Today, for work, I was contacted by the producers of Wolf Blitzer's CNN Hijinx and Delights Hour, about a band I represent that they want to interview. I plan on using whatever leverage I have to get a personally-inscribed-to-me color 8x10 glossy of Wolf as part of the professional transaction.
Not only does he have the greatest/accidental german punk band sounding name in broadcast TV, but he has an almost elfin magic. With that baby-chubs face, the tidiest beard you have ever seen, that way his spunky incadensense keeps him from beign dwarfed in the twighlight shadows of the White House, when he is doing news briefs from the presidents driveway. So firm, so unshakeable in his pressed trenchcoat. His teeth like a lighthouse beacon, gleaming behind that easy smile.
I bet Wolf Blitzer never drinks alone.
I imagine afterwork, he heads to the bar with staffers, mingling with interns and higher-ups the same. After a Tom Collins (dry), they goad him into telling that story about the time he and Nermeen Mufti spent the night in a Cheers™ bar in the Vail airport during the blizzard of 1997.
Sean showed up an surprised me on Sunday. Props to anyone who's willing to do 14 hours roundtrip to give moral support while you dj to 31 people at BINOCULARS DANCE PARTY DEUS. Our man Tommie Sunshine, showed up, played The Normal 12", quoted himself, his hair was long, his face was a blizzard of kempt hair, like Buck Rogers Mountain edition man warrior. Miles noted "this is the first time I have seen Tommie in three years without sunglasses on at night."
I like Tommie because he has the dicotomy where he is a courtesan of his own fame, but is a casual diner on it, not a last supper soup slurper, his famous-way is like a fragrant blossom, enchanting all. The funny thing about doing PR, which has made it increasingly hard to do, is that I think people wanting to be famous is really disgusting, I mean, in a nutshell. Generally, the way that punk men in bands handle their desire for FAME is that they are entitled, and there is a real locker-room side glance mentality imbued in that. They want to be blown by capitalism, essentially, and anything they get is never enough. The want to be Fugazi, but they want to be Journey way way way more. Only the real geniuses, the real artists I worked with were the ones who felt the burden, did not want it enough to court it, did not want to get it's bits stuck tween the teeth.They were like jesus, just wanted to spread the good news, tell the truth and maybe get over on some tender huss every once in a while, like the rest, but you would never known. The animal grin and swipe was not their natural nature.
Yesterday, was the seven hours back, in the car, watching for deer-bright eyes reflecting on the sides of the freeway, brief dissection of the Lil Jon track on that new Snoop album, the production and slap-that-pussy party line of which makes me feel like my internal organs have turned to dark meat in the KFC fryer. There was also this exchange, somewhere outside of Madison:
"How do you feel about the fact that most of your major life descisions have been predicated on pussy?"
"Well, pussy and hip hop. (long pause) I mean, there's certainly worse things."
Being snowed out of Indiana, some what thankfully, I am off to cook up "spicy food", see movies and hang out with bandmates, Miles & JR, orphans and assorted visitors and XMAS haters. Last night was church, chainsmoking and finishing the restored version of Plath's Ariel.
Not nearly as interesting the very true story of a holiday of yore on Britt's blog. She ends the story before she arrives home, with the rentals, Amy in tow, Amy, about whom I had been warned had been smoking dust while she was away at college, and was now frightened of... Britt and I shared a room - we had bunkbeds. I had the top bunk, and was already asleep. Sometime during the night, her and Amy kicked me awake, by bouncing their feet against my mattress above, screaming with laughter - "WAKE UP WAKE UP YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!" -- What was it I had to see? On the TV: Some red head girl in a naughty nurse negligee, track marks on the back of her knees and some pimpled janky blonde girl with a perm, bending a beautiful girl with a heavy Puerto Rican accent over a leather couch, threatening to give her an enema. "You girrrz eez zo meeene" coos the girl on the couch, who is in the throes of reluctant erotic rapture over the forced colon-cleansing by the two skanks who have abducted her, and brought her to the windowless suburban basement. There is a cut-away to the scabby junkie girls hand squeezing an enema bag. Amy and Britt are running their own commentary along with the movie. Enema 17 . Xmas 1994, I was 18 years old, the first time I ever saw porn.
Congratulations on your reunion, and your sold-out reunion shows. I have some good news for you, re: your search for a bassist -- I, Jessica Hopper, am available. I am a pretty good bassist, have experience with joining pre-existing bands with long, complicated songs (see March - July of the blog archives to the right), and am not really doing much anything this spring. Seriously. I'm down, and I think maybe the only thing that could make your band more awesome would be having me in it. Ps> I am small and do not take up much room in the van. Contact me asap, so we can get started.
