Glass Shallot by Adam Baer

no soup for you

Why it took this long, I will never understand, but the AP reports that Al Yeganeh, otherwise known as Yev "The Soup Nazi" Kasem, in the infamous Seinfeld episode that popularized his Midtown storefront, will finally franchise and take his soup national. 10 clams buys you 8 ounces of soup, bread, a drink, and fresh fruit or a chocolate. Have your money ready or a 15-year-old Iowa high-school student with acne and a squeaky voice will have to deny you your watered-down order.

the road not taken

Reason #311 to pursue that Pulitzer Prize with merciless determination: Your employer will eventually let you write poems about German luxury cars -- in the newspaper! The L.A. Times's Bard of Cars Dan Neil on Mercedes's new SLK350:

Attend me well, lords and ladies,
And my song of brave Mercedes,
A company that's struggled a bit, of late,
With reliability most unfortunate.
Though recent reports from J.D. Power
Have been as depressing as Schopenhauer,
One thing our fathers found,
You can't keep a German in a lab coat down.

And so it goes...

why was tom cruise so good in magnolia?

The crazy cult-leaderish devil wasn't acting: "Scientologist Vampire Laps Up the Last Drop of Dawson's Creek Innocence Left in the Culture" (a.k.a., "Cruise Bags Katie Holmes")

[via Defamer]

lachey lane

According to this Craigslist ad, a mere $1,000 buys me the month of May separated by just one street from the fabulousness of the sparring Newlyweds. This, to answer everyone who asks me this question on a daily basis, is why I moved to L.A.

proof i'm as stoopid as i tell y'all

"We have no idea what you're supposed to do about this, but a British study by TNS Research commissioned by Hewlett Packard concludes that workers who are distracted by frequent phone calls, e-mails, and text messages actually suffer a greater loss of IQ than someone who smokes marijuana, report The Guardian and UK's Press Association.

The problem isn't the e-mail itself. The problem is the constant interruptions in your work day that reduce productivity and leave you feeling tired, lethargic, and unable to focus.

In 80 clinical trials, the IQ of 1,100 British workers was monitored throughout the day by Dr. Glenn Wilson, a psychiatrist at King's College in London. What he found is that when people tried to juggle e-mail, phone calls, and text messages along with their work, their IQs dropped by a full 10 points. That's the equivalent of missing an entire night's sleep and more than the four-point decline seen after someone smokes pot. 'This is a very real and widespread phenomenon,' Wilson told The Guardian. 'We have found that this obsession with looking at messages, if unchecked, will damage a worker's performance by reducing their mental sharpness. Companies should encourage a more balanced and appropriate way of working.'" --Netscape.com

 

sister, you're mine

How interesting it is when certain (morally, ethically, grammatically) inconsistent media outlets align themselves with qualitative journalists to provide themselves instant street cred in their own pages. To wit: Gawker's claim that L.A. Weekly's super-principled Hollywood columnist Nikki Finke is its "Sister-in-Ink." Sure, Gawker published a great exchange between Finke and a GQ magazine editor who represents her image of what's wrong with the entertainment media. But was Finke consulted on her new sibling-adoption by the King of All Blog Media? And if not, how does she feel about it? I can't imagine -- and keep in mind, I'm just wondering aloud -- that she looks upon Gawker any kinder than she does Graydon and VF. Clearly, she shouldn't.

touche, mtv

Annoyed that you can't find a show on MTV about, you know, music? Fuse -- the other MTV --  claims its new lineup of original programming will stay true to the network's non-sequitor of a mission ("One Nation Under Music") while providing an original brand of TV entertainment. Buena suerte, gente.

passover west

A note to family members and other assorted New Yorkers with whom I spoke this weekend: No, I sadly didn't make it to Jersey for Saturday's seder, but I was lucky enough to ring in the new Passover season with what --  after too much careful testing, I'm afraid -- I have deemed Los Angeles's best corned beef (and rye bread, for that matter). The scene of the crime, in all its kitsch Hollywood glory*, is to your right. Learn about it here.

*Apparently Hollywood's Jewish Delis -- ok, not all  of them -- have had to broaden their menus so widely (to accomodate the Actors, the Organics, the Veggies, the Yogis, the Models) -- that you can find all kinds of non-Jewish Deli items on the Canter's menu. These range from pitas with hummus and avocado to Mexican quesadillas and even old-school Irish Corned Beef and Cabbage. It's a jarring fact, at first, sure. Then it becomes funny (a la Steve Martin's "L.A. Story"). By the time you've considered it for more than a while, however, it downshifts into heartening. Why should one food exist in a vacuum? Especially when lame diners are given squinty looks by the disapproving wait-staff if they order something inauthentic and clearly inferior to the beloved traditional fare?

a peek underneath

So I just got some wonderfully surprising underground music news* about OutKast from The New Yorker, courtesy of Sasha Frere-Jones, and I'm not sure exactly what that says about me: Am I nothing more than a crusty old poser because that's the only place I'd get this kind of news? Or are the styles and attitudes of our top mainstream publications changing to incorporate information like this. I chose the latter as my truth (despite the amount of face it allows me to save), and point you to some fun new music from the ATL.

