Two Octobers ago, Roger shot a portrait of a woman whose smile and style made me do a double take. She was just... dapper. (A woman with a pompadour tends to be.) So I googled Janelle Monáe and found Many Moons; it was easy to fall in love with her look, voice, and endearing weirdness.
Last summer, I interviewed her, and that made me an even bigger admirer. She was soft-spoken, confident, positive, thoughtful, and s-m-a-r-t. (What's not to love about a woman who gets excited when talking about German expressionist film?) To misquote Born Against quoting Ben Weasel: Janelle is awfully bright for a fresh girl of 24.
Meg and I caught Janelle on Monday; it was her second night in San Francisco, and the show was sold out. I expected it to be good, but she put on one of the best performances I've seen in years. She was five feet of unbridled energy, bouncing around the stage while throwing all of herself into every measure of every song. ("She's like a tiny girl version of James Brown," Meg said.) And despite her nonstop dancing, her voice was smooth and buttery on every note. I was glad that I'd remembered my earplugs (old) because at one point, the band got "You Made Me Realise"-style loud, and even with the plugs I had ringing ears afterward. But it was worth it.
Here are two tunes from the record coming out in May, but honestly, you need to see the live show to see why I'm so fangirly about her. Anyway: Cold War and Tightrope. Now you know.
Labels: music
"Don't forget to wear something green tomorrow," Danny said last night. But that is not my color, and so the only suitable thing in my closet is a pair of forest green stacked-heel oxfords. (Purchased in Nolita, $50, 2004.) Instead, I will wear my old MBV shirt. This is how I imagine things going:
SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME
ANNIE is trudging to the office in jeans and her MBV tee. She has made an attempt to not look completely unkempt; she has washed her hair and everything. While walking to his office, FAKE RYAN GOSLING spots her out of the corner of his eye.
FRG: Oh hello, Fake Natalie Portman!
ANNIE: Hi, Fake Ryan Gosling. I don't get Natalie Portman very much anymore. Last time it was Sarah Jessica Parker, and before that, Rumer Willis. All things considered, I think I preferred Natalie Portman.
FRG: Technically, she would look like you, since you are older. Everyone knows you had the cheek mole first, too. She is totally biting your style.
ANNIE: Thank you.
FRG: You are welcome. I was kind of clueless when you were talking about my bicycle panniers at the farmer's market, you know.
ANNIE: It's okay. I told myself that maybe you were gay, and that was why you showed so little interest in conversation. Doing so allows me to avoid examining the reasons behind my failure to charm you even slightly.
FRG: Oh, I am not gay (although if I were, that is OK, too). I am just clueless. Your feminine wiles are indeed irresistible, my pet, and what's that you're wearing? A faded, cut-up My Bloody Valentine t-shirt?
ANNIE: Why, yes. Yes, it is.
FRG: I surmise that you are wearing it because My Bloody Valentine are an Irish band, and today is St. Patrick's Day. What sartorial brilliance! Everybody will get the allusion and nobody will harass you about not wearing green — which, as we all can see, is really not your color. What are you doing after work? May I buy you a drink — say, at House of Shields?
ANNIE: Only if we can call it House of Kevin Shields.
FRG: That is clever! Even if nobody else has ever seemed to think so.
ANNIE: Why are we using so few contractions?
FIN
In reality, this is what is likely to unfold:
SCENE - POST STREET, DAYTIME
ANNIE walks to the office and nearly avoids being peed on by a muttering vagrant. LOITERING BIKE MESSENGER DUDES give her the staredown, which makes her want to point at their patches and tell them that Amebix was really a crap band.
ANNIE: Not wearing green does not mean I am an anti-celebratory grouch.
EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD: Yuh-huh! It does!
ANNIE: But I am wearing an Irish band's shirt. Isn't that enough?
EEITW: No! Commence the pinching!
As a crowd hopped up on Lucky Charms and Shamrock Shakes advances, ANNIE attempts to escape. Unfortunately, she is no match for their crabby fingers, and she is slowly pinched to death. Her last words are a gasped telling of a holiday-appropriate joke that she always finds funny despite only one other person EVER laughing at it.
FIN
ANNIE is trudging to the office in jeans and her MBV tee. She has made an attempt to not look completely unkempt; she has washed her hair and everything. While walking to his office, FAKE RYAN GOSLING spots her out of the corner of his eye.
FRG: Oh hello, Fake Natalie Portman!
ANNIE: Hi, Fake Ryan Gosling. I don't get Natalie Portman very much anymore. Last time it was Sarah Jessica Parker, and before that, Rumer Willis. All things considered, I think I preferred Natalie Portman.
FRG: Technically, she would look like you, since you are older. Everyone knows you had the cheek mole first, too. She is totally biting your style.
ANNIE: Thank you.
FRG: You are welcome. I was kind of clueless when you were talking about my bicycle panniers at the farmer's market, you know.
ANNIE: It's okay. I told myself that maybe you were gay, and that was why you showed so little interest in conversation. Doing so allows me to avoid examining the reasons behind my failure to charm you even slightly.
FRG: Oh, I am not gay (although if I were, that is OK, too). I am just clueless. Your feminine wiles are indeed irresistible, my pet, and what's that you're wearing? A faded, cut-up My Bloody Valentine t-shirt?
ANNIE: Why, yes. Yes, it is.
FRG: I surmise that you are wearing it because My Bloody Valentine are an Irish band, and today is St. Patrick's Day. What sartorial brilliance! Everybody will get the allusion and nobody will harass you about not wearing green — which, as we all can see, is really not your color. What are you doing after work? May I buy you a drink — say, at House of Shields?
ANNIE: Only if we can call it House of Kevin Shields.
FRG: That is clever! Even if nobody else has ever seemed to think so.
ANNIE: Why are we using so few contractions?
In reality, this is what is likely to unfold:
ANNIE walks to the office and nearly avoids being peed on by a muttering vagrant. LOITERING BIKE MESSENGER DUDES give her the staredown, which makes her want to point at their patches and tell them that Amebix was really a crap band.
ANNIE: Not wearing green does not mean I am an anti-celebratory grouch.
EVERYBODY ELSE IN THE WORLD: Yuh-huh! It does!
ANNIE: But I am wearing an Irish band's shirt. Isn't that enough?
EEITW: No! Commence the pinching!
As a crowd hopped up on Lucky Charms and Shamrock Shakes advances, ANNIE attempts to escape. Unfortunately, she is no match for their crabby fingers, and she is slowly pinched to death. Her last words are a gasped telling of a holiday-appropriate joke that she always finds funny despite only one other person EVER laughing at it.
Labels: music
Project: CMMWSWUK (Cover Mid-90s Midwest Emo Songs With USB Keyboard) has hit a snag. Never mind the fact that I've forgotten small details like what time signatures are, or that I can't figure out how to set up drum loops yet. The real problem is that as of tonight, the computer refuses to play audio. Perhaps it's a sign.
Playing the keyboard revives the excitement I used to get from going to punk fests. There was an idea that you could do whatever you wanted to do, and it wasn't about talent as much as expression. Some bands used to look down on Constatine Sankathi, sneering and muttering, "They don't even know how to play their instruments." But they played them anyway, and they were sincere in their emotion, which is ultimately more important than their trombone tuning.
I was always afraid to play music (and do a lot of things) because I wanted to be good at it. I didn't want to do something half-assed, and I worried that I'd be just another hack. Similarly, I didn't write short stories because I feared they'd be bad. So now, more than a decade after I should have figured this out, I am finally stringing notes together. The songs are not groundbreaking or anything, but they are mine. My roommate heard one of them and said it sounded dreamlike. Anything that isn't "shitty" is a-ok! Now to get the speakers working again...
On a related note, my friend Heather has released the video she's been working on for ages. I'm really proud of her and hopeful for her success. I'm also here to tell you that the video may be mildly NSFW. You've been warned — or enticed, as the case may be.
Playing the keyboard revives the excitement I used to get from going to punk fests. There was an idea that you could do whatever you wanted to do, and it wasn't about talent as much as expression. Some bands used to look down on Constatine Sankathi, sneering and muttering, "They don't even know how to play their instruments." But they played them anyway, and they were sincere in their emotion, which is ultimately more important than their trombone tuning.
I was always afraid to play music (and do a lot of things) because I wanted to be good at it. I didn't want to do something half-assed, and I worried that I'd be just another hack. Similarly, I didn't write short stories because I feared they'd be bad. So now, more than a decade after I should have figured this out, I am finally stringing notes together. The songs are not groundbreaking or anything, but they are mine. My roommate heard one of them and said it sounded dreamlike. Anything that isn't "shitty" is a-ok! Now to get the speakers working again...
On a related note, my friend Heather has released the video she's been working on for ages. I'm really proud of her and hopeful for her success. I'm also here to tell you that the video may be mildly NSFW. You've been warned — or enticed, as the case may be.