About your Xmas presents: I sent them. You are a pretty easy person to buy for because I feel like I understand what is important to you in this sad and lonely world. It's not the same things that are important to the newly titted of the Cahuenga Boogie, so I did not get you the Terry Richards book. I know you might maybe think the pictures of the ladies sucking cock with decorated paper bags on their heads is "funny stuff" , or at the very least symbolizes post-NAFTA trade relations between the US and Mexico, but you know, it was pretty pricey and I know you probably already have enough cocksucking-photo coffee table books.
I was also considering getting you Queen Latifah's "The Dana Owens Album: Queen Latifah sings jazz and blues" - which conveniently, I saw for sale for 6.99 in a sale bin at Tower tonight. I remember how much you loved her in "Set It Off" - But I did not know whether you liked her enough to get through a whole album, so I might see if I can just get you the "Ladies First ft. Monie Love" cassingle off Ebay for a quarter. (God, whatever happened to Monie Love? I loved her. Why is she not a grime star of today?)
But, so then, then!, when I was leaving -- over on the budget books table, I saw a stack of copies of Billy Corrigan's new book of poetry . But I figured, knowing you, you bought it the day it came out. Knowing you, you already have a signed first edition. I read his website, his blog, a few times, and I appreciate the way he incorporates his love for Jesus, his young fans and cats with his vehement hatred for James Iha. None the less... I bet the book is great. Once it gets down to 4-5 bucks, I am going to have to buy a copy for the bathroom.
Just so you know, not to ruin the surprise, I did not get you any of those things. I also did not get you McDonalds gift-coupons, though I know you would have used them right up. I did not get you refillable heads for a Swifter mop - again, something I KNOW you could have used. I did not get you a signed picture of Ann Coulter - though I did try. The shit got up to $400 . I am not in Terror Squad, I cannot afford those prices.
I did, though, remember the story you told me from a few weeks ago, about the young trick from Tijuana in the crotchless manties , with the hula hoop - working as the human gift at that birthday party up in the hills(*) -- you seemed so intrigued by that, I wondered about how much it would cost me to by a human sex toy off the streets of TJ ... but with me up in Chicago, I figured I would have to pay for handlers, and I just do not have that kind of budget, honestly, as I just blew half my rent on a cat and catnip filled toys - I am sure you understand.
Anyhow, I hope you like what I sent you, because it's all I am getting you.
(* this is a true story )
I got my Pazz and Jop ballot just this week, despite the fact that my main journalistic output as of late has been writing previews of holiday parades and reviews of such albums as LIVE JESUS LOUD . Thanks Uncle Chuck - glad to see I am still in the club.
I have no idea what to put on that ballot. I listened to one record all year. I think I will just have to copy someone else's list instead, though "Fucking Crunk Hat" will be #1, and at least five of the other spots will be occupied by Warren Zevon "singles".
The mailbox burped a terrif new package to me today: I AM INVITED TO FRESHMAN ORIENTATION! This is totally sweet of THE COLLEGE , considering that I am deferring until at least fall 2005, as I have not found any crisp $24,000-bills laying around my house just yet, and will not be registering for classes til I get that change. The federal financial aid website says I qualify for $23,000 in assitance because I am just that sort of poor, which is relieving in a depressing way (Finally, an upshot to only making $7,603 in 2002!). Meanwhile, all this is held up by the difficult fact that I am not 17 like the rest of the freshman, which when put to the financial aid bureauracracy, is 30 types of confusing. No, I do not have that kind of a form, I have not been claimed as a dependent since 1993. I also do not have a W-2 form -- I have not been an employee in 11 years.
This crunkulates their big machine.
I have never wished so much that I was a high school senior working summers at DQ, as I do when I open the insistant letters from the school.
Later: I must re-iterate I am going to be 34 in 2009, when I graduate something I feel obliged to footnote to the fruffled-sounding woman in student affairs, when I call to ask if the cheap-ass student insurance they offer covers "maternity". (No, I am not pregnant now. Sean promises: "I will not start ruining your life like that until we're married.")
None the less, I am going to go to the FRESHMAN ORIENTATION and sit through the presentation on dorm life and love it. At this rate, I may never actually get in, so I have to get as much mileage as possible out of that $150 non refundable admissions deposit of mine. I am eating every single complimentary Triscuit they got to offer at that shit.
