Laura Mulvey's "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema" (link courtesy SFJ), a vertitable snapfest on them phallocratic bustas. Language is a little academia al dente, but that just means you gotta read it slow a couple of times maybe, but the knowledge inside is worth the effort.
My friend Dan Monick has some part in this radtarded Echo Park art style t shirt company . Props to the men's t-shirt's male model, who is rocking a "Over The Edge"/Marc Bolan/jailbait look thats ill binox and rawng.
I like to also view the art on the website of Maya Hayuk who draws and paints hair to look like how you wished it looked, like some wild plant. She just shot the cover of Hit it or Quit it. We got to visit her house/studio, she is a real artist.
Mz. Megan Holmes also just sent me a link to her portfolio site . Megan is finally leaving the PR-dome and doing f/t photographic arts, and so much props to her. She took my picture twice, both times, I look like a little pig snorting.
A fellow Minnesotan lady writes:
"Dude, did you actually go in that Burger King in Elk Mound, WI? Because that Burger King smells so bad, high school locker room towel hamper-style. I've made that drive four times in the last 6 months, each time I stopped at that BK, every time it reeked like cooch -- it's crazy! "
Yes, I did actually go in to the BK in Elk Mound. The most notable thing to report was concert-decibel patriotic country music BUMPIN throught, and the still-drunk from the night before guy, part of the snowmobiling gang outside, who was jokingly insulting other patrons he knew, with a BK crown perched atop his snowmobiling helmet, which he had not removed and but, simply, had raised it's face-lid and shoved the meat sandwich into the opening. And no, the BK did not stank like the crotch of either gender.
Steve Kiviat, total stranger writes:
I like reading what you have to say about music, and emo demographics and stuff, but what is the deal with you always mentioning how often you or your relatives smoke? This old guy hates breathing in second-hand smoke at shows, and doesn’t understand your fixation on this cancer and emphysema and stinky clothes causing thing.
Steve, thanks for your thoughtful letter. I am not sure why I write about smoking so much other than I am around it a lot. Cigarettes and smoking breaks are common transactions round these parts - here in Chicago, you can smoke everywhere aside from church and operating rooms, pretty much. I wrote about my moms smoking because she is so peculilar of a smoker, it is hard not to notice. But, I agree. Smoking is not cool, and I would hate for anyone to pick up the habit because they read about it on my blog. Not that I think I am all that influential, but I remember once standing outside a Jets to Brazil show, and some 15 years old girls came up to Blake, Jets/former Jawbreaker frontman, brandishing packs of Chesterfield Kings, aka the brand that killed grandpa, saying they had picked them up as some sort of expression of fandom over (the Jawbreaker "hit") "Chesterfield Kings", and he had this look like someone punched him. None the less, kids are always looking for excuses to justify vice, and I do not want to be responsible for anyone's gross smoking, so I will stop mentioning it on this here blog. Thanks!
The 409 mile drive is over. It was pitiful, my temprature is roasting my eyes balls to a Bacos™ like substance, and I fear my sight shall soon be taken. No medicines but god's grace were availed to me, due to my long journey. There is nothing like spitting phlegm out the window of my wagon and having it fly back into mine own pigtail at 70 mph. I stopped for a spell, to rest and program my iPod in the Burger King parking lot in Elk Mound, WI, and would of wilted on the spot, if I had not been awaken by a team of nine snowmobiling young men pulling through the BK drive thru, gunning their engines, their machines grinding against the snowless parking lot cement, the young men carrying on and ordering combos meals.
Alas, I am home, and I am just blogging to wish the world a final salud, or maybe suggest, if you have one to spare, you send for one of the giant Swiss Mountainering dogs with the little barrel round it's neck (no alcohol please, I prefer tea) to come and lick my face a bit while I slowly expire in some grand dramatic fashion, from the worst flu of my pitiful young life. If you live nearby, I suggest you come over, and whatever pox I got be damned, brush the sweaty bangs of my bad haircut from my face, and sob in to my limp white palm and curse god loudly, after a solemn hymn of "Leaning On The Everlasting Arms". Bonus points for anyone willing to vow to avenge my death, same goes for anyone bearing"ointment from the doc" to bring me a bit of relief as my time draws near.
My dearest dear lady pal, Britt Barton-Lindsay, she of the funtime blog Hookers on Stilts, her and I were sitting on the couch the other night, in a haze after watching Frontline, and as our talks oft do, the topic turned to a baffled what the eff in ref to the patriarchy. She says "Do girls ever write you beefing with your semantics?" she asks frustrated, rhetorically. Oh, of course not - No. Only dudes. Only dudes write telling me what I should and should not do, how I should or should not write. Girls say "I hope you write a book" and encourage you to keep up the good work. Boys do not suggest, nor do they politely wish. They tell you how and what you should write the book on, what you should leave out, or perhaps if you fix your grammar, your gaze, or whatever they think your problem is, then perhaps in a few years you could be book ripe. I think of Tim Kinsella's singed song "Ignorance is/ My privaledge right" casual like a nursery rhyme. It is hard to ignore what is in your face daily, making it easier to ignore people who insist yr making a big deal out of nothing. Do you boys tell other boys what to do in forceful manners, maestro-voice booming suggestion without solicitation?
I was talking late on the phone to a friend, about why some other friends of ours, they can ignore certain things in the music we all luv, they can ignore who it beats down because, in part, because they are still served and ascended as male listeners. They have the luxury of not having to unpack the contents of the mixtapes and the crunk top 10-ers, call it "hot to death" and not sweat the mute mami/stick it in your mouth bitch/rape innuendo - because it's just a song, and hey, rape ain't something they are worried about everytime they come out of the subway late at night. You do not want to think writers and cultural critics cavemen because they do not care about anything 'sides the metronomic desplosion of a beat and the dick swingin' more-cheesmo that has hotties screaming ouch on the dancefloor. We do not die when we unpack the entire contents of the songs and what they imply, yes, perhaps we do sound uncool like C Dolores Tucker, or Tipper, even, but is that not our duty as cultural critics, should we not show how wide a swath of understanding we can cut by rubics cubing the whole thing? To take in the entire sharp dicotomy, does not mean we still cannot love it. We just have to reckon with it. Things we love deserve that attention, no?
I was supposed to drive home from Minneapolis this morning, but a high fever intervened, as did some snow, and so the 409 mile trek will be put off until I am well. Which is ok, because I forgot to charge my iPod while I slept and the only tapes I have in the car are interviews I have to transcribe, and Technotronic "Pump Up the Jam" - which I could probably listen to on repeat for at least the first 3 hours of the trip with no problem.
I woke up early, coughing, bangs matted to my sweaty head, and told my mom I was not decamping for Chicago just yet, would be staying in bed here, in what used to be my sister's room, taking advantage of the wireless inter-web, and possibly, some cable tv until my condition stabilizes. My mother then said she would stay home for a while to take care of me, for the first time since I was 7. I think the fact that I bummed a cigarette off her at 9 am and ate pretzels for breakfast made her have much less empathy for my ailments, and she has since left for work, after a gentle-but-harsh lecture about how not taking care of one's self at 16 is one thing, but at 28 it's another, and that pretzels are not a breakfast.
I wanted to explain that no matter how old I am, when I come home, I revert to the age I last lived here at, and that when I am at home, in my own apartment, I can pass for at least 24 most of the time, but it seemed fruitless.