Labels: music, regression to adolescence
In Chicago, if I didn't know people in bands, I knew who they were by sight. Within pockets of the city, it's nearly impossible to walk a block without seeing So-and-so from Such-and-such band. That's probably the case in San Francisco, too, but I can't rattle off SF bands like I can Chicago bands.
Do you know why? Because I am old and out of the loop. Some evidence:
Do you know why? Because I am old and out of the loop. Some evidence:
- Generally, I like going to shows now only if I know I love the band. No more of this "Sure, let's see what this random band is like" stuff.
- Not-infrequent grumbling about shows starting later than they're supposed to. (In my defense, this is not new.)
- People in buzzed-about bands are usually in their 20s. Guess who, despite her deceptively youthful looks, isn't.
- Have thought, "Fifteen dollars for a show! I remember when shows cost only TEN dollars!" This is only made worse by memories of $5 punk shows.
- Sabrina and I went to a Jens Lekman show last year and, when the band started twirling in circles on stage and the people in the audience were smiling blissfully at the connectedness of it all, we groaned and got the hell out of Dodge.
- Am crabby if the venue has nowhere to sit. Especially now with a foot that is prone to soreness, standing for hours is not my idea of a good time. Danny and I went to a show at Bimbo's a few months ago, and I greatly enjoyed sitting at a little table with him.
Labels: chicago, music, san francisco
If I hadn't had to fly out to Belize so soon, I might have flown to Chicago to hear four measly songs at this show. Sometimes I loathe the internet, but today I love it — more specifically, I love hot mama-to-be Jessica — for letting me see this:
Labels: chicago, music, regression to adolescence
Last time I was in Belize, Louis and I were riding horses through a tiny village called San Jose Succotz. We clip-clopped past ramshackle houses with tin roofs, scared away chickens in the dusty road, and headed toward the jungle. It was quiet in Succotz until I heard music. Blink-182 was slipping out of an open window, and that moment made me understand how major-label music truly goes worldwide.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Apparently I have nothing better to do than obsessively scour my music collection and whittle it down to 50 favorite songs from the last decade. Two enormous files, 25 songs each, let you play along at home. Don't say I never did nothin' for you.
This all-over-the-place compilation is probably the only time Mojave 3, Madonna, and City of Caterpillar have been playlist neighbors. Of course, I've already remembered songs that should have been included. It's too much of a pain to re-edit, re-zip and re-upload, but I reserve the right to do those things. You never know when you might wake up in a cold sweat at 3am because you forgot to add some super-meaningful song to a collection that literally dozens of people may or may not download. Also, I know there are barely any songs from this year on the list. I'm cheating because I'll probably do a top-ten of 2009 list, too.
So anyway, there we go. Don't forget to grab the playlist file, because otherwise the jumbled mess will seem like even more of a jumbled mess.
This all-over-the-place compilation is probably the only time Mojave 3, Madonna, and City of Caterpillar have been playlist neighbors. Of course, I've already remembered songs that should have been included. It's too much of a pain to re-edit, re-zip and re-upload, but I reserve the right to do those things. You never know when you might wake up in a cold sweat at 3am because you forgot to add some super-meaningful song to a collection that literally dozens of people may or may not download. Also, I know there are barely any songs from this year on the list. I'm cheating because I'll probably do a top-ten of 2009 list, too.
So anyway, there we go. Don't forget to grab the playlist file, because otherwise the jumbled mess will seem like even more of a jumbled mess.
Labels: music
As promised, Christmas songs that I like.For a girl who spent her formative years being shuttled between Catholic and Methodist churches, liking religious-leaning Christmas songs is almost required. So! Hearing "Silent Night" makes me think of my grandfather, who liked to sing it in the original German. That's pretty much my favorite traditional Christmas carol. Oh, and I also like "Good King Wenceslas," and "We Three Kings" unless it's Blondie doing it. Tomorrow morning, I plan to surprise Betty with this version of "O Holy Night." She'll either say it's sacrilegious or she'll laugh until she cries. Let's hope for the latter result.
And with that out of the way — since you've just been waiting with bated breath — here are the not-so-churchy Christmas songs that I actually like. Special mention goes to the Dreidel song, which is a perennial Hanukkah favorite.
Embarrassing ones
George Michael clearly has not shed the baggage of his last relationship in Last Christmas. If he were really going to give his heart to someone special, he wouldn't be spending four minutes reminding his erstwhile love of last year's present. And you just know that the recipient of this message is wondering why this putzy rebound (who she dumped a year ago!) will not stop embarrassing himself in a futile attempt to stoke jealousy. And yet, I love the poppy synths and theatrical crooning.
But it gets worse. There is no excuse for enjoying Christmas Don't Be Late as much as I do. I am so ashamed. But every time I hear its woozy, waltzy first measures, I grin at the ludicrous thought of fat, greedy chipmunk children demanding toys. I always have to sing "me, I want a hula hoop." (Current scene point balance: -39,596)
Ones that aren't super-Christmasy but are nonetheless related to the holiday contextually
When River starts, you groan and think it's going to be a schmaltzy take on "Jingle Bells," but I suspect this would be a dangerous soundtrack if you had a whiskey in one hand, a phone in the other, and a lost love's phone number in your memory.
Next! Fred Thomas has one of the best smiles I've ever seen, and hearing him on This Time Every Year brings one to my face. If you pay more attention to the music than the lyrics, you might miss the alienation.
2000 Miles is a bit corny but I like its matter-of-fact melancholy. The Kinks' Father Christmas is a guilty power pop pleasure. (From the same year is this Leopards track, which has a bizarre little ragtimey piano hook.)
Soul and sadness
My love for Otis Redding knows no bounds, which is why sometimes I listen to Merry Christmas Baby in June. The James Brown Christmas album is pretty great all-around, especially because he doesn't schmaltz things up. My favorite track, Soulful Christmas has a killer bass line. If you don't want to dance when you hear this, you might as well be dead.
Or maybe your heart just feels dead. That's okay, I like sad-bastard Christmas songs, too. The older I get, the more emotional I am over the bleakness hiding in Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. (For my money, Judy's version is the only one that matters.)
Then we have the lonelyhearts. Jon Bon Jovi seems like a nice enough guy, but he can't hold a candle to the loneliness of Charles Brown's original Please Come Home For Christmas. (The way he says "please" kills me.) More upbeat but similarly themed is the lovely Darlene Love's Christmas (Baby Please Come Home). Continuing on with the alone-on-Christmas theme, we have Elvis Aaron Presley's Blue Christmas, which might be my favorite Elvis song.
Of the three brokenhearted singers, I assume Darlene Love would be the one to get her former lovah back, because she comes off as cheery and cute. Elvis sounds like he's feeling sorry for himself, but isn't going to push the issue too much. I kinda want Charles's ladyfriend to show up on his door, but he needs to work on looking more nonchalant about it. The whole "by New Year's night" thing makes him come off a little desperate.
So! That's most of the list. There are other decent ones that I don't mind, but these are the ones I actually like. Even so, it'll be nice to not hear them for another year.
I am not the only one in my family to feel Scroogey about this issue. Every time my father heard "The Little Drummer Boy," I thought he was going to pa rum pum pum pummel something. My mother, however, loves certain Christmas songs. She has a history of falling in love with an album, then playing it — and only it — for that holiday season. In my childhood, it was John Denver and the Muppets. Then it was the Barbra Streisand album. By far, the worst was These Are Special Times, featuring the vocal stylings of Celine Dion. On repeat. It is a wonder that nobody committed seppuku that year.
And so, my crabby ass brings you my top five worst Christmas songs. I'm not including obvious ones such as "Feliz Navidad" and "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer." Also out: modern pop-culture offenses along the lines of this Christmas Cash trash and the Lohan/Destiny's Child/My Chemical Romance pap. Too easy (and too much of it). Instead, these are the songs that stir a tiny sliver of repressed rage inside my soul. The ones that really drive me insane.
5. This version of Deck The Halls puts me into very mild panic if I can't get away from it. Literally, I feel my lungs tighten. It's that bad for me.
4. TIE! It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year / Happy Holiday. With the whoop-de-do and hickory dock? That makes no sense. Also, mistletoeing is not a word. It's back to remedial English for you, Andy Williams.
3. This Christmas, or as I like (hate) to sing it, "Theeeeeese Chreeesmusss." Something about the melody reminds me of farts, which would be fine if it didn't also make want to vomit. Only one unpleasant bodily function per song is allowed. Also, the video for Chris Brown's version takes on a menacing subtext considering his proclivity for beating women. In summary: We find Mr. Brown spying on some innocent family, stalking the daughter, and dancing in the street like a crazy person while they call the cops. Then he breaks into an orphanage, skulks around while on a hallucinogenic PCP bender, and creepily shushes the children until they hide under their covers. Haven't those kids suffered enough? Haven't we all? As my roommate put it, "Who does he think he is in that white suit, the fuckin' R. Kelly of Christmas?"
