January 30, 2004

Riot girl bitches mucking in the Trackback, y'all.

People putting me in thier internet crosshairs is super funny to me. Is it because I called him an asshole AND a dick? I am taking Mr. Radosh's comments about the way I "talk" (type) as being a throw back to his "Oberlin days" as a positive sign that I might actually get in to the college I am applying to this fall. Apparently, I am already way head of the game! SWEET!
Last year the hate was on me for not being academic enough/flossing amatuer... Oh, The irony! J-Smooth set the standard -- and so I will anxiously await Mr. Radosh's dis track.

Posted by Jessica at 06:57 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Jumping on his bed, in what ever style of jammies "grimy" stars wear

What I love about this record most is this it sounds like he recorded the tracks at home, in bedroom, with a mic taped to the cieling, and had to jump on his bed in order to do the vocals, and the bass is simply an 88 cutlass parked outside, blowing it's bins on some DJ Screw .

Posted by Jessica at 02:31 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Voter motivations

Shout outs to the 60614 in a Dean speech in NH: "I need you to be draggers for Dean. Bring everybody. Bring your kids if they're old enough. And if they're not old enough, then move to Chicago and register them there, and move back."

While Kerry is polling strongly, and I feel safe voting my conscience as I live in a state where we have a well organized dead people/wino contingent who will always turn out for the Dems, the prospect of seeing a lot of Kerry's mug for four years (while better than even another day of Bush), freaks me out as I keep confusing him with Mr.Bentley from The Jeffersons.

It's so cold here, all the pipes under my house are frozen/burst. Hace no agua. So, New York, with yr eight inches of filthy slush, do not bitch, as you do not have to go to someone elses house to brush your teeths. If my landlord, Mr. Diamond, also professional gambler and "construction foreman", does not remedy the situation shortly, I will be rolling in the snow to get clean by the end of weekend, unless anyone wants to loan me their volcano.

Posted by Jessica at 12:16 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

January 29, 2004

Funk lexicon includes leprachaun looks

Everyone, not just coke addled Brooklynites and apocalyptic leaning Hot Topic shoppers, are ripping off Karen O's iconic ultra-disheveled freak look.

Posted by Jessica at 08:20 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 27, 2004

It's not up for debate, sorry

I just wrote this to Sasha in responce to the skeptical throw down on the topic of the Ny Times Sunday Magazine piece on sex slave trafficking :

Because we are all, as you wrote, implicit, in the invisible trespasses of humanity that is sex slaves/ a profit economy of death rape -- as silent Americans, as dumb Americans, as a capitalist economy goading the use of other human beings -- to deny, or question that this catastrophic stream of acts is happening, and happening here, in basements, in fancy condos, in my town and yours - is to deny responsibility for whatever roles we play in other people being torn asunder in the world. AND that denial is, naturaly, steeped in class and the blindness that white male privilidge affords one, and Radosh and co. are simply wrapping it, as it is always wrapped -- in the legitimacy bow.

They transmogrify it out of reality and up into into their set of standards, where they can use their tongs of language and distance and the guise of academic pursuit of "truth" and "thorough analysis" to judge it "appropriately". Because if they admit, if they grant the stories of these women and children, CREEDANCE, it is to admit that every minute of our lives, of our full lives that are buoyed with love and music and therapy sessions and paychecks and freedom to waste our nights typing out savage essays on the stupid fucking internet IS TO SAY THAT EVERY MINUTE OF OUR LIVES IS PURE LUXURY AND TO BE A SUCCESSFUL AMERICAN, LIVING THE DREAM AS WE ARE TAUGHT, IS TO GORGE ONES SELF ON THAT LUXURY, TO SMACK OUR LIPS WITH THAT RIPE EXCESS AND TO WILLFULLY, CASUALLY WASTE IT AND CAST IT ASIDE. That is, in American-land, in the man's man's man's world, what it is to be powerful.

No one, no one, no one ever wants to believe that rape happens, or is happening. And perhaps it is not beleiveable to those internet hmmm-men, to those "journalists" because they do not know, or are not related to, or were not roommates with women or girls who were raped by strangers, fathers, cops, boyfriends etc. It must seem really far fetched until someone you know is raped or incested that things that are that bad happen. I only know four women in my life who have not been raped or assaulted, thusly, there is nothing in that story that I questioned for a second.

And for these "journalists" suggest that rape victims, that these trafficked women, these commodified children, that Landesman - would make something up, that they would invoke Glass or any other faux-journo, literally makes me want to vomit, it makes me so uneasy. To use GRAMMAR MISTAKES to poke holes in the story further perpetuates the rape myth. Being that kind of a dick = so dark ages, (to borrow the formula for a sec.)

