tinyluckygenius aka the Unicorn's tear

OTHER PONY TUTORIAL

Oh my. Don't you wish you had a gaggle of hopping Berliner littles in bloc-y nerd clothes and leather lunchbags to dance stupid with? Someone text me a baby. International Pony's record is--finally--going to come out in the United States next month. They were the surprise detonator on Sascha Funke's Boogybytes B pitch mixer--the Saschasized version of "Our House" queers the album take (languid, sensual) with a Teutonic chill (akin to the vers posted up at their myspace). Tiny bubbles Hamburg glitch-n-kick all gorgeous and solemn; when the tambo shuffel drops and he whispers "in our house" like he's sucking the words out of the air, I go aquiver--it's a top player last year and this one too. Int'l Pony ain't no joke band, they have all the fuck-you-it's-our-party humor of the first Basement Jaxx record, which on subsequent Jaxx records retarded into such ill-begotten business such as JC Chasez dropping hump science. The funny of "Gothic Girl"
seems a bit obvious, until your realize it's actually a "Hey 19" bite ("She says she likes black music").

PONY TUTORIAL

HOW DID WE MISS THIS?!

OMFG! Monie, Yo Yo and MC Lyte triple bill on Sat. for $10.

ENOUGH ALREADY!

Hey, I know now it's 95 South, not 65 South who does the c'mon ride the train song. I got confused. 65 South is how I drive to go to my grandma's house, which, btw, turns into "Kenneth Babyface Edmonds Memorial Highway" a mile out of Indy.

AND WHILE WE ARE AT IT

A beautiful, profane existence: Who is this Walker Evans of squatter rot?

YES, I MEANT ANARCHIST BOAT ARMADA

The float people are not from Pilsen, they say. I know someone on this floaty trip but I forget whom. It looks like Mr. City space, transferred to the water, but without the organs. This looks like the best time ever anarchist-collective-Huck Finning-the-length-of-the-big-muddy does.

ABE-ABE-AY

OK. So, so far we have two volunteers for the take a train and walk voyage from here to Springfield, one for the ride and one for the walk. It's like 200-some miles between the two and human walk speed, according to casual expert Ben Fasman (Chicago's most eligible bach, ladies!) is about 6-8 mph. So, here's my thought. Walk some, ride-a-train some. And every time we wait for the train, we can sing that "c'mon ride the train" song by 65 South. I am not sure if taking 10-14 days to walk a Land of Lincoln path is the best or worst idea ever. I know from making the Muy Romantico record that first idea/worst idea=best idea. Usually. PS> Does anyone know those Pilsen kids who just built log rafts and went down the Mississippi?

"A riot situation--yeah."

1. Was Steve, the host of Good Company, always this drunk and I totally missed it? Or is there another reason why his head is lolling about on his neck like that?

2. You forget that Grant Harts shop teacher bangs hide a Rihanna-size forehead.

3. Even though we all probably did at one point, you can't front on Husker's major label years. Warehouse, retrospectively, amazinger than you thought. And you can't say that about All Shook Down. Think about it. Do you know anyone who has All Shook Down on any format other than cassette? A cassette that lives in a shoebox in a storage space or yr 'rents basement, where it's sidled next to a D.R.I. tape you feel romantic about.

UNMAZING

Carla DeSantis hit us with this link to a recent review of Heart that reads like a near-perfect parody of newspaper-crit sexism it's so bad. "Lady Metal"?==the mind boggles.

MEOW MIX

Jane sent me this link.

I am into the cat samples, the rest is dumb-ish, but my real question is why is everyone holding their skateboards.

DOING RAILS

You know what you need to do, but don't know you need to do? Take the train someplace. Unless you are in Europe, esp. Germany (Hi Al!), in which case you are probably riding your no speed bike to a silent, clean, very fast train right now. I took an Amtrack down through the cornbelt (there might be an actual cornbelt, and downstate Ill. may not be it, so recognize, this is just my personal nickname for Chi-Boogie to Springfield) and it was entrancing. Plus, you can buy tea and pretzels, you can watch the landscape and dream about living in a run down farmhouse just like the one you were born in (well, I was) and you can read when that gets boring. Reading beats driving, even if riding the train is sometimes not unlike driving with 50 people in the car.

