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Beautiful Lighting Tips 101 - A Crash Course in Lighting Design Many people cannot immediately identify why they may like or dislike a particular room or interior. Proper lighting and illumination is the single most critical factor in designing a pleasing interior environment. A successful lighting design is pleasing to ...maren morris, frank mcculley, goodwin, briley, eaton lake tonics
fell by fred's to chow a fredburger and pick bassist / restaurateur / attorney eric zukoski's brain re: some musicbiz stuff. normally a jazz cat, eric was playing with maren morris , a 15-yr-old singer-songwriter wunderkind whose cd walk on has caught the ear of major label ppl. she's showcasing for some of 'em at ritzy xouba lounge in arlington this coming thursday, but the folks at fonky fred's (just a few blocks away from will rogers center, where stock show madness is currently underway) seemed to dig her just fine. teeny-tiny li'l gal with a b-i-g ol' voice -- think bonnie raitt, joan osborne (who?), patsy cline even -- with impressive songwriting skills (she's been doing it since age 9, for goodness sakes), stage demeanor 'n' riddim gtr chops (even though she's about as tall as her flat-top, and could barely get her hands around its neck). hearing that kinda vocal power 'n' heartache emanating from such a tiny teen was quite an experience, as was seeing eric playing an electric bass and drummer cooper heffley working with someone he actually looked older than. maren's mos def a big talent and one to watch in future. if it seems like the stuff o' showbiz pipedreams, think back to when a similarly youthful reba mcentire was getting booed offstage at the stock show a coupla decades ago. other reason for our fred's foray was to hook up with jim yanaway, who'd arranged a visit for us to sculptor-painter frank mcculley's home. (i'm helping jim with a press release for frank's upcoming show -- that'd be wild things at the fort worth community arts center from february 4th-27th; the center's open from 9am-5pm monday-friday and 10am-5pm saturday.) mcculley's a neighbor of ours in arlington heights who played bass in local bluesbands, got a master's degree in painting from u.t., taught art at carter-riverside high school for 25 yrs, and fabricates the most amazing, large-sized papier mache animals. you've gotta see the pieces to believe 'em -- not just the scale, but the details 'n' textures as well. he's got a house full of 'em and is hoping to sell some to make room for new work. a must-see for anyone who digs the truly unique 'n' original in vis arts. my sweetie's going back there to shoot some photos later today; just hoping it doesn't rain, so she'll be able to get the giant komodo dragon in frank's backyard out from under wraps. after making arrangements to return to frank's today, we headed to (where else?) the wreck room to hear goodwin, briley, and the eaton lake tonics. goodwin evil dictator daniel gomez' wife is a coupla wks out from delivering their new baby, and perhaps incipient papahood has el presidente in a reflective frame o' mind. he showed up nattily attired in a bindle t-shirt (the band he "had to quit, so they could get good") and admitted that with the help of copious quantities of highland mist at a recent goodwin practice, he was actually able to listen to and even appreciate some of the bindle tracks he played on ("i usedta hate listening to 'em, but this time i found myself admitting, 'hmmm, that was clever' "). he's putting the finishing touches on the sophomore goodwin cd (altho he insists "we still have a coupla new songs we need to track"), but his level o' confidence and satisfaction with the band's current performance level was indicated by the fact he'd made arrangements to record the evening's show to 16-track from the board. (in the event, someone -- do you detect a hint of self-censorship here? -- forgot to press the "record" button, so none of it was captured save the last song, but the point remains: the goodwin boyzzz are at an ass-kicking peak right now, and gomez knows it.) also, all three bands were videotaping, and there seemed to be more ppl equipped with cameras than non-photographic civilians in the house. goodwin's tony diaz and damien stewart had augmented the wreck's usual bare-bones lighting setup with strings o' white christmas lights down the center of the room and behind the backstage curtain, for optimal vid and photo effect. the battalion of fashion-forward folks (so many guys in dark suits w/black t-shirts that i felt like i was at sxsw or something) whose ringleader was the cat in the chico marx lid (my sweetie said she saw one of the other cats get up out of the hat-wearer's chair when he returned from a trip to the bar) were