April 29, 2005

Vitapupdate.

The lovely Sara Jaffe wrote to say, re: Vitapup: Vitapup were the first band I went to see every show of, Ray aka Raphael Heatley went to my high school, I didn't know him so well but I knew his brothers, he was on the swim team w/ me and used to sit in the front seat by himself and read books. My friend Malini (the only other semi-punk kid in the school) and I were super fans, trekking our geeked out selves to nyc and hoboken whenever we could. Ah, Vitapup. This is as far as I can tell of what Ray's up to now...
One of the best shows was when they were supposed to play w/ Excuse 17 at Under Acme and had been told it was going to be all ages but then it wasn't, so they moved the whole show to a friend's recording studio nearby, trailing fervent riot grrrls and boys behind them."

Posted by Jessica at 09:29 PM | TrackBack

DIFFERENT LIGHT

When I think back to my time when I was riding the LA floatilla, I remember the feeling of being disappeared. Invisible and with out circumstance, without a tether. Spinning infinite headlong in space, ala 2001. I recognize that is what 18-21 feels like - alternately bouncing as if gravity is hardly enough force to hold you to this place, or being buckled inert to the earth forever. When I conjur "LA" under shut lids I think of the sides of houses and how they look in the terminal California light. I think of the LA Philharmonic mural off the 10 when your are coming from downtown, the matronly woman with the viola and the maroon dress and librarian hair, a perfect nerd giantess cast upon 5 floors of parking garage. I think of intersections of names of streets I forgot. Where El Pollo Loco meets Circus of Books and goes curvy. Where Hyperion dips. Where Scotland hits the top of the Silverlake hill. I think of all the newness, these post boom stucco'd complexes done up peach and shrouded in undeveloped natural landscaping of long wild grasses and desert shrub.

I think of the city on slow ebb, if moving at all. I think of Day of The Locust and a million rotting hopes scabbing over of those begging proximity to something great or a headshot on their dry cleaners wall.

I can barely stand it.

At lunch, The Cheif joined us. Last time I saw The Cheif, he says it was on a bus going down Santa Monica in 1995, I said I did not remember that but the last time we were all together, well, the house was filling with that nauseating burning Barbie hair smell of coke-smoke. The Cheif now is robust and to say he glows is too simple. He is like a prayer come to life, he is someone relishing grace. He was telling me that in his new job, where he deals with city bureacracy "All my years of drug dealing experience come in hand. All the hustle I used to have to pull some scam when I needed somebody to cash a check that I knew was bad, it really comes in handy when dealing with the City."

Posted by Jessica at 08:14 PM | TrackBack

LIFE LESSONS FROM CONOR OBERST

I think this could stand to be about 1400 words longer and 11 times meaner, given CO's ballsdeep press kit status. (Thanks to Claire O Connor for the link.)

"I wasn't very suave when I was way younger, but by the time I got to be 18, that was when I realized there were girls all over the place who I'd like to make out with. Pretty girls are cool. I'll keep [dating older women] until I get old and then flip it around. I've never dated an 18-year-old girl. I wanna try it." -- Conor Oberst to Rolling Stone

" I wish that I'd known when I was younger that dating older men does not mean you are hot shit . It means you are a dating a dude that cannot get women his own age, and that those women are avoiding him for good reasons." - Reader advice to teenage girls, from this week's Savage Love

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April 28, 2005

THE SHIT IS BANANAS - MSSG BOARD EDITION

Got a lot of mail about this today: 200 posts on the vivalavinyl mssg boards about whether or not emo is sexist, whether feminists have a point, and whether or not I am a legitimate journalist. PS> James Squeaky, you know me, why you pretending like you do not know me. We went to Josh's wedding together, what 2 years ago? PS. Don't snap on me -- I have yr home address.

Also, note that six years later, kids are talking about the Locust roundtable and misquoting me as Teeter. Still. And all of them still mention it is meaningless and stupid and retarded. Six years later. Poor The Locust. People are still asking them about it. People are still freaking out about it. If it's so dumb, why is it such a super debated point? For the extremo record, lets make sure: I never said that The Locust made it hard for fat kids in hardcore (I referenced that someone else had said that), I just alleged that I thought they were one of the worst bands going. Huge difference. Fat people in hardcore = awesome, The Locust = still not awesome.

Also, note, on the message board the ways the boys debate and debunk the girls speaking from personal experience " hey, you know what, I totally identify" or when Katy Otto, who makes DC run, who's been doing zines, shows, ladyfests, hardcore etc for years says " you know what else sucks? getting interrogated about how your band got on a show/how you got on a guest list with the insinuation being who did you sleep with. "

Also, note, ladies of message board land and punk gutters, I love you and I got yr backs. Dudes, radical feminism can liberate you too.

Posted by Jessica at 07:07 PM | TrackBack

A DROP OF BLOOD ON A SUGARCUBE

Tomorrow is Los Angeles, and the weekend is the desert. The weekend will be spent in the close company of two people who, the last time I saw them together, it was April 1995 and they were smoking cocaine in the bathroom of the house where I lived. And me and my shaved head were locked in my bedroom crying myself to sleep. Cos 19 was like that. Cos the '90s were like that. Cos my teenage life was like a Hold Steady song, except only still a little funny 11 years after the fact, and I was the only one sober enough to remember how it really went down. Anyhow, miraculously, those people I am rolling with, they are alive and sober and a glow surrounds them now, like a Virgen de Guadalupe lamp, because at all times they are like "whoo-hoo! I am alive!". And together, we will all roll tight to the desert goth music fest, and I will spend approximately 40 straight hours making notes in my stenobook, in order to file two different 1200 word stories by Monday and Weds am, respectively. Meaning, I gotta get started on my Conor Oberst jokes now.

Posted by Jessica at 02:33 PM | TrackBack

A DROP OF BLOOD ON A SUGARCUBE

Tomorrow is Los Angeles, and the weekend is the desert. The weekend will be spent in the close company of two people who, the last time I saw them together, it was April 1995 and they were smoking cocaine in the bathroom of the house where I lived. And me and my shaved head were locked in my bedroom crying myself to sleep. Cos 19 was like that. Cos the '90s were like that. Cos my teenage life was like a Hold Steady song, except only still a little funny 11 years after the fact, and I was the only one sober enough to remember how it really went down. Anyhow, miraculously, those people I am rolling with, they are alive and sober and a glow surrounds them now, like a Virgen de Guadalupe lamp, because at all times they are like "whoo-hoo! I am alive!". And together, we will all roll tight to the desert goth music fest, and I will spend approximately 40 straight hours making notes in my stenobook, in order to file two different 1200 word stories by Monday and Weds am, respectively. Meaning, I gotta get started on my Conor Oberst jokes now.

