January 31, 2006


Download a podcast or stream the audio -- Joan Didion on Bookworm. Sad and tense, Michael Silverblatt is so solemn, but I think he's honoring her, manuevering through her grief v. tenderly. What she says about how writing is like being an aerialist, and about the issue of living in public by virtue of being an author, being a writer: I will not spoil it, but it'll make you sigh. I had to put down the dishes and listen twice with full attention. It is like a pinprick to your heart. Oh, Joan. Also, Curt Weiss send this VIDEOCAST OF J-DIDDY reading and answering questions at the Seattle library watch here. She is so cute, I like how when she reads, she still has her purse on. Raw, still.

I am also weirdly obsessed with The Dep't of Health and Human Services weekly Drug and Alcohol Information Podcast. Every week it's a minute and half about things like teen smoking studies, meth recovery, veterans with PTSD and alcoholism. Fascinating world of podcasts I love you!

Posted by Jessica at 11:21 PM | TrackBack


will one of you guys email me? I need to talk to you asap. I would appreciate it.

Also, my friends who are in the book club, who did not get your suggestions for next months book in (MILES STANDISH-RAYMER, JR NELSON AND BEJAMIN FASMAN), C'MON! Otherwise we have a Chicken Little situation. I will be cranky about it!

Posted by Jessica at 05:00 PM | TrackBack

January 29, 2006


Some solid posts at Fluffy Dollars this last week, just' sayin'.

The new Gossip video appears to be someone from paper rad showing off. Secondly, the fact that no one looks at the camera encapsulates Portland. The fact that Beth does not address the camera, that we do not see her eyes, and then her mouth, whenever opened is blocked by a mic really gives a different impression of the band. Their power, Beths physical address of what she sings about is entirely lacking. Are they afraid of looking like they want success? Or is the director trying to neuter them as statement? Or are they part of the post-Vice, post-irony, post-RISD graduation set, and there for they do not consider meaning? Or were they just thinking about what the rainbos flashing represents to people born in 1983, and the representation of rainbows? The meta-text bums me out and it makes the Gossip looking boring. Which is all wrong. Why is the Pink video way more subversive than the gender-queer, fat-positive feminist punk band?

Also, even if you are margin walking on reggae, you need to pick up I-Roy Don't Check Me With No Lightweight Stuff 72-75. It is a fragrant blossom of music. When punks get old they retire their interest three ways: reggae, disavowment or ONLY 11th grade favorites and whatever those people are doing now.

Last night's mudwrestling event was to benefit The Young Women's Empowerment Project which is a non-judgemental feminist charity that seeks to benefit women in sex work and those whom have been impacted by street economies. If you have like $6 or a thousand extra dollars to donate, please check them out.

Back to work. Gotta get crackin'!

Posted by Jessica at 09:39 PM | TrackBack


What you forget when you do do not drink, when you do not hit the bars on the weekend, when you are not on the streets as the goodtiming people float or straggle out; what you forget is the particular sound of drunken midwestern girls with that high Cicero shine to their voices, so sharp it can cut through the sound of a downpour a half block away. Heeled boots stutter-scraping along, keeping slopping clip cloppity time to her liquid chattering that peirces.

It is on my short list of why I will one day move to the woods. Nothing is grosser than people after last call. I want barn owls in their place.

My night was long. It is sometimes strangely lonely doing stories, out by yourself, glued to the makeshift notepad, noticing, noticing, scribbling blindly, looking for the point of interest... but on the way there, to those points of interest, that may or not appear to be of actual interest until they matriculate and get interpretted when you are typing it all up hours later... en route, there are bands that feel like violence and punks who vomit on the floor like it is their job. There are people that laugh at vomiting punx, then there are those that stiffle a gag, then there are those of us grateful our purse is made of rubber as beer and gyro meat flecks its side, as it rains from the singer of the Functional Blakouts mouth, in between choruses... for the third time.

Tonight, point of interest, it was ladies mudwrestling in an abandoned warehouse. People were contained to one room, with a bathroom line so long people were pissing in hallways and out of the way spots, hawking for a good spot from which to best eye some exposed, muddied titty... After 40 minutes in one room, everyone was acting ratty, idling, as it was past capacity, and the wrestler-folks were limiting the amount of people in the wrestling room because the floor was weak, structurally. There was no heat and BYOB and by 11 pm, a third of the room was pirate eyed, slack faced, screaming and rowdy, tired of waiting through band, demanding wrestling honeys now. 20 minutes later, I was sandwiched between a mudcaked pansexual orgy in the front row and a sea of dudes making comments about every wrestling girl, every move, what every leopardprint bra disgarded in the ring amidst the chaos exposed. All 70 of the dudes cheered and clucked when the ref would instruct the girls to get on their knees at the start of the rounds. I got the sinking feeling that I last had about two weeks into to the first month of working on the Suicide Girls story-- my ear cocked to some bullshit that would make me realize the grim greed and desperation to which most people are prone, so much so that I will think it is our most natural nature, consume, be consumed, appetite infinite and never satiable--in that, my heart shivers and my humanity stiffens--reporting this, writing this out means I have to process it, I have to take it all in, and it feels like a burden.

I concentrated on my notes and tried to duck when the ref slam'd his hand into the mud when he did the pinning counts --it sent the mud arcing through the room in threes.

The final round, where a lucky raffle winner boy from the audience wrestled two girls, was preceeded and overtaken by an audience-on-audience mud fight. I scrawled long notes about the scrawny boy, clad in a thong, joyfully allowing himself to be pinned, his shameless boner like a gift to the world, mud caking his smile. When it was over, I turned my shirt inside out so not to endanger my still pristine paddington coat, which I had hid far from the vomiting, beerspilling and mudsplatting, headed out, passed the cops and rollergirls and boys talking about asses and bands and went out side, walked a few blocks and waited for the bus. Stupidly, I assumed with all the mud soaking my hair and much of my face and being that I was dressed like a child in a story book, in my wader boots and canary coat, and that I was seated at a bus stop--you know, I thought that I did not look like I was out to turn tricks... but alas, no. I forgot, if you are a girl outdoors after midnight on a weekend, you might as well put groundeffects around your pussy. A dude in a benz, a cabbie and another dude cruising his sparkletrash with a spoiler-- a woodbead crucifix from the rearview -- all sought me for some service. I did react in the way I used to when I was a young woman, which was get close enough and then spit in their faces--instead I watched the muffler shop's sign blink from time to temprature, time to temprature for 23 minutes til the 77 showed.

The first bus was full of muddy people screaming each others names for no reason.

The second bus I got on, a girl, a very big girl, was rolling on her boyfriend, nuzzling, muting him with her whole body, her words were past slurring, just some grunting whine; turns out she just wanted a kiss.

Posted by Jessica at 02:36 AM | TrackBack

January 27, 2006


Have you seen the new Pink video? Aside from the fact that it puts down other women, it's pretty feminist. Also, note the way the older lady in the pink Juicy suit at the end looks like Ann Coulter.

Posted by Jessica at 03:27 PM | TrackBack


I forgot to give you think lil link earlier Euro-blog about ART IDEAS AND POLITICX with useful links and an eye on news. Every post gives me an world of ideas and challenges me to find the time for MAKE. Maybe it will do the same for you. (Reminder: not to sound new agey, it is ok to just have the ideas and not all the time to see them all through. I feel ashamed about it sometimes like "why am I not sewing and making a quilted cat playhouse cover and soft sculpture? Why am I napping/reading a trashy magazine/tending to mp3 blogs instead of doing art! I am such a time waster! UGH. " --kind of needless. Maybe you feel like that too, so I am just saying. Lets make a psychic pact to not feel ashamed about not exploring every single project and good intention in our minds and hearts, and that just getting some of them done or started is TOTES COOL. Ok. Touch this squared off zone with yr preffered finger and say the pact in yr mind


finger goes here


Hear that clicking noise? That is the signal that our pact is done fermenting and is sealed. I know making promises to each other over the internet seems real dumb, but we likely do not know each other, so it is ok, because it makes it an act of faith.)