there for the eaton lake tonics, i do believe. (it's not just entertainment, it's sociology.) i'd seen the eaton lake tonics before, but this time they seemed a lot more focused and idiosyncratic, almost like a solo singer-songwriter with intermittent riddim accompaniment (lotsa rests for the bass 'n' drum dudes while the frontguy carried it). local-music visual referents abounded -- bearded, bespectacled frontguy played a telecaster and looked for all the world like bubba kadane from bedhead , while the muttonchopped drummer bore a distinct resemblance to graham richardson from woodeye (hey kid, lemme hear ya say, "so i'm the asshole here?!?!?") -- while the songcraft, replete with intricate wordplay and folk-blues styled constructions, put me in mind of all those saddle creek bands my middle dtr digs. less burrito-ish country rawk action and pop-punk (matt hembree sez "weezerish") moves than in previous sets. clearly a band that's finding their feet, in a good way. briley was up next with a totally different take on the evening's topic, "different things to do with three instruments." these three marshallites martial a more thunderous (tho still melodic) attack, characterized by brittle gtr textures, math-y interlocking gtr and bass lines, and an added plus: actual vocal harmonies! they share several influences with the goodwin boyzzz: foo fighters, jimmy eat world, weezer, and i gotta check out this roma 79 band whose t-shirt front briley-ite jeff stark was sporting. their sound is all big powerful dramatic sturm und drang ramalama. they're tight and they play hard, with intensity. the goodwin boyzzz (attired in contrasting outfits of black 'n' white) brought all of that, with an added element: abandon. that's the collateral benefit of being well-rehearsed to the point of automaticity (which recording tends to provide) -- you can put it on automatic pilot onstage and have fun with it. and they do. tony diaz is such a cutup that it's easy to forget what a great singer he is -- a paragon of presence, power 'n' passion. gomez wrestles great fistfulls o' harmonic-rich thunder from his brace of semi-hollow yamahas, while hembree employs a massive bass sound ("probably an indication that my equipment is about to give up the ghost," he quipped) to punch through the wall o' gtr in unexpected places, and master showman damien stewart (wearing a giant "s" beltbuckle like the superhero you always knew he was) drives and lifts the music while making it appear effortless. this is about the sixth or seventh "best" goodwin show i've witnessed, which sounds like bullshit, but it's not -- these cats keep raising the bar for themselves. they started the set at a level most bands finish at, and after that...well, if you weren't there, you missed it. (note to e.p.: just tell andre to press the button next time. sigh.)<br />Read More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com">http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com</a><br />Search More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.preview-search.com">http://www.lighting.preview-search.com</a>I'LL NEVER FORGET WHATSHISNAME. If you though "Bri...
I'LL NEVER FORGET WHATSHISNAME. If you though " Bring Back Birdie " was a bomb, wait 'til you get a load of "Bring Back Reagan," now playing at OpinionJournal : When Rep. John Shadegg jumped into the race for House majority leader last week, he called himself a "Reaganite" who would bring back the Gipper's vision of limited government... It's telling that now, five years into the second Bush presidency, conservatives are still looking for the next Ronald Reagan to champion their ideas in Washington. Even as Reagan and the current President Bush have similar presidential records--fighting wars of ideas around the globe and running federal deficits at home--Reaganism is the party's philosophy, with its belief in small government, low taxes, forceful conservatism, a strong military and the view that this country is a shining example for all the world. Several of this article's ideas are humorous -- for example, the notion that "wars of ideas" has been redefined since St. Ronnie's time to include carpet bombing, prolonged and unwanted occupation, and the secret detention of American citizens -- but only one is interesting: that conservative apparatchiks still count on invocations of Reagan to sanctify their latest predations. Does that shit work anymore? Reagan is widely admired, true -- but so is Bill Clinton. This poll has the Glimmer Twins at one and two -- ahead of Lincoln! -- with younger voters prefering Bubba. Clearly these findings have little to do with historical reality, and much to do with aspiration and self-identification. People who grew up in the 1980s tend to