Posted by Jessica at 02:33 PM | TrackBack

April 27, 2005

DON'T FRONT LIKE THAT WITH ME.

Julianne and I were having our usual evening check in - we talk about three times a day, us two - and as usual, our topic turned to "So I guess since all of our friends and helpers are flaking on making the new Hit it or Quit it, we will have to do the firebreathing on our own..." - which makes me feel like the bitter chicken in the parable/fable* who cannot get anyone else in the barnyard to help make the bread, but they all wanna eat it. The only people I take excuses for is anyone writing for us who has kids. Everyone else: You had five months, so sorry excuses and sorry copy is, in essence, like handing me and J Shep (you know, yr cheerleaders and fans) a post it note written in feces that says "Fuck Yr Magazine". To those people, you know who you are, and I know you read this blog, I tell you this -- our friend Matos, who has a real job editing a paper, and has a off hours assignment from god that has to do with making really serious lists and ILM posts, brother-saviour managed to turn around a 10,271 word transcription of a Q and A with Craig from Hold Steady in under 2 weeks . So, seriously, lets hustle. A game only , people, don't step to HIOQI with yr sad face emoticon and yr dirty diapers. HIOQI is accepting applications for full-time fire only.

(Perhaps the best chicken fable of all time is this one , which is about animals dating, and was written by a sage sixth grader in Manitoba.)

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THE FEELING OF ART

I was watching the little movies on Miranda July's blog and I started getting in love with life, which feels kind of like being hungry. It's the same sort of innocent as needing to eat.

Posted by Jessica at 07:18 PM | TrackBack

A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS

Nice-one Todd Burns of Stylus gave me the opp. to do their "Stypod" feature where I write about some bands I like and you can download the Mp3s. You can go bump that shit here. . My installation features Brother Reade, Catfish Haven and the gone but for'ver in my heart VITAPUP.

Posted by Jessica at 05:08 PM | TrackBack

April 26, 2005

I ROCK ROUGH AND STUFF WITH MY BLOGGOPUFFS

I'm work-stranded with a hustle of 5 hours of raw sleep, was up til almost daylight sitting on the edge of an 'otel bed staring at Chicago's skyline from the 8th floor beltway, watching no traffic and having deep discourse on backstage power dynamics, the not-groupie-groupie phenom, the patriarchy and how fuck me feminism re-enforces male suffering. I wrote hard about it yesterday, for posting on this here U of JHo Unicorne Horne student circular, but now I gotta tear my thesis apart a little in light of new info, in light of a night of the Empty Bottle's cellar green room. Hussy-tuffies on an experience hunt versus internalized patriarchal beatdown? Or is it "Ballad of Dorothy Parker" versus "I Could Never Take The Place of Your Man"? We may never know the(ir) real.

In the meantime, while you hold yr breath waiting for that essaytorial screed to shit itself out, you can (re)experience my EMP paper, streaming, here , courtesy Seattle public access (sp?). You can watch me talk like my mother speaks and laugh at my own jokes while dressed like Orville Reddenbacher.

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April 23, 2005

(ARTS REPORTING): I WROTE A POEM ON A DOG BISCUIT

An interview, an overview and plenty of film still from Miranda July's movie here . It is screening in Portland this Sunday, and not like the whole town will not be there lined up and camping out like Star Wars nerds, already, but totes go. I hope this movie and Miranda July explodes like the Big Bang, because she and her movie and her art ideas are a. fun and b. capable of forming new galaxies of thought and c. she inspires me at least 6 times a month.

Local to Chi-boogie hirsute geniuses Catfish Haven posted some new songs furr the downloadin', which are good, though not as good as the rest of the EP I heard thats coming out, which includes George breaking down in real C&W fashion and going "Woman!? Tell me.... Have I ever made you cry?!" like he needs an answer - he's not just goofin rhetorical. It's kinda "oh snap - he's gotcha on that one" and it's also like "Woman?! Who do they think they are The Grass Roots?!". Then another song that is basically an answer song to Dusty Springfield's "Just a Little Lovin" or maybe a beggy verj of Starland Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight", it's kind of a broken man/come to jesus moment/dick in hand/i'll love you forever and i'll fuck you all day if you just take me back. I mean, I might be off base, but that's what I heard.

Also, in case I forgot to tell you - Manhunter are opening for Q and Not U, and you need to see thier wild duoelectroblitztasticness right now. they got a 12" coming on Ghostly and are in the next ish of ye olde Hit it or Quit raunchy jokes almanac that comes out in June. Plus, when you go see Q and not U now, you can do so w/out contributing dollars to Carlos D's nazi-garb habit.

(PS. what the fuck is up with dude wearing empty gun holsters as non-fashion non statement? Is that casual anti-militarism or is that pimped controversy or is it just soemthing he thought might be "cute"?) PPS. Double what the fuck is up with My Chemical Romance wearing kevlar vests on stage as "statement" ? Statement about what --- about the war?! About the hate on the internet?! To acknowledge that their male privaledge right, their whiteskinned exemptions and the massive cash pile they made on Taste of Chaos Warped merchandising make them "bulletproof"? and PPPS> How much would you pay to have the footage of that band meeting " Ok, guys, I have this great idea. I know you might be thinking it's outlandish, but really, just hear me out...")

Posted by Jessica at 12:22 AM | TrackBack

April 22, 2005

GREAT GADFLIES IN MIDWESTERN STATES

Perhaps, due to my lack of college education, I had to look up what "gadfly" meant - am hoping he meant it as def. 2: persistant aggitator - which is the nicer vers. of def #1 which was a bit more direct - "annoying".

I have too many stories to share. The summary is: everything blew up yesterday: Computer. Cell Phone. Internet - no access to any of them for 24 whole hours. It was like the nineties. I had to use a land line. It was bizerk. I then spent all the dollars I have on a new laptop, and as a result am poorer than poorthousand, but am feeling very greasy new century, as the new lap top plays DVDs . My old laptop only had the VCR function.

