The Hold Steady video is done and viewable . Thats me in the hat and the white pants. Robin, Ian, Miles and Eric Z are all in it too. Chris Thompson's directorial debut, in case you been wondering what came of him post-Monorchid/Circus Lupus.
I saw Common play tonight, and I have to save the spew for print elsewhere, but I have to say it ended my crush, how ever so slight. Might have even ended my respect for him as an artist. The highlight of the show was when the DJ, who was mediocre, did a solo scratch war breakdown midset, which was supposed to hype the crowd but lulled us into zombie-mode, which, given that he was working off of "It Takes 2" is really saying something, Jane leaned over and told me a story about how when she was in 6th grade, her and her best friend did a dance routine to "It Takes 2" for the Grand Rapids Garlic Festival, and her mom made them hammer pants based outfits, and they did not even place. The winner was a 6-year-old girl who wore a red feather boa and did "Fever".
I dreamt last night that I opened my closet and OUILA all of Prince and The Revolution's best outfits were suddenly in there. Even the clear pants--and all the lacey capes and OR scrubs I could ever want. I woke up elated, only to realize I do not even have a pair of suspenders with wooden moon decals on them.
Rjyan Kidwell writes with this hot link of Prince on American Bandstand c. 79/80. I do not even know where to start with this one. Rjyan really called it with this comment:" I can't wait to get interviewed on television so I can bite the four- fingers-to-the-face-of-the-interviewer move." Also, imagine anyone on a national TV program for teenagers rubbing their golden crotch while lip-synching the words "I wanna be the only one you cum for", today in 2006. I know people do explicit shit on TV all day and night, but people don't be nasty like that on TV. PS. How did Prince just like, walk around being that coy and pro-actively fuckable at such a young age, how do you get yr game that tight that fast? PPS. Watching Prince treating Dick Clark like you treat a drunk asshole who tries to talk to you in a bar is really, truly gratifying.
Looks we should consider rocking for the spring:
1. Clear pants w/ leotard.
2. Pajama top/womens negligee with gold lame strecth pants.
2.5 golden pants with silver boots and metallic pink top /all metallic outfits.
3. Mary Tyler Moore style flip (for dudes)
4. A prison costume and wrap around shades
5. High wasted spandex pants with suspenders.
6. Total disgust towards Dick Clark at all times
While Lent does not officially start til Ash Weds, later this week, the lenten season starts today, with Transfiguration Sunday. Transfiguration Sunday is about the hope that no situation beyond hope, that none of us are beyond redemption, that the world can be changed. Then on Weds, comes my favorite part, which at the church I go to goes like this: Candelight nighttime service (magic, and also spooky to the bone), we are given peices of paper and a golf pencil and we sit in silence for a while and write out what we want to be forgiven for. Then, some hymns, reading, solemness, then we walk up to the altar, put our notes in a basket and one of the pastors presses a thumbload of ashes to our forehead and we go sit back down. The notes are taken, after service, and put in a habachi grill in the parking lot and burned and then are put in a jar to be kept as the Lenten ashes for next year. Then, then, there is the 40 days of lent, which to me is about sitting in the (proverbial, not literal) darkness and the stillness and being with your faith, be it pithy or slight or all-consuming or scary as shit. You just do. You just be in the dark with whatever it is, confident and doubting, at once.
My advice: Let Prince be your spirit animal all weekend long.
Or at least your wardrobe's spirit animal.
I saw Nate Kinsella 'round town tonight and he demanded that I share this little video with you. My favorite parts:
1. Prince taking off his jacket to do nothing but howl
2. Prince holding the guitar and humping it, but not playing it
3. James Brown calling Prince's name like you call a dog
4. Michael Jackson touching James Browns face roughly 17 times in 30 seconds
5. That almost nothing happens, despite the three of them being on stage together at once. You'd expect a vaccum to open up and we're transported to another, convex universe of true funkiness.
Minneapolis! Kiki Smith mini exhibit opens at the Walker on the 26th. I am coming up to see that soon. Kiki Smith is feminist mystery within, transfigured and put into wax looking forms, spirit girls running, and a kind of sadness that I feel is purely a woman science. I hate it when I brush against biological exclusivity ( it's where my Dworkininsm splinters, because I am know any real revolution, internal and in the world of day-by-day practice, is dude-inclusive. They need the liberation of feminism just as terribly as we do.)--but that is how I feel about her work. March is Women's History month so we get to be in museums and shit, all month long . They are even letting me speak at the library because of it. More details TK on ye olde All Girl Critic Rountable at Harold Washington Library on 3/11. Total night at the Hoppera. The last time some of these same folks and I were on a roundtable, I uh, "held forth"--I am a bit of a roundtable dominator, especially if the other folks are saying stuff like "sexism does not really effect my life." I think this one should be good, it is moderated by a librarian! A real one! Maybe she knows what they did with the Due Date Cards.