I saw the butt-end of Carlinville, where my bandmate Josh and best friend JR went to a microsized religious college. The train station in Carlinville had the best worst-ever graffiti of the rail ride: "HITLER LIVES" with a three-armed swastika, kind of low to the ground and written really clearly. Meaning some super dumb 13 year olds live are living around there. Also, there is a little path that runs parallel to the train all 300 miles to St. Louis, meaning, if you just follow the train, you could walk there. Which I would do, if someone reliable comes with me. I would also need a transistor radio and a light weight raincoat. Or if walking to St Louis doesn't sound like fun (IT LOOKED SO FUN AND JUMBLED WITH EXCITING DECREPIT BRIDGES AND DOWNED TELEGRAPH LINES AND CORN GROWTH PS> WHAT IF WE GOT A CANOE? WE COULD BE THERE IN NO TIME!), Joliet, Champaign/Urbana and Springfield are all en route. Maybe we could just ride bikes and then take a tour of the governor's mansion in S-field. Pack six days of PBJ sammies and some pudding cups, and roll up on some Land of Lincoln action.
Just think about it. Long weekend next week, F BBQs and alla that.

Also, if anyone who is reading this lives or has lived recently in St. Louis knows where a good place to eat is, other than the queer vegan buffet, holler!

TITANIUM EXPOSE

Last night weezall went to City North 14 to see a movie. City North is legendarily the best-worst place to see movies--the raucousness of 5 buck tuesdays is unparalleled--kids cutting class making fart and sex noises throughout the movie, people bitching out their five year olds when they don't bring them back the correct treats from the snack bar, dudes having long convos on thier chirp-phones, full volume couple fights. No such luck last night; it was all giggles at Superbad. Also, I learned that Brenmar's given name is "Bill". He just joined that band These Are Powers, and they are pretty good post Brooklyn dust core, see them if they come through, and tell Bill I sent ya. Brenmar is a good punk name, it sounds like a gated community, or at least a place with well trimmed hedgerows.

Then, most of us went to the punk show--and guess who was there playing!?

MIKA MIKO! Knees out, horns up, thats the way they like to punk.

Jenna "Mama Chancla" Thornhill blows mad sax and lurches on stage. Her lurching move is inverse star power awkwardness that is quite intense, you can't take you eyes off her.
Later on, we cornered her by the mens room and made her be our friend. She's got a Crass tattoo and a very powerful smell, thus, she is my new idol. We told her about "Imma text u a baby" and she came up with three remix versions, and she started rapping her ideas back to us, one of which was about finding "a secret ancient Voldemort style word that when you text it , magically impregnates who ever gets the text." Mika Miko were so terrific to watch, they did "Attitude" and it was so good, if Glenn Danzig saw them, he'd go fetal, fully stop living. Just body up right there on the spot. Bonk himself to death with their little red singing phone.

THE BEAT IS A HUNGRY BEAT!

Dudes! It's not ness the sort of news that calls for celebration, per se, but since ol' Urge dot com bit the dust ( and to think my Viacom 401K JUST kicked in last month!), I'm gonna be doing music-bloggin's for my number one favorite place to write for ever in the history of ever n' ever,The Chicago Reader, sharing some space with my dear old pal Miles at ye Crickets. Miles and I have been friends for almost six years, and here is the proof:
--I dunno why we were alone in the bathroom at my old house, but it was during a party; maybe we were doing our hair (Miles rocking "the taco bell", me "virgin schoolteacher"), or perhumps this was part of some great unfinished art project, or a promo photo for a band we forgot to start. Also note: the windchimes.

LASTLY: SEE YOU AT MIKA MIKO AT THE EMPTY BOTTLE TONIGHT!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE PUNK ROCK AND THE GIRLS WHO DO IT!

WEEKEND PLANS

Jeez. Pert near forgot. Queer Fest Midwest is Saturday. Chris Garneau, 8 Inch Betsy, Team Gina and a dozen more. The Pulaski Park Feel-haus is not a bad place to spend the whole day watching bands--they have a pop machine and you can go outside and sit in the park if the din is too much.