2. You'd think that they'd have learned from the run-run-reindeering that their father did back in the day, but no. Wendy and Carnie Wilson decided to unfurl the treacly Hey Santa upon us. The song's protagonist is waiting for her deadbeat beau to show up. She nags Santa about delivering this clearly uninterested man to her, and oh boy, it's a Christmas miracle! She's "underneath the mistletoe with my baby tonight." Immediately, the sisters begin chanting "slei-eigh ri-ide," which — due to my puerile sense of humor — makes me think that the proto-emo dork in the video has drawn them into a holiday-themed sex cult. And he's the sleigh.
1. Could this spot belong to anything other than Wonderful Christmastime? It's as though Paul McCartney looked at the success of "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)" — which, as a Vietnam protest song, really isn't about Christmas anyway — and thought, "Lennon will not outshine me! I need to get in on that!" It was not one of Macca's better endeavors. Though nearly universally reviled, it somehow manages to stay on holiday playlists year after year. Truly, it is the cockroach of Christmas songs.
Tomorrow: five holiday songs that I love, just to prove that I'm not a total grinch. (Until then, you can enjoy a free Michigan-y Christmas comp thanks in part to Mr. Kempa.)
Labels: christmas, crabbiness, music
I remember the day, seven years ago, when we found out that Joe Strummer had died. For once, I didn't mind Chicago's cold and gray skies. They seemed appropriately somber. That afternoon, while riding a crowded Madison bus westward toward Western, I wound up squished next to a fortyish guy with various punk buttons on his jacket.
"Sad news about Joe Strummer," I said.
"What sad news?"
When I told him, he looked like a four-year-old who's just had the true identity of Santa Claus revealed. Which makes sense, because there was something about Joe Strummer that was comforting, and his premature death felt unfair. I liked the Clash, but I liked what he represented, too. He embodied so much of what, in my opinion, a man should be. By all accounts, he was well-traveled, artistic, political, funny, open-minded, reflective, and intelligent. (Also, he looked good in a t-shirt.)
He seemed like a mensch — an imperfect one, but a mensch all the same. Fighting the good fight and all that. There's nothing I love like a person with convictions (I have been told that I cling to mine too tightly) and his had the benefit of being woven into some pretty great songs. It's funny how you can miss somebody you never met, but I do.
"Sad news about Joe Strummer," I said.
"What sad news?"
When I told him, he looked like a four-year-old who's just had the true identity of Santa Claus revealed. Which makes sense, because there was something about Joe Strummer that was comforting, and his premature death felt unfair. I liked the Clash, but I liked what he represented, too. He embodied so much of what, in my opinion, a man should be. By all accounts, he was well-traveled, artistic, political, funny, open-minded, reflective, and intelligent. (Also, he looked good in a t-shirt.)
He seemed like a mensch — an imperfect one, but a mensch all the same. Fighting the good fight and all that. There's nothing I love like a person with convictions (I have been told that I cling to mine too tightly) and his had the benefit of being woven into some pretty great songs. It's funny how you can miss somebody you never met, but I do.
Labels: men i would have dated, music, the clash
I was a daydreamer as a child, and a few nebulous ideas have stayed with me since. I've always been comforted by the simple fact that we all live under the same sun and moon. Day in, day out, all of our little lives happen underneath them. It's not profound, obviously; I merely liked how everyone shares the sky. I used to squint at the sun and think about people in France and China and the Philippines and Florida — how at some point, the sun would bring light to all of our days. But night was better suited to my dreamy mindset. On clear evenings, I would stand on our deck in my nightgown, look into the inky sky, and gaze at the moon. I would wonder how many people were wishing on a star at any given moment, and whose wishes would come true, and why.
Tonight, as Sabrina and I covered the southern edge of the park, we remarked on the unusually beautiful moon hung over the city. It had the soft golden glow of yellowed vellum. Decades after my childhood, a good moon will still conjure thoughts of the faraway friends who I miss and love. Even if their eyes might be looking downward, even if they're on different continents where they see sun while I see moon, my heart swells a little to think of our connection. The resulting warmth is a persuasive argument for nocturnality if one ever existed.
Tonight, as Sabrina and I covered the southern edge of the park, we remarked on the unusually beautiful moon hung over the city. It had the soft golden glow of yellowed vellum. Decades after my childhood, a good moon will still conjure thoughts of the faraway friends who I miss and love. Even if their eyes might be looking downward, even if they're on different continents where they see sun while I see moon, my heart swells a little to think of our connection. The resulting warmth is a persuasive argument for nocturnality if one ever existed.
Miles has it right when he says HA HA HA HA to this bizarrely horrible band called Blood on the Dance Floor. Their awfulness makes their tour buddies Brokencyde seem like Nick Drake in comparison. If you do not feel old, fifteen seconds of their song "Well Suck Me" (not to be confused with their other dessert-themed jam, "Scream For My Ice Cream") will change that. Like Miles, I'm kind of impressed by the band's ability to piss me off, but it is so depressing to see scene kids — especially girls — lap up this misogynist assault against music.
What's funny is that when I was their age (speaking of old...) a lot of hardcore kids would complain about Atom and his Package. Adam was a bespectacled guy with a sequencer who opened for punk bands, and he was entertainingly nerdy even if he wasn't a musical genius. He sang songs about battling homophobia, racist sports mascots and metric-system holdouts. Some felt he was clownish, but even if the music wasn't traditionally punk, its politics were — and the latter has a larger and longer impact culturally, so the end result is a positive one.
Fast-forward 15 years or so, and I so wish there were a legion of Atoms instead of crap bands like BotDF. This Florida trio has created a horrible genre-fusing mess that is so devoid of merit, so glorifying of all that punk stands against, that I'd like to believe it's a joke. Sadly, no. I'm never sure what to make of mall emo, because I'm not at the right age to understand its popularity; maybe if I were 18, I'd be able to get it. Then again, if I were 18, I would still see this as hate-filled ear abuse.
All music genres change over time, but the mainstreaming of subculture has essentially erased any punk politics — at least as it's consumed by your average scene kid. In a relatively short amount of time, we've gone from Girls Up Front and Men Against Sexism to boys screaming at women and treating us as sex slaves. I keep wondering why bands like Brokencyde and BotDF have legions of adoring girl fans. Why is the self-esteem of some teenage girls so low that they squeal over a pudgy, lady-hating, minivan-driving Floridian tool with Look What The Cat Dragged In—era Poison hair? Why do they want his approval?
Years ago, Jessica labeled emo as "where the girls aren't", and her criticisms were/are valid. While a lot of early-00s emo was indeed sexist, I can't recall ever hearing songs that were so blatantly misogynist. Say what you want about p.c. punk, but if a band simply called a woman a bitch, dozens of zines would be on their ass in an instant. In contrast, bands like BotDF encourage misogyny as entertainment, creating a cycle of woman-hating that I don't see going away. I keep wondering: Where is revolution girl style now?
(bonus: special pro-lady playlist!)
What's funny is that when I was their age (speaking of old...) a lot of hardcore kids would complain about Atom and his Package. Adam was a bespectacled guy with a sequencer who opened for punk bands, and he was entertainingly nerdy even if he wasn't a musical genius. He sang songs about battling homophobia, racist sports mascots and metric-system holdouts. Some felt he was clownish, but even if the music wasn't traditionally punk, its politics were — and the latter has a larger and longer impact culturally, so the end result is a positive one.
Fast-forward 15 years or so, and I so wish there were a legion of Atoms instead of crap bands like BotDF. This Florida trio has created a horrible genre-fusing mess that is so devoid of merit, so glorifying of all that punk stands against, that I'd like to believe it's a joke. Sadly, no. I'm never sure what to make of mall emo, because I'm not at the right age to understand its popularity; maybe if I were 18, I'd be able to get it. Then again, if I were 18, I would still see this as hate-filled ear abuse.
All music genres change over time, but the mainstreaming of subculture has essentially erased any punk politics — at least as it's consumed by your average scene kid. In a relatively short amount of time, we've gone from Girls Up Front and Men Against Sexism to boys screaming at women and treating us as sex slaves. I keep wondering why bands like Brokencyde and BotDF have legions of adoring girl fans. Why is the self-esteem of some teenage girls so low that they squeal over a pudgy, lady-hating, minivan-driving Floridian tool with Look What The Cat Dragged In—era Poison hair? Why do they want his approval?
Years ago, Jessica labeled emo as "where the girls aren't", and her criticisms were/are valid. While a lot of early-00s emo was indeed sexist, I can't recall ever hearing songs that were so blatantly misogynist. Say what you want about p.c. punk, but if a band simply called a woman a bitch, dozens of zines would be on their ass in an instant. In contrast, bands like BotDF encourage misogyny as entertainment, creating a cycle of woman-hating that I don't see going away. I keep wondering: Where is revolution girl style now?