overvalue Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark; likewise, those who grew up with Reagan, when approached by the opinion collector, think not of the evil GE shill sticking a hose into the Treasury and throwing the other end to his corporate buddies, but of their carefree youth. Same with Bubba Blowjob. So as they prepare the Republican makeover, professional bullshit artists will naturally avail heavy quantities of Spirit of Reagan. They may be right. Not to get too deep into it, but our country is sunk into a peculiar, new state that we might call psuedo-romanticism, best symbolized by the gestural, yellow-sticker support our citizens reflexively give to a war in which few of them believe . We are awash in bunting, but bankrupt of ideals. Ask your neighbor which American value he prizes above all others, and he'll probably hesitate (or name the dollar menu at McDonald's). What do we stand for? Greater earning power than you get in Kenya? All-you-can-eat shrimp? Supposedly preserving freedom for others at the expense of our own? St. Ronnie may be a great icon for such a time. Or it may be that he's outworn his welcome. Seeing for the millionth time his wizened, hard-smiling visage in OpinionJournal, I was reminded of the Joker in Batman . As our values become more formless and free-floating, the shock of the new must be constantly applied to keep this rumbling corpse of a Republic tottering forward. If Reagan turns out to be as welcome at the Republican relaunch as any other senile grandfather, things will get weird. What other corpses and near-corpses are available? Nixon? Ford? Bush I? In that case, prediction: the lighting rise to power of Kurt Busch !<br />Read More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com">http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com</a><br />Search More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.preview-search.com">http://www.lighting.preview-search.com</a>The Miracle On The Street Corner
I was sitting at the end of the bar in a club called Club Victoria in Chicago. This place was a dive. It reeked of alcohol, the wall paper was chipping off by the yard, the barstools always had some kind of sticky substance attached to the stool, and the music was played over two close and play speakers. But, it was a gig. It was barely 1980, I was a showgirl, and it was one of the only places in town that would hire me. I was twenty years old, and I lied about my age, but the owner had a crush on me, and most importantly, I had no idea how much to charge, so I worked for about 25 cents and a bag of Gummy Bears. So there I sat on a Friday night. It was hot, hot, sticky Chicago hot outside, and the rickety air conditioner shook from fright above my head. I was sitting in the only cool spot in the club. I remember it was a Friday, because we had three shows that night, and I was exhausted and cranky and I remember the next day I had three more to do as well. I also had no money and no food at my apartment, and I used to order Cokes from the bartender with extra cherries. The coke was my main course, and the cherries were dessert. It was 2 am, and my make up was caked on my face. I could feel the lip stick start to congeal, and my face powder was cracking like an egg and peeling off my forehead. My hair was teased, my legs were sore, and I was hunched over my coke slurping and sighing. I mustve looked like Boris Karloff. Then, from out of the blaring air conditioner, and from behind the thumpety-thump of an old Abba song, came a tall, white, white man with blonde hair and a three piece suit. He sat next to me. Directly next to me, and smiled. I was hunched, but I managed to smile back. There were few men left, and a couple with their tongues down each others throats at the opposite end of the bar. I sat there listening to Abba screech away, and he nudged me with his elbow. What?! I asked aggravated. Nothing. Nothing. Wanna nother drink? Whactha drinking? He had a Jersey accent. I thought it was kinda cute for some reason. I smiled. Coke with three cherries. I said to Babs. Babs was the bartender. Her name wasnt Babs, I nicknamed her that. I always loved saying Babs The Bartender, it made me happy. It stuck. Babs was Transgendered, and for some reason was stuck in the 1940s. She was about 35 (so she said), and she never stepped out of the house without a Gladys Kravitz hat and a pair of Joan Crawford Come Fuck Me Pumps. She was odd, a bit quirky, and had a laugh like a backed up drain, but she was one of my first friends when I moved into the City. Watching her in her bathroom mirror at 10 oclock in the morning, in her off-white slip, and sheer fuzzy slippers shaving her beard was always a sight that still haunts me. Babs waltzed (and I do mean waltzed) up our end of the