The negating, trivializing language used in Radosh's dismissive posts are indicative of his pre-emptive mindset: "Ordinary kiddie porn", "slave trade thing" &" real but Small problem". 30 - 50,000 women and children being abused in ways so awful, it feels like god does not exist does not constitute a small problem. Asking for journalistic, second-source confirmation of a man reading the bible to a child before raping her --- That's not engaging journalistic integrity, that's just being an asshole.

Posted by Jessica at 11:37 PM | Comments (14) | TrackBack

January 26, 2004

Second grade visions of efficiancy achieved!

Tonight, I mopped frosting off the floor of Heaven gallery, while on roller skates, and, yes, it was exactly like how you would dream in second grade - it got done much faster and was terribly fun to boot. (Vanessa and I each went to town with our mop-skating, Little Red Corvette blaring, and my life, if just for a few minutes, feeling like the opening scene for some Flashdance style straight to Beta movie I saw on Cinemax in 85.) We were trying to have Sparklemotion practice, but the night before there had been a performance art performance there, where someone had blown up a wig like creation and sent frosting everywhere. And if there is one thing i have learned in Sparklemotion's many practices in filthy art spaces is that things like frosting and tinsel get up in yr bearings and can wreck yr skates and make you wipe out - a lesson you should take from me, before you up and have to learn it the hard way yourself.

Despite cutting open and bruising my eyeball, Un Chien Andalou style, on this week's New Yorker earlier today - I ran my clumsy drills for the better part of three hours, popeye'd from my extreme reading injury, practicing high speed stops front and backwards with my new stoppers (simply running into the wall no longer cuts it) & counter clock wise backwards skating for extended periods, while listening to nothing but a steady diet of SOS Band and the Jaxx.

We have another practice this week, as we are booked for yet another engagement at the yuppie eurotrash bar for a theme night. Liz managed to get more money out of the french guy with the disco mohawk, as this is much more elaborate of a night for the old Sparklemotion bitches -- clad in new silver costumes AS ROBOTS NO LESS - and again, serving as local "crazy/wild" color for men on business trips and aging goths and kids too suburban to know that the club night doesn't really qualify as a good time, all of which is as moribund as it is fascinating research on the world outside the bubble.

I mean, yeah, sure, the money is always needed, and I love skating, but to me the fact that I can get paid to dress as a ROBOT and rollerskate for $25/hour -- at the age of 27 -- melts my brain like a crayon in the dryer. Experientially, this is a total ten, even if it sucks azz.

Posted by Jessica at 12:53 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 24, 2004

I been in the lab with a pen and a pad and a vibraphone

Over the last four days, I made a homemade album with several of my dearest friends; as well as some other people who are just in the prelim stages of becoming my new favorite new friend, and are still at the point where everything they do is faultless and glaringly genius -- platonic lust. All of whom are musical people I respect and admire to the core of my wikkid soul. We made six songs, that exist, if for no other reason than this, this dulcet splay of how we spent a few days together -- that alone is enough. It existing, experientially, is gift enough.
Which feels like straight elfin magic, because nothing is ever that simple in adulthood.

Setting aside all my bigger ideas of why I wanted to make this : ie. Music for all involved is a professional thing, as well as recreational, and some times the professional is a gobbling of bitter pills. I am also *tired* of polished music - by virtue of so many people making music for money, that solitary, myopic aim tied deeply to things being polished and calculated and perfect and pleasing to the dummmest of the people, which leaves little room for EVERYTHING THAT MAKES MUSIC SPECIAL.

Being an amatuer is nothing to feel shamed of.
Because making things for fun and for free as exercise anti-cap impulse and using first takes and unperfectedness as a show of force that idealism is something to hold tight to - feels nuturing and wholly, truly important in the face of a war and an administration and Chicago Machine Politics that desires submission, where powerlessness is a forgone conclusion.

Also, we danced til 5:04 am last night, with us five being the last-last people on the dancefloor, and everything felt exactly how I wanted it to.

Posted by Jessica at 11:28 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

January 23, 2004

Cipher in my sleep, Cipher in my kitchen

After day three of recording, we are getting to the place where the songs are moving from the level of something I would only play for the person who loves me most in the world to yelling "THIS IS GENIUS SHIT!" last night after Roby Newton (late of local at-risk-youth-band - Milemarker) GROWLED and STUNG her way through Bright Eyes' answer-song to Kitty Wells hit "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me" -- "Lover I Don't Have to Love Me". Plus Roby changed the "bad actors" to "bad singers", and then tore the shit apart like Siegried and Roy's little tiger friend. Sort of Brody Dalle meets Edith Piaf, live from the Paris city sewer. Ryan was the hype man, and aptly pointed out that Bright Eyes and Atmosphere are essentially the same man, at least lyrically.

