pasta sauce

there's a certain great pleasure derived from cooking. even if it's just making a BLT, it's really enjoyable to take a bunch of different ingredients and create something. what's even nicer is that, instead of just putting it on a shelf or a wall, you get to eat it. how cool is that? and if you're especially lucky, you don't poison yourself.

everybody's been a teenager and been bored, alone in the house. i used to make up shit in the kitchen called, in this ridiculous cackling voice, "concoctions." i would get a bowl and take whatever the hell i could find in the cupboards and kitchens and mix it all up together into this evil looking stew. vanilla paste, red curry powder, italian dressing, beer, whatever the fuck was there. of course, i never ate it, or i might not been here today to share this with you.

i get this same thought process nowadays when i'm making pasta sauce. the best is when i have a few hours to just simmer the whole tomatoes in olive oil and red wine until they fall apart. i will of course fry up a ton of garlic, shallots, and onions in butter and white wine and add those to the tomatoes. while that mix is sizzling along, i just start adding shit. whatever's there in the cupboards or fridge: pear vinagrette dressing? sure. onion powder? why not? other things i won't name so as not to give up my secrets? absolutely! i've recently learned to never use a wine in your sauce that you wouldn't drink from the glass. sage advice. or rather, wine advice.

the best part, of course, is when my wife gets home and eats it and says it's amazing and then immediately falls asleep on the sofa. i suppose that's the ultimate compliment. you can catch my new cooking show, coming this fall!

this all leads me, obviously, to my review of indiana jones and the kingdom of the crystal skull. george lucas needs to just go spend his money on vacations instead of making films. he is of course a great innovator in computer generated filmmaking, but a great storyteller he is not. don't hang me, but star wars ain't exactly shakespeare. and that's what made it great. however, these days, he's just in the way. come up with a decent idea, george, and trust that steven and harrison are going to do right by you. and for god's sake, use the screenwriter of the shawshank redemption before you use the screenwriter of spider man.

regardless, the movie was still as enjoyable as i was hoping it would be. no spoilers herein, but it was a romp, a goofy, silly, self-referential and occasionally ridiculous romp. and that's what made the first three (yes, ALL three, you temple-haters) so great. time and nostalgia has turned them all into the holy grail of filmmaking in the 80s, but they're really nothing more than pulp serials made into movies. everyone involved knows that.

go see the new indy movie. turn your brain off and remember how to be a kid. you'll have a great time.

gentle, lost

sighing, like those kisses
you placed on the backs of my elbows
slyly, like lost children,
frantic and helpless,
alone, red embers blowing
red leaves gently
along sad lonely sidewalks.
we move slowly these days,
along pathways cutting quick swaths
through haunted campuses,
in dark bathrooms that smell like chocolate,
safely hidden
from dark footsteps.
moving closer-
you laugh, alone.
you wonder what it is,
and you never get it back.

kung fu

normally this time of night is when i'd be lurking about in the streets, attacking random strangers just for kicks. younger folks are the best, since they're not expecting it. they think they're so cool nowadays with their money and their iphones and their lack of brain matter. they strut down dark alleys without fear or sense, and that's when i fucking leap out in my jet black, light-redactive costume and practice that old time kung fu right on their empty skulls. nothing is quite as fun as seeing their pompous smiles disappear as i take control.

i know, alot of you out there are calling bullshit. but check your papers. upon close inspection you will notice many stories of assaults in the sheriff's report rundowns. people claiming they were attacked by "some guy in a bat costume" or "some dude...couldn't really see him, but he was farting a lot."

take a look. you'll see the truth. then call me up. you got a woman and you want her gone, but you ain't got the guts? i'm your back door man. yes, those are song lyrics, but they're pretty apt. i'm the guy you call if you want something taken care of, or if you have someone in your life who's making things a little too difficult. i know people who can make trouble for those people who are causing trouble. plus, i'm quite verbose. i'm like a fucking walking book of words with definitions. one of those books.

