Top 10 Albums of 2004

1
Elliot Smith
From a Basement on the Hill

It’s not just because it was his last album that I make it the first on my list. It’s that it would’ve been a singularly haunting, beautiful, bitter and hopeful collection of songs even if not marred by his untimely death. Achingly personal poetry with tinges of Radiohead guitar angst. My heart breaks every time I hear it and remember he’s gone.

2
Rilo Kiley
More Adventurous

Love smarts, don’t it? Sweet melodies and vocals simmered in wisdom gained through pain.

3
Rufus Wainwright
Want Two

The ravishing raconteur with the oddball voice is up to his ruffled sleeves in flamboyant wonderfulness. Sure, “Want One” was stronger beginning-to-end, but there’s no one else like Rufus.

4
Li’l Cap’n Travis
In All Their Splendor

A twangy, melodic good time that’ll make you feel like you ain’t whole without a porch and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade.

5
The Unicorns
Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone?

I’ve been digging on the lo-fi tip of late and you can’t get more lo-fi than these basement band-sounding pranksters who know how to show a melody an invigoratingly good time. Coolest album cover of the year, too, with its Napoleon Dynamite-esque, colored pencil artwork.

6
Bebel Gilberto
Bebel Gilberto

Everyone needs a tropical vacation once in awhile and this sultry songstress will stamp your passport with a samba kiss. Plus, she sounds so damn cute when she sings “Baby, baby…”

7
Citizen Cope
The Clarence Greenwood Collection

I tend not to sample those who sample, but this former DJ dude has more than spinning skills. His squeezed-through-the-mailbox-slot voice is mesmerizing as are his syncopated beats.

8
Earlimart
Treble & Tremble

A gorgeous tribute to Elliot Smith. Imitation is the sincerest form, after all.

9
Saturday Looks Good to Me
Every Night

More lo-fi fun. If you don’t mind a few flat notes here and there, you’ll enjoy the catchy homebrewed melodies.

10
CocoRosie
La Maison de Mon Reve

This album sounds like two crazy sisters got trapped in an attic with all their childhood toys. In a good way.

Honorable mention

Gram Rabbit
Music to Start a Cult to

Sounds like what getting high in the high desert must feel like. Fear and loathing in Joshua Tree.

Vinyl Kings
A Little Trip

OK, this album came out in 2002, but I just found it this year on cdbaby.com. A Beatles tribute with some of the prettiest songs I ever did hear.

Loretta Lynn
Van Lear Rose

Such a predictable choice, but it’s pretty damn good.

Here's to a Benign New Year

I must've been naughty in 2004. (Sure, I can think of an instance or two.) Why, you ask? Because Santa brought me a weird eye thingee for Christmas. It started with little bursts of light in my left eye and ended with enough floaters to fill the streets of Pasadena on New Year's Day.

It was during a post-Christmas lunch with my friend C-girl and Paula Abdul (OK, Paula was at a different table) that the parade got into full swing. Lots of little grey dots with a big swirly green thingee dancing about my field of vision like a Chinese dragon. She (C-girl, not Paula) ushered me home and I spent the rest of the afternoon napping and weaving horrific fantasies of brain tumors and the like.

Come Monday morning, the eye doc reassured me that I was experiencing three Latin words strung together. The bottom line: benign. My new favorite word. Evidently, it's just something I'll have to deal with on and off as a myopic citizen of Planet Earth. The silver lining is that I now feel grateful for the gift of sight and am humbled by the thought of how fleeting health can be. I guess you could call it an eye-opener, if you were into that kind of wordplay.

On a lighter note, I rewatched "Joe vs. the Volcano" for the umpteenth time and was newly impressed by the wonderful writing, romantic spirit and inspiring theme. Not to mention the fresh and funny performances by Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. Hats off to you, John Patrick Shanley, wherever you are.

Fly Air Kentucky

I finally got to see Wes Anderson's newest "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou" and dug it in a big way. Sure, it was a little lumbering and less personal-feeling than his previous pictures, but it was still a candy-colored delight full of comedy depth chargers and subtle sight gags (including a nod to the "real" Steve Zissou in the closing credits).

One of the biggest delights was to see Willem Dafoe alter his mad grin from maniacal to madcap. He was perfection and his delivery of "Are you two fighting?" was one of the funniest moments in the film. Cate Blanchett, who first earned my everlasting devotion in (oddly enough) "Coffee and Cigarettes," and the majestic Angelica Houston helped ground the live wires of Bill Murray and clan.

As I watched the entire expedition's crew (plus a great Jeff Goldblum) stare in awe at the ocean before them while riding in an over-capacity chubby yellow sub, I realized once again that I want to live in Wes's world--even it if has to be in two-hour intervals.

Merry Christmas

I've heard of a cop on the edge, but I was a copywriter on the edge this week. At work, my emotions were running high and my workload was stacking even higher than the aforementioned emotions. Add in frenzied Christmas hoopla and you've got a recipe for meltdown.