The singer, she is the younger sister of a young/white blues prodigy. She is not well known, and when you say her name, there is a forever PS. of her being his sister shadow. She is nothing, if not a minor leager pro. She can win a bar with soft moves. I wonder if she just grew up wanting what her brother had, or if it is in the DNA, or if maybe she spent her teen years bucking for a Star Search star turn. She is a natural performer in a way that could land her a lifetime of cruiseboat gigs.*
I do not doubt that before this, there is a long history of her in her bedroom practicing the prance, the pout, the tossing of her long hair, giving her womanness a drama workup -- she knew what face is to be made for solos, she knew what face to make when she was singing some tired double entendre -- all the while she threw her hair like a pole dancing expert, her "risque" moves were something I think she must have picked up watching Cabaret, because it was very musical theatre, it was very Minnesota Virginal (an aesthetic on easy view at any Twin Cities mall).
I said: "She looks like a stripper from Burnsville."
Sean said : "She looks like the type of girl I would go home with after a show in Lincoln Nebraska."
My man is nothing if not honest.
She then vamped through "Darling Nikki" and the closing mega-medley of "Crosstown Traffic" into two Zepplin songs, and managed to make it all sound like "You Oughtta Know" as an epic song suite. There were chops, there were open shirts, there was dueling solos between the hammond organ and the guitar player, there was an inadvertant hair war between the singer-lady and the gtrist, who did a lot of scrunchedyes-I-am-giving-it-to-you-face during the Zep miniset. He had a chin beard like a merkin, a shell necklace and during one of his solos, he squatted like he was shitting in the woods, held his gtr out over the monitors, so the audacious audience could strum during the "crazy" part. It was exactly what you want to see from a band like that.
The dancefloor was people like me, people on a date. Except the people dancing were all nine varities of weekend/holidays drunk -- secretarial hotties of all ages, stuffed into their tighest black jeans, with their most shimmery blouses tucked in for a slimming effect.
To the bar band blues bland.
To be clear, I do not have contempt for the old, the uncool, the excessively and glaringly white, the trashy community college court reporter girls, the cartoon-dog style tongue out yer mouth drunk unmarrieds. Just fear. My fear is that after years in big cities, my hometown soemtimes feels like it's cultural core is a bus station pageant.
All of this was nothing when held up to the performance I saw in audience after the set. A guy with a dustbroom moustache, faded Harley shirt, scrawny, drunk, 50-ish, playing air guitar along with "Holly Jolly Christmas" being played of over the P.A. - smiling big, singing along and just jammin on some eternal, invisible, internal Christmas-riff.
(*Actually, what she most reminded me of was when I saw Gina Gershon play, backed by Girls Against Boys. GG's artistic wingspan covered minor space: "jazz hands" + " the do me face" + leather pants... she was gunning for Joan Jett, but she was more hammy Cherrie Curie. This show was made approx. 1007 times stranger due to my seating arrangement. I was in a booth seated with Sally Timms, Billy Corrigan and a rich couple in their sixties, visiting from Moscow who had come to Chicago's House of Blues "to see zee Bluhhze. You understand? She-cah-goo Bluhhze!" The couple were holding their ears, totally frightened, and had bailed by GG's blitzkrieg version of "I wanna be yr dog," Meanwhile Sally and Billy held forth with some of the most bitter critical commentary ever dished. I had a splitting headache, and Mr. Corrigan offered that he no longer even took aspirin, he just prayed. His dialogue with god got him through some sort of oral operation, suggested I try the same, and then evangelized to me for some time about the rising tide of worldwide spiritual conciousness and wrote down titles of new age magazines to check out on a scrap of paper and passed it to me. I was unconvinced of his deep spiritual nature, as he treated any autograph-wanting young person like they had just offered him some free gonorrhea. Yo, Bill, we are all God's Children, even the bitches from Winnetka with perms!)
She remembers being in awe of us. I was supposed to be babysitting, but once she was old enough to play in her room, contentedly and harmlessly, reading or entertained by her hamster and it's smoked-plastic apian Hamtrack™ tunnel - by all accounts I was fine with letting her be and retiring to my room, fuming with teen-stress behind a locked door. I was 16, she was eight - and I was not about to play with her. I was plotting a path out, likely sitting on my floor, playing my bass, devising ways to be clever. Meanwhile, according to her, she was standing outside my room, making "weird" noises into her Mister Microphone, trying to conjure my curiousity and lure me out to play with her. In retrospect, it is profoundly sad to me, that two such lonely little girls inhabited close space and did not find each other.
Right now, she is sitting at the other end of the couch, taking notes in purple pen, her lefty-ness making the pen go funny. "Fuck Oceanography, dude." She says this and extends a middle finger to her textbook. "I took this class because I thought it would be, like, "creatures of the sea" and not tectonic plates. I am so glad that I am spending two grand on knowledge I will never actually use." It is finals week, and so she is here, plowing through a book with a morning beach scene on it's front and back. Taking breaks and smoking with her right hand, eating bits of dinner with the other, tying and retying up her long blonde ponytail.