(bonus: special pro-lady playlist!)
Labels: music
I am fast becoming one of the neighborhood's weirdos. In fact, there is probably someone sitting at his or her computer, writing about that tone-deaf cripple who sings the same Elliott Smith song over and over while hobbling down the street. Personally, I wouldn't mind if someone belted out a little Figure 8 outside my window now and then. (It would be better than the Girls track someone was playing loudly yesterday. Like I really needed to hear "Lust for Life" and its fatherless lyrics first thing in the morning.)
Anyway, Elliott Smith's music always feels like an appropriate soundtrack for those transitional weeks between fall and winter. It's sad-bastard music, yeah, but it isn't hopelessly sad. There's a difference between exploring melancholy and drowning in it. Today I had a Twitter reader scold me for asking what song makes them cry every time. She told me that I should be asking about happy songs and making the world a better place. Since this conversation happened through work, I couldn't say what I wanted to say: that tears aren't always borne of sadness, that even the brightest lives need to turn down their lights sometimes, and that doing so is necessary for making the world a better place. But you can't really explain that in 140 characters.
For the record, the song that makes me cry every time is not an Elliott Smith song. Today, Elliott Smith was all about triumph. But this Cash cover has turned me into a puddle ever since I saw the video a year ago. To me, the original felt comically melodramatic in its whispered self-loathing. Even as a wildly depressed teenager, I heard it and thought, "You hurt yourself to see if you still feel? Oh, come on." But the gravitas and gravel of Cash's version, recorded a year before his death, shifts the lyrics into something more meaningful. So when I cry over this song, it's not necessarily out of sadness, but of universality. I'd sing it on the way home, but if I'm going to be a neighborhood weirdo, I'd rather people not think that I like Nine Inch Nails, too.
Anyway, Elliott Smith's music always feels like an appropriate soundtrack for those transitional weeks between fall and winter. It's sad-bastard music, yeah, but it isn't hopelessly sad. There's a difference between exploring melancholy and drowning in it. Today I had a Twitter reader scold me for asking what song makes them cry every time. She told me that I should be asking about happy songs and making the world a better place. Since this conversation happened through work, I couldn't say what I wanted to say: that tears aren't always borne of sadness, that even the brightest lives need to turn down their lights sometimes, and that doing so is necessary for making the world a better place. But you can't really explain that in 140 characters.
For the record, the song that makes me cry every time is not an Elliott Smith song. Today, Elliott Smith was all about triumph. But this Cash cover has turned me into a puddle ever since I saw the video a year ago. To me, the original felt comically melodramatic in its whispered self-loathing. Even as a wildly depressed teenager, I heard it and thought, "You hurt yourself to see if you still feel? Oh, come on." But the gravitas and gravel of Cash's version, recorded a year before his death, shifts the lyrics into something more meaningful. So when I cry over this song, it's not necessarily out of sadness, but of universality. I'd sing it on the way home, but if I'm going to be a neighborhood weirdo, I'd rather people not think that I like Nine Inch Nails, too.
Labels: music
This morning, I looked left and turned right. Going uphill seemed potentially daunting, especially after a weekend of luxuriously slinking into taxis, so I decided to take a different way to work. At the train station, I turned a corner and nearly collided into a man in crutches. We gave each other the sympathetic once-over and started laughing at our sad predicaments. He'd ripped a ligament and was due to de-crutch next week; we compared crutch tips. (zing!) When we hobbled out of the elevator to the lower level, we walked toward a bespectacled white boy who was about to sing to commuters. Funny sight, but he had the last laugh when he began singing the hell out of the Temptations. I caught his eye and he returned my smile while crooning on: "I know you wanna leave me..." That swirl of life, of strangers' lives intersecting for a few flawless moments, made the day begin so beautifully.
The day might have ended even better if my devious love-connection plan had been implemented. Danny and I went to see Dead Man's Bones, who were fantastically weird and theatrical. All of the singers made me feel a mixture of admiration and inadequacy; their voices were like butter whereas mine is like expired VeganRella. The set was peculiar — Danny said the only word for the night was "queer," not meaning it in the gay way — but kinda inspiring in its odd beauty. Anyway, I'd hoped that Ryan Gosling was a secret broken-bones admirer, and that if only he were to see the crutches, he'd want to sign my cast, if you know what I mean. But at the end of the show, it seemed better to leave during the encore (all the better to catch a cab) and pretend that our love did not blossom simply because I had to jet early.
The day might have ended even better if my devious love-connection plan had been implemented. Danny and I went to see Dead Man's Bones, who were fantastically weird and theatrical. All of the singers made me feel a mixture of admiration and inadequacy; their voices were like butter whereas mine is like expired VeganRella. The set was peculiar — Danny said the only word for the night was "queer," not meaning it in the gay way — but kinda inspiring in its odd beauty. Anyway, I'd hoped that Ryan Gosling was a secret broken-bones admirer, and that if only he were to see the crutches, he'd want to sign my cast, if you know what I mean. But at the end of the show, it seemed better to leave during the encore (all the better to catch a cab) and pretend that our love did not blossom simply because I had to jet early.
Labels: i can't walk, music, san francisco, strangers
Today I missed Chicago. Not the city per se, particularly because its temperature has already dipped below 40 degrees, but I miss how it felt to be part of a community. I want to walk to the Rainbo and randomly run into Jonathan Van Hotness. I want to know what Miles thinks of the Smith Westerns' T-Rex-iness, especially considering his unparalleled Marc Bolan Halloween costume from years back. I miss witnessing Atom's nervous energy at Atomix and the way Lake Michigan looks at sunset and bumping into Keara and hanging with Itha and Weeks. Those things and more.
And so, with a suitcase to pack and a couple thousand miles ahead, it is exciting to think of going home — at least for a little while. Lately I've needed comfort and familiarity, and both are within reaching distance. Twenty-four hours from now, when I am falling asleep on a couch while listening to the El's muted rumble, it will feel good to be back. (I hope.)
And so, with a suitcase to pack and a couple thousand miles ahead, it is exciting to think of going home — at least for a little while. Lately I've needed comfort and familiarity, and both are within reaching distance. Twenty-four hours from now, when I am falling asleep on a couch while listening to the El's muted rumble, it will feel good to be back. (I hope.)
If I were French, beautiful, and given a decent budget with which to shoot my pop group's video... I'd probably blow it all on a trip to Thailand, too. (I would also name my Phoenix-y band something other than Pony Pony Run Run, but maybe that's a lost-in-translation sort of thing.) This video makes me want to travel again, preferably to somewhere warm, and soon.
(And TJ, no hidden meanings. I just liked the song.)
(And TJ, no hidden meanings. I just liked the song.)
Labels: music
After remembering Karinsa's old site, I re-watched High Fidelity this weekend. It's sad to think about how the internet has changed the way we consume music. When I moved to Chicago, I hit up Reckless Records so often that I could probably draw both of the North Side stores' layout from memory. (Well, the old Lakeview store; I haven't been to the new location.) I remember rushing in on Tuesdays for the new releases, lazily browsing used records on weekends despite not owning a turntable, feeling proud when the magazine rack held an article I'd written. Things are different now, even when you visit a record store, and I'm glad I got to experience that.
High Fidelity captured the record-nerd archetype perfectly, and it was so Chicago. Charlie's apartment was a few blocks south of my last one, the Music Box was beautiful, and once, Karinsa and I were rewarded at Simon's with unexpected movie fun. Our bartender was the guy who had a couple of lines in High Fidelity. Karinsa and I got such a kick out of Beta Band Bartender, as we called him, largely because we are Nick Hornby fans. At the time, I was still crushed out on John Cusack, too. (Much later, I'd meet him and deem his pompous posturing a huge turnoff.)
When I watched the film this weekend, I viewed it with a different perspective. And I thought about how certain songs are stitched into not just memory, but the way I experience an emotion. Today, without planning to, I jumped back a decade or two by pawing through some classics (End on End) and guilty pleasures (grim chuckle when iTunes queued up "Young Loud and Scotty"). It made me think back on this year, on photo booths in Chicago, and on summer nights driving down dusty roads in Michigan. I know I'm dancing about architecture here, but I'm not sure I would feel as thoroughly in silence.
High Fidelity captured the record-nerd archetype perfectly, and it was so Chicago. Charlie's apartment was a few blocks south of my last one, the Music Box was beautiful, and once, Karinsa and I were rewarded at Simon's with unexpected movie fun. Our bartender was the guy who had a couple of lines in High Fidelity. Karinsa and I got such a kick out of Beta Band Bartender, as we called him, largely because we are Nick Hornby fans. At the time, I was still crushed out on John Cusack, too. (Much later, I'd meet him and deem his pompous posturing a huge turnoff.)