Posted by Jessica at 03:01 PM | TrackBack


We live next door to a russian orthodox church with a bell tower. The bell has been ringing slow for a half hour. One theory in the house is that they are cleaning the bell and that is why it is ringing. I think there is a mouse in the belfrey and they are chasing it out. The chime is too even maybe for that. Perhaps they are relaying a message, SOS, to old people in the area, who notice bells. To tell them "We know it takes 51 minutes for you to walk to the grocery for canned beets, but today, it is warm, and the walk will not be so bad. I LOVE YOU OLD PEOPLE, xo God" -- OOOH, the bell stopped when I wrote that --I bet that is it!

Else, Lisa BK, downstate momma #1! wrote to share this link,52 Projects-- which I also pass on to you, because I know a great many of you are crafters and makers, and maybe you, like me, are sick of KNITTING'S SOCIAL DOMINANCE. I am starting to feel like knitting is the Interpol of reclaimative craft arts. But you know me, I tend to shit on what I cannot understand.

Good morning! High of 50 today! I am off to get interviewed about being a volunteer! Wish me luck! Exclamation points are not just for notes between high school girls! Do not be ashamed of being enthusiastic with punctuation!

Posted by Jessica at 10:19 AM | TrackBack


I wrote a story about an old turtle in today's issue of Chi-Boogie's Reader. It's under "Our Town". It's one of my favorite things I have written.

Meanwhile, we just took a break from the very real business of writing previews and watched the re-run of today's Oprah/James Frey showdown on the television. Frey has his mouth hanging open the whole time like some pudding face nursing infant. James Frey is a mouth breather and after all his, errr, Rollins style tuff-talk though both of his books, he is of course, once put under examination and the bright lights of teevee, an invertibrate lil' nacy, with his mealy-mouth answers of "probably" -- making that snorty huff of a noise that teenagers make. Oprah asks "Did you lie?" and he answers "Probably." I think my favorite part is when he talks about running into someone who worked at/for/with the dentist that did all the root canals sans anestetic, and how that person told him it "probably" did not actually happen like that. Not like I super give a shit 3000 whether Frey's memoir is a memoir and even said in my review of his follow-up that I doubted it was true at all, but I did really appreciate Oprah being ungentle in deflating him so.

Posted by Jessica at 12:28 AM | TrackBack

January 26, 2006


Terrence Malick, whose movies I like, always, has grown more heavy handed with moralistic allusion with each film. His latest, That time in 1609 when Moist N' Shirtless Colin Farrell And Pokemon the Injun Princess fell all the way In L-U-V, which I saw tonight, is no exception. I liked it. I like being wapped with a feel bad paddle, shamed to be living richly in the land of those natural born pilagers--pox-ridden Jamestown settlers. I felt joy when those honkies got arrows through their hearts.

All those shots of the rain and people rolling in the grass are strong enough to get you drunk, persuasive and as manipulative as anything Von Trier gets accused of. Except Von Trier would make us feel much worse about those lingering shots of young Pochahontas' svelte form, Malick tricks us into some idea that appreciating her beauty is like appreciating the beauty of the reedy shore, which we are also treated many long, dallying shots of. I mean, sure, it is, but this is America 2006 and we know better about tits taking up an entire movie screen is about. Alas, New World was 80% people walking slow in the forest feeling romantic. I take no issue with that, especially when it comes as a 2 hour distraction midwinter, as the sidewalks outside my hour are crusted with ice and dogshit and trash from the last thaw.

Also, earlier today, when I told my dad I feel winter settling in, when the season seems perdurable and tomby come grey afternoon, he suggested a little something I will also share with you, as I feel it's fatherly advice that is good for all ages: Knife-throwing. My dad reminded me, there is nothing as satisfying as when the knife sticks right so. Summer of 4th grade, El Paso TX, my dad drew a target on some shit wood and hewed it to some out building and taught me how to throw knives. You can also lean up some double thick card board and do this, in a basement or on your porch. It's better if no people or animals are around til you know what yr doing, but it feels much more primal than darts. It feels like a real skill, strange and practical--like yr ready for the apocolypse.

PS> The pict of local rapsation, Kanye, on the cover of RS--they went super OTT on the make up. Looks like he got attacked by a wolverine, no? Tore up!

Posted by Jessica at 01:55 AM | TrackBack

January 25, 2006


I saw my pal Eric Z tonight and the first thing he said was "I BOUGHT HIT IT OR QUIT IT IN TIMES SQUARE LAST NIGHT!" -- we were both incredulous. So, people in NY, there is a news-stand, up there in where Disneymerica's hot cock and late stage capitalism's spectacular spread meet amidst the LED-light glow -- YOU CAN BUY THE FANZINE I MADE WITH MY FRIENDS.

In other news, we are still trying, trying hard even to get it into someplace "cool" like Other Music, but it is an arduous process, currently dragging into month four -- but the good news, they have agreed to consider looking through a copy, as of Monday, to consider considering it. (PS. It should be at Bluestockings in the next week or so. I love anarchists.) If you see or know someone at OM who is named Geoff Albores tell him Hit it or Quit it is cool, we even write about bands that are more obscure than the bands they write about in Arthur, though they are not bands with lead zither, they are just punk bands demos or r&B that is so mainstream not even ironic people know about it, only Julianne and queer black 6th graders.

In other news, Nick Sylvester's Riff Raff Column has outdid his did re: The RS Kanye cover AND THUS made me laugh so hard my headache came back " Kanye's been doing the I=Jesus thing for a while, sorta sloppily I might add but wishy-washy enough that people haven't been able to pin down/call him out a la Voice/Public Enemy. But this cover could have been a chance to bring it all into high relief--why not commit to a real shocker? The crown of thorns is cute. But why not have Kanye on the cross, with a boner, fucking a bag of gay Eucharist? Why not have the cross played by Terry Schiavo, and Terry Schiavo's life support machines played by the ghost of Hurricane Katrina? Why not have Pope John Paul II jerking off to it all?" Amen, and fuck Jann Wenner with a dirty garden hose. For this, Nick Tosches (not-yet-dead) ghost does the ass clap in heaven. I cannot blv this kid writes like this and still manages to be a virgin at 23. CRAZY!

In other news, The new Pink Mountaintops record is about Jesus. The last one was about the aquisition of carnal knowledge. I thought that was their stee, all official, but alas, Stephen McBean has repented, and the new record, on cursory listen is not about humping in the woods. OH WELL. If you like Black Mountain, then you might love Pink Mountaintops, because it's the same people/person, less jangley and more "legalize marijuana". It comes out in three weeks on Secretly Canadian.

In other new, if you live in or around Chicago, someone sold the entire John Zorn discography, on CD, imports included, to Reckless, and minus the one I picked up earlier today, they are all there, for ten bucks a pop.

In other news, I got a haircut and no longer look like I am wearing a the Hulk wig, as the love of my life so aptly put it last week.

In other news, the wind is blowing really hard and the chimes on the porch sound like someone ringing a dinnerbell violently.

In other news, the article that Julianne and I wrote together, our investigative report about Suicide Girls and their dot com, is out in the FEB ISSUE OF SPIN. Six pages of hot pink drama. I suggest you pick it up, if you have the 2.95$ extra to spare, because we did a good job and we worked on it for about a combined 600 hours.

Posted by Jessica at 01:39 AM | TrackBack

January 24, 2006


I left the house like I was breaking a fast, curious, tepid, relieved to be in the familiar 31 degrees. I put on the detective hat (Brandname "TOTES" on the side) yellow toggle button coat and my rubber boots and blue pants, and yes, I am dressing like Paddington bear on purpose, because why not dress as weird as you feel; big difference between actualizing a dream and turning into an adult baby or a plushie fetishist. Just know.

I got to the Bottle and my Paddington look was noted and my friends were nearly incredulous-- "Almost three days is a long time to not leave the house" they said. I was sick for one and a half and busy for the rest, guys, it's not like I am agoraphobic. One time thing, coupled with the wicked winter of this middle west, who wants to go brave the elements. I am a hoosier hearted woman, suffering farm stock, mind you. But I ain't a toughy. Plus, Wyatt the Kitten, now all of four lbs maybe, has taught himself to fetch and sits at my side liek a sentry while I type, waiting for me to toss a toy, and for him to prance back, his mouth big enough to keep the toy--it is a hard operation to abandon.