Her feet are the same size as mine. We checked, a few hours ago. Our toes are different species entirely, though. We are half sisters, and have a unspoken fondness for anything that affirms our being blood-real family. I have taken to calling her Little Sis, despite that she does not like to be called anything but her full name, Lauren. Little Sis sounds like something you name a horse. It is obvious and corny, something out of a teen-girl book about the bond of sisterhood, where the kids have a fantasy-perfect life with nary a trouble, and so, calling her this is outwardly comic, but I really love that she puts up with it.
I am in Minneapolis, in a existential k-hole, in a coffee shop, internetting outside the home as my boyfriend, despite having "everything" - does not have the internet in his home. Which makes coming to visit feel like a time warp into 1993 and I spend my time getting real things done (needlepoint, cleaning, baking pies for my man (no, I am not kidding - please do not tell the other old riot girls I employ such trad. gender roles in relationships))). Not being around "my stuff" or "the internet" then gives me real space (like the infinite, Stephen Hawking kind) to think about "things", and get tangled up in it's hot purgatorial space.
Like the six books in my brain trying to get out, trying to get written and me being very scared of them. Britt and I have the discussion about the books we cannot write until everyone in them dies, we have that talk often. About the books we will publish in 67 years, and how great they will be.
But right now, I am petrified of the book I can/could/cannot write, which every night and noon starts to breach birth itself. Being more fearful of success than failure is a real bitch.
I interviewed Sasha the other day for Media Reader (ride or die for nepotism!) and he told me a lot of stories, about being in funk bands and not about being in the Dustdevils (I had that cassette!) and my most meaningful favorite parts were when he told me about being a writer, and growing up writing, and how while he struggles with one part, or this/that, he grew up with permission and he grew up with much encouragement towards his writing and deep-wound literacy. I was jealous - I mean, yes, I did have encouragement on occasion, as a tiny writing lady -- my fanzine certainly got attention as soon as I started doing it. Maybe not the same thing as encouragement - I'd get a writing assignment from a magzine from one issue, my entire high school class burning an effigy of me the next... right now, I am so like, wanting the permission, feeling like my knuckles are all splintered and red from knocking on the clubhouse door, my brain exhausted from debating WHY I EVEN WANT IN, why making my own magazine is not good enough of an in...
I fear I am being obtuse, here, so lets just go balls deep. I am trying to write for some magazines and people, and being told no because my "writing voice is so distinct that it would be hard to edit you and work you in," or because I work doing PR still, and thats a conflict of interest and or just makes me entirely suspect, somehow. I am not trying to make some big-living off writing, I just want to land pitches in magazines that do not make me feel like living out my days strolling the sanitarium grounds. Not to floss like I am so genius, not to espouse what a burden it is to not be a passably mediocre writer. I am just saying. I remember when I showed J. Caramanica the writing of a young Chris Ryan, maybe 5 years ago, and Jon said "His writing is going to get him as many jobs as it loses him" - which is a compliment, a burden, and possibly an irony - and now, as I try and get legit, 'tis my story too.
It makes it hard to decifer whether the bad smell is you, or them, when you are getting the "I really like you as a friend," style fat-girl-prom-date-dis from editors. And all you want is to be edited, to learn and be grammatically correct. You wind up sitting there, making puppy eyes at them going "What if I promise not to use "steez" and made up words? What if I promise not to skew my review-thesis with gender?" and they tell you, affirmingly, that they really love your writing, you are a favorite perhaps, and that "emo is sexist" essay was 'really important' - but. But.
So, I am going back to doing what I did last time everyone gave me the gasface. Make my own magazine, get back in the lab with the pen and the pad. Which, as much as I love doing Hit it or Quit it, and despite, knowing in my heart that it really is the best American fanzine ever published since Creem (if you've read it, you know it's not just cockiness here), right now, I am daunted by the struggle of it. I kind of wish someone would just gift me editor/publishership of say JANE or Teen Vogue, and me and Julianne could just run it into the ground slowly by putting The Black Peppercorns and dead prez on the cover, with a giant paper mache Biz Markie doll sandwiched between them.
So, yeah, thats the really extended remix version of telling that Hit it or Quit it is back in action again, and is going to be a real magazine. As real as we can get it. As real as we keep it.
If you would like to pitch an idea, essay, drawing or beg inclusion in our forthcoming issue, hit Julianne and I up via mcfrenchvanilla at yahoo dot com. Difficult, deeply politicized and snapriffic ladies and sirs encouraged to apply. Rank amateurs and those with bloody knuckles tired from knocking, you too.