Drove to Milwaukee to interview Juiceboxxx at a resturant which was about two stratas down from a bus station diner. Had to pause mid-intvw to watch a sunburned man and the sunburned hand of the man , a man who previously had done little else but pull sips from a king kan of Milwaukee's Best ( oh, the irony!) , snort and spin on his diner-seat-stool -- he walked over to a non chalant single mama in the booth next to us and delighted the mama and her 14 month old daughter by producing, from pockets which seemed to only hold cheap vice -- a bunch of new looking gold jewelry. Jewelry, which after offering up a solicitous "may I?" and began draping both mother and baby in bracelets and necklaces . Also, 10 feet in either direction of the table where Juice and I were, we were bracketed by very freaked out dudes who were content to stare, unmoving, at us the entire 45 minutes. Also, there were 11 other people in the resturant, and aside from the waitress/chef/cashier lady, we were the only people talking. Everyone else just smoked Pall Malls and stared at us, enjoying, perhaps through a deep Thorazine haze, the discussion of what young Juice plans to do once he graduates from college. It was Juice's first interview, and he got nervous and developed what looked like hives while we were talking, though it could have just been the the "Chicken-flavored noodle soup" he ordered, which was biotoxin green. I hope this story comes out dece, as I have driven about 800 miles r/t to witness Juiceboxx's magic, though half those killos are due to the fact that last time Miles and I went to Get Wacky danceparty, I accidentally drove us 170 miles out of way, and went to like Knuck If You Wukeenega, WI. instead. I was fucked up on Krispy Kremes, we were listening to Billy Squire super loud and doing 90 on county roads, it was easy to forget I was trying to get us somewhere...

Saw Ulrich Schnauss and M83 lassnite. Ulrich looked the part. Is that his nom de laptop, or is that his humanperson name? Either way, it suits his "unwinding" Windham Hill steez. Speaking as someone in a laptop band, nothing sounds so ass as compressed mp3 files at decimating volume. M83, should be glad I reviewed their record , rather than their live show. One song and I was totesbag. I opted for biking home in the rain as french dudes making vaginal-birth faces, triggered drums and the frantic "wall of sound" being about as loud as someone humping a pillow is not even a deal, for free, on a Thursday.

Posted by Jessica at 08:41 PM | TrackBack

April 20, 2005

BOOK-MOBILE

Dudes, Dudettes - s'official, after three summers of pure speculation: Al Burian and myself are doing a summer reading tour, out to the East Coast n' back, some midwesternly things too. If you wanna hook us up, book us into yr fanzine store or rec center, or perhaps hook me up with yr bizonkers dj night, or roof party, jam upon it and holler if you are in the New England/ PA/ OH/ IN/ WI/ NY /NJ/ DC areas, and Al and I will come to you and totally and completely read our work outloud.

Posted by Jessica at 03:11 PM | TrackBack

LORD OF THE DANCE / BABES IN VICTIMLAND

I know Kat Bjelland was never big on feminist identification during Babes in Toylands prime era, perhaps because the whole Foxcore/ who owns the Babydoll dress/defend yr identity shit was so large even from the understanders (ie. Everett True and Gina Arnold, para exemplo) -- but I am listening to Babes' Spanking Machine and To Mother albs, which were the first albums I heard, first band I ever saw which moved me to think "I cannot go another 4 minutes with out starting a band too. I want to be THIS THING too" -- but in retrospect, and to hold BIT up to the light of gender-heavy meta-analysis -- the songs are of lava-spitting victimization perspec. Kat's most actualized moments are screaming about how someone needs to stay away from her man ("He's my thing"), but other than that, it mostly bad shit being imparted unto her. Some is just bastard-blooz narrative of done-wrong, but... while I think I always thought, previously, that Kat's delivery was empowered rage - feminist fuck you that could not be contained, it's more like bitter panic from the basement of psychic prison screaming. It's a beggy thing, it's not licensed with it's (inchoate) power. What do you think? If you do not have the albums handy, you can go rip them off emusic.com, which now has the Twin Tone catalog. Lets discuss!

Secondly, Shayla's EMP photoflash is up for all to see . The pictures of the "my armpit" dance move is up. Shayla's polaroids she took made me realize that my inadvertent "ulcer weight loss plan" from last year has me (still) looking like a crack diet-era Richie Manic/strung out, and so I am totes eating wheels of cheese and drinking buttermilk for the rest of the summer to bulk up. None the less, totes pumped that a picture exists of me dancing with Drew, who is queer icon pin up city.

Posted by Jessica at 02:19 PM | TrackBack

April 18, 2005

QUESTIONS FROM THE CIELING

Do you want to buy a multiline office phone, 5 foot tall file cabinet, fancy rolling chair or imac w/ external burner that has only ever been used for data-serving? If so, email me.

Do you want to start a Wipers cover band with me for the duration of the summer? If so, email me.

Do you want to ride bikes down to the Gene Siskel and see the new Hal Hartley movie with me? If so, email me.

Did you like the CD I made you? If so, email me.

Do you have any more solo-band name suggestions for me , seeing as the only one I have gotten so far is the not-quite-right "Habitat: Pubetunnel" and the egregious "Cop Cum Soliliquies"? If so, email me.

Posted by Jessica at 08:48 PM | TrackBack

SPYING TWILIGHT HIGHLIGHTS AND OF DISQUIETING GLIMPSES OF DOWNTOWN

EMP is out for the summer, EMP's out 4-ever!
Musicnerdcon 05 is over and it was hot shit.
Came home 2.5 days early from Seattle, WA, due to a multitude of reasons, but mainly cos staying on longer would be like hanging out at Camp Tukawanda in your bunkbed for a couple days after everyone else has been shipped home. Plus Seattle still plays deathknell blooz in my ears . Also, though Joanie said she lived a mere 20 mins. via bus from EMP, she actually lives in a pretty house on the corner of The Sticks blvd. and Out In BFE ave., but fortunately, J-Shep's friend Bobbie Zhivago, who is the toiletries editor over at SELF, was in town for some shampoo expo, so we got to stay in her nice hotel room, slumber party style. While past EMPs and similar convening of the folks has wound up parlaying into 3 day long manic episodes, this one was not a rager in any sense, save for last night ( ok, not rager, J and I were asleep by 2am): Shayla, J Shep, Drew D, Franklin and a guy with a beard I did not know dropped in for 2 hours of step-aerobix at the Yo, Son! night, and watched blitzes of uprocking and I fended an ass-frottaging creep off my posterior by utilizing the proven-effective, "in-your-face" dance floor technique (not so much a dance) called "My Armpit" which Shayla got a picture of, for proof, which hopefully I will post here as useful instructional model for fending off unwanted grinding. Also, taught Franklin, Shayla and Drew "The Hungry Pony" - so that it can spread down the left coast.