Now, I retire to my sister's old bedroom, which is still decorated with a bomblast of pictures of her high school life covering every surface. All winter formal dances, bikini'd spring breaks, her and her friends with zillion-watt forced-cheerleading pose exuberant smiles, their long blonde hairs, in various fading stages of perm, all mingling together - in the BFF pose, holding tight like they're drowning. My sister is in every picture, with her friends, conveying a deep sentiment of the "us" of teen girl friend ship. I do not remember ever having pictures of my high school friends, or my high school "adventures", up around my room. Living it every day was punishment enough, reminders simply would have unnesseccary.
Royal Scam = the first female fronted maje labe emo band with a feminist singer. All hail! Here is to the overthrow.
ILM fires up the burners and critical think USA goes into the recesses of it's male zone to ponder gender-disparity in the Village Voice pazz n' jop poll. 15% of the casted ballots were compiled by lady hands. Someone did the math to see when women's votes, coounted alone, who balanced out where --- and the boys now theorize "Does Usher/Interpol/Killers notch up on the list because ladies vote for who is cute?" -- which just goes to show the think embedded in "our" community. They even start digging the grave deeper with the " women 'not get' the Hold Steady/Lifter Puller" bit. The whole thing is pretty sorry if you ask me, but I'll take any excuse I can to make a numbered-list argument!
Let me put on my special velour and mesh Patriarchy Fighting sweat-suit, and holla back here:
1. Speaking as the person who did press for Lifter Puller from the second single (thats my leg on the back!) until the last drop of sweat hit the floor at the reunion shows, which was about seven years total: No one really ever got what they were doing . Dudes and ladies, crit nor average masses. The first five years of doing their press -- it was like trying to give out free gonorrhea samples at the mall. SO! When you take the example of the P N J list, which is hardly a representative sample to begin with, and then pass the exception to the rule off as the rule ("My room-mate has a vagina, and she does not like Hold Steady") -- and tie in with the fact that HOld Steady Almost Killed Me was consistantly topped the "the best album no one heard" 2004 - the album was beholden by the critical cognescenti, and that cognescenti has very few women amongst it's ranks. Baby, it's not me -- it's you. Really.
2. Who is voting for Interpol because they are cute? Carlos D is Crispin Glover with Hilter's haircut and wore-drobe. I hope if the ILM'rs, who are some of this USA's editorial elite, freelancing scrubs and primo bloggersteins, if they are going to examine and speculate who is ranking where, who's getting covered based on sex appeal, that we dare look at the whole picture - and point the flashlight to the Donna's poster hanging above your desk.
3. The supposing and wondering why the vagina'd writers are not voting for more of the vagina'd bands or singers, why we ain't repping more for our own team or voting for creamy country acts that are specifically marketed towards us -- I mean, I guess that is fair, right? Dudes mostly write about and vote for men, yeah? Is there equal surprise that Oliver Wang and Jeff Chang do not have a more asian-repping tickets?
3.4) There are some of us working within the clubhouse to end the girl-ghettoization, while still supporting the work coming out of it (Venus Magazine, Ladyfests - seperatist ideas that have been nessecary, many times, in order for some bands/ideas/publications to even get time on the playing field - born out of Riot Girl doctrine, but at the same time keeping us niche/boutique'd at best) -- on my P&J Ballot, I voted with my ear first and my feminism second, because that is how I hear and judge records - ie. - Jean Grae is an artist important to me as a feminist critic, Hold Steady is a band I like and Craig Finn's lyrics are about women with lives and backstory and names and storylines - not just some anon. pussy he used to get, but hates or misses or done him wrong. And secondly -- for an explanation of why women are not voting for faux feminist country singers or Big N Rich -- things marketed to him -- that is to imagine we have no critical criteria, no ability to buck what bullshit is tossed to us. If we - men and women crit-clubhouse -- are all suspectable and voting for whatever is being strongly marketed to us, Paris Hilton's tits would have at least tied with Brian Wilson.
4. In my publicity database, of all my journalist contacts - about 3400 people or so, I would say 30% are women, so the Pazz and Jop disparity may have to do with who is and is not qualifying for ballot-ability. Women tend to be at weeklies and daily paper culture desks, or college papers. The strictly-music magazines that cover both genders with women in high-ranking editorial are limited to: Outburn, Spin, Sentimentalist, Guitar Player, URB, Xlr8r, Revolver, Punk Planet and Hit it or Quit it. A friend at Alt Press shared with me that 60% of their readership is female, and most of the shows I go to, usually about a 40% female attendance -- so why the disparity? Lack of encouragement? Not appealling venture? Not able to actually get through the door? Creeped out at the thought of being at parties with your peers with a 20-1 male to female ratio? Perhaps bummed that even when they are at $38,000/year editorial jobs that their peers will assume they vote for who they would fuck on their Pazz N Jop ballot, as opposed to who's records they play most on their iPods in 2004?
This from my friend Chloe, whose band I do publicity for, she is 10 and in 5th grade.
What do you think of George Bush?
Chloe: I don't like to be mean but I think that he has some really strange thoughts that are not good.
As J-Shep spake, "we in" re: EMP Pop Conference and All You Can Eat Indian Buffet mid-April. My paper got in this year. Last time I went, I went to DJ a party or two, and it was the OG Binoculars til dawn shit - my leg had never been so grinded on in my life. I officiated a panel the next day, and did so so badly to the point that RJ accused me of being "anti-intellectual" and I was all "Yo, I did not understand what David Grubbs paper was even about. He was so meta it was like Earths lava-core. I burnt up! I don;t know shit about theory -- I just came for the free pancakes!" but, it all paid off because J-Shep and I witnessed Sasha's Jamiroquai impression - maybe the funniest 3 minutes of that year, and also me and JShep watched a really great documentary on PBS about the railroad, and chainsmoked in the hotel queensize til 4 am, zonked from a hard day of THINKING, which is not a terribly romantic picture, but it was kind of like the summer camp experience I never got. Starring the ceiling and gossiping to yr fave brain trust about whether Robert Christgau was actually picking his nose, or if he just had allergies during his panel.
My mom smokes like a teenager. She kind of tilts her head back and half inhales, lips the cigarette loud, watches her smoke as she blows it out, with a birthday candle extinguishing exhale. Then she sprays a little air freshner to cover it when she is done.
As I was placing my quarter atop my crumbley-still dollar on the counter, I lean't in and loud-whispered to the dude "Whats up with those kids?" - he looks over my shoulder to the table at the other end, the kids on weekend custody furlough with their dad who has supplemented his attention with 2 cokes and a shared cookie. He reads Autotrader, as if alone, and his sons, both with skater-do long hair, hoodies, scorn and leather jackets, ages maybe 9 and 12, mute. They both got deer knives clipped to their pockets. A song comes on the coffee shop stereo and the little one tries to drum along, Dave Grohl hard, on the table top. "Stop" says the older one. Dad is in a bubble of used car deals, orbiting somewhere far above their familiar terra, unawares to the boys he's fading.
