Twenty-Four #010

The seventh season of FOX’s political/action drama 24 began Sunday night at 8:00 with 2 episodes then continued on Monday with 2 more. After that, weekly on Monday nights at 9.

After taking over a year off (a much needed break) hopefully this show will come out like a caged and ferocious animal, not linger around like a well-fed, warming in the sun lion on a calm prairie.

That last season was horrible and it’s refreshing to see the producers of the show have fessed up to their mistakes. On top of that, they’ve learned from those mishaps if their quotations are to be believes. The Redemption movie was alright, didn’t nail down hope like I would’ve liked but I think it widened its scope by involving Africa as a landscape.

Also, while watching last season, I had the misfortune of not getting FOX in as well as I would’ve liked. I spent that entire 24 hours with a pair of rabbit ears in my lap pointed to the window. Even then I got fuzzy lines through the untimely and regretful murder of Michelle Forbes character, Lynne Kresge

Well, after reading Tim Goodman’s review in the San Francisco Chronicle, maybe we’re seeing the beginning of the end.

What if the 24 concept was adapted for another series (think CSI or SVU), maybe not involving a counter terrorism outfit but a nonprofit organization trying to stay afloat in an economic sinkhole. Terrorism is no longer the bogeyman, we've supported our own financial bogeymen, and, if they’re not trying to negotiate their lost fortunes their killing themselves in the face of an uncertain and incriminating future.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 12

: Lawson’s has swigs of anti-hangover juice. We roam Susukino looking for Booty Bar. “It’s this way!” “No, I swear, it’s this way.” Our roaming is accentuated by the bags we carry. A. and her onigiri. A "private party". The dancefloor is barren, upstairs is a hunter’s lounge and the girls parfait, I vodka tonic. Dancing to Janet, to Amy Winehouse, Rihanna. A performance; pint sized hip-hop dancer, two boys and I see double. Knock over a drink. “Gomen ne. I feel really bad about spilling your drink. Nomimono? Can I buy you another?” Rum and coke. There’s a fancy handshake I don’t quite understand. Girls in lingerie. There is a reason for the pole. They swing and suspend like the room is spinning and us with it. Their movements are Showgirls, their outfits Victoria’s Secret. We part ways. The capsule hotel for me. The bath room is near empty, the tinkling music; a random and melodic arrangement of the same 8 notes. My capsule is lonely alone.

* * *

: There’s someone in my apartment. No, there isn’t. I’m not in my apartment. Soft and smooth gray and charcoal pajamas. This box I sleep in is cool against the soles of my feet. Pale blue light through the edges of the shade. Check card? 14:00? Yes. Yes, check out. Silver and smooth, the Sapporo sky in the late morning. Robinson’s, the middle class shopping experience, red banner sales. Y. running late. Nakajimakoen erased in white, bare trees like dark veins against the sky. Crows shout, dogs in jackets being walked. Zuccafe 22 for lunch and we stay for hours. Y. leaves for Greece soon. E, A, and I walk towards the station, stopping along the way, a photo-op with a sewing mannequin, a denim jacket with gold buttons and zippers. The massaging chairs in Bic Camera with オムライス　for dinner and melon soda floats. Bus is warm and drowsy; we’re hampered by bags and worried about frozen pipes. Home is strange after 36 hours away. Sleep will be easy, welcoming, and not long enough.

Twenty-Four #009

In Billy Collins’ poem Revision (published in Oranges & Sardines, Spring 2009) the narrator counts 24 crows in a pasture.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 11

: Liz Phair and I in the back of the bus to Sapporo; me playing air guitar. All us Hokkaido denizens own two shovels. When did minutes turn into seconds? Or sleeping-in cause bouts of guilt? Two hours in a hair salon. Manic tea towel buying. Fill the basket with Valencia orange coasters, new knives, and wrapping cloth. Neer Lounge in Tanukikoji 2; gin martinis, vodka tonics, pickles, olives, fried potato. A fruitful selection of foreign beers. E. and I winging it. Met A. in front of McDonalds and we nomihodai at our favorite izakaya, the one with the yellow sign and red rays. The girls remember us from Halloween. E. and I grill A. about C. Endless sake, ramen salad, zangi and we go to Habana for dancing and mohitos. Chips and salsa. A message to Y. He calls and talks to E. Plans for lunch tomorrow and a confession. The music in the bar is actually coming from upstairs.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 10