It is over 40 degrees right now; the border of spring feels empowering -- it makes me feel like a Roman. Like I could pilage. Like I could sock some Gauls, even.
I had something serious to tell you, about what festered in my brain half terrible all day, but while I was having a snack, Wyatt (aka "the shitten") managed to reboot the computer by himself, wisely deleting a post about errant bricks from the sky, old testament god, alienation on public transit, men who buy women fur coats, old Russian womens with moles so serious it makes aaron nevilles' mole look like it has not even hit puberty yet.
The other day Ben and I went to Myopic to look for books for young Hollis, and I wound up buying books for young me, including Martze , a book from 1968 by Jack Sendak, for this passage, which I read as being about the delight in loving a thing, the joy of being rapt:
"Martze was sure of his magic now. He delighted in his new found power. He could do anything. He was a magician -- not in the usual sense of the word, a trickster. No, he was a boy who could do real magic. Magic. Magic. He loved the very sound of the word."
Martze, the boy magician of the story, is drawn casually dressed like a detective in a noir film, but is only 7 or 9 years old but dapper like a grown up, like a New York baby about to do some soft shoe routine. It makes the book all the more fantastical.
Et une plus de chose -- another night, another movie: Von Trier's second installment of the America trilogy, Manderlay. Might take a me a week to wrap my head around the entire thing, as it teases out the Dogville topic, engages them more deeply and more fancifully, but this time, specific to uniquely American racism and good intentions and "justice". I thought it was a really fine film. If you have seen it, email me, I wanna know what you thought. The words for it all are still rolling around the back of my head and have not introduced themselves yet.
Message from voicemail - 1:32 PM
Hah-llo? Jessica? It's Gramma Hopper calling. I wanted to tell you I was talking to your daddy John today and he told me you were having some bad luck, and I wanted to tell you I had some bad luck too, except mine was funny. I was doing some warsh, and I left my laundry in the dryer and forgot for a while, and someone stole my panties (laughs). I know it's not the same thing as your bad luck, but I'm jus' lettin you know I'll be praying for ya. Love you honey. Buh-bye now
Saw the Neil Young movie last night. We missed some beginnings due to being locked in line behind change dropping teenagers and popcorn purchasing flirters, and by the time we walked in, Neil was large on the screen, his rancher hat covering his wet eyes, sat and he sang "I just want to tell you / You sure mean a lot to me / It may sound simple / But you are the world to me / It's such a precious thing / That time we shared together / I must apologize / For the troubled times" -- I was like, please, please Neil, please, quick sing the song about the farm dog, sing about the wheat, please do not sing this right now ---he's sitting right next to me.
The whole movie was just fine. Emmylou is so botoxed out she cannot move her mouth, and reminded me of this dude , but with luxurious hair, like a Pekinese. I love Emmylou, but I do not understand why someone so naturally talented and pretty would botox themselves into a death mask situation.
In other news, I would suggest you stop what yr doing and go pick up Neneh Cherry's commercially failed but super awesome Homebrew album. I got it used for 2.99$, but it is worth at least 8$, if just for the song promoting condoms and sex education, "Trout", which is a duet with Michael Stipe, where he raps about why safe sex should be taught in schools which ends with a line about bureacracy -- it is more stilted and monotone than Guru's cameo on the album opener "Sassy". The song is a polyglot mess, big beat funnabe trip hop, moody synth strings, but also harmonicas and banjos --very nineties-funky. It is really, really good and mostly about being a single mom, self-respect, "heartbeats with pain" and how she is not going to get played. There could not be more stuff "wrong" with the album, but it could not be MORE CRUCIAL and correct.
According to the dude who wrote Power Animals: How to Connect with Your Animal Spirit Guide , I have to see the hawk again for it to be an omen and if it is near me, I have to psychically ask "What are you wanting to tell me?" --if you live in the Ukr Vllg and see a hawk near you, offer to take a mssg for me.
I have decided to revert back to a summer look I rocked for a while, that of the young male hustler. It mainly revolves around white jeans. I will have to ditch the bonnet, the bonnet throws it off.
Nora and I saw A HAWK from the porch, she told me it is an omen and a good one at that.
I think she is shitting me.
Everything is getting better all the time, I do not need that hawk for proof.
I woke up this morning and knew the truth. At first it made my gut feel like I got shot up with some lead acorns, then it felt like well rationed joy. It was like how on Van Morrison's Band and Street Choir side one ends with "I'll Be Your Lover, Too" and it's almost too much to take, all the space in that song, it is like he is singing to an empty room, to a girl that ain't even there, and he knows, esp. when he the gtr just gets half strummed and he sings "Reach out for me" -- the song is bereft, bleak, Van alone in the darkness and you are indicted just by listener proxy, sitting there going "this is too heavy" and you flip over the record wondering where the fuck can it go from here and it's "Blue Money" which is this fat roly poly good-times song, real New Orleans frolick feel and r&b valentines horns, someone's drunk party girl singing back too confidently behind him, everything wild and uncareful as it's very self.