Our friend Cale brought his vibraphone over, and we played Leather and Lace, the Stevie Nicks/Don Henley tune together on it, with Latham precariously holding the microphone, taped to a mop-handle, dangling above us -- Cale and I played and it was like being in love, it sounded so perfect and un-detailable, it made us both giddy.

Shortly there after, Ryan and Julianne and I got into a debate that last 1 hour and 15 minutes about an Eminem song which is like "Kim" part 2. Ryan argued for it as impactful to dialogue on the topic of abuse as well as thats what good art is, it disgusts you and moves you, makes you think, horrifies you etc -- and that Tobey Keith is a thousand times worse because it doesn't make you think about anything, and you just swallow it whole. Julianne and I both argued the Dworkinest platform that this whole world perpetuates violence against women culturally, that further endorsement of rape culture, is sad, bad and de/repressing, and that perpetuating that discomfort is harmful to women -- and it's not discomforting not in the "hey thats great art" kind of way. Ryan argued that the Bright Eyes song is a similar brand of fucked up, as well as Atmosphere.

Then I had a dream last night. I dreamt that I went to an Atmosphere show and we were supposed to have a discussion, me and him, about his lyrics about women - he wanted some feminist ciphering in the backstage. I was into it, but he kept trying to uh, turn it into a date and take it to the boneyard. I kept trying to literally hide from other people around, because I knew that hanging around with him backstage, people would naturally assume that I was there to get fucked, and I knew that even if I explained, no one believes that I was there for some HOTT DIALOGUE about Sean "Slug" Daley's faux-feminist posturing in his lyrics and his interaction, via song, with girls of the world, . In the dream he kept petting my hair and trying to kiss me (he was a bad kisser, awkward, drooley and thought he was giving me the hottest time of my young life), and I was so bummed, but I half put up with it, disgusted with both him and my self, in hopes of that maybe I could still get what I wanted with the situation. In the dream, I was almost crying.

Posted by Jessica at 11:40 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

January 20, 2004

Straightening things up

From todays newswire:

MONROVIA, Liberia (AP) _ The wife of Liberia's main rebel leader said
Tuesday she was taking power from her husband, with the open backing of
dozens of his former battlefield commanders. Her husband insisted he was
still in charge.
Asha Keita-Conneh, long believed to be a power behind the guerrilla
movement headed by her husband, Sekou Conneh, made the announcement
surrounded by rebel fighters as her baby lay beside her.
"I put him there as chairman. If you open a big business and put your
husband in charge, if you see that things are not going the right way,
you step him aside and straighten things up," Keita-Conneh told The
Associated Press.
"If somebody gives you something and the person wants it back, there
should be no problem," she said as insurgent fighters nodded assent.
She said that unlike her husband, "I want peace."

Posted by Jessica at 12:25 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

those whom Harmony united in life

I just returned from watching a film, on a date with myself, in a theatre with six other people. It was a documentary about a nun that runs a halfway house in the South Bronx. All the people who work at the little film center kept saying, as I bought my ticket and salted my tiny popcorn, "hope you are in a good mood now" and "it's really depressing".

There are some parts that are terribly sad, the poverty and loss and struggle depicted. Some people, maybe the people in the lobby, see mostly the try-and-try-again sobriety of the people living in this halfway house, and see that as depressing. Which is not depressing to me, as I know and love and have loved a lot of sober people who spent years strung out before they got better, or maybe died only knowing sobriety sometimes, but knowing it none the less. I thought about all the men in the film, trying to stay close to god so they do not smoke crack. I thought about fighting biological imparatives and predelictions towards drinking on top of normal habit, desire and/or desperation to get loaded and how that must be the hardest thing in the world.

I thought more about the potaganist, the nun, about her being in love with God. About what it must feel like, to be pushed inside your heart like that, and know deep within your being what it is like. I thought about if it was your job to be a bride of Christ. I bet that it is more romantic than it sounds.

I got in the car and the radio was on the non-NPR non-commercial station that is just stoic and sturdy classical favorites peppered with dead-monotone, dj-read advertisements for classy, old people shit - like egyptian rugs and grand pianos and imported marble countertops. As I was almost home, they played a Gregorio Allegri peice, Psalm 51(*1). Allegri was a tenor of the papal choir, from the time he was nine until he died at 70, in 1652 (*2) --- He spent all his time, ever, it would seem, around church music, singing and composing songs about heaven's majesty, god's love and being down with god.