I am terribly tempted to turn around and start whipping the dad with his rolled up Autotrader. It's 11 am on a Saturday and your kids are idling in a smokey coffee shop and ps. what the f are they doing with hunting knives outside a deer-stand? They should be home watching some cartoons or climbing or building stuff, maybe downing some Fruity Pebbles, but not cookies and cokes. Most every man that I ever really loved had some crippling sadness due to the dad that never showed up, the dad that bailed, the dad that toughed them into some wack idea of manhood. Meanwhile, I had two dads who showed up for me like I was Christmas, cooked my dinners encouraged my feminism and independence and were emotionally deep, taught me how to drive a car and a boat, cried in front of me on occasion and gave me books for my birthday. It gave me a leg up in the world like nothing else.
Growing up in a patriarchy, nothing fucks you up as bad as the checked-out dad. Nothing saddens me as much to witness.
After the kids n' dad mime-family ensemble leave, the coffee-counter guy comes over to my table and gossips to me, about how on Thanksgiving, since they are open, they seem to be the exchange point for custody-sharing dads in the city. That there is a stream of moms dropping off, and dad's plying kids with cookies and hot choco's as way of apology. A custody depot all day long. "It's brutal. It's just brutal" he says.
Oh snap! Steve Albini shows up to weigh in on the Teeter vs. Cosloy Mata-war and drops the c-bomb on yrs truly . Perhaps he is still steaming about the time in 1996 we made that joke about him sponsoring a 2K Fun Run for Gay Pets?
And, for the record, just on some total p.s. tip, despite all my ribbing of Mister Cosloy, I do respect him quite a bit. Matador has always had a female-heavy roster, embraced laptop-rock way early (I still have that Lesser record), and tried their best to take it to the streets with some hip hop releases here and there. As I tried, in vain, to make clear to GC during the debacle of last week, my riff about interns was not pointed at him alone, and was part of a larger discourse on interns I have been having with several other people (May I recommend the "indie rock industry myth"chapter in Joel Schalit's book Jerusalem Calling as a tremendous critical examination on interning) . I do not think GC's a bad dude or a intern-hating rascal or even a rich snob. And thats the last thing I'm ever saying about it. Really.
On a totally unrelated point, but to touch on the comments re: K's review in the Times, and O-Dub bloggeration on it ---> I saw Sage Francis play last night, and I have a lot of respect for what he is doing. He is out on a limb with a 5-person back up consisting of a polyglot drill n' bass ensemble from Florida whom during their solo opening set riffed on some Rumi-like metaphysics "be who you are/global village" / fuck Bush sentiments -- the sort of thing anyone over 19 regards as cornball, but I think cornball is brave. Hip hop is so eternally mired in the authenticity debate, with the everyone tending to their aesthete like Moses came off the Mount with Nas lyrics etched into a tablet -- the idea of "respect" and what you can and cannot do seems so codified to me, that I think it's really bold for Sage to do "political" and do it serious and do it goofy, and do it with five dorky people doing his back ups and him garbed like he's going as Luke 3:16 for Halloween, and to do a cover of a Shellac song previously bastardized by Atmosphere -- like, dude clearly does not care for the rules.
I was at Rjyan and Roby's for evening tea and planning, where they told me about the two records they are working on (cex and sandcats), one of which, the vinyl version, the cover can be cut and by following the directions on the inserts, you have a puppet theatre where you can act out scenes with puppets (included, made from inserts) to go along with the 12 minute one-song rock opera that is somehwere in Side One of the Sandcats album, which is about 220 bpm, almost all the way through. I cannot tell you the plot, because it's just too good.
Rjyan and Roby look strangely alike -- not quite brother and sister, but def. cousins-alike, which is not creepy in light of them being married. Same color hair, and now, the same haircut (which are notable as I have never seen anyone with their haircuts), same glasses, same moon-eye Scandanavian features and immaculately ragged home-modified outfits. Rjyan started talking about the record they want to make after these next three come out, which is a hip hop record coming from the locus point of "What if Illmatic, and a lot of hip hop culture was not based around the movie Scarface, but some other movie, like "Some Like It Hot" - what would it all sound like?" -- the sort of stuff I stopped being able to access in my brain after I took all that acid summer of 92.
They are the only married people I am jealous of (no offense, other married friends, I like you, but jealous of your marriages is rare). When I arrived at their house, they had just finished 5 days of fasting together, and had built little sculptures out of all the lemon-peels they juiced while fasting, which they plan to use to animate part of the video they are making for the rock opera that they wrote together. They look at each other when they are making points, for nod, and they laugh at each others jokes with ease. The walls of their apartment are painted as mountain scenes. They wear matching strings around their necks with a little chicken bone tied to it. They made three records together since summer, from binoculars concept to extra-complex artwork, and then toured on them for a few months. You never get the idea they would rather be doing anything but riding bikes together, or welding trash to their front gate, TOGETHER. Anyhow, what I meant to tell is that with in the next week or two, you will be able to watch some snippets of all of this, via way in the future concept site Vimeo which is some side magic of Rjyan's best dude frnd Jake, who oddly enough, is one of the dudes behind CollegeHumor.com, which is slightly lower concept than Vimeo.
In the meantime, settle for the analog update they did of their website .
I feel like everything might be ok if The Bookworms were headlining Coachella, instead of Trent Reznor. Did you like that picture? Were you endeared by it? Good. Maybe you can help the Bookworms and a lot of girls like them by donating used band/music equipment to the NY Rock N Roll Camp for Girls - The New York edition, which kicks off this August. We need to round up enough equipment to supply 75 girls between the ages of 8-18 who are aspiring drummers, bassists, singers, djs, MCs etc. If you do not have equipment to donate, how about playing at or attending a benefit? (2/27 at Sin-e, $10, 8pm with Dynasty, Vibrations and more)
HERE IS THE EQUIPMENT WISH LIST
email firstname.lastname@example.org for gear-drop-spots in Manhattan or Brooklyn or go to the NYC camp website , where you can also straight-money donate via Pay-Pal.
20 guitar amps (10 practice, 10 performance)
15 bass amps (10 practice, 5 performance)
35 guitar straps
5 drum kits
15 mic stands
10 keyboard stands
30 _" cords
15 XLR cords
30 packs electric guitar strings
15 packs bass strings
10 packs acoustic guitar strings
On my P&J bullet, I voted furr some bands that are a mystery to people outside of Chicago. As I find their MP3 site-propers, I will link - as I know yr dying to blow through some time at yr wretched job at the school library or the lucky dice factory.
1. Weather is Roby who was in Milemarker, and now plays in Cex and Sandcats too with her husband, Rjyan Kidwell, who met in my kitchen, about a year ago this time. I saw Weather play in basements, at the wedding in the woods and some weird show in Rhode Island, where they played in a thrid floor bedroom, and everyone sat on the curb outside, across the street. The MP3 posted does not capture their biz-nox-uloxx-ulurrs edge. Roby's voice is like a lava pit when she lets loose - much more refined and dynamic than her Milemarker works. She made outfits for the audience to wear while the band plays. Animal heads and the like, for you and me to wearas we are rocked - I am a real stickler about germs, but I usually strap on the rabbit or horse-bonnet when I watch them, because it's a great oppurtunity that should not be missed. Also, Roby has beautiful hair, as you can see in the pictures.
- tomorrow: perfect panther, with more pretty hair and songs.
I got the new-new Hold Steady, from Craig, cos it's like that. Tossed to me when we were at the park taking his picture. It's elastic and big, the drums sound Albini-a-cized. Pirate sounding with that organ, but maybe more dark and spooky, than carnivalian, like some late-era Damned record. Oh, he just referenced an intersection 5 blocks from my moms house. Snap. Springsteen/Grifters/Cheap Trick riffing with a cowbell, which is almost J Geils Band-ian. Oh Snap Redux. I am not sure what it's about-about, but it sounds like someone on a speed bender in Edina, MN.