*So Fresh and So Clean Pt. II exists!

kicking and stealing

On May 13, Will Ferrell's latest movie, "Kicking and Screaming," will debut in theaters nationwide. Is it legal -- and I assume it is -- to steal the title of another fairly recent movie? Even one made by a director (Noah Baumbach) with a connection (Wes Anderson, a friend of Owen Wilson, who's a friend of Will Ferrell) to the star of the new flick? And if not, how does something like this happen? Do indie filmmakers now have more to worry about than that their films might bomb despite cult-hit status? How to protect your title from egomaniac comedians in the new millenium? (My suggestion: Forget originality. Steal Michael Jackson song titles. Talk about word-associations bottom-line film producers would love to avoid!)

shallots on parade

Thanks for the shout-out, Engadget! You have no idea how much you help me do my job...

today's l.a. dispatch

Scenes from L.A. that might render me a character in a forthcoming HBO single-camera show about a (potentially paranoid?) guy that shit just happens to:

1) Me, sitting in the gated patio section of my neighborhood Coffee Bean, reading the paper, when a lovely California hobo with Borderline Personality Disorder screams in my ear, from behind the bushes: "You got the Obituary section!? You're gonna DIE. DIEEEE!!! DIE, SCUM!"

2) Me, standing by my car after throwing out a bag of garbarge in a dumpster on my street only to be accosted by a haggard tree-branch-holding woman demanding to know my name and address (before she then *tells me* my name and address, including my apartment number).

To which I respond, "How do you know who I am? And where I live? Why are you asking me these questions?"

To which she answers: "I found your garbage in our dumpster. I'm the manager of this, here apartment building [the one next to mine]. Don't throw out your garbage in our dumpster." 

"Oh, you mean the dumpster on the street?'" I ask. "Ok, no problem."

To which she replies with a circular tirade repeating her request -- the sort only appropriate in the mental-health ward of your local hospital.

"Thank you," I respond. "It's nice to know you went through my mail, which was in a bag, in a dumpster, in order to have this conversation."

She does not seem to have finished speaking even after I have walked over half a block away.

3) A woman -- who I don't see coming -- walking right into me as I stand in my Trader Joe's (in a stationary position, mind you), reading a rice-box label. "Fucking Asshole!" she says on her way into the vegan aisle. "Thank you!" I answer before gladly buying a package of Angus beef.

rage against the machine

From Nikki Finke's latest Deadline Hollywood column about the ridiculous perks offered to the jokers who run our consumer-entertainment culture: "Wanna hurl? ... [consider the] the profligacy of a public company shameless enough to reimburse Les Moonves, who lives in Los Angeles but also has a New York apartment, $105,000 for the period he stayed in New York at his apartment instead of at a hotel, or Tom Freston, who is based in New York but also has a residence in Los Angeles, $43,100 for the time he spent staying at his L.A. home instead of a hotel. ... Talk about chutzpah: This is paying these guys to live in their own homes."

episode 673 of service journalism helps pay the bills

Four small tech pieces in today's N.Y. Times, and I think they're calling them "Geek" pieces now. Which is funny, because, in high school, on the materialistic South Shore of Long Island's culturally thirsty Nassau County, I felt categorically deprived from Geekiness and hence had to, you know, get out and socialize. Without a computer and consistently behind the tech curve, I spent my afternoons in spoiled friends' homes where new Mac laptops, Zack Morris phones, and big-ass TVs took up more carpet space than leather furniture from Roche Bobois. Am I reviewing this stuff now to give that narrative conflict in the novel  of my adolecent life some sustainable form of closure? Doubtful. It's just fun. See why after the jump.