My friends and our other friends, we chewed up three hours ignoring bands, sitting on the couch of the pool room, with polite gossip and discussion of the technical and the what ifs about the 72 virgins that await martyrs in heaven. We all concluded: who wants to sleep with nothing but a bunch of virgins anyhow, because if you've ever slept with a virgin, you know, you have to keep getting with them for a good while before they are even half knowing what to do; 72 of them seems sisyphysian task rather than heavenly bestowment of riches. Erika read in Newsweek that girl martyrs, the reward is being MORE pure, into infinity -- such a curious heaven, filled with laborious or furious devirgining for some, for others, gleefully bone-free 4 life. (Not to be all Gee, isn't Islam, like, just soooo weird or anything, because, despite being down with Jesus, I understand most monotheism to be heavy and bizarre at best, and though I xtian-identify, I know the bible is ultra redonkuliss, with 940 year old women giving birth, and people living in the desert off what turned out to be bread made from worm shit, that Noah's ark would have had to be about the size of an aircraft carrier to fit the animals, and the concept of sin, touching hems making people well etc. )

Towards the end of the night, we squeezed in and out of the photobooth, once photographed and then camped out, gnawing the tamales I bought, hands greasy, with Mark and Erica telling me about having to destroy what they knew, all the embittered old familial examples of marriage in order to go forth and get married themselves. Best ever: when you know people before they know each other, people who chronicly were with the WRONG PEOPLE, never knowing each other, AND POW one day they will be married and in love and your neighboors. I like hanging out with Mark and Erica as I am real sucker for romance. I am willing to be a sucker for it; all the other ways to be about it are no fun (cynicism guised as "wisdom" always)--indulgence and faith, baby, why not and all the way.

Posted by Jessica at 01:50 AM | TrackBack

January 23, 2006



Girls Rock Camp photo from Shayla Hason's site

Here is a photo to inspire your whole day. Stare at their faces -- free and elated. That tiara with the guitar-- is this not just a magik beam of joy right into your center. ZZZZT!

Posted by Jessica at 01:30 AM | TrackBack

January 22, 2006


Many new things were learned, mostly via podcast; oh podcast, my strange new obsession. Do I need to be subscribed to six different science podcasts and do I have 3.5 hours a week to science learning? I half know, and I have wishing answer of "absototely!", though I may have to ditch "the natural science news of the smithsonian" because the man reading has a high dramatic voice, the kind that is good for reading things like horrible Missed Connections out loud to your friends, not say, historical precidents of bird-carried epidemia. Meanwhile, over the night time, amongst otherwise silent cooking adventure (home sick, still in 'jamas into the night time):
1. Anne Lamott, my favorite author of texts practical and spiritual, when speaking freely about George Bush, is unbearably shrill and righteous.
2. Greens and vegetables should be kept in the drawer in the bottom, closer to 36-40 degrees, meat and dairy should be kept between 36 and 33 degrees of coldness.
2a. There are weirdo 13 yr olds who call in to cooking shows asking what kind of authetic dips to make for their Greek themed 14th birthdays.
3. Basil Brave Heart's story about Lakota tradition and getting sober 31 years ago made him, the show host and myself cry. It's streaming here, starts about 23 minutes in .
4. Hustle and Flow barely has enough dramatic build or content to adequately fill a 30 second commercial, let alone a rap movie.
4a. That in the end, everyone wins in Hustle and Flow, because Moral Tales are relative in 2005. Everyone feels good about prostitutes, prostituting, actually. The only woman upset with it, she is mostly just upset because her husband is not coming home for dinner to pray--BUT, we get the heavy message--she is proper and uptight and rigid and unduly upset because her husband is engineering a rap tape at the "ho-house"-- which she gets eventually okay with, once she hears the song, because the song is so undeniably good, she forgets, forgives and suddenly understands him. The pimp's prowess is great, he is omnipotent.
5. If you cook apple with too much clove, it'll take like medicine and make yr mouth go numb.
6. Estimates of people to die in shipwreck on Lake Superior, from 1840's til Edmund Fitzgerald in 1975: 12,000-30,000. The germs of way dead seamen are in your midwestern drinking water, as well as the stuff in the stores marked Dannon, which pumps from there.
7. Sometimes the dead seamens, while still living, would get on little life boats and float around untill they did freeze to death, covered in snow and water. Then their bodies would contort in to gnarled trunks, weathered and adhered to the boat by ice. Sometimes the boat would not break up from the waves but instead, come to shore on it's own, with a dead mystery crew.


Posted by Jessica at 04:45 AM | TrackBack

January 20, 2006


You likely already know this, but, Ida. Totally crucial and you may think you know whats up but chances are you might be overlooking essential catalog. I Know About You came out in 1996 on Simple Machines, and it was the 12th of 20th record I did press for. I was 19 and fumbley, and could not bring them to hugeness. I blame myself, but also, it was a big year for like, The Prodigy and remix albums and things they could not be farther from, so we can blame Simon Reynolds some too -- but alas, here is retroactive penance: If you do not have the album, go buy it while the shit is still in print.

It is sick business and utterly pristine and as depressing as anything, yet, "Little Things" is one of the best songs about trying and friendship and oh, love-- what a song --just mobbed by ache! When they sing "And I want you to notice this / And I want you to try"with concern and then the hook raises like a welt, turning a little then-THEN, together they sing "Don't give away / what you can't live without"--(SUCH Wretched conviction! And it starts the album! Get right!) All sly and pretty, whisper steady and then BOO YA. The part where Liz's voice goes high country at the end "I'll try to understand you." in a Cartery-yodel. I die.
You could stop there, cos it's worth yr entire 12.99 and 8% tax, BUT THERE IS STILL MORE RECORD!
PS, "Back Burner" is like having yr guts driven over by a frontloader. Forget it. Total mess. It is every young luvved break up, tearstreaked and misunderstood, served hot. But under that, it's the uplift, the joy, the happily ever after, the greeen grassed what-ifs buried amongst raw abyss.
You know the part in "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers where he says "I know" twelve times? It's that kind of intense, but for about 40 sustained minutes.
Go buy it.
Do not burn it off your friends.
Dan and Liz are real people and they live in the country with their daughter and they are artists true as everything and deserving yr support way more than whatever trashy fashion band yr dealer is trying to sell you on.
Go buy this record, you will not regret it for an instant.
Not a single instant!

Posted by Jessica at 03:24 AM | TrackBack

January 19, 2006


I went to the out-of-doors show, saw that old dirty turtle. Not the oldest living turtle of freshwater, just regular old turtle old. 156 is old for a touring turtle. Next to the jerkystand.
Much greatness at the show. Sparkle boats, 26,000$ + up. Pop up trailers, an affordable 20 large. New mobile homes with home threatres, those sleek RVs with expanding sides and screen doors, $169,999 with $20,000 off, say the pamphlet. I went into one, a mini one, and a man was inside with a Miller in a foam coozy, and he was watching Jeopardy on the TV. Instinctively, I answered; "Pervez Musharraf"--I was correct. I thought at first the man was the sales man but in hindsight, I think he was just hanging out in there. I told him "hey thanks" for letting me look at the mobile home with the smoked glass shower and the etched stars and stripes mirrors, but he just blinked back.
I got some pamphlets on camping in the Black Hills of the Dakotas (tied with Cuba on me and my dads next family vacation spot) and I got a free salad from a man who was doing a demonstration. He said into his headset mic that he was just about to start a demonstration on how he made it, with his cooking machine or chopping chopper or deer meat dicer or whatever, but you know, I already know how to make a salad, so I did not feel the need to stick around. We debated whether to get the $18 t-shirt at the Native American sweatshirts and dream catchers booth, that had four native american men with rifles or muscats in their hands that said HOMELAND SECURITY fighting terrorism since 1492. SNAP. Also viewed with excitement: bunkbeds made from logs, and german shorthair pointer pups and a BUILD YR OWN log-casa.
Oh, what a dream: I want all three, together. Logs n' dogs is my future steez.

I thought, maybe, given how funny me and my date looked in comparison to the rest of the bait-browsing folks hanging loose at the show, that burly dudes might crumple up "Manitoba's Walleye Vacations" pamphlets and throw them at us and yell "FAGZ! FAGZ!" but mostly, they just eyed us. Whatever, man, I may dress like Ms. Cowgirl Hoochie 88 but I have known how to drive a boat since I was 4 and I have also eaten jerky a few times before.