And THEN, I kicked off my three-day holiday weekend by dropping my wallet in a public restroom sink. Oh, it's not a yearly tradition or anything. This time was the first. If you knew what a germphobe I am, you would be surprised that I'd ever consider touching my driver's license again. Fortunately, being worn down to a nib helped me take the hygiene horror in stride.

Now I sit at my computer nursing a bottle of petite sirah, feeling a helluva lot better.

Sidebar: Boy, "Dr. Katz, Professional Therapist" was a clever show.

OK, go make merry now. I'll be over here disinfecting my Ralph's Club card.

Quien es mas macho?

After running screaming (at least in my head) out of my local Blockbuster in frustration over their heinously shallow selection, I came to a realization. I can never set foot behind that royal blue and yellow facade again and maintain a modicum of self-respect as a self-appointed movie buff.

Since my local cinephile-type video stores are either inconveniently located or parking-challenged, I'm going to finally succumb and become a late adopter to one of these fancy schmanzy online DVD rental services.

Which brings me to my question: Quien es mas macho? Netflix or Greencine? If you have a recommendation, please leave a comment. Gracias. Y Feliz Navidad.

Left-wing media, my ass

From Harper's weekly e-mail update:

"Time Magazine named President George W. Bush 'Person of the Year'
and praised him for 'reframing reality to match his design.'"

I guess that's the dubious skill Dubya and the voters who put him in office have in common.

I usually only reframe reality to match my design within the confines of romantic relationships.

Perhaps I should take a more global view.

Bah hectic

For some reason, the hectic rush of Christmas preparation is getting to me more this year. Probably because my workload has heated up along with the shopping, wrapping, socializing and card writing duties that get crammed into the first 24 days of December every year.

When I dodge by the drained-face people standing seven-deep in lines alongside store cash registers hugging their purchases or try to navigate the panicked search for a parking spot, I have to shake my head. How bizarre that such a huge segment of the population has been sucked into this overdrive of spend and give, spend and give. It doesn't look like fun from this end.

Of course, the sparkle in a four-year-old's eyes as he looks into the shopping mall Santa's square-framed spectacles makes it all worthwhile.

Now I just have to find myself a four-year-old.

Why younger men are like plastic

At a birthday get-together for the lovely and amazing a-d-d-chick, a pair of attractive single women about six years older than me were talking about the hassles of dating. Even though I'm staring into the barrel of it myself, dating in the forties just sounds unappealing and unnatural. I mean, they took "Sex and the City" off the air right before things started to go downhill--if you get my drift. And don't give me that "Forty is the new thirty" crap. Even though it kind of is. At least in L.A.--the land of no tomorrow.

It was in the midst of this conversation that I brought up a plan I've been toying with--to date an older man instead of the younger ones I've always been attracted to (my typical sweet spot being around five years younger than me). I'm not talking Anna Nicole he's-collecting-Social-Security-and-may-not-have-his-own-teeth-anymore old. Not so much May-December as September-December. I look at it this way: no matter how old you are, you'll always have the advantage of being younger than your significant other.

After I explained my theory, I was surprised to see these two women shaking their heads at me grimly.

"No, no, no," they scolded, almost in unison. Then one of them took the lead in explaining.

"You have to get them young, while they're still moldable," she instructed. "Plus, if you date older guys they won't be able to keep up with you physically. Like my ex who couldn't hack it on the hiking trail. They'll have bad backs and health complaints and then you'll end up having to play nursemaid before your time. No, no, no, get them at least the same age or several years younger."

What an eye-opener, I have to say. I'd never considered that angle. Maybe Mrs. Robinson had it right.

A donde vas, Almodovar?

Quote of the day (from US Magazine):

"One time, these annoying people came up to me, so I pretended to be on the phone--and then it started ringing! It was more embarrassing for them. It wasn't that embarrassing to me." -Paris Hilton

I had to laugh while reading the Entertainment Weekly's review of Ocean's Twelve when the reviewer described the performances as being smug and "phoned in" and stated that the film gave her the feeling that moviegoers had just sponsored a European vacation for the cast and crew. How deja vu of my previous post about Ocean's Eleven. Either she's cribbing from my blog or I should be writing in a glossy pub, yo, yo.

Speaking of movies, my most recent trip to the cinema was to see Pedro Almodovar's latest offering called "Bad Education." The only thing I knew going in was that its storyline involved child molestation by priests. In a way, I wish I would've known more, so that I could have enjoyed the twists and turns of the story-within-a-story device instead of being somewhat emotionally exhausted by it.

Don't get me wrong. It's a beautiful film. Almodovar is an amazing storyteller with a sharp eye for color and drama. The gifted lead actors, Gael Garcia Bernal and Fele Martinez, are gorgeous to look at, as are the saturated hues of the sexy art direction. The titles alone are gawk-worthy.

As I walked out of the theater feeling somewhat drained and depressed, although visually impressed, I wondered what Almodovar had been trying to say. That childhood love is the only truly innocent and pure love? That otherwise everyone's got an angle and is out to use and abuse? A pretty disheartening theme, although it rings true in many lives.

