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Man Cave
Last week my landlord scheduled a fire inspection, which means I had to un-plug every extension chord in the man-cave (apparently, extension chords violate the fire code in my neighborhood). As if I’m powering every Prius in Collingswood out of my third floor den, removing them is a somewhat life-altering (and furniture-moving) process. It occurs once a year, and then my ‘cave remains in this poor state until motivation and a spare couple hours coincide (a phenomenon which occurs MAYBE once every three months).
So, for now, I have to move outward for my requisite multi-media entertainment saturation. This weekend it started with Bradley Cooper’s Limitless.
I can’t say this movie was disappointing, because I could tell from the reviews that it was going to be a somewhat shallow treatment of man’s greatest desire — a pill which sheds light on all things and turns your brain into a dual-core supercomputer. I was doomed to see it, since brain-power expansion is a fetish of mine and I could no more easily resist this than Michael Cera could have resisted “Diary of a Wimpy Kid."
Sure enough, Limitless offered up a fast-paced display of the gimmicky quirks available with newfound ingenuity. Unfortunately, there was little to no examination of the philosophical, ethical or ‘big-picture’ implications of such a drug existing. I know this is tantamount to a Star Trek fan complaining that the new Trek film was too action-packed and could have used more inter-galactic diplomacy. But nerdiness is the new testosterone, so deal with it.
On Saturday, I brought the wife up to The Bookstore Speakeasy, a 1920s style pub in Bethlehem. Stepping up to a door with nothing but an address, on the side of a building that resembles... a windowless, abandoned church bingo-hall? Or whatever makes up the bulk of the shady-ass buildings in Bethlehem’s south side. You step down into an oddly-lit foyer the size of a men’s-room with book-shelves everywhere and a dapper young lady asks if you have a reservation (which, you’d better!).
You are then ushered through a black curtain — a portcullis into prohibition. Bartenders with beards and tuxedos are shaking cocktails and hand-smashing large made-to-order ice-cubes designed to neutralize watering down. People are talking and laughing under a low ceiling in a room that is dimly lit with candles and tiny kerosene lamps. I’m not sure there’s a light-bulb in the entire place. In the corner, a man in an old-timey suit is playing piano. Semi-partitioned sections give off the illusion that the place could seat more than 30 — which, I’m almost certain it can’t.
A bluesy swing-jazz band plays entirely un-plugged from 9:30 to 12:30. If you’re not seated near them, it can be tough to hear their upright (aging) piano, upright wooden bass, banjo and mic-less singing over the roar of people having an amazing time and frequent ice-chipping. We got lucky with a rare low-tide in customers to move closer to the band. These mysterious musicians played music that--to my knowledge--really doesn’t exist anymore. A sort of bluegrass swing, it might as well be from the cartoons our parents grew up with. With frequent swaps-out of the banjo for a fiddle or acoustic guitar, they traded solos and bounced from jazz to blues and back. I normally harass musicians for their life story, but I decided to let these prohibition swingers remain a mystery. There’s some odd joy in not knowing. A lesson, perhaps, from Limitless...
Man Cave is a testosterone-laden Monday feature that highlights the weekend haps of an everyday, pop culture-loving Philly dude.
Friday: Saw Stephen DiJoseph and Jersey Jung perform at the Tin Angel. Jung — a young lady with a small backing band — sings sensitive, emotionally reflective songs in the phylum of Sarah McLachlan. Guest poets — reciting some pretty out-there verses — punctuated her songs. DiJoseph wowed audiences with acoustic jazz and electric piano blues. Some of his songs were actually quite funny and he even showed a hilarious short video about his dating site for the truly undateable.
Later, I went to the 10:30 show at Helium to see Myq Kaplan, who I had the pleasure of interviewing for last week's LOL With It. The booze-soaked late show audience struggled for a bit to keep up with his hyper-intellectual word play, but they eventually caught up.
Saturday: I watched The Sting. This is the 1973 Paul Newman/Robert Redford heist scored with Scott Joplin ragtime (think The Entertainer, one of the popular ice cream truck songs growing up) is currently available free On Demand if you have Comcast.
That night, I attended the AquaCorps' St. Patrick's Day Beef & Beer for Needy Families. I finished the night at Tank Tops and Temporary Tattoos VII, a somewhat legendary annual shindig for LaSalle and St. Joe's alumni celebrating life, liberty, and the pursuit of temporary ink on bare arms. Spirits were high. Showtunes were belted — Not to mention two or three obligatory "Bohemian Rhapsodies."
Sunday: I was a judge at Rooftop Comedy's National College Stand-up Competition. The Philly stop of this March Madness-style comedy tournament was held at Helium. Penn State's funniest were bussed in to challenge Temple's funniest. The advancing school will be announced HERE.
View gallerySaturday morning I picked up my bro-hort in Bucks County, and began the nine hour drive to Toronto for Canadian Music Week. After more than one detour through central New York's Seneca Nation (thanks to a GPS which seemed to disaprove of our plans for North-of-the-border shenanigans) we arrived in Toronto, which reminded me of Manhattan without the swirling currents of garbage.