I also saw the second biggest dead bear ever made dead in Wiconsin. It was 10 feet tall in stuffed repose. Who shoots bears? I imagined that you would practically have to shoot the bear with a cannon or a machine gun to kill it. You would have to really shoot it throughly. I cannot concieve of how that desire matriculates in one, to kill a bear, to kill it and take it's skin off it and take a picture of your dumb mustachioed ass-face posing next to a staked up skin the size of a small truck, so that you can hang it in a den or an office, with a gold plate saying EIGHTH BIGGEST BEAR EVER SHOT IN WISCONSIN. The man at the dead bear zone was on his cell phone, so, I could not find out why one shoots a bear.

Posted by Jessica at 07:27 PM | TrackBack


I have barely learned this lesson myself, but sometimes you gotta pick your battles . You do not fight over someone's pleatfronts with payless kicks steez, especially if you want to live long enough to get those new stamps from the post office (PS-- who wants to make a Cam'ron death pool, as J Shep's bet is that he'll only be allowed to live for about another 45 seconds...) "You Anthrax/We George Bush/ You Saddam Hussien" metaphor, perhaps a more complex relationship than Cam intended to invoke. Also, really "you're ugly and you cannot dress and you are also 40" is not that compelling of a beef. This could get interesting. Could. Could.

Also, Krystle writes to let all the old riot girls that read this blog Babes in Toyland shirts are on clearance at Hot Topic, for their 30 years of punk sale for $8.

Posted by Jessica at 01:12 PM | TrackBack


Why are you not doing this? PLAY A SHOW FOR OLD PEOPLE. Think about it: everyone loves to do direct volunteering to feel good, but usually it's all "soup kitchen" style, and people love to donate money to kids and diseases, but people do not like to volunteer with the elderly because it reminds us we are getting old and one day most of our friends will be dead. THINK ABOUT HOW AWESOME IT WOULD BE TO GO PLAY THE BETHESDA HOME. THINK ABOUT BEING 88 AND BEING BORED AND A LITTLE DEPRESSED IN YOUR ASSISTED LIVING SITUATION AND BEING PLAYED SONGS BY STRANGERS, AFTER HOURS OF NON STOP CNN WATCHING AND BEING LONELY.
C'mon --You know covers, you could play your songs accoustic, make the time! I will so go with you and play tambourine/maracas, but you will have to drive, ok? The only requirements are that you are a competent musician and you enjoy being around the elderly says the website.

Posted by Jessica at 01:09 AM | TrackBack

January 18, 2006


I put it on my myspace and on Craigslist, so pardon my threepeat, but I got hotjunk for the unloading: MY COPY MACHINE. I used to be a professional, I ain't no more. I am a stay at home cat mom and music hobbyist. But have a like new mid sized Konica copier $600 obo. 2 years old, 16,000 copies on it, life of the machine is like 400,000 copies-plus. SMALL OFFICE GEM. Think about it, you spent $600 at kinkos in a 4 month period! Email me so I can sell it to you. My kitten-cat needs braces, please help me pay for it by purchasing this office machine from me.

I can tell you that tomorrow, for work, I get to go see THE WORLDS OLDEST TURTLE, who's stupid human named name is "Snapper". Why is his name not "Old Dirty Turtle"?

also, new word for you: "absototes"

use it!

Posted by Jessica at 01:58 PM | TrackBack

January 17, 2006


DUDE! SF Moma Podcast of Kiki Smith talking about her work and her process available for download or streaming. Kiki Smith is an important artist and feminist artist, I like her sculptures make me feel like my bones are coating with sad gravy, and also that I want to live in the country and build all day in a barn, things with cement and dust, about my feelings. I know some of Kiki Smith's art is art of mourning, but I think so much of it contains and pressurizes the pain in living for some women. Suffering, frustration, spiritual and physical poverty in her work. Transmit, transmit --get inspired by Kiki Smith and sink your truth in your art - small and big--of the world and in private. S'IMPORTANT.

Posted by Jessica at 08:00 PM | TrackBack


Two notes:
1. The phone people changed my phone number on me. I have a new phone number. Email me if you need it.

2. I have been made aware--next week, in Liz's column in the Chicago Reader, a picture of me is appearing in which I am lifting my shirt, showing my gutnourmous cake filled gut, have my mouth hanging open like a braying donkey and appear to have not one, but in fact 2 or 3 chins! I do not look like that in real life. I look like this:


Except in real life my sword is made of butter, my hair is not a stripper weave, I wear eyepatches on both eyes, I have a jail style Babes in Toyland jail-style tattoo covering the entirety of my back and I have one tooth and it has hair growing from it.

Posted by Jessica at 07:33 PM | TrackBack


I made a cake, for the holiday, my first cake. Recipe via Andy, whose roommate made the only vegan baked goods I ate SIX SERVINGS OF when we stayed at their house in Pittsburgh on the reading tour of last summer.

It's like this:
(3 c flour, 2/3 c cocoa, if you want chocolate cupcakes) -or- (3-1/4 c
flour if you want vanilla)
2 c sugar
2 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt

2 c cold water
1/2 c vegetable oil ("plus a little more," she says."like 2 Tbsp
2 tsp vanilla
2 Tbsp cider vinegar

Directions --

Mix the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet in another, then pour
the wet into the dry and mix well, getting out all the lumps.

Bake cupcakes at 350 deg. for about 30 minutes.

Makes about 1-1/2 dozen cupcakes.

OR, you can just pour the batter into a cake pan (greased of course)
and bake around the same, and you'll have a cake.

the frosting is based on this proportion:

6 Tbsp vegan margarine
2 c powdered sugar
2-4 Tbsp soy milk
(and maybe a little vanilla, or cherry juice concentrate or whatever).


it came out a a little heavy, due to my substitution of Walnut Oil. I frosted it too early, and Matt, despite never having made a cake knew you let the cake rest before you frost it, me... not so much. But the consensus is that cake is good, even when the frosting melts and sinks the middle of the cake which is still a little bit like pudding in the middle top. Whats bad about pudding-middled cake and frosting melted to it's buttery essential-- answer: NOTHING! Everyone is a master chef when what yr making has 4 cups of sugar in it.


I am working on a mini update, for you, of some records and arts you might enjoy, for later. Right now, I am goading words for Canadians, trying to write about Spankrock's appeal for a family readership. "P***y" could be read as "party," yes? Menwhile, alls I can think about is this couple thoughts tangling fat words up about Joni Mitchell, Hissing of Summer Lawns, for the desert island essays book. I am a virgo, my approach surely too literalist -- ie. if I was stuck on a desert island, could I hand that record solitary? Records go with conditions and moods, I have never tried Joni outside the US, rarely in the car, most ever at home, nights and summers. What if the island was Bahrain? What if it was one of the Apostle Islands of the Great Lakes? What if it is tropical? I think about it and I wonder if a record would increase the isolation and depression of being on a lonely island, remembering the life I had. or would it be a painful reminder? Would I have a cabin, would it be like On Golden Pond? When I think stranded on an island, I always imagine it's a Lord of the Flies situation. Loinclothes, spears, humanity at it's most naturally foul. Boys, fires, filth and lo, me, armed with a document of Joni's jazzbo phase. Of when she got fed up and stopped writing inf irst person because she was tired of the speculation (the same reasons behind why Helium's Magic Kingdom record, which was heavily influenced by Hissing, was about fantasy-fiction, dragons, unicorns princesses; because after two albums of writing "narratives" that were alive with the sensual and the explicit, boy critics were calling Mary a "she-devil", or as the writer in a cover story from gone-and-forgotten magazine Puncture (I think the writer was Jay Ruttenberg, now of Time Out NY editorship) shows up for the interview wondering if Timony is a coquette, a tease, or if she is actually going to put out, commenting on what her blood red nailpolish said about her and her desire. )... Joni's jazzbo phase, people resented that remove. Resented her playing moog and getting Pastorius up in there. People like you better when you gut yourself and then show the knife and the blood, rather than sing some dark toned song about aging women at a dinner party, with no joy and extreme prowess.

Posted by Jessica at 12:24 AM | TrackBack

January 16, 2006


Reminder. Reminder. Beeeep. EMP PAPER PROPOSALS ARE DUE, LIKE NOW. Don;t flake, step with the flavor.

Posted by Jessica at 09:20 PM | TrackBack

January 15, 2006


I still really like the new Sir Alice, ?, on Tigersushi. Downloads & no info here. French art school lady, album #3, she does all the music and the singing and yelling and whispering. RIYL : Lizzie Mercier Descloux, Julie Ruin, minimal techno, the good shit.

