the botany of desire

i wish that this title was all mine, that I could claim it and continue some metaphor mingling relationships with plant life. Xylem and phloem, microscope close-ups of sex cells, sepals of lust. So ridiculous that I just might attempt it.

The Botany of Desire is not that, however, to the great relief of bestselling author Michael Pollan. Before you ask, yes, he is a public-radio/science-y type dork that I occasionally fantasize about marrying. Before you ask again, yes, like all of those nerds, he is already married. Still, the book is great, and I wouldn't be pining if it wasn't. Weren't? Susannah?

While the book remains a great favorite of mine, I've recently discovered the corridor to another possible favorite ... documentary.



Apparently PBS is streaming it for free, here. I really encourage you to watch it, especially the part about apples. If I have to explain the word "heterozygous" to one more person ... well, then I guess I'll just be that much more tired explaining "heterozygous." That's okay. My sweetheart Michael Pollan is worth it.

guess the pandora station

electronica influences, punk influences, subtle use of paired vocal harmony, varying tempo and time signatures and minor key tonality

David: i have no idea
me: haha
do you want to know?
or do you need more time?
you will never know this band
David: tell me.
me: [spoiler including lyrics all in caps lock]
David: you are correct, i did not know them
I don't listen to the swearing station

ultimate comedy bash 10.09.09 and 10.10.09

first, lots of people took photos at the Ultimate Comedy Bash in Solvang this weekend. So if you did, and happen to come across this, please add your photos to the Flickr pool! It's super easy. Just click here: http://www.flickr.com/groups/ultimatecomedybash/

Also, thanks to Amanda for inviting me. The shows were super fun and Solvang itself was lovely!

(All of the pictures I posted below and many, many more can be found in this photoset.)


Maverick Saloon in Santa Ynez, location of the Fresh Faces of Comedy show on Friday night


Host Paul F. Tompkins asks the audience if they ARE READY FOR COMEDYYYYYYY jokes to be told by him


Kyle Kinane could not look more at home in a venue


Josh Fadem does a flying leap for yet another microphone


The Birthday Boys ask, "Don't you want to know the formula for Tab?"


Peaceful is the ranch in the morning


Saturday's shows took place at the very sunny Solvang Festival Theater


At The Greatest Improv Show Ever, the Upright Citizens Brigade laments the lack of a standing ovation after a false alarm: just some people getting into their seats


Matt Besser asks an "obvious" stoner some pointed questions


The mayor of Solvang didn't quite understand the "Stump the Old People" challenge, and ended up making a reference only Paul F. Tompkins—up in the nosebleed seats—could place


Amy Poehler and Danielle Schneider express their deep and abiding crushes on Abe Vigoda, Restaurant Driver (?)


Don't Stop Or We'll Die opens The Greatest Comedy Show Ever


A photo from Paul F. Tompkins' "one man show"


Nick Kroll works it out. Later, he asks how many people in the audience think dogs are better than cats, and then how many like cats better than dogs. "Who raised their hand for cats?"


A woman in the front row re-raises her hand, and Kroll says, "Not surprising."


James Adomian as Huell Howser marvels at, well, everything


Casey Wilson is a little upset she's not getting married


Matts Besser and Walsh and Ian Roberts conclude hosting duties; turn it back over to Don't Stop Or We'll Die


Goodbye, Solvang! Thank you!

(Again, many, many more pictures from the weekend can be found in this photoset.)

simple pleasures

for fear of never writing down a list like this, here for posterity is my personal itemisation of the best things in life (including British versions of words):

Fountain Diet Pepsi
Wearing an oversized hoodie on a crisp autumn walk
Going to Sephora with a good girlfriend
Venice Beach - all of it
Cumbia dancing to Super Furry Animals' Northern Lites in the shower
Listening to Coast to Coast AM with a fellow agnostic
Walking the aisles of Rite Aid after midnight, making impulse school supply and cosmetic purchases
Perfectly cool driving weather and a full tank of petrol (British—told you!)
The West Hollywood Book Fair
Alone time in the stacks of an unfamiliar library—iPod in tow
Apple pie a la mode at Jones
Taking the dog out for a run
A clean, dish-free sink
Bacon-wrapped hot dogs in an intoxicated state
Swiss cheese sandwich at the HMS Bounty
Knitting
Reading anything by Daphne Du Maurier, Helen Fielding, or Margaret Atwood
Weekend Brocktaculars
Free time in the Valley
Point Dume or Magic Mountain (on a weekday)
Monthly bus passes
The New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle
A "Rum Keg" at Trader Vic's ... or a few
Forgetting just a tiny bit of the night before
Being crepuscular
Cemeteries.

unlikely triggers

"you want me to put it inside?"

Spoken by:

Any negative sexual experience I've ever had, and/or this morning's McDonald's employee referring to adding Splenda to my coffee.

"You want me to put it inside?"
"You want me to put it inside?"
"You want me to put it inside?"