LET'S TUP

Man, The Odyssey is really heating up, you know, for an audiobook. I'm up to the part where Odysseus has been on the wine-loaded raft for some epic stretch and is starting to complain about the fate that has befallen him. It's like a weekend at Wisconsin Dells, but set in ancient Greece.

Also, finally finished Blue Highways (actual book with paper pages). It's my favorite book since Play It As It Lays. If you have ever been on tour, longed for the innocence of pre-Reagan America, driven long distances to get to the heart of your problems, you miss traveling, are a buff for true stories of the countries bloody & misbegotten beginnings, been enraptured by John McPhee, etc--you will really love this book, too. Go to it. I learned a lot of new words from it, including "creosote" which appears to describe fences in the south. Just in the final four chapters today, I learned "vituperance" and "tupping", which sound similar but are not. One is verbally abusing someone and the other can mean a vigorous hammering motion or sheep procreating (ewes doin' it). "Tupping" is the new "effing". A twofer--"vitupping", perhaps?!
First person who can work it into print wins some gummi polar bears.

Also, Mika Miko play 4 pm Weds at Reckless in WkrPrk and Nightime Weds at Empty Bottle. I am thinking of bringing them some of my GIANT bucket of gummi candy Knut Das Eisbar Baby ("Knuddel Knut") as an offering. My german pen pal Seppo sent it and since it arrived I have been eating candy polar bears in lieu of meals, so I think I just gotta get em out of here. I hope those Mika girls are into Knuddel Knut Das Eisbar the Candy Baby Bear, edible star attraction of the Berlin zoo.

PREMINDER

Learning to love you more book is comin' out. I pre-ordered it. It will arrive just in time for Grandma Hopper's 90th birthday, but I am not giving it to her. I am not positive it's in there, but I signed something and faxed saying "it's cool" but a banner I made for JR / did as an assingment for LLTLYM is maybe in this book. S'true!

DOING WITH TENDERNESS

A list, cuz:

1. Other than listening to the Fiest record twice last Sunday, and the party mix at the party, the only thing I have listened to all week is side one of Deep Voices--The Second Whale Record. Humpbacks, not Whale of "Hobo Humpin Slobo Babe" fame, which by the way, if you have doubles of that, please share. Deep Voices stands up against any spacejunk-noisewarp-nudrone album of the last two years. It's a romantic drang, a mega-mooing, basso-profundo without all the violence. Side two is sounds that when recorded were at a frequency humans couldn't hear, so they sped it up until you could: chipmunk whales.

2. Way more ruling than you would expect: The unabridged audiobook version of The Odyssey. It's 11 CDs, 12.5 hours, the Palmer translation, read by Norman Dietz. HIGH DRAMA. I'm only three-some hours in, in the Telemachy, and it's killing me with suspense--I've never read the book. My favorite part so far is when Telemachus goes to to tell off all the crass dudes in his town to leave him and his mom alone, and the men are incredulous and treat Telemachus like a punk, and then Zeus' eagles fly above him and rip each others flesh and give the whole town the death eye to punctuate Telemachus' point. BAD OMEN, guys, pay attention, he's got the gods on his side and Athena can turn into an osprey any old time she likes! Is the shit really going to hit the fan when Odysseus gets home in nine years? Also, when everyone's complimenting Menelaus' fancy house, and he's all "Some good it does me, my whole family is dead."-- that's some heavy shit to lay on just-arrived dinner guests. No wonder they wanna go sleep on their boat instead.

WEST SIDE INVITATIONAL

I know Joan thinks of Houston as her ancestral home, but home is where the heart is and all of Chicago misses Joan.

Derek Erdman, the spiritual father of McGintyism and also just a regular guy who likes to paint cats and hamburgers, according to one local zine.

Xavier, Monika's French exchange student, and his lion tail necklace. "I prefer to speak in English!" he says. So, if you see him, leave it at "Bonjour!"

Noah had his pocket saw with him, but we didn't end up needing it. We broke the sticks for the fire with our hands and feet and then wrapped them in Menards circulars. Making the fire was perhaps my favorite part of the party.

My second favorite was Nora's next door neighbor starting a building project and running a table saw for an hour at 10 pm. Respect is due to Pilsen, where people let you do your thing. Night time construction, parties with bonfires--

spontaneous air guitar competitions to "Hotel California" at 1:30 a.m.