We checked in a Backpakers on Dundas hostel — the one location in Toronto that didn't accept U.S. dollars (which, yikes, is equal value with the Canadian buck). We paid $25 for a bed smack downtown in the fifth largest city in North America ... not too shabby. Getting to socialize with other travelers from different parts of the world is worth the price of admission alone. A clean and comfy bed is just the cherry on top.
After dinner at the Harbord House Gastro Pub, we walked to Lee's Palace, a rock club which boasted Trocadero-esque capacity with Johnny Brenda's-esque intimacy. A+.
The first band was The Balconies, a lady-fronted rock trio from Ottawa with a Yeah Yeah Yeah's-on-caffeine vibe but with more blues-scale guitar licks. They were followed by Paper Lions, a terribly catchy and high-energy Cold War Kids/New Pornographers hybrid. They wowed the audience with anthems about very Canadian things like hitting a moose with your van, and raising pints in pubs for the greater fellowship of man. In that order.
MAN CAVE: Man Cave is a testosterone-laden Monday feature that highlights the weekend haps of an everyday, pop culture-loving Philly dude.
On Friday I went to see Meg and Rob's final show, "Quality, Value, Convenience" at the Shubin Theatre. The Philly sketch duo had guests Bare Hug, the Feeko Brothers, and stand-up comedy from Aaron Hertzog (who didn't use a microphone in the small Shubin, and there was almost no difference). Meg and Rob incorporated a hilarious video series called "Goal Oriented Eagle". If you missed their last show, you can catch their next appearance at Helium on Tue. March 15 in Face Time w/ Chip Chantry.
Saturday, I saw the very sold out "Pretty Good Friends" with Eugene Mirman, Reggie Watts, Kumail Nanjiani and guests. Mirman drew huge laughs with his blown-up printouts of absurd Facebook ads, as well as original ones he created and claims to have paid the social network to run. He also brought a volunteer on stage and asked her about speed dating as an alien visiting planet earth (speaking through a vocal processor for effect).
Reggie Watts did a character that was basically a poorly informed, redneck and former lighting technician for Radiohead. This bit ended with a strange (and hilarious) song tribute to Thom Yorke through vocal loop and distortion processors. While I've gotten somewhat adept at explaining "why" things are funny, I have to admit, Watts had me completely stumped.
His semi-satirical over-modulated Radiohead-esque vocals echoed over one another, paired with absurd facial expressions and beat-box rhythms. I was howling the entire time. The second number was equally hysterics-inducing, and I can't even recall what it was, because his act is mind-erasingly insane.
When Watts finished, he brought the whole gang back up and they eased us back down to earth with a brief Q&A session. Before sending us home, Mirman had helpers hand out fake mustaches to everybody in the audience and took a group photo of us from the stage for his "Pretty Good Friends Tour" online scrapbook.
Man Cave is a testosterone-laden Monday feature that highlights the weekend haps of an everyday, pop culture-loving Philly dude.
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Saturday night I went to N'East for a stand-up competition at the Comedy Cabaret. Congrats to Mike Casey, Tom Cassidy, Mary Radzinsky and Nick Baker. They'll be competing along with Frank Genzano, Bob Marsdale, Erin Mulville and James Royale for a cash prize this Friday at the Cabaret (11580 Roosevelt Blvd, 9 p.m.).
After that, I shot down to Center City for the late show at Chris' Jazz Café where tenor saxophonist Korey Riker and his band played his new CD, Prehumous. Riker who's played with The Roots, John Legend, Erykah Badu cranked his lively album over two robust sets. Supported by an upright bassist, keys/pianist, drummer and brief guest trombonist, the 31-year-old saxophonist wailed his modal, Coltrane-summoning heart out with original licks and deliciously sloppy solos from everyone in the band till last call at 2 a.m.
Sunday night was all about the Oscars. I found five moments more memorable than the rest ...
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5) Marissa Leo gets Tourette's. Even though her speech was plenty awkward well before it had to get delayed for an "F"-bomb surprise.
4) True Grit Spoiler Alert! The Oscars may not realize their gaffe showing Josh Brolin get shot in the chest on national television but to be fair, the original film won the Duke an Acadamy Award in 1969, so there's no true western fan who hasn't been given a fair chance to enjoy the plot.
3) You know you're up there in age when Michael Douglas is your son. Kirk Douglas shows Dick Clark who's boss in the "too old for TV" department. YIKES!
2) James Franco dons a dress (and wig). Turns out "Holywood Pretty-Boy" is just an expression. *shudder*
1) The King's Speech wins Best Picture. Kudos to the Academy for awarding the top prize to what they thought was simply the best film, rather than giving in to pressure from the defining epic of contemporary America (The Social Network). They already made that mistake in '94 with Forrest Gump whose Best Picture contenders (Pulp Fiction, Shawshank Redemption and Four Weddings and a Funeral) have all arguably aged better. Personally, I enjoyed The Social Network more, but this ain't the peeps' choice awards; it's the academic elite, keeping it real.
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Man Cave is a testosterone-filled Monday feature that highlights the weekend haps of an everyday, pop culture-loving Philly dude. But is this really what most guys are up to all weekend long? Feel free to enlighten us with your adventures in the comments section.
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