When I watched the film this weekend, I viewed it with a different perspective. And I thought about how certain songs are stitched into not just memory, but the way I experience an emotion. Today, without planning to, I jumped back a decade or two by pawing through some classics (End on End) and guilty pleasures (grim chuckle when iTunes queued up "Young Loud and Scotty"). It made me think back on this year, on photo booths in Chicago, and on summer nights driving down dusty roads in Michigan. I know I'm dancing about architecture here, but I'm not sure I would feel as thoroughly in silence.
A few weeks ago, my friend Ryan (formerly known as Foxy McFoxerson) blew through town with his new band, Amazing Baby. The name made me think of an evil infant genius bent on world domination, but with time, I've chosen to think of it being a play on Telly Savalas's catchphrase. Amazing, baby. Amazing! I wasn't able to go to the show — which was disappointing, because Ryan is one of my favorite musicians to watch, all grins and cymbal crashes — but I checked things out online. This is before he joined the band.
I like how dreamlike yet driving the sound is, and I am happy for and proud of Ryan, but honestly, I feel like after just watching this video, I would test positive for multiple narcotics.
I like how dreamlike yet driving the sound is, and I am happy for and proud of Ryan, but honestly, I feel like after just watching this video, I would test positive for multiple narcotics.
Labels: music
I've been putting four things on repeat lately: Otis Redding, Girls, Sunny Day Real Estate, and Jawbreaker. (Mostly Jawbreaker — no surprise there.) Today I found this gem and immediately became obsessed with this guy who calls himself The Pyles.
This machine kills folkies? Iron Maiden shirt with that hat? That voice? The balance of earnest singing and the sense that he's holding back a big laugh? It's not big, but it is clever. And his original stuff is great. If I were 23, I'd have been in hugely crushed-out trouble — and that's saying something, considering the presence of both cigarette and mustache. Such a happy find.
*
This machine kills folkies? Iron Maiden shirt with that hat? That voice? The balance of earnest singing and the sense that he's holding back a big laugh? It's not big, but it is clever. And his original stuff is great. If I were 23, I'd have been in hugely crushed-out trouble — and that's saying something, considering the presence of both cigarette and mustache. Such a happy find.
*
Labels: jawbreaker, men i would have dated, music
This morning I missed a lot of my Chicago friends. I'm not sure why, but I did, so I was glad when Paul wrote about his latest illustrating endeavor. Paul is one of my favorite artists, and one of the small disappointments of living in San Francisco is that his comics are hard to find here. (I like to give them as gifts, but lately all I can do is lend them.) Paul is able to convey so much emotion through his drawings; his comics were the first that made me cry. That sounds bad, but it's actually one of the best things I could say about someone's work. So I think it's only fitting that he created the cover of this Yonlu album. This collection of songs is melancholy and gorgeous and quietly intense. It sounds as though Nick Drake and Elliott Smith had a few too many caipirinhas and decided to dink around with a sampling program. It's the sort of record that made me pay attention because it sounds full with feeling; it's warm and sad at the same time.
The story behind the record is one of a life abbreviated: Vinicius Gageiro Marques, the Brazilian teenager who created this music, did so in an at-home studio. He was an only child who read Kafka and who spoke Portugese, French, and English. He was, according to all accounts, spectacularly intelligent and highly sensitive. A month before his seventeenth birthday, he poisoned the air around him and died. He left a note and some songs, and his parents discovered more music on his computer. These songs constitute the album.
I would like this record even if Paul weren't involved, even if it didn't have this sad backstory. But knowing the story brings out a pointlessly protective side of myself that wishes I could have told this boy that life can get better. I was an extremely depressed teenager, and though I didn't have this kind of musical talent, I spent hours writing away my alienation and pain through fiction that I'd then destroy. The few of you who have read this site for, what, 13 years now, have probably seen me pull myself out of that part of my life. I feel like another person now, like that was someone else. I listen to these songs and think of this poor boy, this incredibly gifted teenager with a baby face, and feel anger and sadness. Anger because I am always envious of talented people who don't see the gift they have been given, and sadness because he will never know what it's like to feel better.
Some people — always those who have never been depressed — wonder how someone could ever kill himself. I am not that person; I can feel why people commit suicide. I think that anyone who has ever been severely depressed understands that at the lowest point, being alive is so painful that death seems like the better alternative. Depression is an exhausting cycle of physical pain and emotional darkness; I remember sleeping for 17 hours a day just so I didn't have to be awake. Awake is sobbing, awake is self-loathing, awake is utterly alone. Anyone who has ever walked that thorny path knows that you can't merely will yourself out of a cavern that dark. So I can't judge this poor child for thinking that he had to die; to him, it must have seemed like his only choice. I don't condone his actions, but I understand why he felt that way.
When I think of Yonlu's short life, my heart hurts because I experienced that kind of adolescent hopelessness and despair. For me, those feelings are long buried, but I understand them all the same. But I wish that somehow, he had managed to believe the possibility that his future would be better than his present. I wish he had known that life will never be painless, but that living could have become better. That maybe he'd grow up and be 30 and happy someday. That he'd move people with his music, that a whole world was waiting for him. I'm not very articulate about this, because all I want to do is build a time machine and find him and hold him and promise him that his pain did not have to be permanent. I could have been him years ago; he could have become like me years from now. His poor bruised, beautiful, unknown and unknowable heart haunts me.
Longtime readers, all two of you, will remember that I bought a guitar a few years ago. Sadly, my plans to launch a Moss Icon-y (Moss Iconic?) band died before they were born. Which, when you think about it, is right in line with all of the together-for-ten-minutes bands that came out of the mid-90s hardcore scene, so I guess I did that right.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Anyway, I had to sell my guitar to help pay for my move to California. It was unfortunate, but not emotional. In a way, I was happy to see it go, because it represented failure. I wanted to learn how to play guitar well, but my hands always cramped up, and then I got lazy. Typical story. And yet, I missed strumming my cruddy power chords and pretending that I was gonna be in a band. Which is why I bought the Danelectro:
I found it on Craigslist and bought it from a woman in her 40s. She'd put banjo strings on the guitar, so it has a tinny twang. But I love it all the same. I wind up playing it more frequently than I played the old guitar. I'm still a pretty bad guitarist, but I wind up spending hours tinkering around with the thing, and slowly my muscles are remembering chords. So far, I can play these songs from memory and everything:
- "Want": Pathetically, I envision recording this one and giving it to someone who will probably not appreciate it, thereby increasing my misanthropy levels to previously unimagined heights. Tortured artist! (See earlier admission of humiliating love of the original Jawbreaker song.) I also set up the bassline on the 303. Because I am not a very fast guitarist, the song winds up sounding forlorn in its slower pace.
- "Love Will Tear Us Apart" I don't know how it happened, but somehow Joy Division has become my favorite band. I think it's the winning combination of moodiness and beauty. Anyway, the opening chords are so easy to play, and they burst forward shining. I don't have a keyboard for the melody, so I have to sing "DOOOOOO, doo dee doo doo doo doo, DEE doo" like the cut-rate musician that I am. Sabrina is going to learn the bassline, and then Monarchs of Laze will finally be able to complete our first song. Even if it is a cover.
- "Clash City Rockers" My poor downstairs neighbors must have grown so tired of hearing these eight chord-bursts for, like, three hours straight last weekend. Sorry, guys (but, to be fair, I can hear your snoring in the mornings. Call it even.)
- "Ceremony" Jesse showed me part of this song a while ago, so it was easy to delve into the dusty recesses of my brain and produce the necessary plinkings. I still need to look at the tabs for this one, but I only started learning it last night.
This list will expand, of course. You can say you knew me when. Just as long as I don't try to join Ghost of Curtis, things should be just fine.
Labels: jawbreaker, joy division, music, new order, sabs, the clash
I am not superstitious, but I do think that life gives you signs, and if you don't pick up on them, you're going through life half-blind. Yesterday, I had two of them: I sent payment for the last $6.58 of one of my two student loans in the afternoon, and in the evening I crossed the bridge and went to 924 Gilman. The Thorns of Life, the terribly named* but very promising band featuring Blake Schwarzenbach/Aaron Cometbus/Daniela Sea. I'd worried that going to Gilman would make me feel old, or too yuppified, or not punk enough. Instead, everything felt right. (OK, everything but the filthy bathrooms at Gilman.) Things are becoming clearer — even if I can't share how so just yet — and it feels like home again.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
* Yes, I know it's a Shelley reference, but the fact that we spent half of our trek to the East Bay trying to remember the name of Charlotte Rae's character on The Facts of Life says something.
Labels: jawbreaker, music, regression to adolescence, thorns of life
Oh, this video makes me so happy!