Edina is the quitessential, infintly insultable, easy punchline suburb - because being suburban-tony and white in Minnesota is redundant, and so Edina is... whatever is beyond the beyond. The double beyond. Edina is a k-hole of winter tanned women, with white tennis shoes and fur coats rocked in conjunction, , perms and sunken living rooms, pleatfront weekend casj dads, mean prudish high school girls and their boyfriends who deal weed 'for fun'. Edina, or just the proverbial Edina, is where the clean and well intentioned always seem to start in Hold Steady songs. They wind up downtown, or by the river or in the backseat.
The lady in the purple smock stole my blood.
"Should I be feeling a little weird right now?" Because I do.
"No. It's only a couple table spoons." - she says, holding as she fills vial #3, which is about the size of a large wooden barrel.
Excuse me lady,, but I am approximately 9 inches tall and weigh 3 kilos, and I do not have much more blood to express. I am not a blood-cow.
Technicallly, to be fair, she did not steal it. I paid her $641 to ciphen it out of the crook of my arm. You'd think for that price, I could get something upscale to cover the hole she made, like a fucking Snoopy band-aid, but nope, just a cotton on medical tape.
For those that cannot make it to the premiere in San Pedro next week, trailers from the documentary on The Minutemen . Yes, for real. It's a "holyshit! no way!" moment for all.
I do not know this person, for actual, but they live in Mnpls and I am liking their blog, so here is some air time.
All the links to MP3 are dead on the Black Mountain website, but they are coming on tour in America soon , and in the interim, watch a little video of them playing live , and there are some jams downloadable over at JagJaguwar . I like it when Stephen and Amber sing together, it's like Richard and Linda Thompson gone dumb-good on Exene/John rawness. RIYL: Blue Cheer, Patti Smith "Easter". They are from the uncool side of Canada and I think everyone is sleeping on them. The full length stands up to every-day repeat listening. It's howly and stompy and wicked as anything.
After the 7 emails in 72 hours from madd (mad!) tenacious Gerard Cosloy which made me feel that a specially-bred attacking poodle had my whole head in a vice like death grip ( a compliment! really!). I do believe my myriad of emails begging NO MAS have brought us to some quasi-cordial truce. "In the future when I'm called a rotissiere chicken-devouring, cut & paste sports blogging, zillionaire elitist, I'll try harder not to take it personally," wrote GC. I, too, learned my lesson -- Some people really really do not like being made fun of on the internet.
Yet, yes, yet! the battle continues to wage, and what unfold around us is clear, Teeter and Gerard do not share the same crystal vision, ala Stevie Nicks.
I think Teeter wins because she is funnier. But that might just be because I do not understand GC's Jose Canseco jokes.
Why does the ringtone version of Fire Fire sounds like a jackin version of Super Mario Cart? Why can't my ring tone be the sound of her hair in the wind. Look on the photos page, of her in the tree house - I imagine all the hot girls in the bible looked like that.
I like Brother Reade . I have heard four songs and I like three.
I do not understand the boner* that is going on re: Bloc Party or how anyone is selling them ( at 4 grand a month pr fee no less) as a dance anything and a disco future, as something steaming urgently to unseat Franz Ferdinand as the band that makes 17 yr olds feel sexy when trying on jeans in the dressing room at Wet Seal. Sexless, uninspired and as the a&r clods say "there are no songs". As Teeter said this eve " I Am the new sheriff of and am now entering snoozville, pa - population 1". Fake disco jail is the new emo pussy jail. Except all the fake indie fake dance 5th gear hype disco bands - they are just selling you a bridge that is not there (Metaphorically, literally even) rather than emo's cockslapping about New Jersey topography and some bad-good girl who they have not even slept with. Both are worser than I wish, but emo is easier to ignore at this point.
(* sorry, I know that most people hate that word)
After uncrunkling from the planeride back, I nabbed Miles and Ben and we made our way to the summer themed dance party Comeau was throwing at the skeezy Polish bar. Dress for summer and you get in for $3, $8 fine for dressing "winter". We all were wearing parkas and slunk in for three a pop, though I do not think Miles even paid, but that might of been because he was rocking this unholy look that imagined Marc Bolan as a Crip, which took him direct to the non-payment level. 70's rock scum meets gangsta says "I'm carefree" with a particular sang-froid daring that is about four years into fashion-future.
The theme party was rife with the boozy and braless. The combo of sunglasses indoors, halter tops, top 40 music and inflatable plastic palm trees summoned every 80's movie's party scene where the bougie kid's parents are out of town.
Or Chuck Klosterman's birthday party staged at a Sandals resort.
Ben and I slunked down at our table, Miles mingled. I nursed my tap water on the rocks, Ben his Bud brown bottle. After six minutes, somewhere in the bridge of "Lean Back", our eyes glued with glum fascination to the trainwreck of damaged grind ideas summoned by the freed azzes of the partytown's real party girls, Ben turns and says "You know, it really is true what they say about white girls and dancing." I slurped a yes out my stirstraw and continued with my mute orgami reworkings with the waxed paper Tootsie Roll wrappers, and thought about all the other things I'd rather be doing like catching up on back issues of New Yorker or fucking my boyfriend.
I only like real summer parties during the real summer.
These winter parties are like a joke with no punchline.
Stayed another 40 minutes past this, by apathy and by accident, out of having interminable strings of 90 second conversations with peoples names I should know by now. All of whom seemed surprised to see me and inquired about what I am doing in town, which made me feel both hermetic and worldly -- as if spending a few weeks at a time in Minnesota were equivalent to "living abroad". It is, perhaps, the deepest dream come true of notorious me - no one actually thinks I live here anymore.
Things were livened up considerably once Ralph, DBA Major Taylor, hit the decks and brought his Philly party-rock skills to the floor. Three years into the dance-party splosion, and every amateur DJ who plays every party still doesn't know how to mind their levels, beat match or even blend safely (I am not entirely exempt from the wackness cadre). So, it's nice to feel the choice caress of a DJ who cuts the hit by the bridge and gets you to the next song, which was better than the last... As opposed to giving you 14 seconds of silence followed by a techno remix of an ironically adored terrible pop song - a song choice which indicates that the DJ cannot actually tell the difference between good techno and bad techno because it's all just 'dance' music to them, usually followed by the forever shit sandwich of Billy Idol/the Rapture/ The Cars -- all the bands that make me wish for Old Testament God to hurry up and exact his wrath on the white people already.
None the less, Ralph killed it with his skills-a, which more than made up for opening his set with "O.P.P" - which I view as the sort of song you only play at wedding receptions (or proms) when the barf-drunk bridesmaids are shoeless and slipping around the parquet in their nude hose.
I spent the rest of the time tonguing Tootsie Rolls out of my molars and casually watching the bathroom lines, getting angry and sad (and various toxic combos of the two) as people I know, including some bona-fide friends, slink Noah's Ark style, two by two, into the mens and ladies rooms and come out sniffing, mechanically jittery, grinding their teeth. So, I stole the rest of the Tootsie Rolls off the table, cheek-kissed those I came with, and retreated home, abandoning my witness seat, as watching the smart and talented cop out, trying to stave off 30's reality-bite with a Simulac-cut bump really gets me down.