Oh man! Bob Mould! What happened to Bob Mould?! Matt & I went to see Kaki play tonight and Bob headlined and we had to leave after four songs. I know, I know, being from Mnpls and giving up on Bob is like being a Christian and saying you didn't think the crucifiction was realistic enough. When did Bob jump the shark? He's doing (not to mention him again) the Scott Stapp, or like, maybe worse, like that dude from Live (don't front like you forgot that cassingle/or that you just went to the 120 minutes tour for PIL!) --he ditched the first few consanants and pureed the rest of his lines with extended use of Now-owo-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-Now now now/Me-ee-eee-e-ee-e-ay-ay-ay-eye-eyeayeate / Oo-whor-ho-ho-ho-hoho-ye-ea-ea-ea-ea-ah-ah-ah --into infinity and beyond. And he sings through all the songs parts, does not let up, like he is making sweet love to his own voice--which only works when you are Ginuwine because if you are Ginuwine you have songasms instead of choruses. And he does not play the leads! Where is the hot licks?! He opened with "Wishing Well" and for the first .03 seconds I was stoked. He was like, emo-scatting. After he turned "Hoover Dam" into what sounded like a cut off Pearl Jam's Ten*, as played by a confident singer-songwriter at an open mic at Uncommon Grounds in Downers Grove, we had to bail because he is Bob Mould and our memories need not be sullied with this Purina Cat Chow he was wholesaling now-ow-ow-ow. I am crazy sentimental about Black Sheets of Rain ** and was unwilling to idle as he just fucks it to death infront of a paying audience, and after the nouveau treatment of "No Reservations", collectively, we ran from the theatre. I hate to hate, since he's practically the state bird, but my tip to ol' boy is ditch the 12-string pedal and step with the real. Do not step with the aye-aye-aye-aye -- that's Popeye's schtick.
(*best worst album cover ever - true or false? - with the fold out art work so it's a silouhetted poster of dudes doing a group high-five--sensitacho before their time!)
(** In 1994, I accidentally stabbed myself in the ass with scissors while listening to this record. I fell off a ladder onto them. I was on the ladder breaking my roommates cigarettes in half and gluing them to the place where the wall met the ceiling, to avenge the fact that earlier that week, I had walked into the living room at 4 am and he was beating off to Battlestar Galactica. I was also possibly still avenging that his favorite song was "Devil Went Down To Georgia" -- Britt was my other roommate at the time and can vouch for all of these things.)
My piece about my night out at Oswego East High School, going to a show for high schoolers and meeting ten yr old future star, Gia Muzzalupo, the singer for Hot Goth Chicks ("we're a mix of hip hop, rap and country") is in this weeks Reader.
Also, the girl featured in "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?" and I got in a near fight once when she was astanding in the keg line at a party at buddy I was djing, simply because I said "ever time I see you, you are wearing that cumberbund" and she YELLED " THAT IS NOT TRUE! I NEVER WEAR THE SAME OUTFIT TWICE!".
Maybe one day I can be in What Are You Wearing? I will wear my angora sweater with the wet holes in it from where the kitten will not stop nursing it's armpits, a long wool shirt and kneesocks, pearls and my almond SAS orthos. Nothing says "fox" like the creept cat lady look kicked 55 years early.
I promise that this bout with smoking, it is just recreational. It is crisis smoking.
Thanks to everyone for the real nice emails re: the break up highlighted by yesterdays post. Did not mean to make y'all cry. It's not that bad*. I mean, it is terrible and deeply sad. Forever turned out to only be 10 months long, that's all.
(*I mean, it could be worse, I could be the girl who got double teamed by Kid Rock and Scott Stapp in that sex tape. Can you imagine being banged by the dude in CREED?! who while banging you says shit like " Ahhhh...It's good to be king")
It is hard, when your natural reaction to everything is to write a out it, to filter to process, it is all based in this out flow, thought to paper, thought to internet ether, out of heart by way of head. But then there are things you do not want to write, to quote Didion, to write it is to make it real. Something happens and it makes things come into sudden, crystalline perspective. And you pray and tell god thank you because even though this is bad, it is for the bes, you think if you can just get to gratitude it will not feel like you are going to combust or wither. You can confess things to god and tuck the words into hard sobs and writhe and kick the bed and collapse to the floor as you are walking out of the weight of the grief alone. But yr writing mind plays everything out like a movie, you see the narrative arc, all the details are etched, well recorded, perhaps even more fantastic than they happened in the first place: the before -- the first kiss and first fate and first phone call, romance's easy evolutions that make for sure future.