Posted by Jessica at 08:42 PM | TrackBack


First off, Happy Birthday Gusatvo Valentine DeWitt. One is a great age to be.
Secondly, welcome to Chicago, baby boy of Nate and his wife. Just born is also a great age to be. Baby boys with great parents, what a promise to the world.

35 is too cold for it. In 35 degrees-col air you can walk with with little purpose or direction. In 35 degrees cold air, objectless biking is too much. You may get warmer faster, stay warmer, but you stay acquainted with the wind, stay reminded of winter.

Today's point is productivity to exhaustion. Walk to exhaustion.Last two nights of sleep was unabiding nightmares. Got shot multiple times both nights. One time I all the way died, got dead in a dream. Normally, when I get shot in my dreams, I am in a crowd, the bullets miss me. But this time, I was alone, and the bullets were hot in my gut and leg. I staggered across the street and kept making the sign of the cross and in my dream praying for God to help me, or take me. Invoking god hard and gurgly choking on my blood. Face down on some sun bleached curb in Los Angeles. Once the bullets were in, it went black and white, and, strangely, I began crossing myself. How tacky, I thought, when I woke. How gaudy and theatrical and desperate! I was pissed--thats how the Catholics really want it, in your final hour or half minute of reckoning, you realize Catholicism as the the true-truest, and you panic, cross yrself, as you want to board the monorail to heaven.

When I talk about Catholics, I am not referring to you, or to Julianne or to my grandma or to The Catholic Workers Union, nor Craig Finn--you know, like the okay catholics. I am thinking of the asshole catholics, like the Pope and his posse.

But today is about the business of exhausting myself so I can sleep though the visitations of gunshots, dead kittens, cadavres, getting catholic in the death throes, hair pulling fights with mean girls in my dreams and walk til the anx is out and the brain lobes are soft and fetal again.

Posted by Jessica at 12:07 PM | TrackBack

January 14, 2006


Why do people keep calling JT LeRoy's books MEMOIR?! I heard it twice on NPR, and in several major news sources. If anyone has read Sarah though it was thematically, supposedly, based on "his" childhood -- if you have past the first sentence, you know it's magic realism --impossible things happen magically. It's marketed and sold and labeled as fiction. Sure it's about truck stop whores and a horrible childhood, from someone who supposedly lived it... It has more in common with Alice In Wonderland than James Frey-- it's hallucinatory narrative and sexed up Katherine Dunn rip-offs (PS. Why are both Truck and Attack out of print, yet Geek Love is in it's 888th printing or soemthing?). With JT LeRoy, the issue is THE HOAX and all the people that feel stupid helping her (Laura) out over the years (myself included), JT telling people that it's a matter of transgender identity, and lying about being HIV+, suckering people for her own game/gain, suckering people into helping put her son thru the tawniest private school in SF. It's sick shit. James Frey is perhaps "worse", duping many many more people (but deception is a primary element of addiction --it's the nature of alcoholism, "the fundamental inability to be honest with oneself or others" -- is part of actual definition of the disease.) Curious to see how this all pans out.

Posted by Jessica at 09:32 PM | TrackBack


((from the Mess Hall --I am going, if just to get the 800 band-list poster! sheesh!))

"A Herstory of Hardcore"
Friday, January 20, 2006
7-10 PM
All ages!

Mess Hall
6932 N. Glenwood Avenue
Rogers Park ("Morse" stop on the Red Line El)
773-465-4033 (for information on the day of the event)

Please join us as we track the complex history of women in Hardcore, Punk, Noise, No Wave, Garage, and whatever other underground music we can dig up.

This event will be a little more expansive than usual, but the music will be as loud as ever! Starting at 7:00 PM, WLUW DJ and music historian Emily Agustin will give a talk on the early involvement of women in rock and punk. A free poster that lists over eight hundred relevant bands from the 1970's to present will be handed out to give everyone a loose framework for this extremely vast subject.

Following a little discussion and articulation of the impact women have had on punk and hardcore, we will open the floor, walls and stereo to the participation of attendees. Together we intend to create a visual mapping and timeline of women's participation in hardcore and other extreme music forms while blasting sample tunes along the way. The evening will round out with an open stereo session for attendees to play relevant vinyl and CDs for each other in a celebration of the Herstory of Hardcore. Please bring records, cds and a beverage to share if you can.

About Hardcore Histories:

Hardcore Histories is a series at Mess Hall devoted to unpacking the history of Hardcore punk music through presentations, discussions, free posters, meals and interactive social events. The series is currently co-organized by Marc Fischer, Terence Hannum, and Paul Lloyd Sargent. The past nine events have been devoted to: 7" records, Brevity in music, Queercore, Straight Edge, a candlelight dinner with the band He Who Corrupts, presentations on Les Thugs and The Crucifucks, and a series of Italian, Swedish and Finnish Hardcore Dinners with regional music and cuisine.

The next Hardcore Histories will be a version you can enjoy at home. It will be a large curated archive of URLs for Hardcore music videos and live clips that we have found online. Stay tuned.

Posted by Jessica at 08:51 PM | TrackBack

January 13, 2006


Ever notice that "No Hands" by Hot Snakes sounds like a medley of "Over The Edge/Doom Town/ So Young/Messenger/Romeo" -- aka side one of The Wipers' Over The Edge.

The Wipers / Zeno Records website a. streams Wipers songs and b. it's flash animation grafix look like a public access show montage for a call in show about conspiracy theories on weather manipulation.Totally Portland. Totally as old school as that neon peace sign Wipers logo. I am serious when I tell you The Wipers are my favorite guitar punk band. Hot Snakes/Swami Recordssssssssss website on the other hand is 120 minutes into the future, with it's anime duck and interactive third eyes and crazy maps. I saw Hot Snakes once, their moustaches were pre-'ronic era, it was at Michigan fest, young men freaked out about it. I do not know so much about that band, but in ninth grade I bought the first Jehu album the day it came into the record store, mostly cos it was on clear vinyl. I went home and made a mixed tape for the kid who got me into punk rock, who I will name if only to sully his rep (ANDREW SEMANS NOW OF NYC). I had gotten cocky and I had gotten competitive, and I wanted to show him that like, I hung out at the record store a lot and knew about all kinds of shit he didn't, so I put the last song on the album on there. The one with the locked groove at the end. I had no idea, conceptually, of a locked groove as I was 15 and all the vinyl I had was a Fastbacks seven inch. And thus, it took about 8 or 11 minutes for me to realize "hey, something is wrong here!" -- you know, I just got into punk, I knew it was crazy and repetitive, but how would I know the record was just skipping. I gave Andrew the tape, and the following day, once he had listened to the 14 minute "extended" version of the song, he told me I was retarded and that the song sucked. But I knew I was right. I beleived in my heart I was right, because Andrew LOVED The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I knew, even in my most fledgling of tastes -- they were in fact terrible--and that was a trump.

Posted by Jessica at 06:55 PM | TrackBack


Stumpin for me and my friends and our diamond-grade posse cut magazine-zine, Hit it or Quit it:

Still in stock via Insound. Quimbys and Reckless, two fine Chi-Boogie retail spots will have it back in stock this weekend. Then, by months end you should be able to find it nationwide at Tower, in case yr all "fuck mailordering zines!" -- because you are all modern. If you are a store, or trying to get yr local store to get the shit in, tell them Ubiquity stocks it, as does Revolver. I am working on getting it on newsstands and Newbury stores proper by end of the month.

Posted by Jessica at 03:36 PM | TrackBack

January 12, 2006


A public apology from our pal, noted local author, ( and drummer for the great-great band Functional Blackouts) Brian Costello:

Okay, so everybody's been investigating my memoir entitled "Asshole with a Boner," saying it didn't quite happen the way I said it did.

Did I really have a boner during the time this book was set? Well, let's just say I heightened what really happened for dramatic effect. I mean, who would want to read a memoir entitled "Asshole with Half a Chub?" Everybody gets those, even Oprah.

However, to clarify:

--In high school, I didn't smoke cigarettes. I just put that in the book because it gave my character "Brian" something to do during the downtime in the book. However, I did know friends of friends who smoked in high school and I based the writing on that.