The Tinylucky Mailbag™ got a special treat today -- a pound of grade A internet beef, courtesy Matador Honcho Gerard Cosloy, who was writing in responce to my post about his pristine Myspace ethics and alleged love of rotisserie chicken. Mr. Cosloy requested equal op. forum, and files in his defense:
1) I've never had rotisserie chicken (though I'm willing to try it)
2) "You run Matador, which means not only are you rich-furr-life"
how do you figure that? I mean really, not that my bank balance is your business or anyone else's, but how are you so certain that I'm loaded, and why should that make any difference in how I deal with correspondence?
3) "yr blog is a bullet point editon of The Sporting News"
How so? I mean, since you're obviously very familiar with both, that shouldn't be a hard statement to back up. Admittedly, what I'm doing with CSTB isn't nearly as spectacular as hearing about your day or your pazz & jop ballot (seriously!), but I'm aiming for something a little less ambitious.
4) "fuck anyone who is not genuinely and exubberantly thankful to even marginally productive interns, even the annoying ones"
yeah, and fuck anyone who says I'm NOT genuinely thankful, gracious, helpful, etc. to interns, productive and/or annoying, whatever. I think I've always shown gratitude and respect towards the unpaid slave help (at least those that bother to introduce themselves) and have never in my life asked someone to run errands for me, fetch coffee, etc. If another guy in the company, has a bunch of interns, that's great. But there are a ton of 'em....and I'm not in even that building!
How many of Matador's current staff do you think got their start as interns at the label? How many of the people RUNNING the label do think were interns themselves once upon a time?
I totally get that the vast majority of our interns want to help our bands and our label. That's why I've always strived to treat them like human beings, with actual names, ideas, opinions, etc. None of that has anything to do with someone sending me a myspace friend request for a (ficticious) band I've never heard of and instead of following it with some note of explanation (ie. "hi, remember me, I'm so and so, I look forward to trashing you in my blog, etc."), pulling some tired "who needs your label anyway?" routine.
If I've gotta check OK next to every person who says they were an intern, ex-employee, friend of a friend, etc. it just gets kind of ridiculous. 'Cause some of 'em weren't any such thing. And it wasn't as though Teeter (who didn't id herself --- I guess that would've been too difficult) was writing to the Matador label myspace page, she did so to me directly. If I'm indeed, "the busiest, coolest, most elite person ever", why would I have bothered to write back?
If you think I'm being a little precious about the myspace thing, that's fair enough. But no more or less precious so than someone flipping out that their gag messages didn't get the desired response. And there's nothing elitist about it --- a cursory glance at the motley collection of "friends" at my personal myspace page will reveal that they are a considerably less connected, glamorous lot than say, the blogs you choose to link to or the select scenesters who frequently feature in yours. But of course, I shouldn't mind being held to some wack standard of inclusiveness, because I'm rich-furr-life, run Matador, etc.
If you feel comfortable passing judgement on me based on what I genuinely meant to be polite replies to Teeter, you are welcome to do so. But you're still full of shit.
Thanks for writing, Gerard. We are sorry if we mispegged you as being rich furr life, loving a chicken dish you are unfamiliar with and assuming yr a dick to interns that have passed through the gates of Matador. While it is often the TLG steez to pass judgement on strangers, we are hoping this does not keep you from listening to the Cam'ron's Foreskin featuring Mark Ibold demo when the time comes - word!
I had lunch at the Conde Nast-y cafeteria, courtesy Sasha, which was notable for the Frank Gehry design, that of a robot-baby cocoon, (like the big shiny bean in the park in Chicago but glassier) and also, it was packed with ponytailed assistant to the assistant ponytail fashionista, who created a flexing swirling line around the salad bar like a hi-pressure storm pattern you see when they pull up the Doppler Radar 3- day forecast on the night-news. When I was waiting to get on the lelevator, this woman walked past me with a gi-nourmous bag from prada, containing a giant prada box. I think it might have been a casket. I used to freak out when I visited New York, when I was a young publicist, a young funna-be trying to gold front like I was keeping up, but inside I was panicked because I did not have fancy shoes, and all New York womens, even the tiny ones in size 4x toddler Rocawear jackets, have fancy shoes, and thusly, I felt like a troll under a bridge keeping spare change in my solied pointy hat. Finally, after 13+ trips to New York, I officially have stopped giving a shit.
I spent the afternoon interviewing Britt from Spoon. I asked him important questions like how he feels about porn on the personal political level. We talked about Spoon for about 5 seconds total. I bailed to Fat Beats and proffered my phone bill money for some 12s, then bought some wooden shoes. In my life dream, I only wear wooden shoes and outifts made of potato sacks, cut my hair with the #1 clipper blade and live in a barn. I am now 1/4 of the way there!
JShep and I met with Karla from Ida, who is organizing the Rock N Roll Girls camp for NYC - which kicks off this August about the 60,000$ that needs to be raised, about finding female mcs and djs to teach at the camp, getting ahold of Kim Gordon and Joan Jett, about coming up with musical equipment for 75 girls, and soliciting wealthy rock stars for their dough. (Moby was sitting at the next table. I was tempted to invite him to come sit at our table, just petition him directly - because only assholes say not to girls rock camp, but he disappeared down a hole at the base of a tree trunk when we weren't looking. ) Soon, I will have a link to a page about NY Girls Rock Camp, if you think you have the inclination to volunteer, donate or hook something magical up.
Nick Catchdubs remembers SUPER ROCK! Super Rock was the best worst and best again show that should never of been. It was such a product of the 93-94 era where a lot of things snuck through the cracks, a legion of shouldn't-have-happened, pulled by Nirvana's tide. SuperRock was right up there with Scrawl being on a major label, as far as the inexplicable making it through the corpo-gates. Jackie never looked at the camera and Dr.Dre did not laugh at her jokes - SuperRock was like the polyglot of Judgement Night soundtrack in a TV show, and sadly, I think there were only about 4 episiodes of it.
Attention old Riot Girls: On the topic of 1993's tragic mysteries, Sara Marcus is doing a book, which I imagine will be the definitive primer/history on riot girl, and is looking for old show fliers and also anyone who has a dub of the disastariffic "women in rock/riot girl" episode of the Jane Pratt show, which fatefully, was the last show, as Lifetime cancelled it the following week. If I had a copy, I would have played "Taliban" and wrapped the tape around a telephone pole. Highlights include: Kim Gordon's wicker shoes, Rebecca Odes from Lovechild striking assimilationist poses, Erin Smith of Bratmobile discussing her classic fanzine Teenage Gang Debs (Fugazi Paper dolls! i still have mine!), an A&R guy from Warner discussing how women are the future of music, me getting agitated and saucy and telling Jane Pratt I wasn't a feminist just to fuck her stupid show up, Daisy Cafritz - as an audience member defending me and telling then-Sassy ed. Christina Kelly off, Charles Aaron - also in the audience - asking the tough question and wearing a shirt with Scooby Doo on it, and topped with a performance by Bettie Seveert, who smelled terrible and ate all the cold cuts in the green room. 11th grade was a fucking weird time for this young unicorn, believe it... Anyhow, if you have a copy of that or Bikini Kill/riotgirlband show fliers, let me know, and I will hook you up with Sara.