I'm having an Edgar Allan Poe character-level meltdown. "Here, here! it is the beating of his hideous heart! Put it inside!"

your weekly dose of controlled chaos

to all Angelenos, I ask: is any local late-night adventure more rewarding than the Santa Monica and Highland Del Taco after two a.m.? I visit the drive-through as a drunken passenger frequently, having mastered the art of deciding within three minutes the exact form of Americanized Mexican food that will keep alcoholic demons at bay; tonight, however, I got the urge to order inside despite unfamiliar sobriety, and I relented.

There once was a New Year's Eve where my then-boyfriend and I attended a party and craved a grease chaser. We waited in line at a Jack-in-the-Box drive through for over a half an hour, the cars moving every so often. When we reached the menu, we realized what had been taking so long: the restaurant was closed. After futilely shouting into the intercom, and speeding up to the closed window, we drove away only to see no fewer than ten cars lined up, drunken hopes cresting and shattering with every unlit brake light. Having lived those intense, furious emotions only moments earlier, we laughed ... and then went to Del Taco.

I repeat that story only because it is the story of every single individual who ends up at Del Taco. Specifically, the franchise across from the Donut Time, whose full name is informally "Donut Time: Tranny Dance Party." I say this affectionately. I often find myself wondering how many m4t posts on Craigslist are borne of this city corner.

So tonight, I pulled into the death trap lot—and my car has one headlight, by the way, so really I'm just one of them; picture an un-makeupped girl in black leggings and an ill-placed belt slithering into a derelict cross-section of society. Visual hint: If this were bio lab, I'd be just another squirmy bacteria under your prissy microscope—and balked at the long queue of Toyotas zippering into the drive-thru lane. I parked. Striding into the establishment is easy; adjusting to the fluorescent lights and determining the gender of fellow patrons is not.

I ordered and sidled next to some post-club girls, who were loudly rooting for order number eight. Behind me, two stoned eyes stared past oblivion to the soda machine, being operated by a forty-something gentleman in a purple coat with animal print lapels who later would hit on the girls and recommend they Google "Artie Vegas." Admist this glorious din, an African American fellow looking strongly out of place—i.e., attractive, clean and sober—entered, ordered, and asked about the restroom.

"Is it inside?" he asked.

"No," the cashier said. "It's outside. Just ask the security guard about the bathroom."

"Where is it?"

"Just go out and to the left."

He left his empty soda cup at the counter and stepped out the door; a beat, and he was back inside. "Changed my mind," he said under his breath, just in time for two scantily-dressed, penis-owning ladies to enter the building. I wanted to give him a hug, and recommend the Tommy's over at Hollywood and Bronson; at least the door to their bathroom doesn't open out directly to a parade of vehicles and an alley.

I caught a man by the condiments looking at me, gesturing towards his face. "I like your glasses," he said.

"I like your pimp hat!" I didn't say. I certainly thought it; it was yellow, and had a purple feather in it. Photogenic. Instead, I smiled and said thanks. My order was up, and I tried to make eye contact with Restroom Fail to assure him that he had made the right choice. He never looked up, and I was tired of the lights and of the shorter transvestite's distracting red thong. It was when I was opening my car door that I noticed Pimp Hat had come outside.

"Hm?" I said, as he was murmuring something across the parking lot.

"Are you single?" he spoke up.

"Sorry, no!" I said. "I have a family waiting at home, actually."

"That's too bad!" he said. "Goodnight!"

"Have a nice evening!" I called out, earnestly. As I cut across three lanes to make a left onto Santa Monica, I realized: I've still got it.

delirious in san diego

so far the most helpful exercise in making sense of my current life is a periodic revisiting of my Christian youth. While I guess I could do this by lighting sage-scented candles, putting on The Very Best of Touching the Father's Heart, getting on my knees and speaking in tongues, I generally choose to reflect via public essays which may or may not be seen by anyone who remembers me as that person. Hence, when I heard that one of my favorite bands from that era was about to play a farewell tour—their very last in Southern California—I succumbed to my inner 13-year-old and made plans to trek to The Rock* in San Diego.

delirious? is a Christian rock band that toured extensively in the 1990s and whose songs continue to be popular among Protestants. I liked them at the time because, unlike more typical Christian contemporary music, delirious?** wrote and performed worship music. For the uninitiated, worship song lyrics are not only written from a religious perspective, but are sung as direct praise to God. Some of them are hymns with more contemporary pop makeovers, but most are originals stemming from talented songwriters such as Matt Redman, Scott Underwood, and Delirious's own Martin Smith. The thing is, "regular" worship music—even in contemporary pop format—can be really bland. The imagery is dull, the refrains are boring; practically all of them remind you of everything you're trying not to hate about church in general. Here's the entirety of one of the songs from my youth (fill-in-the-blank chords, G D Em and C):

Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna in the highest
Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna in the highest

(chorus)
Lord we lift up your name, with hearts full of praise
Be exalted oh Lord my God, hosanna in the highest

Glory, glory, glory to the King of kings
Glory, glory, glory to the King of kings

Right? Yawn.

