Boston, I am incapable of giving up my Texas roots. They only grew deeper when I purchased the Texas home in 1995.

It’s a heavy-maintenance place, but I remain convinced that it’s a unique paradise: one tiny acre of solitude, lots of wildlife, it’s always several degrees cooler than downtown and, best of all, has a swimming pool. When I first bought the house, none of my friends or relatives had a pool. Now the friend who lives closest has one, as does my brother and a couple of other friends. No one asks me to spend the weekend there anymore they way they did back then.

When I get to return for extended periods during the warmer months, having a pool is like having a private booth in an exclusive nightclub. I feel like a big-shot, luxuriating in my own giant bath tub, surrounded by live oaks populated by flitting cardinals, not another soul around for … several hundred feet.  My favorite activity in the pool is lounging in a floatie, sunglasses on head, phone in one hand, beer in a frosted plastic mug in the other. I feel very Hollywood this way! (I have lost a few cordless phones to the chlorinated deep, though.) My other favorite in-pool activity is doing yoga hand-stands.

Did I mention maintenance? I could tell a dozen stories about the various pool-maintenance guys I’ve hired, a lot of them weirdos. For some time now I’ve stayed with a local pool company. They take care of the chemicals and backwashing, and install the pool cover every winter. They have also made a pretty penny off me, considering I’ve had to replace the filter, motor, and a lot of components–a couple of times.

My latest pool adventure involves the skimmer basket. Central Texas is notorious for years-long droughts followed by lengthy rainy seasons. This makes for wacky soil conditions. The last drought has lasted so long that the ground surrounding the pool has shrunk, causing the skimmer basket to yank away, creating a giant hole where it meets the pool, resulting in a tremendous water leak, which could lead to major electrical motor burn-out, etc. When I discovered this,  the solution at the time was to plug the hole with at least a pound of putty. I was told it could stay like this indefinitely, as long as I kept an eye on it. Something about the black putty (the only color the guy had enough of on him) made me think this was not what I wanted to do. Beyond the busted skimmer basket, the previous owners had placed the flagstone decking only on sand. The deck had broken away from the coping, and sharp edges jutted at crazy, thirty-degree angles. Yikes!

As I write this, three days away from my next visit to Austin, I’ve got a company replacing the skimmer, and pouring a new concrete deck that will be stained a limestone-y color to match the house, then stamped with a limestone-y print that includes impressions of seashells. Mucho dinero. Duele a lo feo, if you know what I mean. This is the downside of having a second, high-maintenance home with pool (and barn! It has a picturesque barn! And that is in need of repair, too).

All this work got me to thinking how I should probably have the interior of the pool re-plastered. There’s no water in it so I guess the time is right. I placed a call last night to Guadalupe, of Buda, Texas, pool plasterer extraordinaire, who tells me he could have done the other work for maybe a thousand dollars less. And he can do the pool plastering for just a couple of grand. My knees literally buckled when he said that.

Aw, what the hell. Tanking economy be damned.  Somebody’s got to stoke the American market, right? And isn’t this what an equity line is all about? (Use it or lose it?) After all, I will have a brand-spanking, sparkly new pool in a week or so. Now about that barn…

Tom Jones at HOB

To see Tom Jones in concert has been a desire of mine since his TV show went off the air decades ago. When it was announced that he would perform at the newly-opened House of Blues  in Boston, I wasted no time ordering a sixty-dollar, general admission ticket. Naturally, I planned to go by myself, not thinking anyone I knew would want to come with me.

I told a dear friend about this, who immediately confessed she had many times dreamed of going to Las Vegas to hear Mr. Jones. I told her to get online and search for a ticket. She did find one: somebody had bought two, but her friend backed out when the weather forecasters predicted ten inches of snow for that night. So off we go, Diane and I, fantasizing along the way of hearing this awesome Welshman’s voice.

Three songs in, I understood fully why ladies throw their panties at him. Even though we were far away, Tom Jones’ physique still cut a nice figure on stage. Big chest, slim hips, sexy moves and a voice as smooth as fine vodka. And his repertoire is truly a radio-hits parade. His back-up band was none too shabby, either. Part of the fun was checking out the crowd. Gay men  made out next to grannies who bravely stood throughout the entire show, resting on their canes. And just about everybody at one point or another sang out. My only peeve was with the drunken girls behind me who loudly sang along to his beautiful hit, “Never Gonna Fall In Love (Again).” Can you say murder–the girls, not the song? They did kill the moment for me.

Perhaps my obsession with Mr. Jones began in 1984, when I spent a couple of months on a writing project in a not-to-be-named Texas border town, editing a sort of county-wide yearbook for which residents were invited to submit family photos. A certain cowboy insisted on showing me a photo taken at his ranch when Tom Jones came to visit after performing in San Antonio. The Polaroid was of Tom resting against a cedar fence, surrounded by white-shirt clad cowboys. Look closely, he advised. I did, and then saw the outline of an enormous member bulging through the front of his pants.  Quite impressive! I wanted to honor this memory at the show by tossing a pair of my knickers at the man, but alas: we left in such a hurry that said panties stayed behind. When I got home, I discovered my dog had chewed  it to bits.