Joan Hiller, long time contributor to ye olde Hit it or Quit it applecart, is now writing all the copy on the Sub Pop website, and while no one was looking (except maybe Pitchfork) she loaded it with the funniest promo-copy our eyes have seen, really, ever. . I wouldn't be linking to it otherwise.
Funfact: Joan was once a model for Houston's JC Penny's young miss ads.
Do you get rainbowheaded when you hear a skateboard go by outside, even if you do not see it? I do. It's even better when you can tell they are going slow, by the space between the djunk-djunk of wheels hitting the sidewalk cracks, because it's the sound of someone who has not been skating very long. It means outside the house there is someone enchanted and not afraid, which is terribly inspiring.
But, perhaps, it's all the rotisserie chicken he allegedly eats -- animal trans fats really slow down the brain, which would keep someone from being able to come up with decent snaps, though I have to say Teets is really quick on the draw and also, like most people I know, brustles under male authority. Secondly, it makes perfect sense that Mister Cosloy is really about a truthful, pristine myspace.com account. What a piddley backpeddling implausible excuse! You run Matador, which means not only are you rich-furr-life, but nerdy teenagers, real adults AND Interpol Carlos D. (the Paris Hilton of the white-rock ghetto) -- all of those think yr an alright dude, possibly even cool. I cannot gather whether or not yr cool, as yr blog is a bullet point editon of The Sporting News, which may or may not be really about sports and might just be some secret tome about Mark Ibold's great new psyche band Cam'Ron's Foreskin .
And my third point (already!) is that, and nothing personal here Gerard - really, but you know fuck anyone who is not genuinely and exubberantly thankful to even marginally productive interns, even the annoying ones. Interns make the entire music industry run. Imagine how much more Catpower or Nelly or Shipping News albums would cost if those labels had to be paying the amount of people it takes for their time to collate, fold, staple, insert, pack up, stamp and address those promotional mailings? CDs would cost like 42$, even at Sam's Club. People, Kids - Kids! who are in the best years of their lives, when they still look good and thier livers work and they still have hope and ideals -- they are down to work for free doing the most goddawful work you can imagine, in exchange for free cds, or "experience" -- or more often than not, because they have a fundamental respect for what your company is doing and want to help you, help your artists. I mean, it's not as noble as working with lepers, but depending on what intership and what conditions, we're awfully close... so, hey, if you have an intern, even if they are stupid and annoying, be good to them because they are doing you they favor much more so that you them, even if you are the busiest, coolest, most elite person ever. Even if you are the jehovah of myspace.com!
Krystal got a baby weasel as a pet! I had no idea weasels are so cute, did you? Especially with a bow tied in it's weasel-hair? I mean, like cute enought to have an easter calendar, but probably no one ever thinks to put it in an easter basket with some baby chicks, because it would eat the lil chicks brains like giblets.
The "regarding blog" is a good one. Self-loathing is terrif, readable and endearing when it turns to self ridicule.
Here's the only picture that's really blog-suitable from Chris Ryan's 22nd Birthday/Post Pazz and Jop celebration/ Kaki King afterparty earlier this evening. That's Chris on the left, entertaining the criterati with an impromptu acapella of the Jay-z verse of One Minute Man . Jonah Weiner on the right, snapping along.
My ballot is up, and it's got four mistakes in it. But whatevers, I think three of them are actually my doing. I got a check for the comment, and I plan on putting that 7$ to use and buying, I dunno, tampons or some cassingles at a garage sale. That Lady Sovreign track listed, well, I have never heard that lady. I was talking about Lady Stush, who is possibly a garage or grime artist who's 12's are unfindable. The other thing: OLD DUDE won again. I did not even know Brian Wilson put out a record this year. Finally, something that makes me feel very, very young.
Props, snaps and whaddup you hotgenius to our favoritest Amy Phillips who has about 18 comments in the section, which is more comments than all the other girls on the crit-squad combined. I know there is only like 42 of us, so lets give a big hi-five and celebrate by whapping each other on our pert asses with back issues of Venus! WAY TO GO! Like we read in Bikini Kill #2, 12 years ago -- break down the walls that say that you can't! We shall overcome! No, really we shall!
What is Rob Tannenbaum talking about (janet's boob! britney's marriage! POURQUOI!?) - I feel like someone should ring a gong at the end of each paragraph.
Rob Sheffield is funny, and I laughed out loud at his comments.
ILM can eat me re: the rough time given to Jimmy Draper's ballot Like any single one of you folks would give Simon Reynolds a hard time for having specialized tastes, or Oliver Wang for having a narrow, all hip hop ballot? He's not a pussy for having feminist tastes. Would it have been more laudable if he voted for Kanye and Usher?
I think I am going to leave it at that because I am not so interested in furthering the usual month of debates and rallying and shitting on the critical mass and debunking other people like us that are making 15 cents a word.
Just so all my NYC/Brooklyn best pal cadre does not take the last post as some anti-NY shit, really, I am having a great time. Here is a picture of me and Julianne (on the left) and I playing around, just to prove it.
Whatever city I am visiting, I mull on "Could I live here?" until I come to a descision. I have never thought I could live in New York City, primarily because being a midwesterner with bona-fide hick sacre coursing in my veins, I cannot, on a matter of principal, pay exorbitant rent for an apartment the size of an American Girl™ dollhouse, and also, you cannot turn right on red. I cannot live in Boston because the streets are little and made for carriages and horses, and all the resturants are actually college bars. Most of New England, the frontdoors are too close to the street. Seattle used to be my favorite, but now when I walk around all I remember is where dead friends lived and where other dead friends died. Minneapolis is nice, but everyone is white, there is only one good show a month, and people still talk about what a terror I was when I last lived there - in 12th grade. Los Angeles has no shade, no trees and all the young people are grinding in fifth gear spinning their soul to ash just to say they did. Austin still has never lived up to it's hype, and yes, I have been there when it's not SXSW week.
I like Houston because all the museums are free and there is nothing to do, but rather than drinking into oblivion, kids funk shit up, plus I could sit in the Rothko chapel for hours a day and creep my core out with the stillness, staring into the purple red canvases that look someone sopped blood with them. I like Cleveland because it is old and charming and no one really gives a shit about it, but unlike Detroit or St.Louis, it's still got some pride, it's not slutting it in some Beirut afterlife. I like Providence from what I remember, thought last time I was there, for Rjyan and Roby's wedding, I had a panic attack that lasted three days and thought I was going to expire - and Providence seemed like an ok place to go. I like Portland because everyone likes Portland until you actually move there. I like Gary Indiana because it is looks like it has endured old testament God-wratch upon it for the last 40 years.
And so I stay in Chicago, with all it's jagged dicotomy of new construction yellow brick condos and it's rugged dilapitation, it's grid system lay-out, it's oppressive city politics, abundance of soul food, donuts, porches, freejazz, trees, easily trespassible roof access, non-white people, hideous public art, thrift stores, trains and their tracks, free things, bike lanes, 4 am burrito joints, zine and used book stores, drunk scenesters to mock, and plus, my rent is $250/mo. I spend my summer 3ams riding my bike around the warehouse area not far from my apartment, where swingshifters are loading recyclables, couture pretzels, frozen fishes and palettes, and I sing all the Carpenters songs I know and practice riding no handed, and sometimes I run into Al, or other friends and they ride too, or one time a bunch of us were biking and some drunk employees partying on the roof of Goose Island's brewing factory and they let us in and gave us a tour and spent over an hour explaining the entire process of grain into beer. How is that not heaven made special on earth?
