Measure For Measure by William Shakespeare

Or "Sexual Perversity in Vienna."

Claudio knocked up his sort-of-officially-but-unofficially-in-the-eyes-of-the-law wife. His sister Isabella is one day away from being a nun. Angelo, the new sheriff in town, decides that fornicators should be put to death. He starts with Claudio. Isabella is not so happy about this. She tries to change Angelo's mind. He agrees to help her out if she sleeps with him. The rest unfolds with all those classic Shakespeare plot devices - a duke in disguise, a bumbling malaprop-dropping constable, some whores, a beheading.

Measure for Measure is the last comedy Shakespeare wrote, and it's fascinating to see how much the genre evolves from the earlier comedies like, say, Comedy of Errors. It's a tough play. After reading it, I get why it's not produced very often. I mean, it's reeeeeally tough in that nothing-really-adds-up kind of way. But that's what makes it so compelling. It doesn't tie up neatly with everything all happy clappy at the end, and we're left with a lot of questions. I love the way that, as his work progresses, Shakespeare challenges his audiences, holding the mirror up to their hypocrisy and shaky morals. In the right hands, this would be an unbelievably powerful show to see staged. In the wrong hands, it would be the worst ever.

The Informers.

The Informers begins where Less Than Zero ends. Los Angeles. Early 1980's. Nightclubs. Drugs. Beautiful blond people watching music videos on the Betamax. Nobody's really sure who they're dating, who their friends are, why they're at certain places at certain times. Life is a numb wash of existence, dots on a map. Some cocaine here, a little heroin there, some tanning on the beach, meaningless, boring sex, etc.

But that's only the beginning. If Less Than Zero simply scratches at the surface of Los Angeles, The Informers peels away the entire skin, showing us the lifeblood underneath. Fear, murder, bodies drained of their blood, missing limbs, ripped jugulars. Vampires.

Bret Easton Ellis tells this new Los Angeles tale in thirteen chunks, with thirteen different narrators. Each a different story, a different part of Los Angeles, a brief trip to Tokyo, to Malibu, a drive down Wilshire. But it all feels like a carefully woven tapestry, with the same characters making appearances again and again. He makes huge sprawling L.A. feel claustrophobic, terrifying. Disappear Here.

I cannot begin to describe my new and now undying love for Mr. Ellis. A huge, throbbing man-boner is what he gives me. Every single piece of his writing so far has been pitch-perfect. And I'm only halfway through his catalog, which makes me terribly excited.

"Adjust my dreams for me, Roger," I whisper. "Adjust my dreams for me."

Holy Schnikes I miss you.

This book is hilarious, but mostly sad.

Chris Farley was sad, but mostly hilarious.

I love you Chris!

Gone Phishin'

I first went to overnight camp in the summer between 2nd and 3rd grade. I heard Phish for the first time that summer. I was 7 years old. The combination of crazy counselors, trippy tunes and late nights with no parental supervision made for a potent brew of Upstate NY freakery. The damage was done.

In 1997 I went to my first Phish show. War Memorial, Rochester NY. My dad loaded us up into the minivan and we trekked downtown for a Sunday evening of Phishing. Honestly...I found it pretty boring. The jams were jammy, the covers were rocking...but I didn't get it. Spent the rest of middle school listening to Beck and NIN. Good stuff.

In 2004 I attended the SPAC shows of Phish's final tour. My friend had broken up with his lady, and had extra tix, so off we went. The first night was a disaster. The band sounded like crap, and they only played songs from later albums...I was pretty much turned off for good. But the next night changed it all--there was a Father's Day tap dance, a marshmallow fight, a glowstick war, and some incredibly tasty jams. Then Phish broke up. Goodbye.

A few months ago I caught up with Phish at Bonnaroo. They rocked my face off, then came back 2 nights later and did it again, this time with a little help from the Boss. Yum.

In two weeks, I'll see them again. I can't wait. See you there!

PS this book is fun. The guys in the band are geeks in the best way possible. Plus, Trey loves Slayer! Phuck yes!

Don't Get Too Comfortable by David Rakoff

Or "This (Consumerist) American Life."

In one of the essays in Don't Get Too Comfortable, David Rakoff shares his experience covering some big fashion week in Paris. At first, he had the time of his life: learning about fashion, rubbing elbows with glamorous people, overjoyed by the fun and over-the-top-ness of it all. He keeps waiting for the new to rub off, but it doesn't. Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of the biggest runway show of the week, he snaps. The room starts to spin, he's sweating, he can't breathe. David Rakoff has reached his breaking point and just can't take it anymore. Reading Don't Get Too Comfortable was a little bit like that.

shit, yo, the universe is CHANGING!

Master of Space and Time is about these two wacky scientists that discover a way to control the universe, and hence become the masters of space and time. They end world hunger with porkchop and fritter trees. They give their respective wife and girlfriend the power of flight and Marilyn Monroe-esque beauty (and tits). They produce millions of dollars in unmarked bills, a glorious New York penthouse, cool futuristic ray guns.

But not everything is so great. Along with this great, holy, awesome power, they accidentally will into existence spine-fluid sucking brain creatures who wish to take over the world. And a lot of people die. And one of the scientists accidentally fulfills his subconscious desire to become a beautiful woman. And then he is forced to make love with a horny Vietnamese man. But he/she kind of likes it. It's all very new and confusing.

This book is crazy, yo. It's also slated to be the next film from adorable frenchman Michel Gondry, director of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and lots and lots of amazing Bjork and White Stripes videos. The film has been on stall for a while, but I really hope it happens. Jack Black. Dave Chapelle. The universe at their fingertips.

Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

Or "GET OUT OF MY HEAD, RAINER!"

It's 1902, and aspiring poet Franz Xavier Kappus is looking for a little advice and inspiration. He writes to Rainer Maria Rilke. Rilke writes back. Kappus keeps the letters and, thankfully for the rest of us, publishes them in as the small but mighty book known as Letters to Young Poet - the kind of book Andy Lampl might describe as being sugary or figgish.

Absent from the book are Kappus's letters to Rilke. At first, I felt sort of cheated, like listening in on one side of a telephone conversation. What was Kappus writing to illicit such profoundly helpful, inspiring responses? Dear God, share it with the rest of us, please! Once this initial bout of stupidity wore off, I realized that I LOVED only reading Rilke's responses. Not knowing the prompts for some of his advice made the experience seem more personal, as if Rilke were speaking to me now instead of some German guy 100 years ago.

Reading Letters to a Young Poet was like therapy. Rilke was only 28 when he wrote the first letter (maybe 27? Either way, not much older than me.), so the letters have this amazing balance of being both wisdom-from-a-guy-who's-been-there and shit-I'm-processing-through-right-this-moment. This book should be mandatory reading for all bleeding heart sensitive artisty types (you know, like the kinds of people that populate this blog), as the majority of it centers around how to survive as a bleeding heart sensitive artisty type in a hostile world, a topic that hits particularly close to home at this moment of my life. Lay it on me, Rainer. I'll take everything you've got.