Anyways, as I grew in my spirituality, my thirst for uniqueness and zealotry increased as well. I started eschewing all that didn't seem sacred enough. Songs that were not in deliberate worship to God—even when sung by Christian artists—didn't pass muster. My whole being ached to be one with Him and for my peers to recognize Our one-ness. I searched for artists who brought out the best in me. Without knowing it, I had reached a point of intellectual superiority; a place where no lyric was safe from my scrutiny, and few individuals (save my friends) were pure enough to worship smart. I dressed appropriately. I was a Christian hipster.

Now, enter Martin Smith.

Here I am
In that old place again
Down on my face again

Crying out
I want you to hear my plea
Come down and rescue me

You can watch the video here too (and please notice the lovely, sustained Fmaj7):


I know that most of my blog-readers are atheists, and I understand that it's a really difficult jump to appreciate overtly religious lyrics; however, perhaps try to pretend that they're not in English, and they're from a small aboriginal tribe celebrating the gods of the harvest. Better?

Not only did the lyrics represent a meaningful acknowledgment of human frailty, desire, and complexity, but the British Smith himself delighted me with subtle self-awareness and -deprecation, such as the jersey he was wearing in the above video, bearing the Cockney version of his name:

I saw many Christian rock bands play at large conferences and festivals. Heart for the Harvest, in Anaheim, CA is where I had my first panic attack; I vividly remember sitting in the loge level, white-knuckled in my fold-down seat, repeatedly visualizing my body tumbling down over the steep concrete tiers and landing in a bloody mess at the altar call site below. My favorite place to worship was in my large church in Malibu, where Kate Miner and Lifehouse were the resident house musicians.

* * * *

Saturday, September 5, 2009—seven years since I'd genuinely entered a place of worship, and I'm not sure this even qualifies as "genuine"—I walked into The Rock and immediately smelled familiar salvation. Teens united in their identical graphic tees identified themselves as youth group fellows. Kind-hearted "cool moms" chatted together, Starbucks lattes in hand. My friend Rob accompanied me, and bore my weight as I gave him a spontaneous heart-fluttering hug upon entering the sanctuary.

We were subjected to an opening band and some promotional videos for a large-scale missions event in 2011. I nudged Rob every so often, pointing out whenever I could the absurdity or affectation of forced Christian hip hop, or missions trips to Bermuda. Finally, Delirious took the stage. Rob and I jumped up in anticipation, and it was with complete and unabashed earnestness that I yelled, "Oh shit!!!" Thank god (?) the music had started.

* * * *



Delirious is in the middle of History Maker; the band is quiet, save for a few plaintive strains on the guitar. Martin Smith takes out a Bible, which is either worn to pieces by fervent scripture search or assembled by a very impressive prop house. His style, as always, is impeccable—he wears a crisp white collared shirt, with silkscreened vertebrae slightly off-center along the back, and his black jacket with the word "KONTROL" stitched across the shoulders has long been discarded. Smith reads a few fluid passages and, obligated by my own a-theism, I wonder how much of their act is just lip service, and whether he still believes, and whether he has always believed. As a Christian, it is difficult to be intellectual—and vice versa. Does he hold it together? Is he a savvy businessman, reaching a point in his career that he can retire at just 39 with six children?*** Or is he the real deal, a Jesus freak who, though challenged by everything, doggedly believes?

Remembering all my Christian friends, and my own attempts to bond in adulthood, I wonder: can you truly be scholarly, rational ... and still a Christian?

After spending a song and a half in the pit at the beginning of the show, I had returned to my seat, where I stayed for the rest of the night. The visuals all have a high production value; the most disturbing one being an abstract image that gradually becomes more recognizable as an anthropomorphized**** Jesus.



A cameraman and a grip operate from the right side of the stage, a camera above on a crane captures shots of the crowd, and a primary camera from the center of the sanctuary resides right next to the director, mixing all the video. The sound board guy is to my right, with about half a million buttons and levels. The event is for charity.

Cowed by security's trust that I won't take pictures, I only managed to get a few shots of the crowd and got none of Smith himself, save the one above of him walking away after the one encore song. He's the small figure in white with his back to the audience, another tour date under his belt in Delirious's final U.S. rounds. To my disappointment, they didn't play My Glorious, my favorite song of Smith's.

I came close to recapturing the peace and self-confidence I had in my spirituality as a teenager. I came close to the euphoria of feeling solitary, yet part of a large, breathing organism. I came close to the meditative state that would only come in the peace of the Holy Spirit, a cool drink of water poured into my skull and down through my core to my folded legs. Close, but not close enough to find a haven in The Rock, San Diego ... or even my own skin.

And all You ever do
Is change the old for new
People, we believe that

God is bigger than
The air I breathe
The world we'll leave
God will save the day
And all will say

My glorious, my glorious

(I can't endorse the visuals in the video (awful!), just the music.)

*If you go to their site, you can take 360 degree tours of most of The Rock's congregation areas, including their 3,500-seat sanctuary.
**Partway through this missive I abandoned the question mark in their official name—only slightly less infuriating than secular !!!'s moniker.
***Six children according to Wikipedia.
****I mean, I know Jesus is already human, but during worship, He's so much more of a concept, an emotion, a symbol, than a physical being. It's just creepy, is all I'm saying. Do you disagree?