It was one of the most beautiful peices of music I have ever heard. I parked in front of my house and I listened to all ten minutes of it and cried through most of it. That sound of selfless old world piety, affectionate reverance and fadeless belief, the buttercream richness of Italian liturgical lovin' (*3)...Where music or art of this perfect nature, it transgresses itself and becomes almost invisble, it is more like an open door, or an equals sign, where as a listener, it does not experientially reference music, but rather, the performer or composers experience of god. It's no longer a song about god, it's a song of god. A complete conveyance.

I suppose that is all we wish from music, isn't it?

(*1 -- as performed by Grammy-nominated, Minneapolis based (represent) accapella choir The Dale Warland Singers, from their 1996 album Cathedral Classics. )
(*2 -- he was buried in the traditional burial chapel of papal choirs - on the tomb it says:
The Papal singers,
anxious that those whom Harmony united in life
should not be separated in death,
wish this as their burial place.
(*3 Russian and Eastern European liturgical music of the same period sound's like Sonic Youth Daydream Nation w/o the singing and the drums and the Mike Watt answering machien message. Like sour milk, cloaks of death and empty rusted boats atonally scraping the ocean floor. Italian liturgical sounds: fluffy clouds, flowing white robes and Jesus-y good times -- Russian: God's wrath, atonement, famine etc. )

Posted by Jessica at 12:15 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

January 18, 2004

"This song is for anyone who's single, married, divorced or just shackin'"

I'm listening to Latimore's "Lets Straighten It Out", and this is one of the 46 amazing things he freestyles into the 3 minute spoken intro to a two minute song. This is not on the original version I heard off JR's copy of 1970's MORE MORE LATIMORE, where Latimore is on the cover, resplendent in a jewelled denim suit like they sell at Rainbo. He is sitting on a stool; slumping, folded as if someone had dropped him from above, and he just landed there, his Santa-ish paunch peeking ever so slightly from tween his coat-bottom and his pants top. He holds the microphone tight, and is staring forelornly into the distance, perhaps - likely, exasperated by a woman. His same image, superimposed -- but facing to the left and right, - two extra heads sprouting from his lumpy trunk, like Hydra with slow metabolism -- it tells you everythign you gotta know about thsi man, his manner and the songs he has to sing to you.

I think one of the main things thats wrong these days is people are not putting enough portraits of themselves on their album covers. Look back at the career of say, Dan Fogelberg, who on 16 of the 29 albums he has made, has PORTRAIT COVERS, the best of which is Homefree, his 1972 album which appears to be a police-style sketch on manilla paper, with young Dan looking sullen and vaguely Native American. Also, more than half of the 36 POCO albums ever issued were portrait covers, and the ones that weren't had horses or horse -related covers, except for The Forgotten Trail: best of 69-74 which is a painting of two Bisons walking in the snow. Onetime POCO member, Jim Messina, late of Loggins & Messina, did one of my favorite portrait covers, ever, with Loggins&Messina: The Best of Friends. Jim and Kenny, arms around each other against white background, Messina wearing an open, half tucked in denim shirt over a bare chest looking like he just got sprung from rehab, one arm extended towards the camera, as if he could touch YOU, the listener, YOU, the Loggins & Messina fan, then all three of you will be "the best of freinds" -- he welcomes you to the album. His hair worn in the same style of my Aunt Phyliss, a nurse, - a shiny brown puff - naturally feathering around the sides. Kenny wears white tennis shoes, blown out jeans and a burnt sienna velour crew-neck sweatshirt, his hair and beard impeccably groomed. They stand far enough apart that there is an active denial of homoeroticism. They are just friends, the best of friends in fact.

You look at that and you know EXACTLY what yr getting yrself into. You look at POCO in thier rugged cowboy reclaimation stances against vast dusty horizons of the American Southwest, in clothes from Don Henley's garage sale and YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THEIR DEAL IS. You look at Dan Fogelberg, slim and hirsute, back lit, contempletive and propped against an open Victorian-window seat in a sailor's blouse -- and yr confident in what yr getting all the way up to the last track on side b!