Come in, baby, cos we want you. We will watch the box for your quiet storm.
Please, allow me confuse yr shit up even more:
If you came here from the Green Day punk/not punk discussion on the SG.com mssg brds you are not looking for me , you are looking for Jane Dark who is posing as a paggro situationist poet doing business as "Felizitas" and discussing greendaypunknotpunk on the blog that otherwise belongs to a man prescient enough that he started a NY-based disco band 11 years before it was de rigeur.
I will not argue nor discuss the punkness of anyone or any band, though I will attempt to sate you into bookmarking with this tidy anecdote: New Years Eve 1994, I did meet Billy Joe Armstrong at a Nirvana show at a colliseum (like "emporium", only bigger!), then the next day happened to be seated next to him on an airplane flight from Oakland to LAX. That was back when you could smoke in the Oakland airport, which was trashy-feeling and fantastic. We made small talk, I bummed him a cigarette. I asked him "Why does you necklace say "DOOKIE"?" - "It's an album I'm making with my band, actually."
Nothing is lifting my spirits quite like the links blogs that Britt is forwarding me, discovered through the next blog button - a great reminder that it could always be much worse. You could be a lonely teenager in Risko Missouri, working at a KFC, blogging about the things you'd like to do before god calls you home . Like lose your virginity. Or "read and enjoy at least one major peice of literature."
Perhaps use this list to talley up how close to living a teenagers dream you are, and use that to assess your day, rather than getting depressed about whatever you like to get depressed about - your gut, your impending divorce, the bad bills your band is always on. You have been to Europe. You have had sex . You have flashed someone. To a teenage girl frying up a bucket of dark meat somewhere, you are truly living.
Trevor Kelley, of the Punch it In Blog, (who is writing the major-label emo band book equivalent of J. G. Dunne's movie-studio-machine behind the curtain tell all Monster ) challenged me a few weeks back to write an essay about being a muse (or not) / having a muse / being a writer in a luv-relationship with another writer (I think of his as a rapper secondly) who may or may not use our relationship for song fodder, which may or not be fodder or inspiration for my own writing, and manage to do so without discussing Sean's records. That essay may take all of winter 04-05 to fidget over before unraveling itself enough to be typed out, as I mostly just taking notes.
But, meanwhile, here is what it is like, for today, being two artists in love and navigating shared intellectual property:
" I was wondering - would it be offensive if I changed "horny horns" to be called "horny ponycorn horns"? would that offend you in anyway?
"no. why would it be offensive to? should I be offended?"
"well, ponycorns and unicorns are your thing."
"horny horns is not about me though, is it?"
"Why interject "ponycorns" then?"
"I want to add ponycorn because it looks great when it's written down."
"Then use it. No one but you and me and Julianne ever even reference ponycorns anyway."
"Yeah, it's like -- yeah, what is a ponycorn is anyway? Ok. thanks."
Starting Jan 2, the CTA is scheduled to the begin the jacking the train/bus riding people. Massive lay-offs, a 100% regular fare increase, a 600% increase on Upasses and night time service cuts on the red and blue line trains are in the works. The last major service reductions were in 1998, on the lines with heavy ridership, those lines being the only real service out to the most densely black and latino communities of the city - Pilsen, Little Village, Southside, Ida B Wells, which effectively isolating those communities from the rest of Chicago .
Anyhow, so here is info on the fare strikes and actions proposed for this week. Fuck the racist ass CTA, and their train-route "ring" expansion that only serves to get people in Barrington to Cubs Games/the Airport, and double fuck Mayor Daley and his continual deference to anyone and everyone other than the people of the city for whom, the trains are their only means.
Plus, serious night time cuts to the blue line means waiting outside at the, say, the Damen stop for a rill long time, aka the Damen stop that is a favorite for the serial rapists of Chicago aka where five women have been raped after exiting in the last three years, three of the women by two different still un-caught serial rapists. So, if Damen stop is your stop, too, see you at the Mayors Office on Weds AM, yeah?
Rally/Press Conference at the Mayor's Office
>> Wednesday, December 15th, 9 AM
More Anders Nilsen comix, in sketch-book work starring a bird from Big Questions: Are You My Mother?
The answers of the last few people whom I asked how and what they are doing:
1. Shrugged, verged on tears, forced a smile.
2. "I am on the bus to work."
3. "I just slept for about 12 hours, finally, and fortunately, I am still tired enough to sleep again tonight"
4. "I'm really fucking pissed, and they do not understand why I am - at all. Not at all."