bar wiping a glass clean with her polished long pink nails, and the Jersey Guy ordered my special coke. Babs nodded, and then winked at me. I had no idea what the wink was for, but I took as a sign of good luck. Where ya from, Sailor? I asked, pretending I knew what was going on. Im from New York. Im here visiting my broth-uh. Ah. Wheres you brother? Babs returned with my coke. He left. He liked da show. We both liked da show. Youre hot. I know. I was an ass. Also- I assumed he was blind. What else? I said really feeling my Wheaties. You wanna go somewhere? he asked smiling. He was sort of cute in a non threatening Joe Pesci sort of way. Rough sounding but smooth looking. I liked his hair. I remember really liking how blonde it was and how white he was. He seemed to sort of glow in that damp, dark, noisy bar. Go and do what? I asked sipping my Coke and lighting a cigarette. I always had props. How much? he asked. I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Absolutely none. How much what? He laughed. I laughed as well, and had no idea what I was laughing at. Nice. He said, assuming I was in on the joke. So, really. How much? I still didnt get it. No one had ever asked me that before. You wanna know how much? You couldnt afford it, honey. I said, still clueless. Ill bet I could. Besides a babe like you is worth a million. A light went on. This guy thought I was a prostitute. A prostitute. Me? Something happened. Something changed in that five second assumption. For some reason I became attracted to an unexplainable urge to be bad. I was excited and thrilled by this seedy idea that I was a prostitute sitting at the edge of a filthy bar in the early morning entertaining this trick. My first trick. In a long, long, line. I dont do it in a car. Get a room, and get a cab, and well talk on the way. Are you a cop? I began quoting Klute. No. I aint. He said getting jittery. I knew that if you asked, they had to tell you, and I didnt want to get arrested on my first job. I also knew that you shouldnt talk price in a public place, anyone within earshot could be under cover, and I could get hauled in for that as well. The only thing I knew was that I had to get the money before anything happened or I might not get it all. Ill get that cab. Ill mee-tcha outside. Jeez youre hot. He said practically panting. Keep that thought, Honey. I said smiling and blowing smoke out of my nose. He left in a cloud, and Babs bounded up to me. You gonna to turn that guy? she asked in her broad, loud Bassano voice. A little louder girl, I dont think they heard you in Cleveland. Be careful. He looks like a weirdo. She cautioned. Im always careful. Always. I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Always? I remember the sex. I also remember turning myself off. Like a switch. I had no idea I had the ability to do that so easily, but it came just as natural as eating. I simply flicked off the light and this other voice took over. This voice that was able to be funny, and sexy, and breathy, and tantalizing, and lethal. I attacked him. I remember attacking him like an animal, but feeling nothing. He was making love to an empty bottle. There was nothing there, and for some reason, I caught myself smiling about it. Not smiling in pleasure, but smiling in recognition. I found something inside of me, and I have to say, I really enjoyed it. I liked what I did, and I made $150 that night. I was there for approximately one hour. I wasnt one of those prostitutes that were shoved into it. I wasnt forced by a pimp, or a boyfriend, or because I was destitute or trying to keep up my heroin fix. I was a prostitute because I was good at it, and for a while, I enjoyed it. I didnt do it all the time, it wasnt necessary. I did it when I wanted to do it, and I always charged a lot of money. Sometimes and outrageous sum of money. It wasnt until later, that I was forced to work the streets and shuffle along Belmont and Broadway to make rent, but when I first started, I was a machine. A cash machine. I saw a woman on Montel (I was surfing, I swear), and she was talking about how happy and how complacent she was when she was hooking. She was a divorced mother and had a kid in 4th grade. She seemed put together, well read, and was very well spoken. She put up a good front. She said what I said to myself for many years. Im in control, and Im fine. I like what I do, and I like who I am. Well, while I agree that in a controlled and clean environment, this is a possibility, I also know that when you sell your body, you also sell your soul. I know. I was at that bargain sale for years. You can only flip that switch so many times before it doesnt come back on again. I began to numb. Like I was shot through the veins with Novocain. I stopped feeling, and