I swiped this blog off Britt's blog, which she discovered via blog spot's next blog button. Normally, when someone does a break up blog there is a lot of sappy inarticulation, some awful lyrics, creepy obsessiveness, 4000 word "why?!" entries. But this punk kid (ok, he's 31) from Oakland details an agony we all know, in perfect notes: The innagural (and always illfated) crush on a co-worker/friend post break up, the drinking ones self to sleep, the uncontrollable, embarrassing crying bout at work, the weight-loss, your mom telling you that you look like shit, the shedding of 15 lbs, grieving over the way your ex doesn't look at you, the un-had conversations.
Start at Feb and work backwards, it's compulsive reading.
Several months ago, Tinylucky Lexiconwatch™, made mention of the horro-oror induced by an XLR8R cover story where !!!'s Guiliani single was described as "vagina detonating". Apparently, this 'splosion is not an isolated incident. I am really hoping this does not catch on, because it gives me a gagging cough. The only way it might be ok is if starts showing up on boy blogs , and only in reference to shiz like N.O.R.E. bootlegs.
I slept through the eem show, and woke up to go to M.I.A. in time. We met up with Sasha, and he was standing by a huge pile of trash-molting. We walked to the show, and him and Julianne talked a lot about Grime . Grime is a genre I like in theory and principal, but try and keep abreast of it. We jumped the line and filed in behind Spankrock's posse, dancers and extended family. Nick Catchdubs was thonking big bass favorites and mashing and mixing in a way that lets you know you are in New York and not some other city. In New York, the bump is always nuclear, on some gotta-prove shit, so they only play tracks you cannot live without at bin-bursting volumes. This happens sometimes, late and accidental in spring and summer, in Chicago, except with much less expensive shoes. All I could think was what bills I could hold off paying in order to buy stacks of 12"s to bring home and drop like anchors at the parties Bekka and I are doing late spring.
We saw M.I.A. -- who for her third show was wowing. Too bad her set was 1/3rd the volume of either Diplo or Catchdubs' sets. People were jacking and screaming the whole time. I liked her outfit and the projections just as much as her performance. I also think she has terrific hair. I had not heard any of her songs aside from "Galang" and so I just craned to see her over Elliot Aronow, who was just popping. He had on an Israeli gift scarf that was making him sweat through his sweater, sweat which was then rubbed on my arm. I try and be all 'of the people" but I am grossed out by how unsanitary shows are,so we bailed. Goodbye M.I.A. with yr hair like a honey colored flag and spurkley outfit!
We went outside and smoked and then ate sandwiches and ran into the young cadre of asst. eds and staff writers, "the kids" -- yrs younger than us, who came outta Brown and NYU and were willing to packmule to get up the ladder - 70 hours a week, managing via chinese delivery, guest list and bumps in the mens room. They look tired and casper-y, but are reporting a 75,000$ annual salary, and are on their way up. As always, I wondered about the possibilities I could have had if I went to some Ivy League feeder school (or if my dad owned Benihana). Going to any college at all would have meant I had stayed awake while taking my ACTs, so we're talking historical rewrite and capitalist fueled fantasy at this point. When I get down to knawing on the grisle of my envy, I do the a run down to untangle "would I rather work at the fader than make a fanzine that is life affirming? no. Is 75,000 and benefits probably worth the exhaustion and doubt and loathing one incurs working at Rolling Stone? doubtful. I reported 7,364$ on my 2003 taxes, but not once did I have to open someone else's mail or go to work at a magazine that puts rapists or professional mysogynists on the cover" None the less, I usually have to spend about 7 minutes doing the affirmative talk down. It's not that I actually jealous-jealous, it's more about that what I have been culturally progammed to identify as success, and it's about refuting that, and knowing different.
Julianne has a column at Pitchfork now , in the most unlikely pairing since I was slangin for Vice.
I am coming to New York tomorrow and staying for a week, to do all kinds of important Hit it OR Quit it showbizbiz. RSVP for face time time now.
No hot gossip for the day, kids, just trying to finish up alllll the work so I can get to working on the "I believe Anita Hill" shirt I am making (insert Jazzbo Patel rolling his eyes here).
Stay Tender, Ponies.
Everyone else seems to be manicly listing lists of, as N.O.U. once put it, "The sound/the sound that's a-round" , so I figured, I should get in on the action.
Top Listens for this week at the Jr. Miss department of tinyluckygenius:
1. Andy Williams - "Andy Williams Sings Moon River". "Moon River" is in my top 5 songs of all time. I listened to it 6 times already tonight. No one sings it like Andy, with such a purient, unsexual longing. Strings, french horns and lonely melodrama!drama!drama! - track after track! I like to imagine him perched in the crook of a giant oak tree, looking into the sky as he sings it -- or perhaps dejectedly shuffling through a low lit town square around 10:30 at night, throwing pennies in a fountain -- you know, the sort of way I like to imagine my boyfriend acts when he misses me most. 10 great tracks sure to inspire buttery frottage on the parquet dance floor.
2. "NASTE ( albatros si vol #6)" - I stole this from some quasi free bin at a thrift store on Tuesday. Third generation copy xerox of a little boy wearing shorts on the cover - inside is a track listing in what I read like a mix of spanish and italian. Turns out it's a mid-eighties compilation of electro-pop from Bucharest, with a female singer. I could put some poppin 808s underneath the tracks and bootleg it, and I swear to god you would wonder how you ever lived with out it and I swear to god it's not some joke I made up to mock obscurist crit tastes.
3. Cleveland Heights High School Girls Glee Club and Mens Chorus (2lp) s/t (1970). Booming/cracking baritone version of Joni Mitchell's "Both Sides Now" sung by a bunch of 16 y.o. boys, with only gynasium reverb and an upright piano, and some rudimentary drumming. The girls do "We've Only Just Begun" - with much force and little glee, with a spooky break mid song begging to be looped into a Postal Service song, the piano hits wrong chord and notes - it's all very visceral and first take sounding. I am only through side one so far, it's so good I cannot get past it. Well worth the 50 cents.
TLG READER MAIL: Mike McBike vs. The Pope
Mike writes, recounting the time HE KISSED the pope.
i too remember the popes world touri think it was like 86 or 87. i was
living in phoenix then. i was in 1st grade at the time, at this old
catholic school called queen of peace. anyways the diocese had this essay
contest and a winner from each grade 1st thru 12th would be picked to
go have special seating at the cathedral and a special pope mass. all
this stuff went over my head. anyways cause we were in 1st grade and
couldn't write for shit they let us all do a drawing of the pope for an art
contest. i was pretty kick ass at drawing back then, i think i had the
64 crayon set that really put me past the competition. my drawing,
which i've never seen since i turned it in was the pope in his popemobile.
i hadn't seen the popemobile yet, but i drew what i thought it looked
like. a white limo with the pope standing up in the moonroof. he was
holding a dr. pepper. some how i won the contest. i forgot to tell my mom
i won and lost the permission slip. our school freaked out cause i
didn't bring it back so they called my mom at work. they left this message
like "call queen of peace re: the pope" my mom was really worried. she
knew i had seen this picture in the news paper of different pope
imitators doing stuff like skateboarding and driving hot rods and stuff.. she
figured i cut them out and took them in to school.
