Design Is Everywhere

As the previous post suggests, I've been thinking about design much more than ever before. It's funny how it penetrates every space in subtle ways that we often don't think about -- for example the men's bathroom. Several weeks ago, I realized how ingenious the urinals in my school's bathrooms, designed by this company, are. Not only do they have bumblebees sitting in their basin, which, no matter how much you resist, focuses your activities more than the typical urinal. They're also waterless, which saves countless gallons every day. They're an example of design making things cleaner and more efficient -- in the bathroom.

I had been embarrassed about thinking about urinals so much, until I walked past an architecture student's studio desk and saw a pile of library books, all about designing bathrooms. People don't just think idle thoughts about bathrooms, they take a programmatic, academic approach. Brilliant. Really, bumblebees are only the tip of the iceberg: There's also the size of the stall, the automatic sink, the automatic hand dryer, etc. Though, as one of Richard Lewis' old jokes goes, It's a shame the toilet seat can't be automatic. There's no way to get around having to sit on it.

OK, This Is Undeniably Cool

The New Republic's excellent blog on urban policy, "The Avenue," introduced me to what's one of the coolest things I've seen recently: A piano staircase installed in a subway station in Sweden. Its intent -- to encourage people to walk more often than riding the escalator, and be healthier -- may be difficult to achieve, but it's a wonderful example of how design can make the urban landscape a more joyful, playful place. Good for Volkswagen, the project's sponsor, for supporting such free-thinking fun.

The video has also separately made its way around my classmates' e-mail accounts and one says the Museum of Science T stop has something similar, though I've never been. The Kendall Square station, the closest in the system to MIT, has a fun feat of engineering above the tracks to create a clatter that's worth discovering.

John Cusack Must Have The World's Biggest Record-Buying Habit

How else to explain his selection of acting roles? Cusack is the star of my two favorite movies, "Grosse Pointe Blank" and "High Fidelity," witty, meaningful films about being cool and growing up that are untouchable. Yet he's also the star of "Con Air," "Must Love Dogs," and, now, "2012," an apocalyptic action film whose ad featuring a Tibetan monk standing atop the Himalayas looking at waves swallow smaller peaks is simply strange. (This doesn't even begin to address all the movies in the middle of the spectrum, both good and bad, such as "Bullets Over Broadway," which is decidedly in the former category.)

Now, of course, every actor and artist has his high and low points, and sometimes takes roles that can only be explained by the paycheck they provide. But Cuscack's payday valleys are about as depressed as they come. Surprisingly enough, he seems to skate by without too much criticism, unlike Robert DeNiro, whose inglorious coda has been filled with mistakes, though Cusack certainly hasn't come close to reaching the peaks that DeNiro has.

Maybe it's Cusack's still-boyish face that makes action-movie producers recruit him so vigorously, because it serves as a nice contrast to the impending doom and mayhem. "Nothing like a Boy Scout to have around wrongdoing," they must think. But then what does Cusack think while reading the script for 2012? "12,000-foot-high waves, yeah!"? Just because they're lusting after you, Mr. Cusack, doesn't mean you have to take it. Hopefully he doesn't come across this post and sue for defamation. Really, I love him and only want the best for him.

By the way, if you've never seen "Grosse Pointe Blank" or "High Fidelity," stop reading this blog and watch those movies. They're wonderful.

Nah, I'm Glad I'm Growing Old

In 2002, Karen O was on fire. I fondly remember seeing her band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, open for Sleater Kinney that fall in what was then called Irving Plaza. She was electric; nothing could touch her or contain her, and the same could pretty much be said for the band's first full-length, released the following year.

Then, a funny thing happened: Karen O and her band mates aged. Same thing happened to the Strokes, another tectonic-plates-shifting downtown band, but the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have handled it far better. Not only are they still a band, but a couple of months ago, they released one of the best records I've heard this year. Over time, the band has shifted from cheerful bluster to maturity, and have struck the right notes. There are a lot more synthesizers, keyboards and drum machines this time, but in a carefully composed, refreshing way. The song "Maps," a relative commercial success from that debut record, the one where Karen O implored, "Wait! They don't love you like I love you," showed the Yeah Yeah Yeahs could write a heartfelt, penetrating ballad whenever they wanted to. Now, it seems, that's what they want to do almost all the time and it works.

Karen O's style used to be hipster hedonism for the sake of hipster hedonism. She still wears the wackiest, most enviable outfits, but there's something different about her these days. Rather than using her body to clear out her own space onstage, as she used to do, her movements and personality are now designed to drawn you in. As she's aged (and she turns 31 on Sunday), it's almost like she's come to value true friends and the wonder of leaning on them for support, all while staying unpredictable. I want to be that kind of old.

I Don't Want To Grow Old

Last week, Pitchfork opened its review of Julian Casablancas' debut solo album by comparing his underwhelming recent performance on "The Tonight Show" with the incendiary debut his old band, the Strokes, made on Letterman in late fall 2001. Once again, Pitchfork was right. (As proof of its influence, the day the review was published, there were dozens of comments on YouTube for the first time in a long time, mostly affirming, if not outright copying, what Pitchfork's critic wrote.) The Strokes' performance was ridiculously incredible. Heading into the guitar solo, Casablancas swats down his mic stand ferociously; when he returns to sing, he tugs at his shirt collar just as maniacally. Around him, his band mates rip through their parts with such wonderful nonchalance -- an easy mannerism to execute when you don't have to play more than four notes in a song.