: Cottonmouth morning. A mini breakfast of coffee and peanut butter on toast. Air siren blasted at 10:00 am; impending nuclear fallout? flash flood? a wall of energized particles to crisp the skin and melt shadows into the concrete? Met Y. at Tanukikoji 6 in front of Theater Kino. Broken English. Y. and I the only ones laughing, me at every nuance and facial gesture Parker Posey made. I noticed her cloud and rain silver pendant, he the pair of scissors threaded by a silver chain. Mohitos at Betty. “Would you have flown to Paris to try to find him?” “Had I quit my job, yes, I would. Would you?” “I never would’ve lost his number.” Dreams might not come true but they’re looking glass reflections of the truth. A dictionary as a weapon. Vicious, featherless birds with seeds for brains. The gift of flight but never gaining more altitude than an inch from the ground. The assistant grocery store manager who sings nothing but Sleater-Kinney during a busy and musicless hour. “Who are those people in your dreams?” “They’re no one I know.” The $7 can of Tecate with a slice of lemon and a pinch of salt on the rim. Taxi ride. Like a goldfish. “I must tell you a story about a cab ride I took in San Francisco one night.” A kiss goodbye at the turnstile. Uni-Qlo and a basket of new clothes. The medium or the large? A pair of teenagers in Seiyu; mountains of copper and hay-colored hair, they were netherworld nomads, teased, sprayed and black eyeliner.

The Many Incarnations of Kristin Hersh

One of the numerous things I admire about Kristin Hersh is her stance on her creativity incorporated into her life and family. Over the past fifteen-plus years that I’ve followed her career I’ve always been inspired, not only by her music, but by her attempts, her trial and errors, her evolutions, her acceptances, and the way she melds it all together. 

A mother at 22, leader of the band (Throwing Muses), three more children along the way, multiple albums with two different bands (TM and 50 Foot Wave) and solo, a record imprint (Throwing Music), a ticket selling agency that gave partial profit to charity (Virtuous.com), a website catering to collaboration while operating within a new sustainability model (cashmusic.org), and her easeful approachability with her fans. All these things while taking her family and guitar on the road is nothing short of inspirational. Meanwhile, she manages to never lose sight of what’s directly important to her; her music and her family. 

One night in San Francisco I saw a solo performance. In between songs, while tuning her guitar, with a pick in her mouth, she chatted the audience up. “Thank you for coming out tonight,” she said. “I’m amazed. It’s Sunday. You could be home watching The Simpsons.” I remember we all laughed. Yeah, we could be at home watching The Simpsons but there are priorities and supporting one of the most hard working, entertaining, quality writing musicians is high on most of our lists.

Then there’s her humility. She knows that her audience has a life outside of that dark hall, she knows that we’re not permanent fixtures at a club with beers in our hands, she knows that we purchased a ticket, that we’re out on a school/work night. I get the impression that she’s sensitive to a perspective that, on the performance level, we’re welcoming her into our lives not she’s welcoming us into hers. And Hersh celebrates that perspective by being very generous with her fans in her output (almost an album a year), her delivery (Works in Progress series, cashmusic.org, her shows), and her ceaseless struggle to keep her head above water in an industry ever sinking to new lows.

Personally, I’m very exciting about the pending Paradoxical Undressing memoir. Over the past year, every week, I’ve been getting emails from Kristin, snippets from the book she’s been writing about the early beginnings of Throwing Muses and her life as she knew it. I must admit I read the first few eagerly yet slowly, savoring these stories written in her voice that’s both unapologetic, nonchalant and unmistakably New England. But I stopped for a while. I knew I was coming to Japan and would want some way to reconnect to my homeland, those emails would be that conduit. 

Kristin Hersh is on her way to New Zealand and Australia with Throwing Muses and I’m very jealous. TM has been getting together once every 3 or 4 years in select locations and I’m always tempted to fly myself wherever they are for another injection of their powerful, adrenaline, ju-ju conjuring performances.

This article appeared in Australia’s The Age online edition, January 9, 2009. Called Tapping the Muses, written by Anthony Carew.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 09

: Mist glides like specters, over the black asphalt of a heated sidewalk outside Mos Burger. 7-11 lunch browsing. The muzak rendition of “I Just Called To Say ‘I Love You’”; a 4 member band playing without audience in a hotel conference room sound. The man with the M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E ringtone. Goodreads is the only social networking site I can access without getting I-filtered. The baseball boys chirruping in the hallway. I’m suggesting a movie. You suggest a matinee. It’s easy to view through the filter of Six Feet Under. Taking snowpants off on the bus appears indecent. The Teachers’ Union party for school nurses; beers and laughs. These ladies know how to party. I’m told what lurks behind the curtain: ups and downs, one girls bravery turns to ridicule and lawsuits. A cigarette box from Korea that looks like a camera. I have no reception down here. Took the elevator to send a text in a pair of striped yellow slippers. Taxi ride past a park; “Reminds me of Boston.” Two more beers at the Irish Pub in the station. ハフ＆ハフ、ハフ. Half (Guiness) and half (Ebisu beer), half pint. Pickles, vegetable, and a plate of ホットナチョ (hot nachos!). The Super Kamui ride, the ladies are amused that I wear long underwear. “You are from California.”