the little indie can that could

Confession: I often feel forgotten, lost -- and thirsty! -- in this world of custom celebrity branded beverages. It’s just so hard being an issue-driven indie film chick in this Krunk-juice-drinking boys club called Hollywood. So what if your dad made The Godfather? So what if James Cameron haunts your local Trader Joe’s in search of a deal on your family’s brand-name merlot? So what if you won an Oscar for a “sparse” (read: vacantly routine and already forgotten) coming-of-age screenplay that wouldn’t have been given the time of day if your dad, Bill Murray, Sonic Youth, and Wes Anderson hadn’t passed it around with rubber-stamp props. After a while plugging along, it takes some serious cajones to make it in this biz. And after a long day of dressing yourself to look unconcerned about clothes, taking meetings about taking meetings at Urth Caffe, and later joining Quentin down at Cinespace for a Russ Meyer retrospective before a late-night Silverlake patio party teeming with chevre-stuffed mushrooms, you need something to simultaneously take the edge off and remind you that you could do it ALL again. You need something that’s yours -- NOT Daddy’s!  And so that’s why I’m proud to be releasing (releasing, inspiring - what's the difference?) Sofia Mini Blanc de Blancs. (No, it’s not a car. Though aren’t those little buggers cute?! Maybe I should get myself one. Nah, too commercial.) No, Sofia Mini is it’s own thing. It’s not wine, it’s not beer, it’s not Bartles and James (mmm, don’t tell anyone I like Bartles and James, ok?). Sofia Mini is the sparkling wine-product the underground, thinking girl wants. The bouquet? Pear, honeysuckle, passion fruit. The body? Apple, melon, tangerine. The finish? Lemon and honey (what else?). Sporting an expert Monterey-grape balance of 70% Pinot Blanc, 20% Sauvignon Blanc, and 10% Muscat Cannelli -- oh, and did I mention it's served cold in its own cute lil’ red bullet can? -- Sofia Mini is Independence. That’s why I branded it “a distinctive blend as unconventional as the woman who inspired it.” Mini -- and you can call it that too -- is for “the impromptu, impetuous, live passionately-for-the-moment kind of person. The kind of person who lives like there is no tomorrow!” Because, like, that’s the kinda woman I am, yo. I make personal, independent movies. I push the envelope. And I expect nothing less from what I drink. Touché, Spike!

 

blogging religion

I just realized that many of my recent posts refer in some way to me being of Jewish heritage. This is strange, as I am not a practicing anything and have not written much about my religion in the past, though I am proud of my roots -- especially as they pertain to creating potentially funny strands of words due to being incessantly neurotic. Anyway, relax, readers: There's no religious bent here. I'm not a personal fan of conformity but I am non-judging and cool with whatever anyone likes to believe. 

moonlighting

I'm moonlighting today at the 826LA blog. Read about why I'm helping out there. Do it. Now. Please?

going down

Ok, I love the South -- I admit it. The humidity, the okra, the Jew-hating: these are a few of my favorite things. Still, I can't (I mean, don't want to) believe the reality of E!'s recent ubiquitous list show, 50 Steamiest Southern Stars. Sure Hollywood has always embraced sexy southerners. But never before has being a drawling fake blonde with two first names (wink, wink, Jamie Lynn, you're next!) been a prerequisite for getting your own bad WB teen drama, a pop record deal, and eventually your own line of edible makeup. I mean, Maryiln Monroe changed her name from, not to, Norma Jean. It's the reddening of the states -- the Bushification of our country -- that's producing this abnormally gluttonous hunger for simple-life stars devoid of sophistication*. And now we've got an unoriginal celebrity TV-news network finding 50 examples of it. Happy Monday.

*And that's the implied definition of Southern according to Hollywood and E! I'm not saying there's anything intrinsically wrong with being from the South. Hell, my Great Uncle Sy-Shlomo Rosensweig was the hottest thing Deep South Warsaw ever saw shirtless. Yowza (if only back-hair was in again...).

learning on the job

if there's one thing that teaching the younger generation has taught me recently, it's that i've got to keep up on the slang. calling my blinged-out homeys "pimps" just doesn't seem to cut it anymore, y'feel me? if only l.a. mag could have spent a little time with the real trendsetters, we'd actually have had this interesting article about the popularization of the aforementioned word back when it was timely.

hip hop hoodio

i'm finally cool for being jewish, according to new york magazine. oh wait, that means i have to actually practice the religion. and either live in new york or los angeles.  ah, progress.

[via gawker]

jacko losing grip on the beautiful, beautiful boys

Beeferman, my Beatles guru, has an interesting item about Jacko perhaps losing hold of the Fab Four Archive. So much for a future Michael-Tito duo covering "Come Together."

waskly wabbit

Please tell me you can find the humor (and brilliance!) in this.

[The straight Toby Dope.]

l.a. music announcement

Plug time: My friends Shane Kraus and Chris Ruffolo happen to play in an unusually exciting and soulful band called Waveland, and they'll be playing Tangier, on Hillhurst Ave., just south of Los Feliz Blvd., tonight, Friday, at 8. It would seriously improve your weekend if you came, listened, and had a drink.