My favorites of the conf: I got chills during Ned Sublette's hubba hubba presentationon New Orleans parade culture and jazz funerals and hip hop and the sex slave trade and growing up in a racist, small town in pre-civil rights Louisiana. Elijah Wald connected the dots and thralled with his paper on accordians, tubas, bumpin corrido, norteno rap, gangsterist chic in Tejano music culture. Mr Wald was also wearing a fancied-up cowboy shirt he made entirely himself, which, I thought was just as inspiring. Christgau's bit on The Coaster's, which started off about minstrelsry, but concluded with a line about his "first disquieting glimpse of vulva" was bizonkers. Drew Daniel's paper on the Germs movie was my pentultimate favorite in part because Drew did the best Darby Crash impression I have ever seen (after his panel, I asked him if he had a blog - he snapped with Dorothy Parker dryness "No, I have a dissertation."). Robert Fink's paper was totes academic, but subject matter and OTT enthusiasm combined with depth of knowledge conveyed really wowed me, and I liked watching him deconstruct symphonic samples used by both Dre and RZA. It made me want to go to school just so I could talk about inverted 7ths and phrase resolution like it was the new Amerie single. Justin Moyer "performed" a paper as Edie Sedgewick, his non El Gaupo/Supersystem solo-deal, which was so "is this funny or is he insulting everyone in the room for real" -- it was my "on principle" favorite, which drove about half the already dinner-time-dwindled audience out. Justin paced like Phil Donahue, talked in a terse instructional voice, in a silver mini dress and sheer black control top hose, a bad wig and horrible make up, and prefacing his paper talked about how success and being in the music industry can kill your heart, turn you into a zombie, and then pressed the microphone up to the chest of moderator and Presidents of The USA frontman Dave Dederere for proof " See, nothing!" said Justin. I was snorting like a pig laughing at the whole thing, Dave looked Justin had just called his mother the C-word. Justin then did a song at loud-as-it-will go volume, talked about how he was not ironic, hated on academia, and took issue with the non stop Dylan and Jimi loops and hawked t-shirts in the museum lobby. Julianne's paper, about how America wants Courtney Love to die was my favorite-favorite, if I have to pick, because she was fierce and firey and spoke truth to power and the dumb, mysogynisticly slanted questions and comments about C Love that came from both the audience and Charles Cross, Cobain biog and panel moderator, proved every idea in J Shep's paper correct.

I think my paper went dece. People laughed where I hoped they would. Christgau told me he liked it at the after reception. At least thats what I think he said, he had a crumbly mouthful of crackers and cheese going, and I was transfixed by his hot pink "DIVA" button on his shirt. I was not sure whether he was telling me my paper was riveting or that Lenny Kaye's book was, or whether he skipped my panel for Lenny Kaye's or vice versa. I did not ask for cracker-free clarification, and I resisted temptation to ask what was so particularly disquieting about the aformentioned "glimpse of vulva", I just nodded and scarfed mini-toasts like it was manna fresh off the desert rocks.

Posted by Jessica at 01:19 AM | TrackBack

April 13, 2005

MY ORVILLE REDENBACHER COSTUME WILL NOT BE COMPLETE!

Anyone in Seattle know where I can get a red bow tie? Like a thrift store or a cocktail waitress outfit supply store? I get in tomorrow and need it by the time I get dressed Saturday morning. Bowtie tip line hollaback!

There is way too much going out aside from Nerdfest05: A meeting of the minds in the shiny Jellybean aka EMP PopCon: Nedelle show. Atmosphere show. Gratitude show. El Toro Djing. Kylee Swenson DJing. An event that was described to me as "the bumpin lesbo dance night". The GirlGroupListServe post plenary meet n greet aka all 11 women rock critics in America in one bar room . Drew Daniels is djing. Dave Thomas from Pere Ubu is doing something but there is no way I am going because dude is an asshole. (I interviewed him once, which took all my courage because Pere Ubu Dub Housing is the record I used to lay face down on my floor and listen to with the lights off , when i was 16 and sneaking back in after summer nights to hang out with a dude who was pretending he was my boyfriend, and I would put Side A on repeat til dawn, lost in "Navvy" and I felt like a grown up in my own secret world, rather than a kid stuck in everyone elses . So, again, in 1995 DT was still totally my hero was so rude to me when we were interviewing that I cried. I know I write about how I cry all the time, but it's like gods mystical creations and news reports of kids dying that makes me tear up. I am a tuffy, I got bitch skin -- asshole dudes in bands and strangers - they do not make me cry but, Dave Thomas made me cry and that was like, almost 10 years ago and I am planning on holding it against him the entire conference.).

Julianne and I are both staying with our friend Joan and Ben ( not to be confused with "Ellen and Ben" . Ben just got back from making a record, and so him and Joan are going on some romantic getaway furr the weekend, and I think they think we're on some Lake Havasu beer bong shit, rather than straightedgers at an academic conference, cos they made us promise twice not to have any parties, and urged us to resist the temptation to party while they are out. Dude, not to snap on the gender inequity inherent to NerdFest, but J-Shep and I went to a party first EMP, and the only chicks there were me and JShep and Ann Powers. And about 60 dude-crits having snark n' snacks. It was like a real time ILM. Anyhow, in case yr wondering where the party is at, I hear Bob Christgau is going to be hosting a roundtable on "the crisis of imagination as embodied in the work of Shania Twain" from the hot tub in his suite after the opening reception - so bring yr bikini!

Posted by Jessica at 10:18 PM | TrackBack

MY ORVILLE REDENBACHER COSTUME WILL NOT BE COMPLETE!

Anyone in Seattle know where I can get a red bow tie? Like a thrift store or a cocktail waitress outfit supply store? I get in tomorrow and need it by the time I get dressed Saturday morning. Bowtie tip line hollaback!

