October 05, 2007

THE FURTHER ADO WE COULD DO WITHOUT

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Did y'all see or feel that fogstorm that rolled in 1 a.m. on Tuesday? This was right after the Blow show, and by the time I drove Kells home, it was less than a block visibility. It was very Something Wicked This Way Comes. Oh, the natural forebodence of fog. I thought the Blow was ok, and I have some questions about some things she said towards the end of her performance, and so rather than suppose what she meant I'm going to ask her what she meant and when I find out, we can talk about it here, within the blog universe. Kells is going to explode with jealousy if I do get to talk to her. She wanted to talk to Khaela at the show but got nervous. "Should I just go up to her and start taking off my clothes?" she asked. Miles and I suggested something more subtle, like complimenting her shiny white Asics. She did neither.

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The other things I wanted to tell you about:
Erol Alkan's podcast is worth the hard drive space, if you fancy techno and similar dancing musics. Even if you don't give a solitary ratshit about techno, if you click on "subscribe to podcast" it'll take you to his iTunes zone, and you can download the BBC6 broadcast he did earlier this month, where he plays songs he loves and enthuses about them with music nerd earnestness--and it's all psyche and proto this and that, deep weirdness and pop obscurities. The cool in trade of DJing, like many things, is about exclusivity, of having to be there and know about the secret and the obscurities and participate in keeping the wall up, so I'm into that he bucks all of that, posts all his gigs you couldn't get in to, playlists, explains it so everyone can understand, not just the people who already understand.

and

William Least Heat Moon is speaking at the downtown library on the 22nd, with Studs. Have you read Blue Highways yet? The version offered up by Amazon here make it look like it'll be some real M. Scott Peck vexed-cathexis self-discovery voyage; actually, it looks like the side of an illustrated kleenex box. It's not. It's a keening poem on the death of America, or perhaps the birth of the truest America (glinting dumb, evil and so beautiful in the harsh light of 2007), and the slaughter of the first America. If you have to buy this version, maybe you can put some colorful painters tape over it or cover the dustjacket of Rabbit Redux, so you can maintain your dignity when reading it on the bus.

Posted by Jessica at October 5, 2007 12:53 PM | TrackBack