January 11, 2005


Thank you to all the people who emailed me telling me, offering me, etc copies of their Pistol Pete 12" with the Ghostface "Run" vers. on there. Fortunately, Pete sent me 12 copies to call me own on Friday. (Pistol Pete, the producer, not to be confused with Parsnip Pete, the 24 inches tall milkchoco easter bunny / candy statue who starred in several films I made as a high school film student.)

In reading news: I must reccommend the letter to the US gov't from Chief Seattle that appears on page 64 of Joseph Campell's book, Power of Myth. The Gov't want to get the injuns to sell land to them. Chief Seattle insists he cannot sell the land, because they do not own the land, and how can you own the land. He says he could no more buy or sell the land, or the sky, than he could sell the body heat of his pony. It's a tremendous and articulate fuck you, and I enjoyed it very much. I also would like to say that if you could sell pony body heat, I'd buy it.

I have nothing to report to you other than this. Minneapolis is Minneapolis. The punks all look like punks. The snow is delivered fresh every morning. All the bands still sound like Drive Like Jehu, just like when I was in high school.

And teenage girls still tie their shirts up to showcase flat bellies and faded summer tans in the front row of rap shows, and flit their eyes back and forth between examining their own selves (hiking bra straps, tugging down jean tops, throwing hair) and laser-eyeing the MC in hopes of locking a meaningful glance down - they do it here just like in Florida and France. I watched it for 90 minutes last night, and found it less depressing than usual, maybe because all the front row girls here rock mall grunge hippy chic, a smell-able-from-here effort to dirty up their blonde Norse-innocence and give in to that more adult full bore keg-mystique that says "I spent spring break in Daytona, and you will not believe what I did." The funna-slut steez of a 19 year old Lutheran Minnesota girl is so inherantly overt and thumb-handed, it's easy to feel a zoo-keep sort of love for them. Their perfume always smells like the cheap peach-scented candles from Walgreens.

Posted by Jessica at January 11, 2005 05:26 PM | TrackBack