--I didn't board a plane on PCP with my eyes gouged out and no idea where I was going. My eyes are okay except for the occasional bout with pollen, and I have never taken PCP. I always know exactly where I'm going when I board a plane, as does security, the ticket-takers, and pretty much everybody associated with the planes I fly.

--Speaking of that, I said in my memoir that Southwest Airlines was "a good airline." That was a mild exaggeration, to say the least. Southwest Airlines is a Greyhound Bus with wings. Fuck them.

--Breast cancer? Nope, never had it. But raising the question of whether or not there was a lump in my breast adds page-turning tension.

--This is not to say that I've never been a victim. One time in middle school, this kid Chuck Horne called me a "headbanger." He has since apologized, but the damage is done, obviously.

--Last year, I was indeed totally addicted to "Six Feet Under," the HBO series. I couldn't stop watching. I said in the book that "it interfered with everything I ever wanted to be." That's not quite right, because I still managed to get things done.

--I am, however, an asshole, and I stand by that and will take on any of you slanderers who want to say otherwise. I will not take this bullshit. My book helps people, asshole people, with boners, or even people who have thought about being assholes with boners.


Thanks to all of you who stood by me in this trying time. Bryan Hoben from the internet factfinding blog "finishmywine.com" (ha ha, more like finish my WHINE dot come, haw haw) says I didn't get a "mild scolding" from an Altamonte Springs Police Officer in 1989 for speeding through the Spring Oaks neighborhood. I will be suing him, and anybody else who doubts the absolute truth in everything I write.

Thank you, and stay gold.

Brian Costello

Posted by Jessica at 04:31 PM | TrackBack


Matt Wright writes:"i am so feeling you on the amazingness of country boys. sooo so good. what's cool about is it gets you past the "christian goth metal dude" and "nerdy dude who works are taco bell and draws superheros" and actually lets you see these people as real people. mitzy crisp, the principal, is totally inspiring (and has an awesome name) and chris' friend jay is a saint. dudes don't say things like "you know i'll always be there for you chris, because that's what buddies do", but jay does. imagine what would happen if dudes did say that? anyway, i'm glad jay does, and i'm also glad i now know that mentally handicapped people can actually be as bright and shining as he is. i feel you on chris being kind of twisted, but i also think anyone who bros down with jay like that, and calls him "partner", can't be so bad. the "bite me" stuff is creepy though."

Amanda Dunn, freshman at U of Kentucky wrote to let me know, not all of Kentucky is like what is portrayed on Frontline. Just so everyone knows, just to be clear, I was not seriously mocking Kentucky and it's people. I am from Indiana after all. The show I played at the Knights hall in Louisville (with Breather Resist, Colliseum and From Ashes Rise) was one of my favorites ever, the kids were all awesome, the town was sleepy and humid. Driving through Kentucky was one of my favorite things about that tour. So, please do not mistake, I am on Kentucky's side.

Shows of musics that you might like, which I def like
1. Saturday night at the ol' Empty Bottle: Tyrades and Die Slaughterhaus. Punk Blitz/garage hitz. Know Die Slaughterhaus now.
2. Sunday night at the nu Fireside: White/Light, noise drone fantasy which features my mister, with some new-new post-Traitors outfit of Billy Smith, also of noise.
3. Mondayfuckingnight, at the Bottle, on the evermore-popular FREE NIGHT, Bird Names, whom I wrote about already on this blog and in this weeks Reader.
4. Toni Braxton is playing House of Blooze in March. Miles thinks I like Toni Braxton and alerted me to this fact in via AIM yesterday. Also, he said UB40 is coming. Just passing it along, you might be a fan of box-wine types of music. You may love both of them deeply, even.

Posted by Jessica at 04:20 PM | TrackBack


Matt Wright writes:"i am so feeling you on the amazingness of country boys. sooo so good. what's cool about is it gets you past the "christian goth metal dude" and "nerdy dude who works are taco bell and draws superheros" and actually lets you see these people as real people. mitzy crisp, the principal, is totally inspiring (and has an awesome name) and chris' friend jay is a saint. dudes don't say things like "you know i'll always be there for you chris, because that's what buddies do", but jay does. imagine what would happen if dudes did say that? anyway, i'm glad jay does, and i'm also glad i now know that mentally handicapped people can actually be as bright and shining as he is. i feel you on chris being kind of twisted, but i also think anyone who bros down with jay like that, and calls him "partner", can't be so bad. the "bite me" stuff is creepy though."

Amanda Dunn, freshman at U of Kentucky wrote to let me know, not all of Kentucky is like what is portrayed on Frontline. Just so everyone knows, just to be clear, I was not seriously mocking Kentucky and it's people. I am from Indiana after all. The show I played at the Knights hall in Louisville (with Breather Resist, Colliseum and From Ashes Rise) was one of my favorites ever, the kids were all awesome, the town was sleepy and humid. Driving through Kentucky was one of my favorite things about that tour. So, please do not mistake, I am on Kentucky's side.

Shows of musics that you might like, which I def like
1. Saturday night at the ol' Empty Bottle: Tyrades and Die Slaughterhaus. Punk Blitz/garage hitz. Know Die Slaughterhaus now.
2. Sunday night at the nu Fireside: White/Light, noise drone fantasy which features my mister, with some new-new post-Traitors outfit of Billy Smith, also of noise.
3. Mondayfuckingnight, at the Bottle, on the evermore-popular FREE NIGHT, Bird Names, whom I wrote about already on this blog and in this weeks Reader.
4. Toni Braxton is playing House of Blooze in March. Miles thinks I like Toni Braxton and alerted me to this fact in via AIM yesterday. Also, he said UB40 is coming. Just passing it along, you might be a fan of box-wine types of music. You may love both of them deeply, even.

Posted by Jessica at 04:20 PM | TrackBack


Country Boys part III ended with a simmer. Did not have the dramatic oomph I was hoping for, and it really sealed my loathing of Chris and his constant attempts to win and manipulate sympathy from everyone who is trying to help him. By the epilogue, when he's totally given up, and living with his only friend (who despite being illiterate and retarded, according to the PBS website, consults on Kentucky political campaigns?!), working at Pizza Hut, I felt sorry for him. The part where the friend says "If you teach me ta drive, I'll teach ya how to get food stamps, Chris, that's what friends is for," totally broke my heart though. The trellace-work in their living room is an amazing decorating step though. My only question still unanswered: How can Cody sing in his metal band without moving his lips?

PS. I missed the most mindbreaking part of the show, but Matt filled me in: the part where the teacher asked the hypotheticals about if kids believed in abortion in cases of incest-rape pregnancy, the kids talking about the incest-rape kid with the deformed hands that went to the school who committed suicide, and then the teachers assurance that even in cases of incest, the kids generally come out ok, incest does not always equal birth defects, so, you know, abortion maybe should not even be a consideration. GO KENTUCKY! SHOW AMERICA WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT!

Posted by Jessica at 12:33 AM | TrackBack

January 11, 2006


J Shep beat me to it . Ted Kennedy shouts it down, Arlen Specter goes King Baby, gavels his high chair, voice cracking above the din. I am with Teddy, membership to a supes-racist/sexist/homophobic club for like 10 plus years and saying you did not know it was a bad deal cos you were not getting around to opening the newsletters, come on.
Dem's may be a little heavy handed, but Hatch and Specter and the fucking doof from Iowa whom I forget the name of, ugggh they only let Alito answer yes and no before they finish the sentence for him with bon mots like "I figured that would be your answer because you yourself are not racist, and you are handsome judge with impeccable ethics according to whats written in the "memo" section on this blank check I have from the Bar Association, and how could you be racist, being an Italian minority yourself; Italians, who the KKK thinks do not count as white, isn't that correct Judge Alito (blows kiss)." Hatch in particular, his salesmanship is all used car lot kabuki, painting mise en scene with broad strokes, like how some people talk to the aged, foreign or animals.

Fuck Orrin Hatch. I wish Ted K could shapeshift into the form of a shark and just eat him up. On TV.

Posted by Jessica at 01:59 PM | TrackBack


Andy totally called it, part two was dark to it's core. New theory: Chris has a personality disorder, and all that grunting signals when he switches in to "Xavier"-mode. He's so manipulative, it's sociopathic. I no longer feel empathy for him. Him telling his mom "Bite Me" was a turning point in when I began to loathe him. Though, after his mom making him lie to the principal so that she could still collect his disability check--I maybe do not blame him.