Stupid Punk rock and stupid hardcore are so stupid-stupid-stupid! It's all paintings and blurry inanimates and pictures of the singers roomate's hot girlfriend or the girl they imagined fucking the night the wrote their funna-be hit song. Everyone is so busy trying to obscure their ego, no wonder the music sucks. Scared to try, scared to be good, scared to want to rock us in an unironic effort..... Boy bands so cowed by the notion that if they tip their cards to that fact fact fact that they do not actually want to be the coy and clever mangina type like, oh Steve Malkmus or that mean dude from Karate or Bob Nanna, but rather they want to be Eddie Van Halen or the dead guys from Badfinger or Billy Corgan or other people who are fairly terrific rockstars -- that they will be impugned and expunged for all time! If only everyone could just fess to theeeeeee obvious (here to play solos, here to get noticed, here to get blown, here to get paid, here because having a job sucks) , we could all go home and not have to sit through a $6 night of them trying to ply us with thier matted shammery!

Posted by Jessica at 08:08 PM | Comments (34) | TrackBack

January 16, 2004

No, I will not have beef with you, either.

Why does no one ever know when I am clowning them?
If I was fighting you, or anyone around you, if I was wanting to be a warring faction to your blog, you would so know. Andy Greenwald, founding statistician and cyclopean secretary on the cultural pornography of mainstream emo, wrote in his book that my bad side is "legendary". If we were in a war, your grandma would be calling on-air at Hot 97 asking me for a truce, on your behalf.
That said, 004 is about me loving you.

Posted by Jessica at 11:03 AM | Comments (10) | TrackBack

January 15, 2004

Come blogging with Bitch Area

Tonight I am hosting a reading & writing time at my house. I invited some Hit it or Quittish people over for a light supper and reading or writing time, for 2 hours. Since it's hard to make time to write or read on yr own time. Writing and reading socially takes the isolation edge off, plus, I made cornbread.

So JR and Miles and I are all... working on our blogs. JR just cracked his third Old Style, so I think his blog post will be much better than mine. Miles just suggested that the band we will never start be called Bitch Area. Despite sounding like the punch line to a bumper sticker, Miles says that's his new word for "female parts".

I cannot think of anything else that needs to be launched from my brain into the internet right now. I read the blog of a woman who's job is writing a celebrity/party/backstage ga-ga minutae for a national music puffication. To even consider her blogwriting for even a passing half-second, and to think that mayeb rattling around in yr own brain is something you should out on the blog-horn, is to feel totally ashamed and fearful that one is only further contributing to the dearth of uneconomicly-worded soporific mindraping ---- -- i just went to thesaurus.com to look up a synonom (sp?) for tedium, but none of the words were harsh enough to put across what I'm feeling.
The word I am looking for means "the conveyance of details so impossibly non-important, rife with an obliviance of the banal vapidity yet heaving and plump with the awareness that others are reading - and is so harshly boring that it feels like someone has betrayed your soul".

It's not a hateration thing. It's... It's like -- her humanity is windexed-shine glaring and sweatpants casual and in love with everything she should be and is licking the bowl of Big Dumb American Details. It's the sort of things that I get nervous about, traits of my own that I fear, in my worst, most black soul hours -- I display like a well greased lazy-susan spice rack, spinning into oblivion. The people you hate most, as a general rule, are a fearsome caricture of us at our most utterly prone and disgusting.
Never the less, it makes me want to lock her in the crawlspace under my house, and write a blog detailing her screams for help.

Posted by Jessica at 11:03 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack

January 14, 2004

Like Yoda.

My boy and I were having hot choco on the floor, just now, in front of my giant 1940s trillion flamed heater which we have termed "the fire", as it is so hot you cannot sit within 3-4 feet or your hair will singe up like when you light smokes off the burner of the stove. So, we're sitting by "the fire" talking mushy -- It's kind of like super-poor ski lodge romance style... anyhow, so, my dude, Nathan, both terribly sweet and terribly handsome - bearing a strong resemblance a younger Viggo Moretenson (really) -- sayeth unto me that I am both "cute on the surface", but beyond that cute "as a person", but also wise.
He adds, "like Yoda."

Young men. They are our nations greatest resource of comedy.

Posted by Jessica at 11:52 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

January 13, 2004

Department of Corrections

Hi, what are you doing?
Are you liking this blog? Is it funny enough for you? It used to be funnier, but hey, so did you. Right now is a sad time in the world, namely because Andre 3000 and Big Boi are not running for the presidency in 04. Jay-z should run, he's rich, and I think thats what it takes, aside from being a shrivaled up crotchety old white dude with a pickled brain the size of a walnut's dick. Jay-z has a Clinton-y manner to him, don't he? That kinda softy-geeshucks/calculating, casj hotel bang kind of thing. Better yet, a Jay-z/Oprah ticket? I'd vote twice for that!