The writing is clever, as per usual in his work, and the film offers what may be the most naturalistic glimpse into gay life that I've ever seen in a "mainstream" film. And may I say, Gael is even prettier in drag than Johnny Depp. One of three characters he plays in the film is named Zahara, a lip-synching drag queen who is friends with another drag performer played by the terrific and charming Javier Cámara of "Talk to Her." I loved the early segment of the film where their spicy give and take friendship created a high-energy, farcical feel similar to that of Almodovar's first brilliant comedy hit "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown"--one of my all-time favorites.

Perhaps it was the somewhat complicated story-within-a-story gimmick that sucked some of the soul out of this film for me. Or the film noir tribute/experiment that seemed to be taking place (which explains the cynical viewpoint of the film).

I think "Talk to Her" set the standard so high for Almodovar in my mind that it would be almost impossible for him to top its gloriously polished musing on love and obsession. Of course, a filmmaker has to keep trying new things and even Almodovar's weak spots outshine many other overrated films' best moments. I guess I'd call it a "B," if I gave such grades. Top ten list worthy? We shall si. (Get it?)

Acting my shoe size

I have a few months left before I hit my Logan's Run + 10 birthday and I'm amazed at how much growing up I still need to do. I've never been married (although I like to point out that I was once engaged, so that people know that I'm a marketable commodity). I have never owned a house, have no kids, still spend too much money on music and movies and stay up way too late every night.

Speaking of marriage--I decided that if I never end up finding Mr. Right, I'm going to change my name to DJ Spinster. Word up.

A friend of mine complimented me recently on how young I look, something I can never hear enough of. Yes, it's a little freaky contemplating 40, but I like to think of it this way: I'm the same age as Sandra Bullock and Julia Roberts only has three years--and oddly named twins--on me.

Inara props

Tonight I was lucky enough to see Inara George play at a little club in L.A. with K-girl and P-girl by my side. Inara and her band, which includes our supremely talented friend Joe on keyboards, put on a beautiful show. Ms. George is a pixie doll with copper pipes, all shiny and strong. Her voice reminds me of Jenny from Rilo Kiley. Both girls convey break-up pain in a Joan of Arc-meets-Kate Spade way that I dig in a big way.

In other news, I have a new downstairs neighbor. Based only the very particular way she directed the color scheme of her walls to be painted and the designery perfection of her welcome mat, I predict she is either a cool art chick or a high-maintenance daddy's girl. Here's hoping she's the former. Lord have mercy if she's a princess who will bruise at the pea that is my late night self. The floorboards in this old building announce my night-owlishness with gales of creaky squeals.

My fingers are crossed and my slippers are on.

You're terrible, Muriel

I just rewatched the little cinematic gem known as "Muriel's Wedding" this weekend. I always forget how sad it is. And I always take for granted how well-acted it is. Of course, Toni Collette and Rachel Griffiths show their early promise, but the woman who plays Muriel's mother, Jeanie Drynan, completely breaks my heart with her sweet smile, wet, blank eyes and swallowed self-worth. Remarkable performance.

Now that the year is winding up, I have to start thinking about my top 10 movie list. I still need to see Anderson's "The Life Acquatic..." and Almodovar's "Bad Education" before the final verdict. I'm sorry I missed "Primer," which sounded like a winner according to the trusted cinematic connoisseur Mike D'Angelo. TGfDVDs.

One upcoming movie that I plan to avoid is "Ocean's Twelve." I found "Ocean's Eleven" obnoxiously smug and slick and actually was driven out of the theater midway through the film by the painful sound of Don Cheadle attempting a Cockney accent.

I'm a fan of the work of Clooney, Pitt, Damon, Roberts and Soderbergh on other films, but took Eleven's glib self-satisfaction as a personal affront. It looked like a bunch of spoiled movie stars just wanted to phone in their lines and have a vacation in Vegas on the moviegoers' tab. Which might explain my somewhat violent reaction after reading their new movie's advertising tagline: "Twelve is the new eleven."

My outloud-in-my-moving-car-to-an-inanimate-billboard response? "Oh, yeah? Well, f*ck is the new you."

Put that in your roulette wheel and spin it, Twelve pack.

Dropping ex

As I sat in the dive bar listening to my most infamous ex-boyfriend's band play last night, I had a series of flashbacks of the good old times and the horrible old times. It was a pretty heady experience, only partially fueled by a single Guiness.

When the Large Marge of a 60-year-old regular on the barstool next to me found out that he was a former flame, she pinched her lips tight and shook her head side to side like a bobble-head dashboard doll on a poorly paved road.

"You're too sweet for him. He's a fireball. I can tell. He's wild like me," she declared. "I just don't see you two together. No. I just don't see it. Don't see it at all. And I have an imaginative mind. I just don't see it."

After getting over the urge to slug her in the gut for her refrain of semi-disdain, I realized that she figured out in 20 minutes what took me almost a year and much heartache to get my head around.

Cheers to that, Margie baby. Cheers to that.