The amount of untuned guitars played over the course of episode was excruiciating. I also wonder why Cody's mouth does not move when he talks. I think the final installment, tomorrow, features a lot of parts about his dreams for his bands.

Part one is now viewable online.

1. The part where Chris rubbed coral-peach lipstick all over his moms face with his own face.
2. The part where Chris' mom chases him to the end of the driveway, a full 36 feet, backwards in the car, instead of walking.
3. Chris' girlfriends "OD" on 99-cent yellowjackets.
4. The jewelled sword Chris gets for Xmas.
5. Chris' calling in absent to school because he "was up all night with chaos" -- best excuse ever?!
6. How often Liz say's Cody's name (every 5 words). Makes for a better drinking game the coal train/school bus one.
7. The choir's death-sentence-vive / their tuneless Amazing Grace/Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer medley
8. When Cody talks about knowing his gay friend "back when he was straight"
9. The science class where the teacher talks about how the THEORY of evo-loo-shun says we descended from an ape, but Jesus was not an ape, "the bible says he looks like an ordinary man" -- and how "god made molecules".
10. That the place Cody gets his nipples pierced is called "SMALL TOWN PIERCING"

Posted by Jessica at 12:41 AM | TrackBack

January 10, 2006


Some of you that read this here blog, who are cooking types, here are my new two favorite recipe-jams
20 Parsi Recipes. Simple Iranian/Indian. Forgoe the goat dishes, get down with many uses of coriander. Not sure how much "desert-spoon" is, but I'd guess a tea spoon.
Check Please lil recipe town. There's a lot of milk n' beef n' french on there, but Popcorn Coulis is vegan.

Posted by Jessica at 05:30 PM | TrackBack


Last night, Julianne Shepdini-Romantico Sr. was filling me in on what I'd missed in the Alito hearings and she said something about civil war a-coming. I woke up early (9:20 AM!) just in time to hear the questioning switch up from Patrick Leahy to Orrin Motherfucking Hatch, I understood what she meant. Leahy was heavy...handed...oratory, putting the hammer straight down on Alito's face, and then Hatch comes on asks, patronizing innocence, snark meter buried up in the red, lobs to Alito "So, are you against women and minorities going to college?" and sets up a joke for Alito that I swear, they must have worked after a few dry Cutty Sarks at the club, about how Alito came to understand the, uh, benefits of a having a co-ed college while at Princeton--if you get his drift.

"Chuckle Chuckle" went Orrin Hatch.
"Chuckle Chuckle" went Judge Alito.

Posted by Jessica at 10:57 AM | TrackBack


Dude! Enough with the fake ex-junkies and fake ex-junkie cocksuckers!. America and Oprah-fans demand: ONLY REAL JUNKIES AND REAL JUNKIE-WHORES IN 2006.

Posted by Jessica at 12:10 AM | TrackBack

January 09, 2006


On nerd whim, tonight, we invited JR over to watch the Frontline special Country Boys because JR was raised downstate and it looked "interesting". I thought it was just like a one hour special about life in factory towns, but it's actually a six hour documentary airing in three parts and man alive, I have never seen such fucked up TV in my life.

Two appalachian boys, followed through high school. Depressing, comedic and mindbreaking, it's kind of like a deadly combo of Lord of The Flies , a Real World: Hawaii marathon, Hee-Haw, Paradise Lost and the cumulative horror of 10th grade rolled into one. You can watch last nights episode at the link above, if you have two hours to spare, get caught up for Tuesday's episode.

1. The kid's christian "goth metal" band that actually sounds like Suicide / Silver Apples with cookie-monster vocals.
2. The bands song about how the kid's dad shot and killed his step mom while she was on stage stripping, then shot and killed himself, and how as a result he became born again at age 12, praise jesus. Looking into the camera while you sing a narrative electro-ballad about your parents muder/suicide: the most intense moment on PBS ever.
3. When the other kid and his mom try and get the hog out from underneath the trailer home.
4. The little sister eating spaghetti, in the recliner, with her hands, and telling her brother about how the other kids are teasing her so much, tying her hands and turning a hose on her. She is about 5 or 6 and has the deepest accent, pretty much, ever.
5. Parents bumming cigarettes to their 15 year olds.
6. The teen goth couple nervously making out for the camera: revolting is two 10th graders hi-speed frenching while eating McDonalds.
7. When the grandma finds the used condom on the goth kids floor and asks him to explain. "It's hard" he says. "Well, tell me why it's hard!" she says. WTF?!
8. When the goth kid supposedly quotes II Corinthians verse 10 about how it's ok to wear your hair anyway you want.
9. The look the dad gives the mom when she says she beleives their daughter is still a virgin.
10. The goth kids guitar solos at "Mega-Worship" - shredding!

I can't believe it's on PBS, or Frontline, even, for that matter, because it's pretty WB, plus, the kids say "shit" a lot. Suggestion: You can make a drinking game--do a shot everytime there is a long shot of a school bus or a coal train, you'll be wasted after about 22 minutes. YOU HAVE TO WATCH THIS. YOUR MIND WILL BOGGLE.

Posted by Jessica at 11:49 PM | TrackBack


We were walking down Western for a long few blocks, and right before we passed the Saint Candle'd memorial in a box with it's color xerox RIPs and a thin plywood cross where the man was killed (where JR saw the man die) we began talking of the rebirth. Personal rebirth and of spirit renewed; of Life, but how to live it?*

About, how, when you realize that we are perpetually moving closer to death, loomed to it as much as we are life, you get free from a lot of the inbetween and unreasonable musts. JR saw a man whose corporeal and spirit had just separated, taken in an instant from of this world to out of it. He said perspective came quick, one night, maybe two. You make peace with death's swift manners and it raises you up.

I did not remember until I was home, I had had this same revelation --maybe seven years ago--on the same strip of Western. My life at the time was just smoke and ash. I was all kinds of frightened, but, by accident, had started believing in god, and started praying constantly-- for hours a day; the revelations of spirit were constant. I made peace with death just south of the Western/North intersection, because I was walking alone from the train, in the dark, and a man had been following me slowly in his car for two blocks and I tried picking apart whatever I could to be less scared. I got ok with dying in the span of of about 100 feet, in the middle of plaintive, panicky dialogue with god. Not so much a force of will as it was just a sense upon me. Respect of death's omniprescense, when it comes, you must meet it.

This weekend we went to a friend's dad's memorial service, at his father's local Lodge. After the service, the friend and I talked about peace with death and it's impact on loss -- and does it make a difference (we agreed: yes). I looked at the buttons on the friend's suit, which belonged to another dead man (his wife's grandfather) -- they were silver with a golf ball on a tee. Same kind of suit as some of his dad's lodge buddies. The old people, of course, know how to greive and what to say, how to say it, to hug and not pat the arm awkwardly, and that you bring hotdish (or any dish featuring cocktail weinies). Lots of folks make it to thirty and know mourning and funereal grace only informally; after, I watched the older folks, peanuckle partners past, widower golf buddies, old Mooses with lodge livers; there was nothing unknown in their mourning. It was sure, they knew it's form and shape. Our table of kid-friends, we were all moving like nervous atoms because of what we do not know yet.

(* Can you resist Swedish hardcore? Me neither!)

Posted by Jessica at 02:54 PM | TrackBack

January 08, 2006


A note, an interim posting, as thrift store, sewing machine, kittren claws and trash beckon for greater attention before the day is out:

Bird Names plays the Bottle on the 16th, that is a free Monday show. The songs on their page are not my favorites, and make them sound like the Fuck Emos meets early Deerhoof, which is not so much whats they sound like. Their album, Fantic Yard, is one of the better surprises I got in the mail this year, and can surely be purchased at their show. There is a song on there called "Pinatata" which is a narrative about a pinata party ("They hang it from a tree / Then they blind fold me / Pinata is filled with candy / sweet, delicious candy/Candy Candy Candy/ Candy Candy Candy") and it's kind of an electro cha-cha with flutes, which I enjoy greatly. Most of the rest of the record is no wave surf blizzard and faux naif bedroom jawns, cardboard-fidelity. See you at the show!