Posted by Jessica at 09:37 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack

Making the most of other people's blogs

My friend, Rjyan Kidwell, aka the future of the universe, was open-minded and kind and asked me to contribute to his online diary, which I do not think of as a blog. he's been doing it since... about 4 BC. Anyhowz, to celebrate the coming end of civilization, he asked me for an essay about 2004 to post. And so, it is up.

In summary, it's about how we should all be taking way more ques from Karen Finley's performance art. 004 is about acting on yr own worst ideas, and doing it for free. I am denying capitalism right now and not charging to be privy to my work, when everything I learned since diaper school says, CASH IN WHENEVER YOU CAN.

Also, same column runs w/An ammended and footnoted slightly inflamed post script in the March issue of Punk Planet, -- in regards to my the introduction to the Atmosphere interview I did, the intro of which was crafted by my editor, but alas, my name was on it, which is all fine except for a line where "I" talk about how it was hard to maintain my distance and maintain my journalistic intergrity when "I just wanted to cry". Jessica Hopper is to Journalism as Kiki Shepherd (no relation to Julianne) is to Vanna White. I am not a journalist, and do not intend to be. I am a writer, esp. as I routinely lie in my column --- because as noted author and former roomate and bi-lingual sex object to indie rock america, Mr. Al Burian, once told me "why tell the truth if it just makes things more boring?". This is something many more people should take into consideration.

Also, I had to clarify. I cry when I am mad or when I am at church. Not when I am on the phone with Sean Daley, noted rapper, who, himself, cried during the interview and then asked me out at the end of it. Not the sort of thing that brings tears to the eyes of this steely bitch. I do not want punk America thinking I am a crier. That's not good for my anti-emo rep.

Goodnight, kittens. Don't forget to brush!

Posted by Jessica at 12:26 AM | Comments (19) | TrackBack

January 09, 2004

The internet is stupid

And another thing, any confidence I lack, any cowed self-conciousness I had about blogging, about not being a writer who's work is worth broadcast -- all of those sentiments have been erased.
I got around to reading other peoples blogs and live journals, (ie. people who manage to write for a living and a couple other folks i know who make mid 5 figguhs on their writing --) and i swear to god, some, or hey, while we're in the barn - MOST - of the blogs I read were achingly, cloyingly and SUPRISINGLY boring! If it was not stilted/wilted academic snore-core, it was in the style of high school year book inscription.
YES, ma'am --- The proof is in! I am good! Sometimes a mini-genius! I feel like Jay-z with a fifty foot cock! Huzzah!

****************ungentle segue **************

Secondly, regarding criticism and other dominions of dudes:
Why do women artists only get compared to other women artists, even when they are emulating men? Or not emulating anyone?
Thats a rhetorical question, I don't actually need an answer.
We never get to sound like Suicide or the Clash or Billy Joel.
We are eternally Courtney Love, The Waitresses and Kim Carnes.
I love those women and their music, but it's not the same.

Does sexism make you as sad as it makes me?I get tired of noticing. I get tired of bringing it up. I get tired seeing people steel themselves against it when I bring it up. "You say everything is sexist" they say. Well, yeah, most things are - I gotta right to be angry when, to paraphrase Bikini Kill #2 -- the whole world tells me women do not matter.

Most everything I like most except for inanimate objects, my dad, animals and bodies of water are sexist. My dad and I were talking about the potential viability of a Wesley Clark/ Hillary Clinton ticket last week, about whether a woman would ever be president of the US. I told him that I feel like we, women, are still in the trenches, and I do not think it would be allowed to happen in my life time. He told me he thinks it could happen. My dad, he's worked in newsrooms five days a week since 1973. I always trust my dad, that he knows what will really happen in the world - he knows which way the wind blows, as the saying goes -- but I just do not feel it's happening anytime soon.

This morning I got an email, blasting me double barrelled from a client of mine, demanding I be more "obediant". I read it again slowly and thought about the language, the words, the nature of the demands. I thought about the person who wrote it and how ludicrious it would sound if the same email was directed to any man they worked with. You would not ask those things, rightly of any boy over the age of about 12 or 13.
You can only excuse cultural programming for so long.

When I think about what I could do to make the world a better place, lots of times, I think about having lots of sons and raising them to be good to women, to resist macho competitive bullshit, and seek deep relationship with other men.
That loving women and being with women is not about trying to subdue them, guide them or posess them.

I know this all sounds terribly eem and possibly way too sincere to put on the hee-hee-haw-haw good times tiny lucky genius hateration club international blog, but I mean it.

