First signs of fall?

After the spate of cool nights we had in Philly recently, the smattering of red leaves in the tree by my stoop seemed a sure sign of fall. It's coming in any case. My summer classes are over, and I'm getting announcements of winter schedules from theater companies.

But summer concerts aren't over yet. Tonight as I was walking home from West Philly, I heard music coming from Rittenhouse Square, and I remembered that Dr. Dog was scheduled to play there. They've been getting a lot of press, so I wandered over to see them.

The band consisted, tonight anyway, of two guitarists, a drummer, and a five- or six-piece brass section. The guitarists were both in fedoras and the drummer was, I think, wearing a beret. This seemed promising: not only did they wrangle together a brass section, but the fedoras and beret suggested a strong sense of identity.

The music also suggested a developed sense of identity, but that identity is not as distinctive as it could be. The vocalist's style is nearly identical with Wayne Coyne's. And in fact, Dr. Dog's music sounds in all respects very much like the Flaming Lips.

If you're going to emulate a band, you could of course do much worse than the Flaming Lips. But Dr. Dog, a local band, our band, is getting national attention. The last thing they or we are going to want to hear is that they're a less clever, less innovative version of the Flaming Lips. They need to work on making their identity their own.

When I'm 64

Why is it that more and more music sounds good to me as I get older? When I was a teenager I hated almost everything. I felt betrayed when my girlfriend became a Pixies fan. I pleaded with her, trying to convince her that the song "Where Is My Mind?" was a pretentious rip-off posturing as profundity itself.

I'm now sitting in a coffee shop where they're playing the Pixies, and it's undeniably enjoyable. It's pretentious, but I can't seem to care anymore. This probably means that if I ever had a shot at being a rock critic, I missed it.

I just hope I never start liking Coldplay.

"When I didn't know about Crazy English, I was a very shy Chinese Person"

With China's many controversial policies in the spotlight as the Beijing Summer Olympics approach, it's refreshing to read about China's more diplomatic side in this week's New Yorker. There are roughly as many people learning English in China as there are people who speak English in the United States. And, incidentally, some of them are conquering their shyness as well.

When I was in college I had a Chinese friend who told me, "Most American people, even if they don't know about something, they say what they think about it. Most Chinese people, even if they know about something, they might not say anything. You are more like a Chinese. You should try to be more American." (I was probably more introverted then than at any other time in my life.)

Li Yang apparently knows what my friend was talking about, urging his students to shout English in order to learn it, a method he calls "Crazy English." I'm practicing my Crazy English.

"I told her she could keep the money, if she'd let me come up in her parlor and listen to Louis Armstrong"

Last night I put away my calculator and piles of calculations and stretched my legs for the first time this week. I'd been dreaming about fighting off muggers. I'd missed my ballet class on Monday, largely due to being overwhelmed with accounting, and I'd begun to have trouble adding 2 and 2.

But then I rediscovered the joys of Kid Koala and Fatboy Slim. Here's a Fatboy Slim video showing a poor slob who looks like he does more accounting than I do. This video's by Spike Jonze, by the way -- of "Being John Malkovich" fame.

You can see Spike Jonze himself dancing to Fatboy Slim here. I wonder if Miss K, my ballet instructor, would be impressed if I broke out some of these moves in class. Taxes safely dispensed with, I can find out next week.

April 15th: the Big Day

Gloom.

The Fifth Floor

Paying taxes makes you more intimate with your city than you might wish to be. This morning I went to the Municipal Services Building to pick up some tax forms. I waited in line for two hours, which isn't as bad as it sounds, since Philadelphia is blessed with colorful people to watch.

But then it turned out they didn't have the forms. "Go up to the fifth floor; they can help you."
So I went to the front desk and asked them for directions. "You need a special form to go up to the fifth floor." I explained my instructions to ask for tax forms on the fifth floor. The woman shrugged and said she needed ID. After I gave her my license, she took my photo and printed out a security clearance label. "Stick that on your lapel."

So I went through the security turnstile, labeled with my full legal name and a picture of myself, and took the elevator to the fifth floor.

"Can I help you?" a woman on the fifth floor said, with a slightly concerned expression. I explained that I was looking for such and such tax forms. "Oh. You should have been able to get those on the first floor. But you can get help on the fourth floor."

I went to the fourth floor.

"You need a special form from the first floor to get help here."

"Isn't there some way I can get my tax forms?"

"I believe they're available on the Net. Lou, is that true? Yes, just get them online."

This experience was a small price to pay, really, for the snazzy security clearance label I got.

Tax in the City

Another day, another dollar lost. I woke up this morning to find a violation ticket stuck in the front door of my apartment building. "1 trash can, 2 recycling bins, and wood on sidewalk." Apparently, my neighbors and I are supposed to bring the recycling bins into the building . . . and not leave wood on the sidewalk. That last is my doing. I'd left these planks at the curb on a Sunday night, thinking that city workers picked such things up with the trash every week. After all, there's furniture at the curb every week. But this is probably due to lax enforcement of the rules and general apathy.

It's a small fine — $25 — and my neighbors should pick up part of the tab for their trash cans and recycling bins, but it still stings, especially as it comes just when I'm coming to terms with the astonishing amount of money I have to pay Philadelphia in Business taxes. Living in Philly is beginning to feel a bit like indentured servitude. I'm worried that when I try to move away from Philly, they'll hit me with a departure tax.