Earlier today, Weeks and I were IMing about some oddball Partnership for a Drug-Free America commercials for... straight-edge. They show teenagers reciting "Straight Edge" all deadpan-like, and somehow I suppose we're expected to think, "Ah! I was thinking of doing drugs, but instead I shall listen to a punk band from 25 years ago." It doesn't work as an advertisement, because straight-edge generally feels like something that misfits get into to feel like less of a misfit. At least that's part of the reason it felt right to me. Also, the commercials made us feel old.
Earlier today, Weeks and I were IMing about some oddball Partnership for a Drug-Free America commercials for... straight-edge. They show teenagers reciting "Straight Edge" all deadpan-like, and somehow I suppose we're expected to think, "Ah! I was thinking of doing drugs, but instead I shall listen to a punk band from 25 years ago." It doesn't work as an advertisement, because straight-edge generally feels like something that misfits get into to feel like less of a misfit. At least that's part of the reason it felt right to me. Also, the commercials made us feel old.
Labels: music, regression to adolescence
Every day, in my paper journal, I write down five good things. The goal is to actively appreciate my life. It's a self-helpy, touchy-feely thing to do, but it does help put things in perspective. Sometimes the list has serious things (father's cancerous mole removed safely) and other times it's silly (did not embarrass self at party by talking about squirrel foraging habits).
Today's list:
5. Amusement Parks on Fire is either a guilty pleasure or the band that's providing this year's summer jam, "Venus in Cancer." Maybe both.
4. Therapy was, uh, therapeutic. I feel grounded and confident, ready to take on what needs fixin'. Even the stuff I am a little scared of taking on. After therapy, I had a nice lunch of inari and a cupcake. Those are two of my favorite snacks.
3. Despite the teasing disdain of Ben Calhoun, Chicago Public Radio, I will enjoy watching two hours of pretty Angelina in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. As I told Ben, not everything has to be Fellini.
2. In the morning, I saw Sean at the El stop. It was nice to have a friend to talk with on the way to work. Later, I ran into my sister-in-law Karen, who is always great to see.
1. This extends backwards one day, but yesterday I had lunch with my best friend from grade school. Only a few weeks previous, I'd been talking about how I wish we hadn't lost touch over the years. She e-mailed me last week, and yesterday we saw each other for the first time in 13 years. She's beautiful and as funny and wonderful as ever. We talked and laughed as though no years had passed at all.
Today's list:
5. Amusement Parks on Fire is either a guilty pleasure or the band that's providing this year's summer jam, "Venus in Cancer." Maybe both.
4. Therapy was, uh, therapeutic. I feel grounded and confident, ready to take on what needs fixin'. Even the stuff I am a little scared of taking on. After therapy, I had a nice lunch of inari and a cupcake. Those are two of my favorite snacks.
3. Despite the teasing disdain of Ben Calhoun, Chicago Public Radio, I will enjoy watching two hours of pretty Angelina in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. As I told Ben, not everything has to be Fellini.
2. In the morning, I saw Sean at the El stop. It was nice to have a friend to talk with on the way to work. Later, I ran into my sister-in-law Karen, who is always great to see.
1. This extends backwards one day, but yesterday I had lunch with my best friend from grade school. Only a few weeks previous, I'd been talking about how I wish we hadn't lost touch over the years. She e-mailed me last week, and yesterday we saw each other for the first time in 13 years. She's beautiful and as funny and wonderful as ever. We talked and laughed as though no years had passed at all.
Labels: music
Indian Summer - Angry Son
I was either too young or too unhip to have seen Indian Summer play, so I don't know what their live shows were like. I imagine there was clutching of the microphone as well as seeping sweat stains down the back of shirts.
Elliott Smith - King's Crossing
My old roommate Ariana used to listen to Elliott Smith as the weather turned from warm to cool, so I'm taking a cue from her. Lately, I like to hear this song while riding my bicycle around in the morning. Sometimes I think about Elliott Smith, and how sad his addiction and depression were. I'm sure that many fans and friends cared about him and wanted to help, but when you're suicidal, the last thing you want to hear is that someone knows just how you feel. All you know is that you're sad, and you hate your unlovable self so much that you get angry with anybody who even suggests that you're not completely worthless. Thanks go to Catherine, who hosts the mp3.
Mineral - Parking Lot
Is this song corny? Maybe toward the end it is, but I don't care. The first guitar swell is the audio embodiment of how I've been feeling lately.
The One AM Radio - Flicker
In a just world, Hrishikesh Hirway would be on music-magazine covers, rather than tucked away in HeartattaCk and the Venus DIY section. His voice is the kind you want to hear whispered into your ear at midnight. I've said it before and I'll say it (well, copy and paste it) again: Passivity is barely an option in listening to this record; its every groove puts a hold on the heart.
Chin Up Chin Up - We Should Never Have Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers
Title tracko-o from very good new album out right now; Insound loves it and you will, too. I saw Chin Up Chin Up at CMJ and then two days later at the Bottle, and they were ex-cel-lent. They are doing an all-over-the-place tour, so get to it! Go see them and maybe dance a little.
I was either too young or too unhip to have seen Indian Summer play, so I don't know what their live shows were like. I imagine there was clutching of the microphone as well as seeping sweat stains down the back of shirts.
Elliott Smith - King's Crossing
My old roommate Ariana used to listen to Elliott Smith as the weather turned from warm to cool, so I'm taking a cue from her. Lately, I like to hear this song while riding my bicycle around in the morning. Sometimes I think about Elliott Smith, and how sad his addiction and depression were. I'm sure that many fans and friends cared about him and wanted to help, but when you're suicidal, the last thing you want to hear is that someone knows just how you feel. All you know is that you're sad, and you hate your unlovable self so much that you get angry with anybody who even suggests that you're not completely worthless. Thanks go to Catherine, who hosts the mp3.
Mineral - Parking Lot
Is this song corny? Maybe toward the end it is, but I don't care. The first guitar swell is the audio embodiment of how I've been feeling lately.
The One AM Radio - Flicker
In a just world, Hrishikesh Hirway would be on music-magazine covers, rather than tucked away in HeartattaCk and the Venus DIY section. His voice is the kind you want to hear whispered into your ear at midnight. I've said it before and I'll say it (well, copy and paste it) again: Passivity is barely an option in listening to this record; its every groove puts a hold on the heart.
Chin Up Chin Up - We Should Never Have Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers
Title tracko-o from very good new album out right now; Insound loves it and you will, too. I saw Chin Up Chin Up at CMJ and then two days later at the Bottle, and they were ex-cel-lent. They are doing an all-over-the-place tour, so get to it! Go see them and maybe dance a little.
Labels: music
My mom, reading a book: Who is... Tim Balland?
Me, thinking: (Does she mean Tim Burton?)
My mom: Tim Balland, Tim Balland...
Me, realizing: Oh, he's a rapper.
- - -
Last night, while gawking at the hundreds of channels afforded to my parents by the DirecTV, I ran across the FUSE channel. "Is that what Ophi and Tali were on?" my mother asked.
"No, that was TRL, on MTV," I responded, realizing that we were weirdly speaking half in abbreviations. "This is some other music channel."
The two people grinned on screen, announcing that they were sooo stoked about the new Morrissey video. "Mom, they're going to show Morrissey," I said. She punched the air, grinned, and scurried over to the couch. My father entered the room with O'Douls in hand. Morrissey started to lazily sway his hips. "Oh, he looks OLD!" observed my mother.
My father blinked at the television, perhaps wondering why we were watching the pomp of a graying pompadour. "Who is this?" he asked.
"It's Morrissey," said my mom. "He is old and grumpy and gay," I added. "Oh," said my father, and he, too, sat down to watch the video.
Me, thinking: (Does she mean Tim Burton?)
My mom: Tim Balland, Tim Balland...
Me, realizing: Oh, he's a rapper.
- - -
Last night, while gawking at the hundreds of channels afforded to my parents by the DirecTV, I ran across the FUSE channel. "Is that what Ophi and Tali were on?" my mother asked.
"No, that was TRL, on MTV," I responded, realizing that we were weirdly speaking half in abbreviations. "This is some other music channel."
The two people grinned on screen, announcing that they were sooo stoked about the new Morrissey video. "Mom, they're going to show Morrissey," I said. She punched the air, grinned, and scurried over to the couch. My father entered the room with O'Douls in hand. Morrissey started to lazily sway his hips. "Oh, he looks OLD!" observed my mother.
My father blinked at the television, perhaps wondering why we were watching the pomp of a graying pompadour. "Who is this?" he asked.
"It's Morrissey," said my mom. "He is old and grumpy and gay," I added. "Oh," said my father, and he, too, sat down to watch the video.
For over a month, I'd been eagerly awaiting the ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Girls/Explosions in the Sky show. Sometimes, when people are excited about an event, the anticipation winds up being more exciting than the event itself. Not so this time.
After a rousing daytrip to Wisconsin to shop at the Mars Cheese Castle, the woodland triumvirate of Owlie, Woodsy, and I had dinner at Bite. Lately I have been on a salad kick, craving spinach and vinaigrette. And really, I only wanted to order a salad, but as a thin girl, I get anxious about doing that. I am convinced that people will think that I am on a diet or something crazy like that. Yes, it's ridiculous, but it's one of my quirks, okay? So I also ordered a pasta dish which turned out to be lousy. If you're ever at Bite, do not order the pasta.
The show was sold out, but we had wisely purchased our tickets in advance. Explosions in the Sky were beautiful and noisy. The best part of the set involved the middle-aged guy standing next to me. He displayed the enthusiasm that one of the band members' parents might, with lots of thumbs-up and "WOO!"ing. The band members tried to ignore him, but he would not have any of it. "Rockford loooooves you guys," he'd yell, pumping his fist in the air. I found a new place to stand when he started smiling at me. Yikes.
Trail of Dead were as much fun and as energetic as I'd hoped they would be. There really is something fantastic about seeing a band completely trash their instruments after playing. And as Woodsy pointed out, "And this way, you don't have to worry about an encore!" I agree. Even if I love the band (and last night's show was marvy) it's nice when they just play all the songs without waiting for the ego-boosting encore.
After the show: I saw R. (a friend's boyfriend), who introduced me to Whoa. [Owlie and I had seen Whoa earlier that night and all we could say was, "Whoa." Or maybe it was wow, I can't be sure. Either way, he was magazine-beautiful, as Jaime would say.] Anyway, Whoa was very pleasant and witty, all those nice things. I responded in my own brilliant way by blurting, "WE WENT TO THE MARS CHEESE CASTLE!" Much to my amazement, the tuxedo-clad Whoa reacted with great glee: "I love that place!" A man who wears dress clothes and recognizes the greatness of cheesy tourist traps? Whoa indeed.
This is where the funny part comes in. My friend has, on more than one occasion, suggested fixing me up with Whoa. "You are both funny! You both love books," she'd say. I just didn't like the idea of being set up with somebody. And then we met each other just out of the blue. R. and Whoa invited me to hang out with them after the show, but it was late. No phone numbers were exchanged, but I'm sure I'll hear all the gossip tomorrow.
- - -
Other nicknames given or used last night: Cat Man, Edward Norton Tootie, Jason Lee Creepy, When Art Mullets Go Bad.
After a rousing daytrip to Wisconsin to shop at the Mars Cheese Castle, the woodland triumvirate of Owlie, Woodsy, and I had dinner at Bite. Lately I have been on a salad kick, craving spinach and vinaigrette. And really, I only wanted to order a salad, but as a thin girl, I get anxious about doing that. I am convinced that people will think that I am on a diet or something crazy like that. Yes, it's ridiculous, but it's one of my quirks, okay? So I also ordered a pasta dish which turned out to be lousy. If you're ever at Bite, do not order the pasta.
The show was sold out, but we had wisely purchased our tickets in advance. Explosions in the Sky were beautiful and noisy. The best part of the set involved the middle-aged guy standing next to me. He displayed the enthusiasm that one of the band members' parents might, with lots of thumbs-up and "WOO!"ing. The band members tried to ignore him, but he would not have any of it. "Rockford loooooves you guys," he'd yell, pumping his fist in the air. I found a new place to stand when he started smiling at me. Yikes.
Trail of Dead were as much fun and as energetic as I'd hoped they would be. There really is something fantastic about seeing a band completely trash their instruments after playing. And as Woodsy pointed out, "And this way, you don't have to worry about an encore!" I agree. Even if I love the band (and last night's show was marvy) it's nice when they just play all the songs without waiting for the ego-boosting encore.
After the show: I saw R. (a friend's boyfriend), who introduced me to Whoa. [Owlie and I had seen Whoa earlier that night and all we could say was, "Whoa." Or maybe it was wow, I can't be sure. Either way, he was magazine-beautiful, as Jaime would say.] Anyway, Whoa was very pleasant and witty, all those nice things. I responded in my own brilliant way by blurting, "WE WENT TO THE MARS CHEESE CASTLE!" Much to my amazement, the tuxedo-clad Whoa reacted with great glee: "I love that place!" A man who wears dress clothes and recognizes the greatness of cheesy tourist traps? Whoa indeed.
This is where the funny part comes in. My friend has, on more than one occasion, suggested fixing me up with Whoa. "You are both funny! You both love books," she'd say. I just didn't like the idea of being set up with somebody. And then we met each other just out of the blue. R. and Whoa invited me to hang out with them after the show, but it was late. No phone numbers were exchanged, but I'm sure I'll hear all the gossip tomorrow.
- - -
Other nicknames given or used last night: Cat Man, Edward Norton Tootie, Jason Lee Creepy, When Art Mullets Go Bad.
Labels: music
Saw your head off
Face of food
December's tragic try
Win Simon's mellow tree
Win star land wood outside
The women brushed my heart
Saw your head off
Face the fool
The sun braids waive a fear
When their songs misopen
The secret force of gaahhh
This last time raise my eyes
You taste it!
You taste it!
Wind chime! Wind chime! Wind chime!
Face of food
December's tragic try
Win Simon's mellow tree
Win star land wood outside
The women brushed my heart
Saw your head off
Face the fool
The sun braids waive a fear
When their songs misopen
The secret force of gaahhh
This last time raise my eyes
You taste it!
You taste it!
Wind chime! Wind chime! Wind chime!
Labels: music, sunny day real estate
Last night I had a terrible time falling asleep. My heart hurt, not in a whiny emo sense, but literally. I've been having intermittent chest pains along with leg and arm numbness. It might be a good idea to go back to the doctor, but I am lazy, cheap, and scared of needles.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
Saturday was one of those perfect sunny Autumn days, a promising beginning for the season. I woke up early because a telemarketer called, offering discounted subscriptions to magazines. He kept pushing Marie Claire, which Evan had given me for Christmas, and Shape. I told the telemarketer that I was not interested in buying magazines. He suggested Fitness, which made me wonder if somehow he knew that I hadn't been riding my bicycle enough. Finally I acquiesced and said that I would buy a subscription to either Bitch or Bust. He backed off. They do every time.
I then picked up some oil, fed it to Vespy, and gave her a good cleaning. Then I zipped into the sunshine and scooted around town, honking at other scooters and enjoying the day. At night, Arrin came over so that we could walk to a party at Evan and Jaime's. He seemed unusually worried that the cats would pee on his jacket. This might be understandable if I had mentioned their incontinence, but they're really good at using their litter box. The party was fun, because lots of people were there (including another Ann T. [for the record, I'm Anne with an -e, like Anne Shirley]). Erin and I left around midnight. We took Vespy north on Clark, and boy howdy, did we get attention from the rowdy, happy bar stumblers. It's great to have girl friends. We are living the days that we'll recall as old ladies. My mom has a collection of pictures from the mid-sixties, when she was my age. I have always wanted that photographed lifestyle, complete with girlfriends and picnics and the sun filtering through leaves in Lincoln Park. Except, you know, updated for today's youth and their Spock Rock style.
Anyway, after dropping Erin off, I scooted up to Andersonville, which is one of my favorite places to visit. Sometimes I like to ride my bicycle along the lakefront, stop at the Foster Avenue Beach, and then stroll around the neighborhood. There's a shop called The Acorn (!) as well as a feminist bookstore called Women and Children First. Anyway, I wandered into Simon's around 1. Generally speaking, I don't like bars, but for some reason I like Simon's. It's the place where hipsters come to die, in a way. The crowd is made up of locals and late-twentysomethings who have outgrown the Rainbo. Simon's has Schlitz signs, pretty colored lights in the front window, and comfortable sofas in the back. The bar was crowded but not packed, and I bought my Cherry Coke and sat on the corner bench by the front window. I tried to look nonchalant while reading my museum brochures, but it's hard to not feel a little pathetic when you're sipping a non-alcoholic beverage at a bar on a Saturday night. I just didn't want to be alone that night, and even in isolation, it was better to be alone with others than alone with self. Evan and I have a long-standing argument over whether Simon's is my bar or his bar. He claims it as his, because he goes there more often than I do (which makes sense, as he drinks and I don't). But I say it's mine, because Todd treated me to a soda there first.
This week is a decent concert week: Sigur Ros plays the Vic on Thursday. Tickets are $20 and they're probably already sold out, but I'm tempted to check it out. It's only a few blocks from home, and post-rockin' shows are slightly amusing in their un-fun-ness. Then, on John's birthday, zee American Analog Set is playing. Lots of head-nodding to ensue. It's too bad that every show couldn't be a Ted Leo show. Everybody would dance.