Then, this is where it changed.
Then, this is when I knew he wasn't in love with me.
Then there is when he knew.
And now is the part when he leaves.
And now it is written, and now it is real.
The Chicago Public Library 6 weeks ago, did away with the stamped reminder due back cards in books, now replaced by a print out of titles and due datesfor each on a reciept. I am really upset now that I never saved one. If you have a CPL card lying around or in books that you checked out before 12/28/05, I will trade you something for yr stamped up card.
The library is a balm and a refuge for the disconsulate and the curious alike, and like all the best fun, it is free. Today it was raining hard and men with their every belonging in tow rung their blankets out in the foyer. Serious looking teachers dripped dry at the card catalog terminals and school age couples giggled and messed with each other under the guising of studying up on the 6th floor (Literature/Fiction, alphabetical for Americans of this decade, Dewey syst for English/others to antiquity).
My brain was borrowing trouble, riffing for solutions unthunk, and all I wanted was reprieve, so I sat in fiction aisle A with the book I came for, our punk book klubbe's first assigned book, Nelson Algren's Neon Wilderness, and I got wasted: books are the quickest mercy a straight edge girl knows.
Oh, and what a fine page! I had never read any Algren prior, and by the second paragraph, this story about the ghost of the drunk, a bitter, beating man, and then, the ghost of the son; my mind was taut with story and me and the book, we were in easy love; the stories parable was kissing my halo of worry goodnight. It then it ends: "Does the devil live in a double-shot? Is he the one that gnaws all night, within?
Or is he the one who knocks, on winter nights, with blood drying on his knuckles, in the gaslit passages of our dreams?"
How's that for words put in a row?
The copy I checked out, it has sat, unchecked out, since 1991, for sure, possibly since 1980. On the author card inside, it lists a birthdate and no death date (he died in '81). Perhaps the unchecked outedness is due to the 9 other copies of it to chose from on the shelf. Or that it is cloth bound and has no cover picture of a pitiful stree,t or Algren lamping quizzical, to tantalize. Nonetheless, I did it right, and cracked it pages for the first time.
After a while, I took off towards home, and since I was downtown, I wound up walking past fancy stores, none of which I have ever been to. I saw Breakfast at Tiffanys the other night, and I decided to stop into Neiman Marcus to see if it felt like Holly says of Tiffany's --that nothing bad could ever happen there. But all kinds of bad was happening there. Prada sunglasses and nude hose, which are a special kind of bad. Rich women buying their ninth grade daughters $400 sweaters. Neiman Marcus is the convex of Tiffany's, mebbe, nothing "good" happens there.
On the second floor, a roly poly man with shoes that squeaked asked me if I was looking for anything in particular. I told him "Yes. Yes, I am. I am looking for a pretty white dress for summer." He showed me two, and as we were walking for him to show me a Prada dress that looked like a white denim slip and cost three months of my rent, we passed a dress, and I stopped and said " ooh, I like this one... very pretty." The little chemise top was $1490, the dress was $10,900. "Whats the occasion?" he asked. "Oh, none. Just some thing to wear out, I think." With that, he was done with the courtesy fantasy, because a girl who carries a dirty THE NEW YORKER free-with-subscription-renewal totes bag instead of a purse is not there to drop 12 grand on an Armani gown. He turned a walked away before I had a chance to tell, warn him, about the vortex of bad happening within his store, badness so bad that no $466 Missioni bikini can ward it off.
PS> If anyone wants to take me to U of C tonight to see John Zorn, I will not object. You do not have to be my date, you just have to give me a ride.
Amen and glory be to the SPIN magazine paymaster, for now that my check has arrived, I can roll up to Harold Washington Downtown Branch and pay off my 27$ in library fees. I am dressed up special for the library, maje wool and orthos, librarian marm look of yore. Matt asked if my skirt was previously a blanket. Uh, no. I am like a all wool supernova of grandma fashion, with so much class and comfort shoeing, I am in another fashion universe.
Secondly, that emo documentary I am, Bastards of Young, the trailer is viewable online . I have incredible shame about the fact that I am smoking during my entire interview, I apologize, now, as a non smoker, for being such a gross smoker and a bad role model for girls watching that. I am on camera talking about feminism, about helping emo then hating emo, on two hours sleep and a half pack of lights looking tore up and talking unebbing shit about Warped tour enforcing gender stereotypes or something. I am not proud of the smoking. The rest, par for the course. ANYHOW, the women who made the movie are DIY film makers, really awesome and their movie is REALLY GOOD even if you hate Jimmy Eat World like you do Carl Rove. I would recommend you watch it if you can.