5. "I'm on the other line with my mom, actually."
6. "I'm ok. I am trying to base my life descisions on something other than hooking up with girls, but am finding this is impossible to implement."
7. "I am at the Rose Bowl flea market, and I just realized I am surrounded by perfect asses, so I had to stop and look at all three of them (laughs hysterically)."
8. "I just woke up. What are you doing?"
What am I doing? I woke up and went to a movie (le Monde Vivande) in the new french cinema festival at the arthouse film emporium. I went only because the preview said that there was a dog playing a lion in the movie. I hoped for costumed dog, but in fact it was just a golden retriever, dubbed with lion noises. It was a very Frech fairy tale, with no costumes, the good and bad was simple, yet nebulous. I think it was about reality being a cognitive construct, that reality is fantasy. A dog is a lion if you say so, and why shouldn't it be. Child eating ogres, battling knights, erotic encounters with tree branches, beautiful women locked away, prisoner not, first most, of the ogre - but troubling self-arranged existential crisis. They did not dress princessy, they did not dress like women living out sad days in Gallic castles - they dressed in Marc Jacobs housefrau looks. The dialogue was dry, monotone, unexpressive - and very funny. One of the charcters made a joke about a sword and a Lacanian witch. I was the only person who laughed at that. Granted, there were only eight people else in the theatre, so I was left to debate whether my laughing meant I was smarter or dumber than everyone else/whether it was a joke or not . The second best part, aside from the Lion-doggie was that an old man just gave me his ticket to the film. He was confused "I read it wrong. This is not Moi, Ceasar !" he was standing there muddering to himself, befuddled, patting his pockets. He stopped and looked up and said "I am not going to see this movie, would you like my ticket?" - what a good luck. I got to spend my movie-dollars on a comic book about a very old lumberjack who's best friend is a dead-bear rug and mounted moose heads. What a great day.
I have stumbled onto the most earnest and sincere blog ever written . From the excitement for her upcoming cheerleading championships at Opryland to the prayer requests for Dick Ebersol and his family to her memorium of those lost in Pearl Harbor to her deep dislike for Algebra homework -- it is like a daisy cutter bomb of sincerity and good girl psyche, yet has the placidifying effect on the reader of say, two xanax. Read her entry on World AIDS Day and tell me I'm wrong.
In other exciting news - if you google "The Home Depot in Kalamazoo" the only site that comes up is this here Tiny Unicorn blog. I am omnificent! Yes! This helps me feel a lot better than being one of the first ten sites to come up when you search "fisting +ass + videos". Oh, the things sitemeter can elucidate.
More hitting "next blog" on Blogspot has resulted in today's two highlights:
Andy Rooney as an 11th grade girl. Highlight: "I think the bible is full of bologna." Whoa.
Liz, the coolest seventh grader who has ever existed. She's buying a guitar for Christmas, is engaged in a Henry-Rollins-esque war with her self, lists "obsessing" as one of her interests, can actually write, wrote a song called "Pink Pajamas" to the tune of Glory Glory Hallelujah. Essentially, genius.
Britt L-B writes:
"How quickly we forget! I seem to remember a certain young lady modelling some pantyhose. That pantyhose news item kept us in PBR, smokes and muffin batter for at least a week. Pantyhose in the news saved us once."
This is true. This might be the strangest thing I have ever done for money. Sometime late 1994, I worked modelling control top pantyhose . I weighed about 97 lbs., and they needed someone slim, so it looked like the "control" aspect really worked. During this time, Britt and I lived together in a squalid 1 bedroom (we had bunkbeds!), I had no job, she supported me and our primary sustenance was Peter Pan brand muffin-mix and unpicked-up'd take out food from she would bring home from her job. Thusly, my stint in pantyhose was for-real big-time ballin for us.
Shayla's photo blog . It's so easy to fall in love with kids when they have drawn-on staches.
The headline on the local daily today, in 40 pt type: "PANTYHOSE ARE OUT!"
This, takes presidence over that little Iraq-War-thing, now relegated to thin sidebar snaking down the side of the page. The breaking legware news reported: Katie Couric has made bare legs popular, officially. Shazaam, way to go, K-Dogg.
I wish Jean Cook had that sort trend-power, because then being a spunky asian girl with armpit hair and playing a teflon frying pan in a band might be the ish to temp secretaries and women on the CTA in dirty pink sweatpants and knock-off Uggs.