There is way too much going out aside from Nerdfest05: A meeting of the minds in the shiny Jellybean aka EMP PopCon. Nedelle show. Atmosphere show. El Toro Djing. Kylee Swenson DJing. Some event that was describe as "the bumpin lesbo dance night". The GirlGroup post plenary meet n greet aka all 11 women rock critics in America in one bar room . Drew Daniels is djing. Dave Thomas from Pere Ubu is doing something but there is no way I am going because dude is an asshole. (I interviewed him once, which too all my courage because Pere Ubu Dub Housing is the record I used to lay face down on my floor and listen to with the lights off , when i was 16 and sneaking back in after summer nights to hang out with a dude who was pretending he was my boyfriend, and I would put Side A on repeat til dawn, lost in "Navvy" and I felt like a grown up in my own secret world, rather than a kid stuck in everyone elses . So, again, in 1995 DT was so rude to me when we were interviewing that I cried. I know I write about how I cry all the time, but it's like gods mystical creations and news reports of kids dying that makes me tear up. I am a tuffy, I got bitch skin -- asshole dudes in bands and strangers - they do not make me cry but, Dave Thomas made me cry and that was like, almost 10 years ago and I am planning on holding it against him the entire conference.).

Julianne and I are both staying with our friend Joan and Ben ( not to be confused with "Ellen and Ben" . Ben just got back from making a record, and so him and Joan are going on some romantic getaway furr the weekend, and I think they think we're on some Lake Havasu beer bong shit, rather than straightedgers at an academic conference, cos they made us promise twice not to have any parties, and urged us to resist the temptation to party while they are out. Dude, not to snap on the gender inequity inherent to NerdFest, but J-Shep and I went to a party first EMP, and the only chicks there were me and JShep and Ann Powers. And about 60 dude-crits having snark n' snacks. It was like a real time ILM. Anyhow, in case yr wondering where the party is at, I hear Bob Christgau is going to be hosting a roundtable on "the crisis of imagination as embodied in the work of Shania Twain" from the hot tub in his suite after the opening reception - so bring yr bikini!

Posted by Jessica at 10:14 PM | TrackBack

April 12, 2005

COMMENTS

The first one called and he called me a terrific friend because I sent him a Japanese wind-up baby, a heavily stamped Chicago library due date card and a flyer for Chaos in Tejas fest - for his birthday. Year 32, a number that ten years ago, I doubted he would see, despite heroin being a preservative and all. Now he breathes life robustly and being a terrific friend is easy when every day you are glad they are alive to be friends with.

The second one, a near stranger, called me a liar because he did not believe I cried during Sin Orden's set at Chicagofest. I told him I stopped jarring and dating my tears years ago, so the burden of proof falls squarely on me.

The third one, he called me a baby and meant it, cos all I do is act helpless, then cry and gurgle as I flood with a heartbreak that extends back before my birth in fall of 76. I said, I am not a baby all the time, I wish you knew me not as a baby, you would know me as awesome.

The last, a girl I have never looked in the eyes of, she called me a genius, and that she believes in my words, and now I am duty bound to proove her belief, and get my song and dance ready to present by Saturday's memory lane showcase strolldown.

Posted by Jessica at 09:01 PM | TrackBack

April 11, 2005

BAD NEWS

Andrea Dworkin R.I.P.

She was more influential to the development of my feminism than any other feminist thinker/writer - her books Woman Hating , Pornography:Men Possessing Women and Letters From a War Zone radicalized and inspired me beyond all else. She was real about the invisiblity of women's plight and lack of power, she took the stances and the causes that other feminists backed away from because they were so powerful - because she was outting the secret truths, she was uncompromising because the lives of women mattered to her.


"Equality is a practice. It is an action. It is a way of life. It is a social practice. It is an economic practice. It is a sexual practice. It can't exist in a vacuum. You can't have it in your home if, when the people leave the home, he is in a world of his supremacy based on the existence of his cock and she is in a world of humiliation and degradation because she is perceived to be inferior and because her sexuality is a curse.

This is not to say that the attempt to practice equality in the home doesn't matter. It matters, but it is not enough. If you love equality, if you believe in it, if it is the way you want to live--not just men and women together in a home, but men and men together in a home and women and women together in a home--if equality is what you want and what you care about, then you have to fight for the institutions that will make it socially real.

It is not just a matter of your attitude. You can't think it and make it exist. You can't try sometimes, when it works to your advantage, and throw it out the rest of the time. Equality is a discipline. It is a way of life. It is a political necessity to create equality in institutions. And another thing about equality is that it cannot coexist with rape. It cannot. And it cannot coexist with pornography or with prostitution or with the economic degradation of women on any level, in any way. It cannot coexist, because implicit in all those things is the inferiority of women."
- Dworkin speaking at a Men's movement conference in 1983

Most of her books are out of print and hard to find, but you can read a lot of her work in her online library

also:
Obit from the Guardian .
Interview from 1995, from her site
Story she wrote for The Guardian about surviving rape .

Posted by Jessica at 07:40 PM | TrackBack

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A BUNCH OF BLOGGERS GO TO THE SAME PARTY

Pics courtesy of Damon Locks:
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Here, you can see me motioning with my arms, explaining to Miles and J Shep, at that exact instant, how to do the Hungry Pony. That's Ben giving the finger. What you cannot see in this picture is that everyone else in the room is already doing The Hungry Pony. I am telling you, it's going to be huge. People are going to be doing it at wedding receptions by season's end. That's Catchdubs documenting it with the digicam, there in the purple shirt, because The Fader has to stay up on trends before they happen, and they know THP is blowing it out the framework already.

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For the effing ILM'rs who doubted for a fucking second: J Shep is the best dancer out of anyone. J Shep and I, once we finish this issue of HIOQI, are totes going collabo on the instructional dance workout DVD tip - tentatively called "Hungry Pony Yourself to Liberation in Just 8 Minutes A Day Volume 1: Denying the Patriarchy the Right to Shame You" - I am all concepts, Julianne is choreographing, since she is the professional. I am already working on sewing our special "I believe Anita Hill" leotards.

JShep making a terrific face here , Catchdub's accounting of my town, featuring the shell earring's my mom got for her 25th birthday here

Posted by Jessica at 04:49 PM | TrackBack

April 10, 2005

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Somethings:

1. Miles and I are starting to make the plans for the recording of each of our records, for a future split release of our solo endevors. His solo thing is now called "The Mailes Raymer Progressive Blues Band" and meanwhile, my me-band has no name. Miles suggested I have a 'contest' for the naming. Whom ever wins gets a special treat, which may or may not be a 7-cd mix CD made by me and miles. Or dinner. Or I will come to yr house and paint a portrait of you with Gwen Stefani in your shower. Something good, promise. Email me you suggestions. Advance warning: no numbers, no "bitch", must be in english.