It was a tight race. Miles actually plays guitar and gets points for using a jam jar of red wine as the neck. Kate's technique was enthusiastic, but her hands were up by her head. She credits "Janine" with this. Janine, who gave her guitar lessons when she was eight. JR won though, by virtue of doing "John Mayer face" and licking his fingers and putting them in the air.

Nora will tell you, Best Of The Eagles Vol. II is a divisive album. She doesn't even like "Life in the Fast Lane".

It'll clear out cool kids from your party and get the pre-eighties babies and all night party warriors super pumped. New club idea: True Punx 4 Henley.

You can check out anytime you like--but you can never leave.

WAYW

My mini-interview with the Chi-Boogie's creative showpeice Brilliant Pebble, Monika Bukowska for What Are You Wearing. She's moving to LA for a month or two starting Labor Day. Watch out, or friend her on myspace or something. She is the spirit animal of Chicago's inspired future. We haven't caught up with her yet.

ISN"T THE OLD SCHOOL STAGE THE ONE BEFORE "TERMINAL"

Kiki and I debated, mid-edit, earlier this summer about who was the longer-running never broken up punk band--Sonic Youth or The Dickies. SY won out. Meanwhile, what The Dickies are up to, according to this mornings batch of press releases:

As a special end to a very successful "Lucky 13” VANS WARPED TOUR®, producer and founder Kevin Lyman has added an extra stage to this summer’s final show on August 25 a the Home Depot Center in Los Angeles. As a tribute to the roots of the tour and to the bands, those who attend the final WARPED show will have the privilege of rocking out to classic punk rock bands at “The Old School Stage.” This stage will feature performances from The Dickies, Circle Jerks, Manic Hispanic, Fear, The Adolescents, Agent Orange, Duane Peters Gunfight and a special rendition of Punk Rock Karaoke featuring various 2007 VANS WARPED TOUR bands. Tickets for this special end-of-tour show may sell out, so be sure to purchase in advance to experience punk rock history in the making.

(emphasis mine).
PS> Why isn't this show at a casino?

YEZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TACOCAT are my new favorite band. As of 4 minutes ago. The song about Peeps kills me--TOPS! The one making fun of bike people, also great. The one about the pap smear, a touch scary.

HOLY FUDDLE!

Gosh! What a crazy few days! I think it was some sort of astrological k-hole, and I fell right into it! I had terrible food poisoning and barfed my gutz out! NINE TIMES IN A SINGLE DAY! Remember to wash your tomatoes throughly before eating because harmful animal feces might be on them! My gutz got contaminated and I could hardly stand! I passed out at Jane's friends house after I drove her home there and I kept puking and all there was to drink was Diet Coke! I had to drink them to regain my strength! It was brutal! I crawled home (in the car, natch) and in between passing out, I watched Carl Sagan's Cosmos special and when I slept I dreamt of Kathy McGinty (audio is NSFW, unless yr job is manning a gloryhole). I almost went to the hospital, but, because I have air conditioning now, I lived.

(thanks to Noah and Chris; for I was 'fraid to put it in myself for fear of dropping it on a passing chiuaua). Then the internet broke completely except for for 20 minutes yesterday, when the mystery signal came and went. And then, when I needed it the most, PBS was having a pledge drive and hyperbolically hocking a dvd of a casino band playing along to an Elvis comeback special and all I needed was a little TV so I could bedrest properly to that which wasn't Carl Sagan's brush cut flooming in the Egyptian breeze. I can only take so much red dwarf talk in that rich Saganese. Finally, at night time, The Nightly Business Report came on and I have never been so happy to hear Paul Kangas

update on the S&P 500.