it took me many years until I learned how to feel again. I closed my eyes for what seemed like an eternity and allowed people to ravage me in the dark, and heard so many whispers and offers that reality was skewed. I was shattered and broken. I may have started out standing straight, but I ended up hunched over. Just like at the end of the bar at the end of the night at the end of my rope. I wanted to reach through the television and grab her by the throat and shake the lies out of her, but that wouldnt have done any good. Im not saying prostitutes are wrong, or shameful, or should feel the way I feel, I just know, having been one, and been around many, that in order to do it and come out whole, youve got to get honest. Know what it is and know why youre doing it and know its not feeding you in any way. In any human way. I got my dignity back but it took years. Years of kindness from both men and women. It was a long time before I could be next to a man and not want to run into the other room and hide in a black hole. Men frightened me. They intimated me and I assumed they only wanted to talk to me in order to get my price down. That took years to wash away. And to be honest, it still creeps up every once in a while. Then one day, when I was still in my twenties, I met Paul. He was standing at the corner of Sheffield and Belmont waiting for the bus and I was walking. It was just starting the Chicago winters and the air was getting to that painful point. No snow and no wind, but bitterly cold and grey. I stood at the corner, and he peeked out from his over sized blue parka. He smiled at me; He had the nicest teeth Id seen in a while. And then out came these liquid blue eyes. He tilted his head back, and I knew what was next. I walked up to him, we chatted, and his voice was low and sexy and reverberated in my chest. He asked me out for coffee I said yes, and we walked down the street toward The Melrose across from Ann Sathers. It was getting colder. Your coat is torn, do you want mine? he asked. Youll freeze. I said back to him. So? He took off his coat and wrapped me in it. We got to the restaurant, got a table, and settled down. I started talking price. My time was money and I was losing both. I needed to get to it. So? I asked smoking. Props. I dont want to hire you. He said bluntly. He was very tall. He was wearing a green sweater and a chain around his neck. His hair was jet black and hung in his eyes. He looked like Johnny Depps half brother. What? I dont want to hire you. I want to feed you and take you to a movie. Can I do that? he asked. No. You cant. I picked up my bag and started to go, leaving the warmest coat Id known in about 5 years behind me. Wait. Listen. Im sorry. I dont even know you. Im saying I dont want you to hook. Yeah? Really? Well thats sweet and all but who exactly is going to pay my rent? I asked still standing. Ill pay your rent. Will you now? I asked not believing him. Then. He looked at me and took my hand and led me back to the coat. Yes. I will. And he did. He paid my rent took me out to dinner took me to the park took me to the movies bought me clothes and drove me to the club many, many times. We dated off and on for about a year. I was finally financially able to stop. As soon as I was able to take him out for our first dinner, I never saw him again. I have no idea what he did for a living, or what his last name was. I only remember that a guy named Paul saved my life one day. I never hooked again. When I saw that woman on Montel, I saw my past in that womans face as she sat in her chair on my television lying about how together she was. I was thankful and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I regret nothing. I dont. I wouldnt change my past just like I wouldnt change my present. The two hold hands. I just know that when Im faced with a mirror that potent, now I have the ability to look at it, and feel something. And its usually something good. And more importantly, Alive. I dont know who Paul was, or even now, if he was real. I dont even know that Paul was his name. I dont know where he went or where he came from or why, in that particular moment, something stood in front of me and guided me through the fire. All I know is, for me, I try to never ignore the signs, and try never to say no. I am now a firm believer in miracles. Maybe someday that woman will stop and see something standing directly in front of her, and wont walk by it. Thats the way miracles seem to work.<br />Read More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com">http://www.lighting.keywordblogger.com</a><br />Search More On This Subject At: <a href="http://www.lighting.preview-search.com">http://www.lighting.preview-search.com</a>
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