2. The hip hop and feminism conference at University of Chicago blew my mind. It was like when you hear the truth for the first time. Having the opp. to spend a whole day talking about gender identity, pop culture and race - and having my brain be devastaed with validation, inspiration and new knowledge. I trembled when Mark Anthony Neal spoke on the Men, Heterosexism and Hip Hop panel. Joan Morgan , Tricia Rose, Beverly Guy-Sheftdall from Spelman College, Akiba Solomon were all especially moving.

3. FADER V. PITCHFORK / KILL OR BE KILLED: Ryan Schreiber of Pitchfork and I did not get in a fight at the Biz3 party, despite what you read on ILM. I let him know I buried my hatchet back in the nineties -- much to the seeming amazement of his "crew" -- who initially acted like I was going to go on a slapping spree (despite slapping not being fashionable anymore). Props to Pfork for bucking convention entirely and djing Mp3s off a djing program off a Compaq laptop - totes Revenge of The Nerds style. Double props/unprops for inexplicably playing Little Feat in a club-setting, then panicking and playing a ton of grime. Anyhow, brought their aesthetic, and did not front. The Fader DJ crew won over Pfork, because Catchdubs plays everything I like, despite Knox Robinson backannouncing from the booth about "Chicago do you know about this shit? It's called Reggaeton!" -- dude, Chicago has the 2nd biggest latino/chicano population outside of Latin America, for swears, we got the memo before you did. Don't step to Chicago like we're Dubuque, just cos we're not NY. Then, last night, en route to see Catchdubs spin at the show of Calvin Johnson's immitation of a Foghorn, the still-visiting editorial staff of The Fader pulled an illegal u-turn in their rental station wagon and almost ran me over on my bike, which served as a fantastic visual metaphor.

Posted by Jessica at 05:51 PM | TrackBack

April 09, 2005

FAKE ME IS EVERYWHERE / PS> I WILL TRADE YOU MY ICONOCLAST 7" FOR A SHRED OF RESPECT

Dear people of Chicago Hardcore message boards:

I have been sent a handful of links today to the messages someone has been posting about the CHXCF2005, and I just wanted to let you know, perhaps just to steal the satisfaction away that no, thats not actually me trying to pick up dudes on your message board. To your right, right under where i misspell the word "yodel" you can email me if you have legitimate questions about my thoughts about hardcore or the fest. The person impersonating me on yr internet community cannot actually write. I can. Also, dead give away - I don't say "privates" - I say "cock"..
2ndly. I did not put in that Rat Bastards were white, that was an editorial descision, but being that RB's, like the vast majority of bands playing the fest, as well as the people in attendance, were white -- mentioning race in that context - in reference to their song about the gentrification of the Cabrini Green Projects -- was offered not to "bring race into it" or even comment on white guilt, but as a further elucidation of a standard hardcore agenda, and how hardcore bands tackle polemics.
3. Feel free to verify this with Anton, the promoter, who had a number of exchanges with me already -- my article for the Reader was initially 1950 words. The version you read was 1/5th that length and was a complete rewrite. My original version will run in the May issue of Hit it or Quit it, or if I feel so inclined, as my column in the June/July Punk Planet. That column is about the experience of the fest, is a first person narrative, reviews the records I bought of the bands at the fest, that I cried during Sin Orden's set I was so moved, and has about 1200 words on race and the legacy of Los Crudos on chicano pride hardcore in Chicago.
3.5 I never said I Accuse were male fronted, I infer they are on a similar aesthetic plane as most of the other bands thats played. C'est vrai.
4. The article was for the Reader. Not MRR. In the context of a publication that is made for the exclusive digestion of the punk community, when you write, certain protocols are attendant -- and appropriate. It is standard to oblige those things - ie big upping the successes, or the promoters, being a bit more scene reporty. When I write for the Reader, I am writing for an audience of several hundred thousand people who do not know Prank Records from Jive Records and probably think Kylesa and Condenada are the polish girls who work at the bakery on Grand. A scene report would have been inappropriate. I'm sorry if you all feel I did not put enough coins in your coifers, but its about writing, for me, not pleasing the jury.
5. You can speculate on my credibility all you want, as well as kick me out of the scene, or suggest that I was never really part of it. I am totes not sweating it.
6. The really really awesome thing about all of this, this sagacious internet thudding and fake me-s, is that it does nothing other than remind me why I started to lose interest in hardcore in the first place: No girls, all white dudes fronting like they are not jocks, spouting empty dogma, and as soon as any girl brings up the alienating factors of the macho-on-macho white boy pittage/aesthetic and the lipservice-only factor of the "conciousness" or that its totes boring being indoors on a Saturday in 2005, watching 11 bands in a row that are pretending like it's 1988 and doing some enmasse dickstroking to the corpse of Uniform Choice -- she's a slut/not credible/ not part of the scene/kicked out of the scene/not being loyal to hardcore, etc. True til death and down for life does not mean blinders on. It does not mean co-signing on bullshit in your own "community". All the bands that played that were honking off about all the people who bailed on hardcore, older people who receeded from the scene, how they weren't "true til death", or even "true til 31" -- my question is, what does hardcore offer to keep people sticking around?

Posted by Jessica at 04:18 AM | TrackBack

April 07, 2005

OUR ITIN

Listen, if you wanna party with the mosdounkuliss, here's where we be:

1. Lowrider Parade and Hop Contest at the Speedway - it's off 55 by the airport. Daddy Yankee is hosting but not performing. Booloo Master is DJing.

2. Booze Party / Count Dickula show at "the Cardboard House" which is above Mingles, at 197th & Pulaski, which, technically, is in Gary, IN. Count Dickula ia Mario Rubacaba's solo drumming/rap thing, and BoozeParty is 3/4ths of The SleepingBaggz and Buffy "Spensive" Spencer.

3. Miles is DJing The Decemberist's Afterparty at the Guild Hall of The Oak Room at like 2 or something super late. It's sponsored by Sophia Coppola's weird champagne in a can thing, so if you are curious what that tastes like, please show up.

Posted by Jessica at 09:23 PM | TrackBack

YOU'RE RELIVING ALL OVER ME

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Chicago: My Dinosaur tome is out in the Reader today, so make sure to pick it up when you hit the liquor store for your weekend stock of Alize later.