I promise I will write you something real soon. My brain is taken up with other duties currently. I may resort to pictures shortly.
Chicagoans! I forgot to tell you, and this is so good, if you do not have a tee vee, you got 2 hours to heist one ala "Ante Up" -- the Staple Singers doc is on 'ol PBS tonight. 10:30 o ' clock on channel 11. (Pops Staples, handsome and gentle, rocking rough and tuff with his cumulous afro-puffs* = #1 old man crush por vida, tied with retired Fed chairman Alan Greenspan, who I only like because he seemed certain and reasonable when there was no reason to found, not cos I think he's hot or anything.) STAPLES = cabrini rebel music, liberation and revolution through christian soul music. TV ON!
(*ps: lady of rage fans - she is on the new dogg pound dvd / mix tape / taffeta chemise / whatevers)
The boys I hang out with, all of them, they are not feeling my shoes. Miles says they are "total mom" and Matt asked me if they are even supposed to be cute. Today, JR and I saw a lady on the bus, and she was rocking my same look, down to the shoes. She was about 75. I am wildy orthopedic and I am not going back. Confident women of a certain age can kick shit however they like, wild styled, and thus, I am only SAS-ortho lifts in taupe and wooden shoes and 99-cent walgreen flips from here on out. And I don't care what anyone says, my stee is hotness complete.
Other than this: little to report. Puttering, errands, pep talk, falling in love with old people on the bus, the day yesterday that was so lovely all i could think of was that Sufjan song "Casmir Pulaski Day" which is about gratitude and death of a pretty girl--mostly that line about "what the lord has made", I got flowers for Valentines Day for the first time in my life, I bought weird treats I do not understand at the indian bakery across for Gandhi Electronics on Devon, I rode my bike in the sun and 46 degree weather and was seven kinds of in love with Chicago with a love so powerful it blots out everything else that is lesser than reverent love, then spent the night hours prowling the bookstore nabbing Tosches and Sontag and presents for Matt.
Today it is less sunny, but no less rapturous and deep of love.
If you missed Nedelle's show last night, which, I know you did, you missed out. We thrifted her a brilliant outfit, and with her short new hair and white shoes, she looked like she could star in any number of classic Goddard films, and when she sang high about setting "such a tender trap"--in that Marvelettes song she does, everyone's eyes made diamond tear drops that went "ching" and refracted like rainbow crystal, all over the room. I am sad she is gone. We went thrifting. I bought orthopedic nurse shoes and lots of all wool outfits. While the world is dressing like they play in The Silver Bullet Band, or that Dov Charney is their bone-daddy/pimp, I am culling my most dour look yet.
People, Chicago surrounding metro area'd people:
I have a message, a message for you and you alone.
Tomorrow, my sweet friend Nedelle, who is also a major talent, a soul force with a voice like a honey-cured bell, she is playing here. SUNDAY NIGHT. 9 pm, 5$, Subterranean, North & Damen. For Jane's Sweet 28th Birthday. With a metal band that is "amazing" and DJ Rude-1. Chicago, ever ecclectic, a fun time to be had for $5, if ever there was one. Listen to Nedelle's songs here , you can also look at a picture of her dog that died too. From when it was alive. Anyhow, she does a cover of "Hunter Gets Captured By The Game" which you might now if yr a Marvelettes fan. I think if she was not fingerpicking like a pro, she would be wearing a gown and white gloves and shoop shooping the world's heart into a lovelorn sigh.
I dare you to be there, fucker.
I don;t think people understand sometimes. I mean, I know they do not.
I had not seen the Coughs ever, at least not in years. They used to practice next to Challenger and they were so loud and violent and froked out, together with our more normal rock outfit sound, it made my dream band./ Sometimes when we would stop we'd just stand and listen and ask what the fuck is going on over there, a Borbetmagus cover band? and one breaks, some kids, mens and womens both, would saunter out in sleeveless lacey blouses and wrought haircuts, young with limp long limbs like "what gives?". I avoided seeing them for a while since their record was not really a repeater, for me, though I had high hopes. Then last night, after Sandcats busted deep terra dub with such nuclear bass peoples insides were prolapsing-out, Coughs killed me.
And ever one else.
I am actually faxing this in from beyond the grave.