Posted by Jessica at 01:03 PM | TrackBack

January 07, 2006


It's not insomnia. It's more like... poor scheduling. If this was freshman year and I lived in a dorm, I would be flunking all my morning classes. I am going to sleep so late now that Matt and my overlap-hours of sleep are between 4:30-7:30 am. Sometimes I go earlier, practice sleeping, or just lay, watch Matt breathe and r.e.m. flutter. It is a bad way to be, this going to bed at 4 am issue, at least not without a decent reason. I must be very quiet for the up and downstairs new neighbors who already have to deal with the cattle-drive noises of kitten and cat chasing rattley toys and jingle balls and each other back and forth run run run the length of the apartment.

So, we are very quiet, and we are waiting for sleep to crouch and attack us, and in the meantime, we are biding time, waiting for Walking The Bible to come on. Hopefully it is better than the two-hour drama about African AIDS pandemic that was yesterday's late late late show.

Goodnight, sleepers.

Posted by Jessica at 03:35 AM | TrackBack

January 05, 2006


My essay/review about Evie Sands (pictured above) and the Girl Groups boxset and bouffants and artistic destinies is up within the Chicago Reader as well as my top ten year end thinger, which was kind of off and is heavy on the indie-rock, strangely enough. I will explain it later, maybe. Maybe.

Posted by Jessica at 07:59 PM | TrackBack


"I read JR's blog, and I do not think there is anything wrong with Thunderstruck. I think that it's a metaphor, for how heavy AC/DC is, that it's beyond lightning, they're striking you with thunder."

I did not follow through on my domestic apocolypse throwdown of making "a snack tray" for Matt's viewing of the RoseBowl. I did make dinner and I did serve it to him. I have crossed over-- and I am totally into it. Experimental snacktrayism is in my future, I feel it fully.

I multitasked during dinner-make, and am nearing completion of my several month-long travail: putting my entire CD collection into the itunes on the external drive so that I can get rid of the best piles that follow me room to room like a stink. I have less than 50 CDs left to go. The pile on the table now is promos I got in 2002 that I have been meaning to listen to since they arrived (reminder: Do Make Say Think's first two albums are frosty and tops, Milemarker's videos on Satanic Versus=an era is dead) .

Meanwhile, I have 23,310 songs at my disposal, and the only thing I wanna listen to is Best of Connie Francis on repeat. Seriously. On the cover, her hair looks like it's made of Butterscotch flavored Magic Shell/topping.

Posted by Jessica at 12:48 AM | TrackBack

January 04, 2006


Lori in SF forwards this link on Maureen Dowd and the return of feminist backlash trend articles that aim to scare working women out of paychecks and into motherhood read here .

Or, for ONE CENT, you can buy Susan Faludi's Backlash off Amazon, and read about how the feminist backlash is perpetuated and how the media sells us on fear and myth. It's only a penny, but if I had to estimate it's actual monetary value to my life, it'd be a few hundred dollars.

I'm not all up on Maureen Dowd's jock, so I can only speculate, but maybe she just freaked out and saw the way that young women interepret, apply and fear feminism in 2006, as feminism's failing, rather than the feminist backlash's success, or the porn zietgeist's most clever tactic, or a result of everyone getting armchair during the Clinton years. The bent of post third wave feminism-- that empowerment means having everything (kids/job/orgasms/nice shoes/a big car etc) -- is as borne of capitalistic omnificence, and a cultural queering of feminism --how feminism has been marketed, so that it's not actually potent -- a bit of bait and switch. As long as it's about what we own, rather than who we are or who we have permission and ability to be, then we never get to actualize.

I think it's much more about that dialogue then a binary debate of yes/no did feminism fail or yes/no did feminism fail to give powerful men an appreciation of powerful women or yes/no is not having a job feminist? All of that is going to be informed and colored by Dowd's perspective as a powerful, rich, white New York feminist. And not to take her concern down, but it's really a matter of privalege, and think it's kind of backwards, that 30+ years since the serious-seeds of feminism were shown, we're steering the debate back to marriage, and also in Dowd's original article, I think, is an issue of ageism. Power, most certainly, always will be part of the debate and the struggle; and do men want to share power with women? I think that is the part of her argument that has real world application to women who are less white/educated/have less agency/do not give a shit about being married.

Posted by Jessica at 01:38 PM | TrackBack

January 03, 2006


Direct from the blog of Robin Bonebright, I give you this: This site might be the ultimate in voyeuristic past times. Looking inside strangers houses. Condos in Tai Pei. Upstate modernist retreat. Some skeezy punk bar in Brooklyn. A film makers's studio apt turned soundstage for his commando film. A makeshift dog house built by a child for street puppies. Family home in New Dehli. Post collegial bach-pad to a tee.
Just start at the first house and hit "previous" at the bottom of the page. ULTIMATE TIME WASTER OBSESSION. Enjoy.

Posted by Jessica at 11:23 PM | TrackBack


I think, upon casj recall, my favorite part of the weekend was Robin and I trying to teach another friend of ours, a girl, some moves, while I dj'd. She's danced to rock bands, but maybe not ever to le hymne du Dipset . Our suggestions were many, it went kind of like this:

"Kind of...Toss your hair"
"Wait--, not like Robin is doing. Not "flip your hair"--no, like you're a pony."
"Be like a foal"
"Ok, feet should not be stationary that long."
"More hips. Think grinding... less circular motion, not like, lamaze or gyration. --more like humping the air."
"Ok, there, yeah. Yeah."
"Ok, no, not that kind of grind-- too strippery. Just work on feeling it."
"You totally got it."
"Yes, and if that doesn't work for you -- when in doubt, do the rip it up."

It was successful. Our friend worked it out and looked comfortable dancing, she was the marrow of the very dancefloor by the time I played a remix of 112's "peaches and cream" which is an amazingly turrrrrrible and amazingly-amazing song filled with sub-Pharell-level sexaphor, a song, which I must make note: Alex from Spankrock MOCKED ME IN DISGUST FOR PLAYING. Which serves me right, because I am that kind of snob -- but only when people do shit like play Busta Rhymes. Except I just whisper to my friends. Is that better than telling them to their faces? Maybe. He tried to walk away after the eyeroll and the eyebrow raise, but I grabbed his arm "No, you do not understand, I Love 112, this is song revolting and great!" -- my midwestern earnestness was hardly a match for his East Coast scrimination, I felt, but I tried. Midwestern kids, dude, they'll dance to most anything except disco and dancehall. We're desperate, dancing kids are wasted, and at 100 o'clock am, anything with that 808-pounce will do, be it Diplo or Black Box. That's all about that.

Also, I must remind you: The version of "My world is empty without you" off Diamanda Gala's 1998 live alb Malediction and Prayer is so tremendous and scary and worth finding. It's also reprised on her newest album, and you can listen to 1/4rd of it here on her site. Worth the legal downloading price, surely.

And the last thing I want to ask is, does anyone in the Chi-boog vicinity want to buy my mid size copy machine? If so, please write.

Posted by Jessica at 12:24 PM | TrackBack

January 01, 2006


I pray my resolutions, so it's mostly 'tween me and god, most of it, but for the sake of public interest, I am still in year nine of working on being nicer. Nicer and more reasonable. Or reasonable, I should say. There is hardly enough to qualify a "more", ya know?

Thank you so sweetly to all the nice people of the audience and friends who sashayed and swayed when I played the records, I felt like Paul Oakenfold, opiating the massive. It felt like a conspiracy-joke: Some kids from Columbia, MO had thier picture taken with me, "huge fans" they declared. The baby-aged men of the s'incredible Spankrock were screaming my DJ name everytime I put on a new cut, and going that funny Dipset-karate and screaming AAAAGH, tearing holes in the air, but I think that's just cos I played "No Diggity", and that's everyone's favorite song. I got Britt to dance --I have known her 177 epochs, and have never seen her dance. One girl asked for my autograph, and another kissed me on the head "You are my favorite"-she was tied her shirt up and was wearing bedazzled yoga pants and smelled like champagne and nag champa; everyone was wasted and when people are wasted, whomever has the house 12"s cranked loudest wins. I rung in the New Year playing Inner City's "Good Life", toasting my plastic cup of virgin Shirley Temple, mauling Matt's sweet face with mine own.
It bodes well, sweet babes, it bodes well, this nu-yr.
2006 be awesome.


Posted by Jessica at 04:43 AM | TrackBack