Got a whopping four hours sleep, between the 2am asshat manuever on the computer where I put 5,000 songs from itunes into the trash (getting fixed), the 3 am crying jag over further contemplation of the new news that my baby sis is moving Hong Kong in two months to live with my other baby sis, and that's too far away to be from your baby sisses. 3:30 am "take my mind off of things" viewing of Frontline (WHAT?!), which opened with a dad saying Kaddish over the body of his dead baby daughter (more crying) , the 4:21 am phone call from Julianne from LaGaurdia airport that the airline had not processed the ticket I bought for her to come here (resolved, en route), the 4:45am "fuck it, I am awake, I might as well finish writing this press release" followed by 5 am "fuck it, I am still awake" viewing of Antiques Roadshow, which I love for it's Nembutal-like effect. I woke up at 9:15 to PBS still on, to the little Bearenstein Bears on a fucking fishing trip, hating life. I fucking hate those little bears.

Posted by Jessica at 11:06 AM | TrackBack

April 06, 2005

SUGGESTION BOWL

I must 'fess. I am way 3000 too midwestern to really care all that much about Gawker or whatever super savvy NY intellectual media site with gossip and mocking I forgot to keep up on in the first place. But yet, because sometimes I must absolutely stall another 12 minutes before doing work and must visit funny digest sites -- and so I visit Nervous Acid the site of one Mr. Norman Arenas. Norman was the first person I know who dropped full-on out of hardcore/punk/eem-scene and went techno-dj on us. Which I applaud, because really, in case you did not read Andy Greenwald's eem book, Norm himself was the bridge between hardcore and post-hardcore what became emo, and his name was whispered with reverence in those circles. He did THE most influential punk/post-hardcore zine of all time, Anti-matter, and then went on to play guitar in Texas is The Reason, which became the template for every emo band you have complained about in the last 11 years. Norm went on to do other great things: like become my neighboor in Chicago for a few years, write for AP and Punk Planet and become Krishna. He is currently getting his real estate license in NY and blogging news updates about C-Murder and reminiscing about chicago house.

Secondly, Jeff Johnson's blog, is just so funny today , even when I have no idea what he is talking about. One day, we will steal Jeff Johnson away from Jane Magazine and he will become the Andy Rooney of our Hit it or Quit it team.

Posted by Jessica at 08:17 PM | TrackBack

EVERYBODY SCREW THE MASSES / WE ONLY WANNA HAVE SOME FUN

Summer is upon Chicago and I am such an easy sell - all it takes is the sunshining and I'm all full frontal lobotomy carefree. Sorry, that was really crass. Anyhow, Chicago-area townies, feel this heat: Black Mountain plays this weekend, and then there is the Biz3 Puma party benefit for Dax Peirson featuring Count Catchdubsula burying the Pitchfork crew neck deep in Baltimore's deepest bumps, while me and my galang-lang furr life Julianne Shepherd do some moves on the floor. She arrives to this town on Thursday, and that gives us just under 24 hours to work out some choreo that is half soccer warm ups, half "batdance". Plus, as an early birthday treat-surprise for her, I am redecorating the room she is staying in to look exactly like the photo of Prince's bedroom on the inside art of 1999, replete with laserbeam, venetian blinds, smoke machine and a greased up naked man doing watercolor painting on a futon. She's so hard to shop for, but I figured it might be the perfect gift.

Posted by Jessica at 03:07 PM | TrackBack

April 05, 2005

I WAS PLAYING IN A DROP D PUNK BAND/ WE CALLLED SEAQUEST

Went out to see the drummer of my highschool band's solo project . Played to a packed house of horny, horny women baring summer-celebratory cleavage and bemused dudes. I stood between a superfan who was a Neko Case lookalike who was elated when Sean gave her a rabid bit of mouth to mouth during the Karen-O parts of the single, and a naughty secretaries club who were mass jealous of the kiss. The desperate housewives asked the Neko for a report seconds after Sean's tongue left her mouth. The secretaries may actually be executives for all I know - I am going off their drunk divorcee vibe and their low heeled pumps. They were boobzillas all, they made a grind train between the six of them. They were all wearing black lacey tops with peekaboo bra straps and knew every word and pawed Sean's crotch whenever he would get near enough. Sean's new trick of lowering his pants and exposing his pubic hair, plucking out a fingerful and SPRINKLING HIS PUBES ON THE FRONT ROW made the all the womens go nuts unlike anything I have seen at a show. I nearly peed myself laughing.

Yet, The Critical Massive is still "what the F" on Har Mar, and baffled over his ability to win such a legion of lady fans "despite" being balding, hirsute and chubs, but what those people do not understand is easily explained by this: location is everything; when you grow up in Minneapolis, where Prince is the official state bird and everyone knows the words to "Pussy Control" by third grade, you grow up into that template. The old guard is exempt as it was too pop and too paralell, but on the newer school, the wet-panties-aesthetic is writ large.

I have more to post soon, but work-duty calls, but pictures of drunk kids with braces at GET WACKY III and the story of how I accidentally ended up in Beloit, WI at midnight on Saturday to follow when time allows.

Posted by Jessica at 12:30 AM | TrackBack

April 02, 2005

"YOU'RE NOT PUNK/ AND I'M TELLING EVERYONE/ SAVE YOUR BREATH I NEVER WAS ONE"

Oooooh, the hate mail is coming in. Ok, it's only two emails, but the dudes of hardcore are pissed. BOTH OF THEM are incensed, nay, livid over my Reader mini-pc. about the hardcore fest. They said I am totally not part of the scene (now?ever?), and that all 532 words were a slap in the face of hardcore. One suggested I instead write about "crappy bands like Pink & Brown and Xui Xui" (sic). He goes on to suggest that I can drone and complain that punk is dead all I want (Did I? I hope not, because then I am totes out of a job) but they "know the truth". I started reciting Tragedy lyrics and showed them a picture of me with Felix Von Havoc at a Bloodline show in 1990 and whimpering "please, please, I swear, I'm true til death! " and they finally laid off.

I mean, really, for me, the relieving truth in all of this is that hardcore, the dudes of hardcore and their holy dogma has not changed. Ever!

Posted by Jessica at 11:09 AM | TrackBack

THE DANCEFLOOR IS MY PASTURE

Rolled solo to the first Friday at the Contemporary art museum, as Ben and Johnny were djing, and so I got listed, which was a plus - I could see the otherwise 'spensive exhibits furr free and eat copius amounts of cheese cubes and little egg rolls off baby sized plates. My favorite exhibit was the cardboard constructed swiss chalet, which used 4 tomb-rooms using egyptian iconography, several hundred roll sof duct tape, homemade bongs and graphic depictions of anal penitration as comment on how (the white people of) America are fucking Iraq.