Now I am staying alive and not barfing. The internet repair man has come and gone, and for good measure and appropros of NOTHIN', assuming I a. didn;t already know (thanks, patriarchy!) and b. actually cared, decided to explain to me how a DSL modem and internet works, in a loud voice, like English is not my first language or like I am at doggie daycare getting trained, with showing me graphs of information on his computer from the foot of my bed , and then SUDDENLY, every time one of the military aircrafts would cruise thunderously overhead (the partment is in the direct flight path for the air and water show), he would HOP upon my bed and crane his face to the window. My sickbed is not a moonbounce, it's a place for me and Carl Sagan's PBS-built intergalatic space craft and my sleeping cats avail ONLY, not for the wholly unwelcome hoppings about of a strange repairman who are shuffling sock-footed around my house. But, for everyone's safety, instead of yelling "PLEASE PUT ON YOUR NEW BALANCES, QUIT TOUCHING MY BED AND GO!" I just said "yes" in my best imitation Kathy McGinty voice until he got the point.
And now peace reigns in the valley.

ANNNNNNNND!

Lastly! But Bestly! And mostly enthusiastically! Happy Birthday to Matt! Totally Missed! All the way in St. Louis and law schooling! 32 with a vengeance and great with dogs! Much love, old birthday face.

!!!!!!!!!!

DU BIST SCHON UND KLUG

Listen, me and Nora are hosting a party at her house in Pilsen this Friday. A serious mingler. Outdoors. In the yard. Music, snacks, animals, people, girls, dudes, stinky people, clean kids, bougie acendancy, gutter lovuhs, party feelings, multi-hour continuous mix, BYOB--you'll love it. If you wanna come, email me or myspace note for directions and such. All other plans you have are straight racking a shingle. Business starts at 9:30. SEE YA!

WANNA SEE SOME MEATY-A-ROIDS?!

The brightest meteor shower in our lifetimes brought us up past Wilmette, to a park in Glencoe, the darkest place I could remember being. We strained and scanned the sky and laid on a picnic table and cursed the blocking trees and headed down to the beach. There was a 100,000 candle watt light shining on the catamaraner's boat slips that was light polluting our good time, but we waded through the surf to a dark spot behind the parks building, just up the sand a bit. We were not the only ones with this good idea we soon found; the spirit animals of all suburban youth--a trio of teenage boys with a pocket bong were also claiming this spot.

They could not see we were women double their age.

So, do you guys go to school or you work?"
Actually, we're grown ups.
Well, I live like a grown up... I'm a gemologist. A graduated gemologist. You know much about diamonds?

He may have said more, but we were seizing with laughter. They were not phased; they also bragged to us about the impressive size and girth of their at-home bongs. TEENAGE BOYS ARE THE MINDBLOWER!

We laid there until very very late, and could only see maybe 15 of the asteroids dissolving in the atmosphere, not up to 12 a minute like the internet set. That lying planetarium! It was worth it, so very worth it.

HEAVY SNACKING

Did you get to see Screaming Females in the last eight weeks? Joe did. They still got about three more weeks left of their tour, here's yr chance.

IN YOUR NICE NEW OUTFIT

Today, eight ladies came over and we traded clothes.

Everything you ever assumed happens when a cabal of lively young women get together did. Lotsa snacks, a couple bra hats, Rumours and Dolly and Dusty on repeat; Kate made me read a page out of Gloria Steinem's Revolution from Within. Feminism on blast, y'all.

Kiki and new friend Kelly came. Kiki brought a near-stranger off the street and some flowers and these beautiful white pants that are now Morgan's.

I think Morgan won with this look, "The Jackson Browne." I got a shirt from Morgan that says "Morgan"--I didn't know about it for sure and Kiki said "well, it's like a band t-shirt, but it's for your friend." Which makes me want to stencil all my friends names on all my shirts. Or maybe just one shirt with 22 names on it written in sharpie. Human myspace top 8, but from the heart and well, real life. It could be like Tracey Emin's tent in reverse--the names of all my girl friends, who are my idols and bi-ped spirit animals. So so so much love. I could cry just thinking about how incubated I am with girl love right now.

My favorite part was due to the fact that there is only one tiny mirror and it's in the bathroom, you either have to balance precariously on the tub and lean out, or rely on the group consensus. Mirrors are bad--it's just you and insecurities makin' the call on your look; having a room full of women telling you that you look perfect is really the better way to go.

THE BAROQUE RHETORIC OF THE OLDER GENERATIONS

This week in baby burritos: Max knows how to smile. He looks at Robin and smiles. You go "thppffft" and he smiles. He went to New York for the first time and he came back and all the sudden he's got a neck. Protect and develop your neck, son. It'll help you look around.