Selected Waveland songs (visit the site for more):
Caribbean | Sierra | Island Song

il giardino armonico

I couldn't pay anyone to attend this band's concert with me. I hint at why in today's L.A. Times review. Check it below.

a very lat music week

A couple of L.A. Times music features this week: 1) Composer Michael Giacchino speaks about scoring J.J. Abrams's "Lost"; and 2) Two progessive ECM violinists -- Leonidas Kavakos and John Holloway (call them "classical," I dare you) -- hit L.A. the same night. Who are they?

peter cetera, supertramp

Evany Thomas's "'80s [Music] Lineups That Read Like Tabloid Headlines" reminds me of what, on a good day, I might have done with my Refrigerator Poetry.
[via McSweeney's]

string theory, stretched

Los Angeles Times, April 10, 2005
Sunday Calendar; Part E; Pg. 33

"String Theory, Stretched"
Violinists Leonidas Kavakos (right) and John Holloway take progressive approaches, infusing their playing with the fire of Gypsy folk music and the excitement of jazz improvisation.

By Adam Baer

In an urban sprawl where the term "eclectic" brands the musical zeitgeist, from the studios of KCRW to the multi-genre live performances that pepper Southern California, a concert series centered on a progressive German record label would still have been a welcome addition. Alas, ECM Records founder Manfred Eicher and the UCLA Live staff could not agree on the content for a proposed Royce Hall series — "Elective Affinities: An ECM Festival" — and the series, scheduled for last month, was canceled in December.

 

The shows were to have provided a foray into the distinctive blend of classical, jazz and so-called "European new music" that ECM produces. Long a critical success, the Munich-based company — known for its stark art-photo covers and live, full acoustics — consistently presents seasoned innovators such as the Hilliard Ensemble, Keith Jarrett and composer Arvo Pärt alongside adventurous newcomers.

As luck would love it, though, Angelenos can still hear a pair of ECM iconoclasts live this week — the same night, in fact, but at different venues. On Tuesday, Greek violinist Leonidas Kavakos will play the Sibelius Violin Concerto with conductor Valery Gergiev and the Kirov Orchestra in Walt Disney Concert Hall. And across town, at the Roosevelt Hotel, British Baroque fiddler John Holloway will perform the music of Francesco Maria Veracini with cellist Jaap ter Linden and harpsichordist Lars Ulrik Mortensen.

Though not yet American household names, both musicians offer idiosyncratic yet consistently enlightening interpretations. The problem is obvious: Hearing one means forgoing the other...

michael giacchino resurrects the lost art of original tv music

Los Angeles Times, April 6, 2005

Calendar Desk; Part E; Pg. 5

"Musician has big dreams for small screen"

By Adam Baer

A plane has crashed on a mysterious island in the South Pacific. The ominous pluck of a low harp captures the sense of doom as survivors inspect the fuselage, searching for a radio. Violins tremble. Suddenly, alarm. Syncopated beats erupt like the plane's walls struck by a frantic timpanist. A monster is hunting the castaways, and it won't take no for an answer.

Such is life on the ABC series "Lost," the brainchild of J.J. Abrams ("Alias," "Felicity") currently reviving the redemptive virtues of well-crafted fictional television. 

But while the quickly beloved serial drama has drawn acclaim for its spellbinding narrative, it is also among only a handful of shows resurrecting the use of strong original scores and live orchestras, under the hand of rising composer Michael Giacchino.

For film and television music aficionados, Giacchino, 37, a boyish young man with a friendly demeanor, may well be the next John Williams, the dean of Hollywood composers responsible for iconic scores to "Jaws," "Star Wars" and "Superman." Except, in addition to scoring blockbuster films like "The Incredibles," Giacchino brings his music into living rooms on the small screen -- each week.

second fiddle: why a new stradivari biography sounds strained

The New York Sun

April 5, 2005
Arts & Letters; Pg. 18

"The Mysteries of the Cremonese Luthiers"

By Adam Baer

Antonio Stradivari: The name sends shivers down the spines of violinists, as it should of anyone interested in craft, music, and performance. He was the Cremonese luthier whose 2,000 instruments turned violinmaking upside-down. Born in 1644,he lived into his 90s, but little is known about his life. And no one knows what makes his (now multimillion-dollar) fiddles sound so fantastic. Is it the wood? The varnish? The devil? Mystery is his milieu, and those interested in dispelling it should proceed artfully.

Toby Faber begins his clear, informative, but ultimately disappointing first book, "Stradivari's Genius: FiveViolins, One Cello, and Three Centuries of Enduring Perfection" (Random House, 288 pages, $23.95) by introducing Stradivari's world, recounting the rise of the great luthiers of Cremona. An early and important character is the modern violin and cello's true father, Andrea Amati (b. 1505), who developed a more powerful instrument pattern.

Amati took on apprentices - Andrea Guarneri, Francesco Rugeri, and Giovanni Battista Rogeri - who them selves crafted instruments that today require six-figure mortgages. (Guarneri's son, Guiseppe Guarneri "del Gesu," proved Stradivari's most adept rival by 1730; his violins were rougher and darker-sounding but today sound more robust and fetch more at auction than Strads.) Common sense, Mr. Faber notes, implies that Stradivari apprenticed under Amati, too.

But, though he spent a few weeks in Amati's workshop, there exists no record of the assignment...