In the main room of the chalet, there was a bank of tvs playing loops of war/nature and porn footage. The central clips being of the DP/backdoor gangbang variety. Which was not my favorite part of the exhibit; watching a room full of dudes try really hard to pretend they were not entranced by it was.
Their manic mini-second glimpsing of it was comical and compelling. They would browse the cardboard pyramids and then, suddenly, jerk their heads, like an animal, to peak at the porn, so as not to be noticed and judged by their wife, or their date or everyone else in the room.

Watching these men have to deal with porn-as-art - while on dates, watching them have to deal with 300 images of graphic fucking and a table full of yikes-sized prostetic cocks, watching porn guilt, curiousity and insecurity meld and manifest into a barely contained OH SHIT moment... I might have to do my own art exhibit about that. Women's reactions, across the board, was to walk through quickly, head down and determined like they were on their a treadmill at the gym, make comments about the fakeness of porn - "That's not real. That has to be fake. I bet they do not use real cum, it's got to be like, melted ice cream," one says to her date. Date-man is speechless. "Yeah, that's totally ice cream" says her girlfriend. I laughed, as I was reminded of one of the only dirty joke I know, which is about a penguin, and the punchline goes "Oh this? This is just ice cream".

After that, Bekka, Ben's pigtail'd sis, and I, we got interviewed and had our pictures taken for the fashion section of the Tribune, despite the fact that I was wearing mens dress socks with gold cha cha heels. There was a notes taking lady, then the main lady with the tape recorder and the photographer, taking notes too. They asked me where I got my shoes, and I told them "some scabby ass yuppie resale shop up north," and they wrote it down, as if it was a hot tip.

Got on the "dancefloor", or rather dominated the blank dancing area with a fresh new dance/solo exhibition I was doing to amuse Ben and Johnny. It's called "the hungry pony" and it goes like this: stamp the ground, pawing the floor three times left, then three times right. Hands up like yr about to catch a basketball. Mime a sort of cud-chewing motion opening and closing yr mouth to the beat of the song, or you can also eat for real. Stare blankly at anyone who even so much as glances at you.

The Hungry Pony got some good reactions, and is an easy fit with everything from JJ Fad to french house to King Tubby. A 50-something Indian doctor man came over and said "What you are doing is great. The dress you are wearing, it's asian style combined with your dancing, you are like a kabuki donkey. Your dress is great by the way." He toasted me with his glass and walked away. Another guy pawed the floor back to me, with the subtlety of a drug-deal signal. I showed the dance to Johnny's friend, who deals soybean futures and had on a green chapeau, and his friend the internet clothing magnate, and they told me I was the funniest person they had ever met, which means either they were way drunker than they let on, or this dance is much more genius than I am giving it credit as.

I have some more stories about this but am too distracted by other thoughts:
1. My brand-new friend Luke Wolter, who was born tonight at 7 pm, to my friends David and Eileen. David is one of the best men I have ever known and the thought that he's someone's dad keeps making me cry. Soon, I will send Luke all the stuff I think a baby should have: A Johnny jump-up bouncey swing, a copy of Goodnight Moon and a copy of Lungfish's Talking Songs for Walking. Eileen played The Who to Luke while he was still in the womb, so I do not think Lungfish is too much for him to get.

2. Through a series of strange events that were entirely out of my control, it was told to me that the two possible places I am being put up in Palm Springs for Coachella are either a lesbian spa resort or a clothing optional nudist camp. I am not joking. I am kind of hoping for the nudist camp, only because it will make my Coachella story that much better.

Posted by Jessica at 12:59 AM | TrackBack

April 01, 2005

KEYS TO THE CITY VERSUS 532 WORDS OF FAME

I ain't smoked a cigarette in four days, and I knew visiting club land with Miles would be temptation island. But we were in an out, strolling simply on some return-the-favor carmic reboot, giving face time at the other marginally attended monthly dj nights around town. Support Your Local Scene.

I was wearing a long knit poncho that is a Neil Young for girls model from the thrift, mostly purple and stripes. I like to wear it when I am about on the bike cos it makes a good shadow, makes me look like a bird, arcing long across the ground between streetlights, fringe as feathers. Bike plus birdness equals a superheroic feel. Apparently, no one else is getting this vibe, as two seperate pairs of drunk lubbers a mere block apart called out to me, asking me for pot. Both times the people make a squinchy face and mime puff-puff-pass . Both times the men asking for weed have wet look hair and untucked black dress shirts over light rinse denim jeans (rewind-selecta). Perhaps someone has posted a note on craisglist.com that around bar close of weeknights an elf-sized girl in a purple cape rides down Chicago Avenue tossing lids of Humboldt County bud out of the frontmounted plastic bike basket. And they were just standing there waiting for their drop, and now they got me confused with her.

Second, I floss you this: the Chicago Reader that came out today, it's got my hardcore fest scene report in it. It's not online, so no linkity link TBA push here action. I think it came out pretty dece given it's only 532 words - shorter than I usually work, so, I was trying to channel some swift, drier wits: "How would Hendrik Hertzberg cover Chicago Fest 05?" was the mantra. Not sure how on I was with that, but every dream deserves the light, no?

It was a funny thing, funny haha and funny god's handiwork funny, tonight, after ol' Al B Surian stopped by for catch up & tea and grilled cheeses, we went off to Kinkos. He to xerox his new comic book and me to pick up the mini-reissues of Hit it or Quit it I had printed up. They are 12 years old, their masters are crumbly and stained with brittle ancient tape round the edges and grunge's cruel irrelevence. On the way home, I stopped and picked up the Reader with my peice in it. I was carrying these two stacks in the house, and realized, in my hands, these were the exact bookends of my writing life. The little fanzine I brought to the Uptown Kinkos in Minneapolis in 1991, because no magazine or paper or monthly shill sheet would let me write for them -- and like magic, here, 13 years after the fact, I am finally living my teenage dream.

I know that sounds like 7 and a half brands of corny, but because of that, that feverdreamed 40 years in the desert, every time I land another assignment, or another little review comes out, it is as if Harold Washington has risen from the dead to present me with a key to the city. I call my parents and say "Guess what?!" as if they will not believe it, like it's a christmas miracle, because it is for me.

Posted by Jessica at 04:13 AM | TrackBack