Inspiration » Archive

Rhode Island, home of Moonrise Kingdom and the recently resurrected Cthulhu.

In August, Carrie and I met up with my brothers and their families for the first elder Fountain brothers reunion in at least a couple years. I met a new nephew, Arturo Nikola, and my niece, Stella Marie. My nephew Joshua and I had some good bonding time and built a super awesome tent-fort hybrid. We are unstoppable.

We made it in time to attend WaterFire in Providence, a festival in which large torches are lit along the water after sunset. Small boats and gondolas glided by with fire-breathers, fire-dancers, and large H.P. Lovecraft-inspired creatures. WaterFire ended (at least, when we left) with a strange ceremony in a different language; the only two words we could make out were “Cthulhu” and “sushi,” and we reached the conclusion that Cthulhu will give everyone sushi before destroying humanity. Still waiting on the sushi.

Moonrise Kingdom is my favorite Wes Anderson movie since The Royal Tenenbaums. It’s a wonderful love story full of action and adventure, irresponsible adults and precocious children. We visited the sets of some scenes and took photos: The meadow where Sam and Suzy rendezvous, the beach where they set up camp, and “St. Jack’s” church.

The meadow scene – with a temporarily constructed windmill – was filmed at the Watson Farm in Jamestown, RI, established in 1789 and maintained by the wonderfully hospitable Minto family. I love them. (The 52 of 28 song “to get lost” is partly about about visiting their house, built in 1796.)

The beach at Fort Wetherill was beautiful; if you face away from the boat ramp and park entrance, it seems like the perfect secluded place for two young runaways to camp.

We visited Trinity Church at night (St. Jack’s in the film), with its scaffolding and strange green glowing lights. The church bells sounded as we approached, and I was just waiting for Cthulhu’s hurricane of evil.

It was a great five days. We drank lots of coffee (seriously, a lot), ate apples straight from the tree, and had some much needed family bonding time.

The other night I was fortunate enough to be one of the early viewers of #Doorman, a pilot that is currently being submitted to several film festivals and therefore can’t be posted online for the public. Otherwise I’d be writing and calling everyone I know, telling you all to go watch it. For now you’ll just have to trust me that it is hilarious, with top-notch writing and acting. Personally, I’m hoping this becomes a television series, motion picture, and action figures. I’d settle for a television series, though.

Doorman and I met the same way everyone meets nowadays: on Twitter, because someone retweeted him and he was hilarious. From there, I got hooked on his wildly entertaining #Doorman blog; unflinching accounts of his experiences as a hotel doorman (concierge, in the early days) that are so outrageous, unbelievable, and hilarious they have to be true.

This may not seem to have very much to do with rushmore beekeepers or folk music, but I think of Doorman as a kind of folk hero, a de facto public servant; answerer of questions, giver of directions, exactor of revenge. Someday someone will write a folk ballad about him. Maybe I’ll do it.

Mysterious and anonymous (at least to anyone who hasn’t seen the pilot), Doorman understands the absolute misery that can lead to great comedy and great art in general. I’m sure he could write great comedy without having a rough job, and even the heroic everyman Doorman wins sometimes.

Earlier today I received the sad news via Twitter that country music singer Slim Whitman had died. He lived to be 90, which is pretty impressive, and he left behind some of my favorite country music.

Although I can’t say for certain, my first encounter with his material was most likely in the movie Mars Attacks!, in which his amazing falsetto plays a very important role in something very spoilery. (If you’ve somehow managed to avoid seeing Tim Burton’s hilarious science-fiction alien invasion movie, you should watch it right now. Sorry I’m always telling you what to do, but you should.)

The next time I heard Slim Whitman’s music was in Andy Kaufman: The Midnight Special, in which an awestruck Andy Kaufman stares at Slim through a performance of “I Remember You.” After the song, Andy and Slim take part in a subtly hilarious exchange during which Andy tries to learn Slim’s falsetto technique. Between his incredible voice and this hard evidence that he is a very good sport, it’d be hard not to love Slim.

Most memorably (and most importantly, although the more devout Mars Attacks! fans may argue this point), Carrie and I danced our first dance as husband and wife to Slim Whitman’s “Indian Love Call,” probably the best song for any couple’s first dance. (No offense, everyone who isn’t us.)

There’s something very endearing about his music that is hard to articulate. Even if he’s singing a sad song, it makes me feel good just because he is singing. People always call him a yodeler, which he is, but there’s more to him. His delivery and technique are unique; his music is sincere without being sappy. Really, he seems like a very nice guy who just happens to be musically talented.

Although I haven’t listened to all of his recordings – I’m currently listening to his last record, Twilight On The Trail (2010) – I’ll be forever thankful for the body of work he left behind.

Here’s a good quality transfer of his performance on Andy Kaufman: The Midnight Special: