January 03, 2005


As an act of indifference, laziness, recoil and revolt, I did my Village Voice pazz and jop ballot with no care, mostly just put down the albums whose names I could remember. Only mistake is that I forgot to put Hold Steady on entirely, and the real shame of it that there is not some measure where I can vote for only the first half of the Anthony Hamilton album. Everyone in the critical compass huffs and puffs for the last 66 days of the year revising and reviewing their piles so they can make sure their arrows point to poignant, with a touch of obscurist love, cocks to the sky over the annointed dead, the new Dylan (or the old one) and the bootylicious, tossing the whole thing around on their tongues like the holy host.

The only record I could put a geniune fist in the air on was Tv on The Radio. Because I cannot vote for Nina Simone record that came out in 1964, and I cannot vote for my boyfriends album that comes out 9/7/2005, which is a great thing, it being a rap album draped in truth about boy life anchored in the patriarchy - a topic which capitivates my brain. I also cannot vote for Joanna Newsom, because I only vote for humans, not precious kittens.

I swear I am not bitter and I swear I am not bored, but all I know is that the Pistol Pete remix of Ghostface's "Run" is the only song that came out in 2004 that made me want to fuck. "Lean Back" was ominous and sinster and Cam'ron is the new rape rock of rap, and "White T" made me root for the communist blow up plot, and after spending three weeks on Warped Tour I suddenly believed that Thursday was the most important band in America. The best hardcore band in America is Make Believe, despite not being a hardcore band, though I could not vote for them because did a little work for them once a while ago and that is "conflict of interest". I think it's funny that at major magazines, people get all up in arms over conflict of interest, despite eating off the maje labe publicist dime, despite the fact that editors are fucking artists they write about (not even figuratively), despite that writers are fucking editors for promotions and hires, despite that it's all Halliburton/Cheney at every magazine not held to some public transparency hardline. Everyone is trying to be the meat in the handjob sandwich, if you are dealing with any place paying more than a buck a word.
It's no longer fuck me feminism, it's fuck me capitalism, mon babes.

Speaking of 10th avenue freezeout, I spent the New Year in frosty Duluth Minnesota, seeing Heiruspecs play to 40 people in an unheated theatre that seats 1200, and the MCs rocked the mics with mittens on. They sold veggie dogs at the concession stand, and mix your own hot choco. The wacky "morning zoo" radio personalities tried to ignite the crowd during the 15 minutes leading up ot the 2005 clock strike, with the glacially paced raffle. I did not win the remote car starter, the 1 month of unlimited tanning at Midnight Sun, nor did I get the weekend lift pass to Fantasy Mountain or the $75 liquor store gift certificate. I would be lying if I told you I did not want that remote car starter, though. Raffles are a big part of Minnesota culture -- a lot of blue collar bars over northeast, at least -- have meat raffles a couple nights a week. I am tempted, once I live here again, to do an investigative report -- make the rounds, try the odds, see if I can win some pork chops. I do not know what I would do with them, but winning meat is an omarion prospect for sure.

Happy New Year everyone. You are the greatest and you deserve a great 2005.

Posted by Jessica at January 3, 2005 02:42 PM | TrackBack