Posted by Jessica at 11:02 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack


Some thoughts:

I heard the new Strokes for the first time today, listening up close and so personal on the itunes. It's still utterly in the shade of the last album. It's the patio furniture and the first album is the mansion. Anyhow - pull yr ear tight to the speaker and .. wait... is that Lou Reed singing through a toilet paper roll?
The difference is that young Julio Casablanky sounds like he is in love with something, or someone, maybe an older french woman. He sounds like his tongue is in love with his own mouth. He sounds like the kind of tired/bored/rageful you get after you have been doing acid twice a week all summer and have seen through the walls of the universe and seen that there are no ties that bind us and dogs are the only pure force in the world. He sounds like he fronts no faith, but it's just a catholic block. Word?

Posted by Jessica at 05:45 PM | Comments (17) | TrackBack

January 08, 2004

I will show you FREAK STORM!!!

Today on the local NPR affliate, the bane of my radio-listening existence, Steve Shadley, who does local updates between 8-6 everyday and has a penchant for mispronouncing EVERYTHING and really stradling the intonation fence between bored hack and nervous intern, while cracking jokes yr dad would even shy away at. Like think... the humour of, say, Jeffy from Family Circus and we're halfway there.

Today Steve Shadly was telling us that coming up on All Things Considered we would get further details of THE FREAK STORM THATS HITTING PORTLAND. (He read it like someone said "do it, again, but sound emotionally baffled",). I thought of my best lady, Julianne Shepherd, and stranded-at-her-house traveller and also great pal, Tomas Palermo being hit by a freak storm. Like freak as in girls from the Sir Mix A Lot "Put Em On the Glass" (what kind of person appears in a video, only to wash a car with her soapy, naked breasts? A freak, of course). A torrential flood of freaks.

I also thought of my first, next, perhaps only album cover, of my band with Julianne, currently under the name MUY ROMANTICO. Our first album, i propose is called FREAK STORM, and the cover is illustrated, or badly photo-shopped as thus:
Giant storm clouds of big, round, thonged asses in the sky above, with lightning bolts coming out of them, which extend to the ground, where Julianne and I, perhaps our 12 peice extended band, are exiting a spaceship / red convertable limo/ sail boat / Taj Mahal-style palace -- the bolts appearing to energize us with their booty-lectricity. I will be holding my bass, wearing it up high, to imply deep funkiness and also my profound ability. The bass will be glowing, electrified, amidst the FREAKINESS. Julianne and I will be decked out in intergalactic funk warrior outfits. Julianne might be wearing a Red Bikini and a long fake white leopard fur coat and be carrying a golden staff, big peacock feathers coming out of her eternal ponytail.

On the back, we will be wearing electric blue, magenta and silver strech lame body suits and tight wrap-around Gucci-style reflective sunglasses. We will be standing by a pot of gold, flanked by a double rainbow. It's the AFTER picture, converted by the freakstorm into... hot robots.

The gatefold: The day-after scene from a raging party, with lacey thongs prominently displayed in the potted plants and crushed Stroh's cans decorating every available surface, a half dozen empty pizza boxes, people passed out on the floor, with our bands equipment ( seen on front cover) strewn out in the corner, Julianne and I looking silky, masterful and alert amongst the ruins. We absorbed all the freakiness and wrecked it and turned the party out, in one fell swoop. Like photosynthesis, we absorbed the freak storm and then... we became it.

Posted by Jessica at 11:07 PM | Comments (48) | TrackBack

January 03, 2004

Pazzzzzzz (and Jop)

The first time I was able to vote in a presidential was the last election. I called my dad, for advice after finding out, mere weeks before it was time to belly up to the cordoned desks at the little firestsation down the street from my house and punch some chads for Ninth District Water Conservation Supervisor, that my vote didn;t really count. I switched schools a lot as a kid and somehow, I managed to never learn that every vote doesn't count. I mean not in the George Bush stole the election way, but about the electoral congress. I mean, quite simply, either I was never informed, or was way too stoned way too often in ninth grade civics for the info to penetrate my cortex deeply enough to remember it eight years later when i could actually perpetrate a vote.
Anyhow, i called my dad and told him I didn;t know whether to fight Bush with a vote for Gore (the effete pussy) or throw down for the green party, which i am more naturally aligned with. My dad told me to vote my concious, which was safe since MY ELECTORAL CONGRESS, those deciding phantoms, swing Dem here in in the I-L-L, so i do not need to sweat it.