Recalibrated septet Coughs were like Lake of Dracula + Poptatari-era Boredoms, fronted by a woman who is like Patti Smith if she had been raised by meth heads and never heard music. She undid her pants, onstage, and let them fall a little. It was not on some "sexy" shit -- she was wearing one or two pairs of Hanes Her Ways briefs... and trying to break a bottle of Bud against her own hip bones. I was screaming YOU GUYS ARE AMAZING YOU ARE THE BEST MORE MORE GOOD JOB DO IT AGAIN MORE MORE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE and JR was yelling YOU ARE THE BEST, just because how could we not? Rob Doran, of Pit er Pat, kept saying "You sound like a coach, you sound like a dad at soccer practice" and I was like "so?" and then he said it again, and repeated what I was saying that reminded him and I was like "why not yell? why not yell in the most earnest fucking way? Is that not cool?" and he was like "no, it's just you sound like a coach" -- he said it another three times. JR insisted he was not trying to beef, s'not Rob's way, but I was like "so?" the first 4 times he said it and then it moved to "I don't care", third time I just plugged my ears and screamed WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO for an encore.
If I sound like a coach, if i sound like a dad and a mom, if I sound like two geese getting rim jobs from a polar bear cub, I don't care because:
THE COUGHS ARE THE BEST BAND IN CHICAGO.
MAYBE IN THE HISTORY OF YOUNG IDEAS OF THE 2000's.
The pit was way brokeback, gay dude make outs and the serious moshing, like, Intergrity 3000 reunion sans "the lawnmower" move.
I will write more. Again and again and again.
Now, for the date!
I do not think I have walked the hall fo a high school since I was a high schooler. (Wait, no, I take that back. I went to my 5 year reunion cos Britt made me. I wore the most expensive heels my mom would loan me, so that people would not thinking I was lying when I told them I had my own business. A lot of my classmates had their own business too: drug delivery and meth preperations. You can take the kids out of art school, but...) I DIGRESS. Anyhow, I woke up at 7:10 am went to my neighboorhood-ish school, Best Practice High School. I got there earlier than I was supposed to, despite my bike lock being frozen. I got to hangbang in the teachers lounge and I got my pick of the donuts. I got to talk to the teachers and the principal. Nervous, as I was awake a full 3 hours early, I drank two coffees. I drink coffee maybe 3 times a year and then it's just decaf. Not sure what I was thinking. I might as well pounded a 40 while I was at it. I was talking to the principal about it, about the coffee and my need for it, and why, and being a self employed late riser, and he stopped and demanded "well, if you are not up now (8:47 am), at what time DO you start your day, Young Lady?!" -- I think he did not want me imparting any of my reckless ideas about late sleeping to his students. Anyhow, eventually, after the rambling "Follw Your Dreams, Young People" speech by former Chicago Bull Bob Love (in velour track suit), I got three 30 minutes classes to talk to kids about what I do. Which involved talking about myself some and peppering my talks with references to, say, Lil Wayne, in order to keep their attention. They liked the fanzines I passed around -- they were interested in anything that involved an entereprenurail spirit. The mudwrestling story, which featured an ad for a dildo at the bottom was also hotly discussed.
At the end, the questions were the best. What kind of car did I drive? What do I think about Dem Franchise Boyz? What is my cats name? How much money do I make? What brand of drums do I play? Have I ever played the flute or piano? Why don't I want to write about FallOut Boy? Why wouldn;t I wanrt to hang out with R. Kelly? Do I ever use Limewire? Do I get to be in the same room with famous people ever? Do I only date white dudes? Who is better 50 Cent or Jay-z? One kid thought he was gonna stump me with what is my favorite Jadakiss song, but I knew more about Jada then he did and his friends laughed at him. We talked about DJ Screw being dead and about how you can make records in your house, also about dancing to reggaeton and dis tracks. They cared about anything to do with the radio, but not the internet or MTV. When we talked about how I did not go to college and how I regretted it, and how most people who work at magazines have degrees --and one kid interupted, to bolster me, "Yeah, but those people work at a magazine, and you got your own magazine." Snap.
Then the music teacher, he presented me with a LAMINATED CERTIFICATE thanking me. I am totally putting that shit up. Or using it as a placemat.
Pretty Girls make Graves new album, review nutshell after cursory listen: They do not sound like Discount anymore. Mainly because they have taken to shouting down Babylon. S'true. Dub-ub-ub-ub univeralis--with melodica and 1/2 reggae gentle beats! No punk pound, no 4/4, no nu punk disco freedom. It's a puberty-of-sound album, like they were aiming for Combat Rock, but could only eek out Sandanista .
Goodnight! Tommorow, scintalating report: I am speaking at a career day at an "inner city highschool" -- I have to get up 3 hours early in order to do it too. Keynote speaker is a former manager of the Chicago Bulls. BIZONKERS, my little life.