I am currently at work, where I will be for hours and days more. Last night I was here until nine, and I left the building only to face a torrential downpour. Too cheap to take a cab, too stubborn to wait more than a few minutes, I rode home at a snail's pace. It was not the most uplifting evening in recent history.
I like Madonna and I like The Darling Buds, both of whom released albums called Erotica on the same day 10-odd years ago. Madonna is great and all, but that album wasn't her best; on the other hand, the B uds' release was darling. Plus, the cover art is yellow and dreamy. If you like sugary/shoegazey/lady-voiced pop, you should really pick it up.
Update: it is 9:55 and I am still here at work. This is the longest day I've ever worked: thirteen hours so far, with many more to come. If i were paid by the hour, man, would I be cleaning up. Alas, I am not, on both counts. Does anybody know of an open job position that calls for part-time squirrelology? If so, please contact me; I will send you my resume and we can chat.
I like Madonna and I like The Darling Buds, both of whom released albums called Erotica on the same day 10-odd years ago. Madonna is great and all, but that album wasn't her best; on the other hand, the B uds' release was darling. Plus, the cover art is yellow and dreamy. If you like sugary/shoegazey/lady-voiced pop, you should really pick it up.
Update: it is 9:55 and I am still here at work. This is the longest day I've ever worked: thirteen hours so far, with many more to come. If i were paid by the hour, man, would I be cleaning up. Alas, I am not, on both counts. Does anybody know of an open job position that calls for part-time squirrelology? If so, please contact me; I will send you my resume and we can chat.
Labels: music
The other night, Ted Leo and the Pharmacists played a rock show at the Empty Bottle. Adam and I had gone to Reckless for an in-store performance earlier in the day, but in my personal opinion, you can't get too much of that sound. The newish record is on Lookout, so go pick it up today, today, today. I had gone to the show by myself, so for about 15 minutes, I stood and watched the A-Set alone. Some guy kept shifting closer to me with every little indie rocker head-bob. I don't know if this was done on purpose, or if he was unaware of his encroachment on my Coke-sippin' territory. Either way, I was very happy to later find a human torch and Mr. Party J esus because awkwardness loves company, especially the company of good Michigan people.
Is it abnormal to have only two pairs of jeans? An informal poll says yes. A salesguy at the Crap (ho ho, that's THE GAP) seemed shocked, absolutely shocked when I said that I had only two pairs. He steered me toward some low-riders and some hiphug gers and some bunhuggers too. I told him that none of those would fit, but he believed otherwise. Five minutes later, in the fitting room, I laughed loudly because there's no way those pants would look good on anybody over 15.
The thing is, my two pairs of jeans are not so cute. I have had the first pair for a year and I've washed them maybe four times. Every time I wash them, they shrink a little bit, but only in the posterior. Perhaps the ol' rump is seeing the effect of one too many croissants. The other pair of jeans-what was I thinking? They are all stretchy and would probably be fine if I were, oh, Jennifer Lopez, and I liked showing off my derriere. But I'm not, and I don't, and the only reason I bought those flashdance ass pants was that they were something like 80% off. Dummy dummy.
So I went to the Diesel store today and found a lovely pair of jeans-just the right balance of messiness and crisp lines, none of that flared-leg hippie nonsense-but they cost $125. Call me a big cheapo, but that is too much money to pay for a pair of pan ts that can be ruined by some schmutz on a bus seat. A prisoner of skirts, I remain.
Haven't fed squirrels in months. Must get back to that. Must get back to basics and rule over acornian subjects with the crown and scepter of the Squirrel Emperor.
Is it abnormal to have only two pairs of jeans? An informal poll says yes. A salesguy at the Crap (ho ho, that's THE GAP) seemed shocked, absolutely shocked when I said that I had only two pairs. He steered me toward some low-riders and some hiphug gers and some bunhuggers too. I told him that none of those would fit, but he believed otherwise. Five minutes later, in the fitting room, I laughed loudly because there's no way those pants would look good on anybody over 15.
The thing is, my two pairs of jeans are not so cute. I have had the first pair for a year and I've washed them maybe four times. Every time I wash them, they shrink a little bit, but only in the posterior. Perhaps the ol' rump is seeing the effect of one too many croissants. The other pair of jeans-what was I thinking? They are all stretchy and would probably be fine if I were, oh, Jennifer Lopez, and I liked showing off my derriere. But I'm not, and I don't, and the only reason I bought those flashdance ass pants was that they were something like 80% off. Dummy dummy.
So I went to the Diesel store today and found a lovely pair of jeans-just the right balance of messiness and crisp lines, none of that flared-leg hippie nonsense-but they cost $125. Call me a big cheapo, but that is too much money to pay for a pair of pan ts that can be ruined by some schmutz on a bus seat. A prisoner of skirts, I remain.
Haven't fed squirrels in months. Must get back to that. Must get back to basics and rule over acornian subjects with the crown and scepter of the Squirrel Emperor.
Oh, so I finally took at look at this site on my non-work computer. Sorry about that resolution problem; I resolve (nudge nudge, tee hee) to fix that when I install my new hard drive. It's a Barracuda, and every time I look at it, I sing, "Oooh! Barra-coo -duhhhh!" like the 70's child that I am.
Is it just me, or do At the Drive In and Les Savy Fav sound like mirrors? I feel grizzled because when I heard the latter band yesterday, I thought, "Hrm, this sounds okay, but not spectacular, and certainly nothing breathtakingly new." OLD OLD OLD.
Please don't call this a weblog, or worse, a "blog." Call it what it is: the occasionally updated random ramblings of the Squirrel Emperor.
The current issue of Brill's Content has a decent article about Bill Maher, host of tv's smash hit talk show, Politically Incorrect. Basically it points out that he's an insensitive, sexist celebrity ass-kisser. Speaking of magazines, Inside.com's print v ersion landed in my mailbox the other day. Its design looks like all those other new economy magazines (read: snoozily sterile), and the writing didn't excite me. What's interesting is that out of all the editorial photos in a December issue, there are on ly two women represented among a sea of men. For more grim amusement, count the non-white faces. Disappointing.
Is it just me, or do At the Drive In and Les Savy Fav sound like mirrors? I feel grizzled because when I heard the latter band yesterday, I thought, "Hrm, this sounds okay, but not spectacular, and certainly nothing breathtakingly new." OLD OLD OLD.
Please don't call this a weblog, or worse, a "blog." Call it what it is: the occasionally updated random ramblings of the Squirrel Emperor.
The current issue of Brill's Content has a decent article about Bill Maher, host of tv's smash hit talk show, Politically Incorrect. Basically it points out that he's an insensitive, sexist celebrity ass-kisser. Speaking of magazines, Inside.com's print v ersion landed in my mailbox the other day. Its design looks like all those other new economy magazines (read: snoozily sterile), and the writing didn't excite me. What's interesting is that out of all the editorial photos in a December issue, there are on ly two women represented among a sea of men. For more grim amusement, count the non-white faces. Disappointing.
Labels: music
It's been said before, but I'll temporarily confirm: I am the grossest girl in the world. My arm and neck have itchy red spots on them, and after thinking things through a bit, I've figured out that I have poison ivy. Yuck. I've tried to stay inside as much as possible (sad but slightly real fear: the day I venture out into the city, looking like hell warmed over, I will run into a certain Cusack.)
Tomorrow night, The Black Heart Procession is playing a ROCK AND ROLL SHOW. I would like to go, but I don't know how to get to the venue. Moreover, lately I feel out of place at these rock shows. Instead of fighting hipster crowds and lung-burning smoke, I wind up staying home listening to Mogwai. From time to time, I force myself to go to a show, but sometimes I can't even make it inside. When Death Cab For Cutie played Brownies, I milled around the beautiful indie rockers for about five minutes before taking the F train home. It was just too weird—me there by myself, everyone in Diesel, etc. And finally, when my big chance to see Weezer came around, the show sold out in two minutes (I had a squirrely agent in line; I know these things). Maybe some higher power doesn't want me to go to shows—or maybe I'm just settling into oldness like a well-worn sweater.
Tomorrow night, The Black Heart Procession is playing a ROCK AND ROLL SHOW. I would like to go, but I don't know how to get to the venue. Moreover, lately I feel out of place at these rock shows. Instead of fighting hipster crowds and lung-burning smoke, I wind up staying home listening to Mogwai. From time to time, I force myself to go to a show, but sometimes I can't even make it inside. When Death Cab For Cutie played Brownies, I milled around the beautiful indie rockers for about five minutes before taking the F train home. It was just too weird—me there by myself, everyone in Diesel, etc. And finally, when my big chance to see Weezer came around, the show sold out in two minutes (I had a squirrely agent in line; I know these things). Maybe some higher power doesn't want me to go to shows—or maybe I'm just settling into oldness like a well-worn sweater.
Labels: music