Anyhow, I justed voted, in the Village Voice's annual critics poll, where every vote seemingly counts. Though, in my lazy-fair abyss, simply, I voted for the records I could remember listening to.
I wish I could have voted for only the first six tracks of Justin Timberlake's album, and that I could of given 90 points to Erase Errata and then 1.01 points for the other nine slots. EE because even though their album was not my most listened to of the year I feel like they are the only band in a long time that has galvanized the people, shook some shit up and made us contend with WHAT WE ARE ALL SO AFRAID OF, which as I see it, is adventure and giving the comsumerist impulse a mouthful of dirty snow. As consumerist impulse dictates that if we do not obey IT, an icicle will pentrate our hearts and we will be doomed for all eternity to never get laid and will be forced to reconcile that we have flat/lumpy butts and are not friends with the Strokes. We will be forced to reconcile our white devilhood and our parents divorce and our latent alcoholism. ( When I say we, I actually mean "you", FYI)

I voted for 50 cent in my number 2 spot, and what i learned from his record and singles is entirely different and I love love love that jagged tender/thug dicotomy, class war and the most indelible hooks of all pop-music-eternity ARE AVAILABLE IN ONE ALBUM. Get Rich or Die Trying is an album I love on the radio, on the dancefloor, and in the throes of meta-analysis while I shampoo my wig. COMMERCIAL HIP HOP IS a-thousand times more realer than some bullshit concept album about 99 problems and you divorce is 97 of them. Tim Kasher, what have you done for me lately? yeah, exactly!

I admittedly voted in a bit of a coma. I voted for records I could remember I had listened to in my car, but that I had not worked with, because conflict of interest in certain circles is UNprofessional, and natch i would hate to blow my cover as a BIASED AMATUER. My top vote would have been Ellen Allien Berlinette if I was not in the employ of the deutcheland techno princess. I would have voted for Liz Phair on principle, if I heard more than those 2 songs, but decided to vote for the Distillers instead because Brody Dalle is nobodies bitch and because Hole's Pretty On the Inside was my favorite record in 1994, too.

I look forward to reading the witty witticisms and snarky malaprop tooting of the comments section of the poll, of upper eschelon critics putting the croshairs on easy targets (my guesses: Ryan Adams, Strokes, Xtina Agulera getting fat and having the gall to still dress like a slut) and shitting on the big names for failing us, praising old dudes for keeping the dream alive (Jackson Brown Box Set, anyone?! Free cum rag autographed by Jann Wenner with every purchase!) and taking a contreversial wind unto our sails re: Jack White. (Or rubbing to Joss Stone defying her own teen crackerhood with her 'Retha impression! Or impaling Liz Phair on the phallus of the critical alter, her sexual guilelessness threatening to turn us all to pillars of salt! I won't sign off on Conor O'Berst being the voice of my gen. until his songs get at least twice as explicitly political and thrice as explicit sexually and quintuply as sexually political!)

HEY! America, lets dare to give a fuck! It's 2004, by golly!

I have not yet blazed my own comments into the emailbox of Chuck Eddy , and believe me, I have them, and like the rest of the rock critical blue balls, I have been polishing and packing them in the cannon all year long.
Huzzah! Huzzah!

Posted by Jessica at 07:19 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

January 02, 2004

Eighties! I'm livin in the Eighties!

It's flattering that I had people calling me to ask, writing to whine, WHY YOU NO UPDATE YOU BLOG? To answer: I was in the eighties. I moved and had no DSL or internet for three whole weeks and thusly, I was in the past and had to use a telephone to do all my biding. Or bidding.

During this time, I had the holidays. I spent time in rural Indiana, with relatives who are all farmers and parents and deeply religous. My cousin's wife doesn't have long distance, I found out, because she does not know anyone who lives more than 40 miles away from her.
Also, I recieved the Christian self-help manual a "NY Times best-seller " entitled "A purpose-driven™ life" from a family member, which is a 40-day (40 days is a popular duration in the bible) program to finding "your path and purpose in life", which according to the book, is aided by memorizing a bit of scripture everyday (perhaps I can start footnoting my punk planet screed with hot bits from Colassians?). I was offended by the gift in a vague sort of way -- like, does my life seem like it has no purpose from the outside? Do I appear to be adrift aimlessly, as I am the only member of that side of my family who does not own children and is not married or "intended". My sister and I are the only children on both sides of my extended family who do not know how to bail hay, and do not own the equipment to do so. I think that's path enough right there. My path is one of dancing, vegan baking, unpaid parking tickets, living in sin with my dude, figuring out Outkast basslines -- it suits me just fine.

Visiting my family sometimes feel like a exchange-student immersion program. I come back learned-up on catechism, grain processing and how to prepare the meat of many different animals. Maybe I should of given my family members copies of Bad Brains Rock For Light and some old issues of Bikini Kill and tried to enlighten their path. Next Christmas for sure.

Posted by Jessica at 08:20 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack