What’s a Lebowski? Maybe you should read this book. But books require so much…effort. Maybe you’d be better suited to click this link.

Or you know what? Maybe you should time-travel to 1999, or, I guess, drive to your video store and just watch The Big Lebowski. It’s a movie magnificently, meticulously, deeply about nothing. Nothing but abiding. Nothing but being…well, I was going to say your best dude, but it’s more about nothing other than being dude.

The Coen Brothers’ film has accidentally created a committed following the likes of which usually follow stuff like Star Wars, Star Trek, Harry Potter or Twilight — elaborate mythologies with their own intrinsic rules and systems. In the absence of all those things within Lebowski, a following has nonetheless filled the vacuum, drawing meaning against the movie’s core apparent nihilism as much as the movie’s characters fight the nihilists that go jibing with their mojo.

It’s easy to see why. Lebowski relies on the Coens’ typical cryptic quirk — a thing of appeal in and of itself — and an outstanding cast caught up in what can best be described as a film noir of oops-es. But the core of this anti-quest rests on Lebowski, an unkempt, So-Cal do-nothing who rolls through his landscape like a bramble in the desert simply abiding the breeze. It’s an iconic performance on the part of Jeff Bridges, and despite this year’s Oscar-winning turn in Crazy Heart, not to mention the rest of his career, it’s probably what he’ll be most remembered for, and he embraces it. John Goodman also gets his iconic performance in as Walter, the loyal and quick-to-anger ‘Nam vet who’s also a recent convert to Judaism and a stickler of a bowler. He’s the opposite of Lebowski, the Dude, El Duderino, in that he has a strong sense of justice and is quick to action and involvement. Abiding isn’t really his deal.

The movie is also about a carpet…and it really pulls the room together. And ‘Nam. And shabbos. And urban achievers. And telling some guy named Donny to “Shut the f*ck up.” And maybe a porn actress and a trophy wife. It sounds truly horrible, but it’s amazing and somehow insightful, revealing a truth about the rambling, untenable nature of life — the flow of simply going with it.

If you’ve never seen it, it’s well worth the viewing. If it doesn’t grip you, it’s cool — it doesn’t aim to. And maybe you’re just not a golfer. And even if it doesn’t, it’s highly entertaining, and if you haven’t noticed — it’s highly quotable. If you have seen it, I’m not only preaching to a choir but doing so at a level that’s mockable to the devout. I’m what they might call a “f*ckin’ amateur.” I love the movie, but I’ve never done Lebowski Fest.

Lebowski Fest is like a convention for one of those other, “deeper” entertainments. People turn out in their Lebowski best, donning robes, Walter vests and other inspired garb. It’s also the only place where you might see someone dress up like a child molester for a public event on purpose. They will all drink White Russians, bowl, and screen the movie to Rocky Horror levels of involvement.

In short, it sounds like a dandy of a time. Lebowski Fest 2010, which bills itself as “a celebration of all things,” is making its way across the country now, with a stop in LA for this weekend of April 2nd and 3rd.

Friday the 2nd will be the screening of the film at the famed Wiltern. Saturday the 3rd will be a bowling party of epic and manic proportions at Cal Bowl — just remember not to cross the line, and if you do, mark it zero or be shot. In the end, there will be a winner, proving bums don’t always lose.

Sunday is, of course, the Lord’s day…although it’s interesting — the fest actually has people scheduled to roll on Shomer Shabbos. For more details on the anti-plans, follow here. And remember, this week, as we, and rightfully so, reflect on more important, deeper meaning-of-life types of things, abiding is also good.

After all, sometimes there’s a man; sometimes…there’s a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought there…

Moby (photo by Javier Psilocybin)

Los Angeles, California – Moby is known for bringing plenty of counter-culture concepts into the mainstream: tea as a socially aware beverage, accepting male baldness and, most importantly, introducing warehouse electronica to a mainstream America. 1999 was the Year Moby Broke…and he was everywhere. Every song on his hit album, Play, was featured in a major advertising campaign, making the diminutive deejay/composer a commodity in every home. The end result: a critical smash pop album whose commercialization symbolized the next decade’s hipster embrace of ’80s yuppie values. And now, ten years later, it remains the standout of Moby’s musical career, for better or worse.