I spent the half day in the company of DC-enigma Chad Clark, who was passing through on tour with the great Beauty Pill. He is the most naturally-occuring enigma I know of. We spent the eve, sides long to the bar discussing geniuses that make bad records, and marginal bands that sometime shoot out brilliance like an uncapped fireplug - namely Afghan Whigs' Gentlemen "It's about the existential crisis of thinking with your dick," says Chad. We discuss the crucial-ness of awareness of the cock-crisis, and how so many of the bands either brush it off and dive deeper into their dangerously ahistorical fash-n-dance music, or it's just little soldier boys bleeding all over the stage with neon-red ketchup blood.
I told him it's getting harder to listen to records and be reckless and give into the hedonism and the selfish feel good mantras, and just dance. My dogma over rules my taste these days and keeps me stiff. All the punks, they are afraid to bounce on the crystal limbs, save for Ted Leo, and Travis M. and Le Tigre - when LeTigre is not trying to overcompensate for the seriousness of the gender war flag waving with syncronized dance moves and DIY posited as amateurism - as if to head off anyone who might write them off as TOO SERIOUS FEMINIST BITCHES TAKING THINGS TOO SERIOUSLY. I understand wanting to deflect the haters, I do. I also understand and really appreciate the FEMINISM IS FUN! canto, and maybe it comes from all the times I saw Bikini Kill throw the lights in dank basements and lofts, and I walked out sweating and believing anything was possible, and that my latent rage could be coalesced into art or that progress was at hand . I want some thing that is real and raw and fucking fearless, some hot tuffy peoples telegraphing "it's on motherfucker," mashed up over a deep boundless hope for us getting free.
And I do not mean I want a band to "save" us, to save our lives, to change the world, because it's not like I am calling for a punk-ghetto Bono, or some return to Back In The Day When Shit Was UnCut And Pure and No One Sweat The Money and The Dicksuck Fame etc etc... it's not that I am jaded and longing nostalgicly for when things felt a certain way. I still believe in music, and some days, days when I listen to Tv On The Radio a lot, or last night, seeing Beauty Pill - with thier struggle poems and UN-like culturally-diverse line up, I really believe, I chew the myth and do not spit it out. I just want a lot, I want more, I want now, and I know that might be too grandiose of an idea.
I just accidentally deleted the entire 2000 word screed I labored over. It is gone. Perhaps because you were not meant to get my message, but rather, his.
If you need backstory, courtesy of Josh, who is my bandmate in both MegaFuxx and aux. memb of Muy Romantico.
I bought a cat from the homeless cat emporium and service center downtown today. I realized after I adopted it, it is not the same cat I had examined and petted with the great cat-thumbs when I cat-shopped yesterday. It looked like it, but whatever, close enough, it's not like I had real criteria other than it be a cat and be alive. They almost did not let me have it because I failed a few questions on the potential owners test. I wrote "sure-- occasionally" next to "Do you plan to take the cat outside?".
The cat quizbowl woman said "What do you mean "occasionally" outside?"
"Oh, you know, like on a leash, just a walk around the block, around the yard, get some exercise and fresh air..?"
"Unht-uh. Cats don't ever be let outside..."
"I just figured, you know, see the world...umm, on a leash, it'd be okay...?"
She looked at me like I had just told her that I was into fisting, or my favorite song is the live vers. of Philip Bailey's "On Broadway".
"I have had a cat all my life and I never put it on a leash once. Nuhnt-uh. Not even once" -- she was having none of the alternative parenting style.
Despite my desires to venture about avec chat and give it a sail boat sort of name - they let me take her home. (Britt's suggestion of ""Debbie's Twilight Dreams II - Sanibel Island, Fla" almost won out, but for now we're calling her "Monkee" (in honor of another marginalized spaz, Peter Tork . Ok, that was a lie.)). It was either that or "Carlton" -- which makes me imagine her as an older man with fat fingers, a bank branch manager...very distinguished, yet, slovenly...)
This is the last time I will blog about the cat. I am not one of those people.
I forgot about that contest I announced, the pity contest for whomever had the most boring-est weekend. I just checked the email, read the 30-some entries, and have decided - you will all get the prize I offered - or at least a prize. Special to the three different girls wrote in saying they spent all weekend knitting or crafting -- which, speaking as a crafter -- crafting is right up by "dancing" and "fucking" on fun scale, so do not front. In spite of your attempt to trick me by pretending knitting is boring simply because it seems boring, you will get a prize.