Al and I hit Hamza Walker's paper presentation "Generational Dislocations: The Strange Case of Raymond Pettibon and Charles Manson" on Tuesday. It was an hour long and it was about 60% manson, 30% pettibon and %10 breakdown of the construct of irony and multivalent meaning. Walker contends that Pettibon's Manson work, which was his most consistant subject, of which he made 11 fanzines about, is about punk reacting to the sixties hangover, to the stagnation and hippy ill bequesthed to the next gen of youth culture, and that "the sixties last until Reagan" -- but mostly it is about how every generation resents the one before, and for Californians, that was Manson and his followers -- sooooo after the hour long powerpoint presentation that included MUCH asides on Mansonsonia -- theory and fact, the questions came. Just as I was raising my hand to say/mention/remind sir dude that, if in fact the Manson murders signalled the death of the sixties, as Didion suggests, then that completely rearranges Pettibon's Manson-trope into a reaction of another kind, maybe even one of mocking. Just as my hand went up, Walker said he disagreed with Didion and then quoted Vincent Bugliosi, about how Manson/the trials and crime would define the next thirty years, and the kid in the row in front of me interupted and was, like me, a touch incredulous about Bugliosi being a more valuble cultural reader, being a better barometer because he was Manson's lawyer, puh-leeze -- and Walker came back with a murmured "well, he's a first-hand source" and left it at that. I thought that was weak.
We bailed after that. It made me kinda wish I went to college. If I had known that college was kids arguing with adults in flippant exasperated tones, I would of gone. (My parents told me that it was a valuble experience where I could make life long friends, as a result of living in a dorm and such, that it was about transition and admitted that for them it was also about partying -- all of which was a real turn off. I hated having friends then, why would i want them for life?)
Today I spent the half day answering phones at an HIV/AIDS assistance center. It was a survey/testing day for local prostitutes, who could get paid $10 to come and get tested and answer questions with the professional folks. I got to talk and listen to some really interesting women, as the lobby with the couches is next to the work station with the phone. One of which had just brought two giant, lobster sized prawns/shrimps, and had them with her in a box, a present for her boyfriends birthday. She had just gotten off the streets and so she had just been able to qualify for SSI and a Link card, with which she had purchased the giant shrimps. She showed them to everyone. She also told me about the time she bought live crabs that pretty much died on the way home from the store, and when she got home, she put some saltwater in the tub and "resuscitated them-- you know, brought them back to life" -- and took them out of the tub and let them chase her dog around. "It was a total trip," she said. She was awesome. Some other ladies came in and I am pretty sure they were just there for the $10 testing-incentive. They were making weirdly loud/ obvious conversation about "Well, You Are The One Out Hooking All Night" and "Well, I better take a whole bunch of these condoms, FOR MY DATES" then look at me. When the tester came out and said the test was for sex workers / prostitutes only, one lady said "Oh, Hookers? Uh, yeah... Thats Us!" and pointed back and forth between her friend she came with (who had a glass eye), and her friend laughed.
N. Fine, punk of the south writes: "Re Integrity reforming: It's happened again, I paid my $8 to see a balding dwid be (I believe) the only original member of Integrity a few months ago. It was...surprisingly better than I expected. The room was full of nostalgia, sort of a 10-20 year high school reunion of Birmingham's hardcore retirees. Plus, it does the heart good to see the 14 year old Integrity fans fingerpointing and piling-on to songs that were written before they were born."
Remember when Integrity reformed as Integrity 2000? If they wanted to reform now (they prolly do, as the cash-in is the fifth element of hardcore), would they call it Integrity 2006+? They should call it Integrity.com. All reforming bands should now have to be called either "A version special tribute to _________" or the original band name with a dot com on the end: Ie that verz of the Misfits that is Dez Cadena, a Ramone and a misfit or two, doing a revue-medley of their previous bands "classics". PS. Anyone have an update on the reformed Germs and their European tour? I have fear that maybe someone will give a Coachella slot, and then all the bands will suddenly reform. The only bands I would pay $4-8 to see reform:
Black Randy &The Metrosquad
Come (with original rhythm section only)
These people are my friends !
Sandcats are on tour, starting a couple days ago! . Rjyan and Roby, or Robyan as they are known in their married life. They got each others same tattoos and they have matching hair cuts, and they look like amazing midevil people from the future (sic), like cat people from beyond. They met in my kitchen when we made the Muy Romantico record. Last time they played me thier music, it was high pitched singing hyper speed french disco album on the wrong speed, and it was an opera about people, news anchors who become famous for screwing (i think). It was def an outcropping of thier love, which inspires me deeply and complicated songs about complicated fucking is more interesting to me than songs about how no one understands you. (That's the Steely Dan trope: yr too young to understand, and yr too young for anyone to bother understanding anyway. It's complexion of adult life. "Only for the grown n' sexy", but maybe more "Only for the grown and grizzled" or "Only for those who are old enough to barely remember Jay Mc Inerney, drooling Beaujolais on yr titty, back in the 80s".)
El Bowl Super Loco!