well anyways we got the permission slip sorted out and the day arrived.
my mom dressed me up in a special POPE outfit, with the popes colors..
gold and white. it was white overall shorts with a yellow and white
horizontal striped short sleeve shirt. we went to the cathedral on a bus
and they had really tight security. body searches and everything.
anyways my mom managed to get tickets but her seats were way in the back, and
i was up front. becuase i was the youngest they had me sitting on the
aisle. the pope made his entrance and walked down the aisle blessing
people. he came up to me and i gave him a hug and he kissed my forehead
and said some latin shit.
a couple of months later my mom tracked down a picture of the event
(the pope has his own photographer and nobody is allowed cameras near the
pope except official pope crew) she still has it up at her house.
i was too young to know if the pope was good or bad. i thought he was
cool... i mean he was sorta famous and i met him so that was pretty
the other day we were talking about the pope and wondering who PROMOTES
the pope tour? like does ticketmaster do the ticketing? would the pope
go clear channel? or does he have his own blessed promotions company.
who handles the popes merch? do they get merch percentage? does the pope
get advances? how many people does the pope get on his guestlist?
on his trip i remember he did like 2 nights sold out at sun devil
stadium, and he had a TON of merch. coffee mugs, keychains, change trays,
crosses, bibles the whole deal.
i bet if we get a new pope he will do a big world tour like the last
Thanks for writing, Mike. Please send all pope related stories and deathwishes to mcfrenchvanilla at yahoo dot com - do it!
That the only magazines in America that are employing Trevor Kelley are my magazine and Alt. Press. Dear editors: Yr slacking, yr sleeping, yr warped and wrapped in nu school alt disco, yr dusting yr syntactical alters to Eggers-ian ironic earnest irony, and yr letting this dude rot away. He's Conor's neighbor, isn't that enough to land him somewhere? I mean, this is not to say I have beef with hording his talent, keeping it pimp tight in the HIOQI ranks.
I know it's incongruent to buddhochristian identify and wish that the pope cedes his seat and takes a long visit to his boss' house, but I do. I also know that the pope-job, it's like the little russian dolls, you get rid of the big one and there is an identical little one nestled right there - whomever is scheduled to bat after him is not likely to be much "better."
I spent the terrifying summer eon between 6th grade and jr. high living in Mexico City with my dad, who was then a bureau chief for the South and Central America desk of a major news wire. During my visit, the pope, he, too, came to visit Mexico City. My dad, he was an alterboy through all of his school years, back when they did the mass in Latin, and they did mass a couple times a day. His school photos at certain ages, feature his pudgey face'd framed between a high and tight buzzcut and a the pressed, floppy collar alterboy robe. Everything that makes moms proud in a heavily Catholic small town in Southern Indiana.
During his visit, the pope spoke to the masses, to the biggest city in the world, to a poor metropolis - at the time running 18 mil deep, very predominantly Catholixx. He showed up, rode around in the pope-mobile and waved his gilded septre and reminded people that birth control was a sin, and then took off into the night to do whatever it is aging pontiffs do. My dad came home from work, after covering it all for the newswire, and he swore in front of me, for the first time I can remember. He said something like "Motherfuck the pope! Fuck the fucking pope!" -- he was furious, and over dinner he explained to me the gravity of the papal irresponsibility that had just transpired. From then on, I hated the pope, too.
Most of my dad's family are still deep in the folds of catechism and The Purpose Driven Life ™, my grandma being the only one whose devotion is at all becoming. She has ever missed mass since she was four years old save for days spent in child birth and surgery. She talks about the lord with a moony reverence that would imply he's an old boyfriend of hers that she never got over. My aunt, I can only imagine what her prayers for me are like. With me living in the city, working within the liberal media, unmarried and childless at 28, raised by a thrice-divocred career mom, going to a church led by a gay pastor -- I bet I am on some perma-list for her congregation's prayer tree. On one of my last visits, I made mention of that my entire spiritual education as a child consisted of going to Unitarian service twice in 1988. She reacted as if I had just said "You know what I really love , Aunt Phylliss? Eating pussy."
"I think it's about time to call it a night," she said as she beat a hasty exit -- leaving me to show myself out. Not the same steez of cute-catholic as my grandma. No christian charity to be had.
So, with that, Pope, from all of us here at TinyLuckyGenius' Mufflers 4 Less -- to you there in yr golden domed home in Rome -- so long, farewell, auf Weidersehen, adieu .
Maura Johnston, of "blogging" fame emailed, and tipped me off to Koko the Gorilla's blog. My question about "what is she up to?" can now be answered daily. Why couldn't I have been born an adorable primate that eats apples and star in my own little cute gorilla movies, having meaningful sign-language discourse with my human trainers. Gosh. The would be a perfect gift, if you happen to be doing some early shopping for my Arbor Day present , fyi.
My roommate just ssaid: "if Koko is so expressive, why is she not writing the blog herself?" -- I am in total agreement on this. All someone has to do is ask her how she is doing, maybe what she ate, then maybe she can free associate or discuss her inability to get pregnant... which might be more interesting than the blog written on her behalf. I mean, if she can sign about how she is sad that her friend Mr. Rogers is dead, after watching a PBS special on him, years after his death -- most other 34 yr olds on blogspot are moms writing from the perspective of their babies, or horny dads. I bet Koko could totally go Chauncey Billups style on the mean streets of the gorilla sanctuary.
( SPECIAL NOTE to Gorilla Fund: Koko writing the blog would be front page news, as no other gorillas write their own blogs. Might be a better fundraiser than those calendars. Just an idea.)
.The indie-punk house records coming out this season, they will be the last allowed through the gate. I think there is a decree going up, sometime, March-ish, that all the disco punk bands must become one big band. Not an orchestra, but a marching band - that only disco's the high hats and slashs the skronk chords at chunka-chunk intervals, and then a frontline -- a danceline, purrhumps, of yalpers. Skinny tiesuited mewlers, spewing drysex dissatisfaction about "you, girl" and C&C Music Factory sentiments, clad in goth's finest lace shirt.
El Gaupo, now doing business as Supersystem, made a deeply Brooklyn dance dance debut for Touch N Go, which seems to be about buddhist doctrine of interconnectedness, and also seems to be Devo's-manic frantic pumped through some Phuture thump. It's too fast, and it's kind of a guilty pleasure. I feel like they are late to the disco game, and I am all "oh, not again! but I still have the Out Hud Cd to get through!" -- and also, btw, why is Out Hud not going for a punk rip steez of Inner City "Good Life"? I think thats a sound investment and might put them ahead of the rest of the greezy disco hamsters gobblehoofing on the greezy, greezy revivalist hamtrack™.
Second on that topic, Justin from El Guapo has a side band called Edie Sedgewick, which is him solo, singing about celebrities. It sounds like pained robot-cadence yelling over the unhappiest japanese video game. Atom and His Package with a war to fight, and nothing funny to say. The highlight: Track 6 "Robert Downey Jr." -- the chorus is Justin yelling over harsh keyboard drone - "RELAPSE! RECOVERY! RELAPSE! RECOVERY! RELAPSE! RECOVERY!" - the rest of the song is surprisingly tender. Be forewarned -- the "Sigourney Weaver" song is the weakest one on the album... perhaps owing to a convoluted career.