I had mixed feelings upon initially entering The Wiltern’s cavernous art deco space Wednesday night for Moby’s concert. It was already off to an idiosyncratic start: the show kicked off at 8:50, as opposed to a more solid 9:00 or 8:30. The people filing in to the dance pit looked like the standard crowd at Rehab on a Sunday at Vegas’s Hard Rock Hotel. But sprinkled throughout were other oddities: the club kids from the early ‘90s, now grown-up, soccer moms and dads, ready to relive the sweaty, throbbing, drug-fueled dancing they used to find in the original L.A House scene.

The show began with some newer material, but by the third or so song, Moby stopped to address the crowd about a Domestic Violence legislation snafu that occurred earlier in the month; all budgeting for the California program was abruptly eradicated. A rousing chorus of cheers followed this, which made more sense after Moby excitedly relayed how he and other activists immediately got involved and were pleasantly surprised by how quickly the problem was resolved. All proceeds from his California shows would still go to the cause, though. He’s constantly deferring to his impressive band, featuring Moby bouncing between bongos, guitar, and keyboards, while Kelli Scarr alternated between keyboard and vocals duty. A Moby look-alike sat at the drums while a violinist never stopped for a break throughout the two-hour-plus show. Most impressive of all was the main vocalist, Inyang Bassey, whose voice and presence dominated.

The sound is perfect. Talented musicians, good sound engineering, and a set-list leaning heavily on Play, as well as throwing in some of the electronica classics like “Go” (his first single) and tracks from Animal Rights. Even if you weren’t rolling hard on ecstasy like a large portion of the audience (this was probably the first show in history where water bottles outsold beer), you could still soak in the frenetic atmosphere, accented by the tiny touches of beauty the architecture of The Wiltern offers.

Moby (Getty Images)

What’s better than looking up at the painted ceiling during “We Are All Made of Stars” and observing…that it’s totally covered in stars? Never mind the spastic ravers in front of me pretending they know the lyrics to a song Moby himself informs us is brand new, never played.

Maybe that’s the one downside: the element of electronica that’s always alienated me, the emptiness of Special K and glow sticks, and touching ugly people who look better when you’re insanely high and there’s a strobe on. After all, whether you like it or not, electronica is, in many ways, a more musically complex and longer-lasting form of modern disco. It attracts the same fan-base, to an extent: working droids by day, blissed-out partiers by night. The difference is that’s only a small fraction of the electronica scene; unfortunately, it tends to be the most noticeable.

What separates Moby from something as vacuous as The Bee Gees is the meaning and intellectualism behind his music. Admittedly, he introduced “Bodyrock” as “the stupidest song I’ve ever written,” and it’s one of his biggest hits. He declared his delight that his most successful single, “Southside,” is actually an ode to a dystopic future society, and each song off of Play is a flawlessly composed combination of the newest and oldest music — electronica and slave calls. The best part of the concert, though, is seeing how much Moby loves what he does. He’s having a great time, and he wants to make sure you are too.

That’s what’s so genius about the commoditization of Play. He didn’t sell out: to steal a line from SLC Punk, he bought in. Making that album ensured Moby a financial and artistic freedom that very few musicians will ever be able to explore. His concerts are a labor of love, not a grueling publicity tour. In that regard, he is true to his club kid roots, which he lovingly refers to throughout the show. This love is the true energy of the music and what separates it from being the background jingle of a Saab commercial. At the conclusion of an encore that focuses heavily on his more pounding dance songs, he warns that the last song could go on as long as 19 minutes because he’s prone to getting so into it that time passes without awareness. The crowd cheers. No, he says. You’d be surprised: by the end, you might wish him dead. My friend and I exchange looks and I whisper, “Five minutes.” I’ve been trapped with bands I adore meandering on and on, stretching all the life out of a song. I am prepared to walk. He went into “Honey” from Play.

We barely noticed when he passed the fifteen-minute mark.

For more information on what you can do for California’s domestic violence programs, check out Rainbow Services.

Also, be sure to check out “Pale Horses,” the single from Moby’s latest album, Wait For Me.