What you missed about the national anthem: Dr. John playing the piano and looking grave, shot only from below, appeared to be scowling towards the endzone. Aaron Neville's voice was small, sounded like air being let out of a balloon. Would have liked some superbowl CGI make that knife (?) tattoo on his face come alive and dance across the screen. Also, his mic may not have been on. They cut quick to Aretha, who was dressed like any riche Chicago woman promenading downtown today: Chinchilla coat, teal tank top,, jeans, tons of sparkley jewelry, hair did. They opened the game with a moment of silence for Rosa and Mrs. King, then montaged to shots of black women in the stands.
Half time: The Stones is LOCO. Mick's outfit was half Wet Seal seasonal discount rack / half International Male Catalog, and he flapped around like he was trying to take off. Or dry off. Total prancenstein, showing his hip bones under that mesh sparkle shirt. Props to Keith for wearing windchimes in his hair, which already looks like a dream catcher someone left out in the rain. His hair is the band's spirit animal.
Robin and I made our valentines today. Mine are made from Whole Foods bags, my perrenial number one art supply. Then I went on a date to the cinema, to see the Three Burials movie. I loved it much, it was heavy on three themes that are my tops for films: cowboys, vengence and forever friendships. I also like it when people float on, stay noble, in the face of disbelief, bouyed by the spirit of the truth when a truth no longer exists. Truth is moot in the face of feelings, most films with criminal activity remind us. I also liked it when they rode horses through the sand. Also, despite being in the desert there was no cliche moments where someone pores the last drop out of the canteen, which happens in all desert movies. PS. Watch for the cameo of third favorite singing drummer, Levon Helm. (1st: Grant Hart, 2nd: Karen Carpenter)
I saw you last night -- and cannot stop thinking about you since -- it was super crowded, I know you did not see me, but I was immediately smitten and could not stop staring, even though to get a glimpse I had to look through another girls pony tail. Would love to see you again sometime soon, maybe some place less crowded? Me: Jessica Hopper You: Doug Gilliards Ripping Guitar Solos. Where: Richard Buckner show 2/3.
9 pm Friday, Lincoln Park, you were on Webster between Racine and Magnolia.
You were absolutely covered in chocolate and crumbs, flecked with green frosting, an entire cupcake smeared across your bottom, choco-tracks all over you. It took me by surprise. I wanted to stop and ask you what was wrong, but my friend and I were in a huge hurry and super hungry. Me: Girl eating cupcakes You: the tables, chairs, floors and countertop at Sweet Maggie B's bakery.
My female friend and I were sitting in the corner booth at Sweet Maggie B's, and you came in with your two friends as the girls at the register were closing and began making comments about the pie was probably a week old, but you kept looking over at us when you said these things and kept trying to engage us in conversation, you obviously wanted to talk. I bumped into you on the way out and did not bother saying sorry.
Me: Annoyed woman dressed like paddington bear You: Old white dude in a leather bomber coat from a car dealership, shitfaced drunk at 9 pm on a Friday, looking to harrass every girl in site.
I was in the third row, was standing with friend, sandwiched around a bunch of talkers on dates, off time foot tappers and women with pokey purses -- still nothing could distract me from you. I have seen you at Schubas before, but you look different w/o the beard, it made me notice you in a way I never have before. You had my rapt attention. I hope you do not think this is creepy!
Me: Jessica Hopper You: Richard Buckners teeth.
We saw each other right when you walked through the door, you came over and immediately started talking to me and my friend. I made joke about how you kept taking your coat off and on. We talked about poetry, EMP and Olympia bands, you were really funny. You stepped outside for a cigarette and we never saw you after that. Where did you go? Me: Jessica Hopper You: Franklin Bruno
Amidst researching the NEW JACK REUNION TOUR FEATURING GUY AND BLACK STREET, I found this on a European New Jack mssg board, on a thread about skepticism of whether Guy will release new music:
If Teddy makes and planed all music, it is the great news
If they return, this ordinary middle goes
They occupy important location
to new jack swing so much
It is the serious event that it is most
that all guy blackstreet new information
began in this site.
I will to watch continuously situation that is becoming new
update of teddy
I hate to start two posts in a row with "OMG" but it is MORE OMG than yesterdays invocation. Nick Sylvester pretending to be Robert Christgau doing an overview history of Pazz and Jop over Trapped in the Closet. Julianne says it sounds like when I prank her as "Chris From The Library" and tell her that he copy of the Reagan book, Dutch, is overdue.
OMG! Both myself and J-Shep got ESSAYS PUBLISHED IN THIS YEARS PAZZ AND JOP IN THE VOICE! It's like getting the Bronze in the Snarkiness! Mine, you may have read part of already around these parts, but, here it is Me on Sufjan. J Shep on Jeezy and Jay-z. Some comments landed in too. I am still skimming through but Rob Sheffield and Dolan are always funny shit. More to come, mebbe, later. Read that shit!