Some selected highlights of contest entries:
KELLY - THE OFFICIAL WINNER:
This weekend I read through the used truck classifieds in the Akron
Beacon Journal, because we need a pickup truck to transport manure,
and hay, and wood. We're looking for one with four doors that will
seat 5, or better yet, one with a bench front seat as well, so it'll
seat 6. What I really need is a minivan for carting all of these kids
my son picks up like lint on a ball of velcro, and invites to go with
us everywhere, but a minivan would make me feel as boring as I would
I changed a lot of diapers. I loaded, ran, and emptied the dishwasher
twice. I made turkey leftovers for dinner both nights and we watched
the movie The Terminal. I moved the silverware into a different
drawer, and put the stuff from that drawer (phone book, small basket
of pens, menu from the only take-out place that delivers in our area,
several business cards) into the office where they're still sitting
waiting for a new home. The old silverware drawer is gone. There's a
dishwasher where it once resided. I opened the new dishwasher door
many times this weekend, thinking to get a clean spoon to stir my
decaf with. I moved the pile of newspapers out of the living room, dumping them
into several milk crates in the garage to bring them to the recycle.
Eventually.I picked at a pimple on my face so much that it's now a big welty scab.
Josh in TN:
So my weekend wasn't incredibly boring, but I'll tell you why I
deserve a CD and autographed photo.
Yesterday, like at least five days out of every week, I went to work.
Most people go to work, I suppose. I am a cameraman at a shopping
television network. Shop at Home TV.
This weekend I slept 11 hours each night, waking only to read a novel about a painter living in rural Newfoundland, drink flat mineral water straight from the plastic 1.5 litre bottle, watch VH1's hour-long retelling of the thrilling rise of grunge, walk the perimeter of an industrial park, and mutely eat dry pork with three 60-somethings who spoke only Magyar. All this in the Plattsburgh of Hungary.
if the higlights of someones weekend are a cat's claws and joan of
arcadia, you have to feel for them. that is my story.
do i win? by losing so very badly, do i win?
Tom of Baltimore:
i spent the weekend at my girlfriend's parents' house in northern
virginia. friday bridget and her mom went out shopping at the j. crew outlet
store and didn't come back all day. i was in the house by myself. i watched some
of a gilmore girls marathon and read the story in the new dave eggers book
that i'd already read in the new yorker and googled my name.
Most of the weekend is alreadily detailed on the inimitable Hookers on Stilts blog. The fascination with the "next blog" button on Blogspot is just kicking off - and cannot be under-rated as a theraputic tool. Read with awe and neutral unfascination at the lives you could have had and wonder...
Sami's World, as of this weekend, is my latest and most favorite. Her teen verisimilitudes, about sixth period lunch with Meags, about trips to Forever21 and Abercrombie after school, her propensity for following any mention of food with "mmm" and every mention of school with "bleh" or "blehness" or "total blehness", plus her handy Xmas-countdown list -- a window into the soul of a popular girl -- and it is pure gold.
Coloring Club was a snappy time. I colored a picture of Nixon, a picture of a nursing mom and a picture of a woman in a hard hat. Nixon, I re-did with markers, turned him into a nun-nurse in a conical hat.
Secondly: Los Angeles. When I left that city, it was a swamp city. It was old and tired and remixes were the hot shit - it was 1996 or 7. Jabberjaw closed down and people were moving to the city of tattoos, nazi surf punx, sailors and bands with oil slick hair - San Diego. LA was so snuffed that San Diego seemed cool. Meanwhile, LA seems to have reclaimed it's most fiery Day Of The Locust grim vigor, and alas, the sun never sets on hedonism, and everyone seems to be waiting for the trickle down into their cups. Here, in the midwest, the last strains of the coiffiture that came back with The Rapture 12" and copius yayo intake, seem to be losing steam, and the stee of being fake-rich, genuine slutty and a marginal DJ are falling with the mercury. Part of the reason I love the midwest, and all the midwest kids that move here from Crystal Lake and Iowa City and Louisville - is that Chicago, it's bars, it's surplus of shows, it's anonymity -- it's a big enough dream. And if you want a dream bigger than that, if you show some careerist, naked agression and animus to achieve, to make it in a bigger city, on a coast people tend to dismiss you, scoff at your delusions of grandeur, talk low on the barstool about the bigness of your britches.
Andrea L. Fontana, Muy Romantico member and designer of gum packaging, has invited me to Coloring Club. Tonight, picture options include Ghandi, world leaders and a still from Law and Order.
Here is the info, if you are lonely and/or wanna go outside:
Coloring Club Meeting Tonight
Wednesday Dec. 1
8:30pm ish - 11ish @ Rodan
1530 N. Milwaukee
We'll supply the pictures to color, and some crayons, but feel free to
bring your own art box. Or, you know, if you're the type that prefers oil
Pictures from last coloring club meeting up here .
See you there. Oh, Rodan is a bar, if you are underage and/or you are disgusted and alienated by alcohol-based recreation economy.