"Is This It," the Strokes' first record, isn't a perfect record musical note for note, but it most certainly captures a period of time perfectly. Late fall 2001, when the city was fragile from the Sept. 11 attacks, yet bursting with all this creative energy, bitter and growing, its cool neighborhoods not yet caricatured and pervasive -- that's "Is This It." No record released since then has encapsulated a moment better than they did. It's certainly a contender for a generation-defining record.

Casablancas was 23 years old at the time of the Letterman performance; the rest of the band was about the same age. I don't want to quickly judge his most recent output because I've barely heard it. But, at the same time, to be so relevant and untouchable and vigorous at that age, and then defined by it and forever compared to it, is as good an argument as I've heard for wanting to remain in one moment forever and never grow old. My friends and I occasionally discuss bands that have improved through their careers -- a harder feat than the opposite trajectory. Though if the start is so incredible, is it so bad to be born fully formed and at one's peak?

So Much For Deval Patrick

That sound Deval Patrick hears is probably the last nail being pounded in his political coffin. Last Sunday, the Globe published what I think is the most embarrassing one I've read in weeks: The transportation reform his administration has been touting since the summer for, among many reasons, saving money by curtailing bureaucratic waste, is actually only saving Patrick's staff from itself because all the waste comes from within.

Patrick's administration, writes Andrea Estes , has "presided over much of the growth in spending he must now rein in," as six-figure salaries have doubled, transportation secretaries, of which there have been three, earn 25 percent more than previous governors' predecessors, and "new appointees have been simply layered over old ones, with the displaced workers given new titles." Overall, the payroll has increased by 20 percent under Patrick.

All politicians place their own ills on the broken system their predecessor of the opposite political party left them. Patrick's administration has been particularly fond of laying blame at the feet of the 16 years of Republican governors that came before him. To do that now, though, considering this report, would be offensively disingenuous. The state's transportation system needs to be changed for many reasons, but one large one is Patrick's staff doesn't know to run the system. The story essentially says, Patrick has no ability to direct a government and lead, and it might be correct.

The Globe has caught the Patrick administration lying before, particularly with how it sought to promote a hack senator to a plum, overpaid job. And voters next year will care much more about his ability to improve what they perceive to be the economy than anything else when they decide whether to re-elect him. But I find this revelation much more crushing because it strikes at the philosophical core of who Patrick actually is as a person. He says he believes in reform, when, really, he fits the Republican caricature of a caricatured liberal: A tax-and-spender who loves adding to the payroll and size of government.

Better Late Than Never

Pitchfork released its version of the top-200 albums of the 2000s what seems like (Internet) eons of weeks ago, but it's still worth commenting about. For all the criticism the site takes -- and sometimes deserves -- I found the list quite well chosen.

Absent are the blog-buzz bands such as Wavves, Girls, the Black Lips and whoever lives in Bed-Stuy these days who occupy the hype cycle for increasingly brief spins without releasing music of much substance. Present are the indie stalwarts who are stalwarts because their well-rounded, sometimes unassuming but consistently excellent music endures. It's no surprise "Funeral," "Turn on the Bright Lights" or "Girls Can Tell" made the list (though the last was lower than it deserves), but there were also many welcome inclusions that I thought, given the hype-driven bent of Pitchfork the past three years, would be missing. "The Tyranny of Distance," "Bows and Arrows," Califone and the New Pornographers all deservedly made the cut. Even the Constantines' "Shine a Light," a routinely overlooked record, is there!

It's understandable that some records recede and others gain with time, as their influence and quality become apparent. Yet, Pitchfork's editorial approach these days is confusing. The constant superfluous news updates and use of the "Best New Music" tag to push the site's taste/scene making rather than simply good records directly counter the top-200 list's principles. In its evaluation of the decade's music, Pitchfork embraces those records that stayed faithful, but the rest of the time, its writers chase 15-minute crush after crush, which leaves bands chewed up in the hype cycle over and over again.

Then again, perhaps I'm so pleased with the list because I own 12 of the top-20 records. Anyway, to the good times: An acoustic performance by Britt Daniel, Spoon's lead singer and songwriter, of "Anything You Want," my favorite song of theirs from "Girls Can Tell":



Update: For those who prefer a number-crunching take on the top-200 list, here's an interesting one that looks at how many of the vaunted records were criticized or overlooked at the time of their release, and vice-versa. I think the most insightful comment is this one, about the difference in the number of "Best New Music" records to those that made the top-200 list: "Still, this stands as evidence that ‘Best New Music’ is not necessarily the same thing as ‘Music with the Best Staying Power’ or ‘Most Important Music.’"

"From Stardust to Sentience"

"From Stardust to Sentience," by the High Places, is easily the song I've listened to most in the past year. Even after all the repeats, it's one of the most preciously beautiful pieces of music I know. The band, a duo, doesn't play actual instruments very often, but in this song, they make their drum machines, percussion, keyboards and the like rattle, stumble, pulse, waft and float in a way that suggests every moment of life is ethereal, but also for the taking.

Mary Pearson sings perched high above it all (appropriate for the band's name, no?) and lilts her way through a vocal melody that is more evocative than concrete. The only words I can decipher are "Your million-year-old...." something ("car parts"? "boyfriend"?), yet the words, in the end, are irrelevant when she hits the notes she does.

Lately, I've taken to lying on my playroom floor while listening to the song, to relax. I breathe deeply and spread my arms; confusion melts and my mind slows. Few other songs have that affect. Above is a video someone made of himself dancing ballet to the song. It's kind of ridiculous, but I figured I'd promote someone's else strange reaction to "From Stardust to Sentience." Also, there's no official music video, and YouTube's live versions of the song don't do it justice. This ballet dancer had the forethought to include the studio rendition.