so, on to last night's party. maria was having her usual friends over, all the cute ones, the stupid one, and the one who doesn't wear underpants. i like her the best. but only because she makes a really mean chocolate mousse and doesn't make fun of my inability to grow a full beard. they are in the main room watching welcome back kotter with the sound off and telling stories. fun times. i can hear their laughter through the house like wild geese on the attack. i'm sneaky and sly, slipping out the upstairs window in my night regalia. shit, baby...it's ON.

west hollywood, i've discovered, is a rocking place to surprise young hipsters. there's this scene restaurant called dolte (name changed to protect the stupid), where you can get a glass of wine for $12 and ignored by the richer folks for free. i hide in the bushes near the valet, smirking at their loose grasp of the english language, fondling my scrotum. the night is hot and sweet and the moon is full. a wonderfully sexual breeze is blowing from the west, and i can faintly make out a few stars like cut glass in the sky.

suddenly i remember- i've taken a ton of prescription drugs! who the hell is maria? and why am i in this hospital bed? tune in tomorrow, when i find out at the same time you do...

i love cheeseburgers

the fucking things make me think of explosions and how cows mate
cows mate by joining genitals
think of cows making love in low fields
under cold stars
we amuse ourselves by pretending
that only humans can dance
but the sea otter also knows how to fly
and so the endless process continues
somebody please help me

Okee doke.

Hey, Ma

For those of you that pay attention to these sorts of things, the UK band James broke up in 2002 after delivering, in the opinions of many fans, their best album, 2001’s “Pleased To Meet You.” Now, in the spirit of every other band in the world, James has gotten back together and delivered one hell of a good comeback album, rife with topical songs about war and lies and death and rebirth, as well as personal anthems that apply to daily life, including this reviewer’s.

“Hey Ma” is out now, but it’s not available here in the United States. Apparently the record companies figure that no one’s going to buy an album from a band that hasn’t had a stateside hit in 15 years, but if you check out their MySpace page, (www.myspace.com/jamesisnotaperson) you’ll read fans’ exclamations about how they’re furious they can’t find the album anywhere, as well as demanding to know when U.S. tour dates are surfacing. Imagine that- record companies underestimating the taste of the public. Who woulda thunk it?

Anyway, is the album any good? Is it worth the cries and shouts? Yes. Yes it is. This is, hands down, the best album James has released to date. It’s well worth seeking out and paying the extra charge for the dollars to pounds conversion. Blame the exchange rate on the U.S. government’s ill-advised invasion of Iraq. James certainly does. The album is filled with lyrics of soldiers and death and immigration that don’t come off like senseless pandering to modern times, but more like the band really cares about these issues and wants to talk about them and, in the process, get us talking about them too.

However, the album isn’t all about preaching how war is bad and loved ones are lost through its senseless pursuits. Opener “Bubbles” is one of the most triumphant opening tracks to come along in some time. After a quiet, tinkling piano and thumping bass drum groove along for a bit, the lyrics suddenly explode with singer Tim Booth shouting “I’m alive, I’m alive, I’m alive” to a galloping drumbeat. The song is anthemic in the best sense. First single “Whiteboy” is a fun little throwback to the aforementioned 15 years ago hit “Laid.” Whiteboy is funkier than anything they’ve done before, at first feeling like a little jam throwaway but getting stuck in the brain with a great chorus nonetheless. Closer “I Wanna Go Home” is pure sad genius, a tale of a man whose drinking has cost him everything he held so dear. Poignant stuff.

The point of a review like this is to sometimes point out diamonds in the rough and sometimes to just advise that a band you’re interested in has new stuff out. However, there’s an imperative here that must be said: GO BUY THIS ALBUM. If you ever liked this band, you will not be disappointed with “Hey Ma.” Not even close. The songs keep getting better and better, each one moreso than the last. I’m stealing this next bit from another reviewer: It’s the kind of album that you keep on thinking that the song you’re listening to at the moment is your favorite until the next one starts, and then you remember that one is your favorite, and so on.

This is energetic music, wholly alive. This is James in 2008. And thankfully, it’s just like they’ve never gone away.

U.S. tour dates are rumored for the fall 2008. Keep checking that MySpace link, as well as www.wearejames.com