Bexxy. Face paint on sunburn cowering from people the the corner of the party going "I'm freakin' out, dude."

And with good reason: The dude who played before The Carnys and Bird Names was readying himself as we walked in. He was in the living room and everyone had bypassed him and went straight for the lush fauna of the backyard of conversation pit. Rather than play to four people who were standing around waiting to see him, he came and stood on the outdoor couch and started singing really loud and strumming reckless and hard, overtaking everyone's convos and hang outs. Fucking vigilante troubadours.

He had songs about how existence is meaningless, the personal is political, corporations are evil, self regard is also evil, having children is stupid and selfish, Bush is tard (hear hear), etc. I cursed Jeff Ott's name. Plus, if he really beleived if existence is meaningless and self regard is stupid, why didn't he play in the living room to four people? Hippie, please don't come at us with the info that Walmart is destroying the planet., this is a party, not Al Gore's slide show. Hollerin' about the evil empire to a bunch of convert kids w/o shoes on who smell like they live in a garbage tent is best left to Against Me, as far as I'm concerned. (((SECONDLY: The only song I wanna hear anyway is "Imma Skype U A Baby" the explicit answer back of "Imma Text U A Baby" but neither of them have been written. When Ben texted a bunch of people "imma text u a baby" the other night, he got two responses back, both of which are also going to become their own songs ( if "Trapped In The Closet" can have 21 versions, we're doing at least 26): "Imma text u a baby grandma" and "'bout time, papi". BOUT TIME, PAPI will be the wedding reception first dance anthem for 2008-09, I'm positive on this.)))

I thought Kate was gonna sock him. Kate, Kate--heels in the pit, y'all.

Nora is a real punk rock dream come true. A natural behind the kit. Inspiration on the four count.

Dirt floor basement show with salvaged walls, respect is due.

We made Morgo's friend Mike skip Waterbabies and come with us to Chinatown for adventure tastings at the tea place. Mike and Bruce from Yakuza are the only two dudes in town who own beard trimmers I think. Every time I see Mike I think "With that stash, he should really be wearing a Tyrolean hat, standing in a field with a staff, overlooking a verdant glen" Here's my pitch for the hat at least.

RIGHT DOWN THE LINE

Exciting weekend event horizon here at Kittenplatz.

1. Meteor shower Sunday night/early Monday. Everyone, lets go Indiana and look at it.

2. Bird Names is tonight at Plaines Project (it's on myspace). Should be a primo Pilsen stink fest with dancing. SEE YOU IN THE PIT.

NOT A PICTURE OF MY FRIENDS

"Blood is Clean" by Valet is the captivator of the summer. It's the jam of, as Joan Didion wrote in "The White Album", "uneasy symbiosis". Honey Owens singing deathknell harmonies with a train whistle is same as J.D.'s "I remember a babysitter telling me she saw death in my aura. I remember chatting with her about reasons why this might be so, paying her, opening all the French Windows and going to sleep in the living room." Honey sighs Squeaky Fromme's best pick up lines over scorched blooze: "My blood is clean / but the devils in me". Real/creepy.

THIS YRS CROP

Momus on hating Helmut Newton and the male gaze, link courtesy of Anaheed.

LADIES NITE

I chaperoned a Ladies Night out at the noise show. Kate's back in town, so the good times are here. Officially.

No-no's coworker told us a wonderful story about going to Debonair on Sunday night and hitting the dance floor only to spy one R. Kelly with a towel on his head, dancing with three other dudes, lip-synching to a "Imma Flirt" remix. "I'd totally do R. Kelly" she said. No-no also thinks he's hot. I almost puked in my mouth. One woman's sex object is another woman's Marmaduke-faced molester. I told them about my new song that Ben and I are working on "Imma text U a baby". Everyone could agree on it's surefire hit potential. "Imma text U a baby" is totally buying me my first quonset hut.

After Rotten Milk's round robin band with Anya from Coughs played (not fun: fake Bloodyminded shiz, Rotten Milk stomping around in a pair of flowered capris straight out the Newport News catalog, flexing and heaving.), this 11 person band played. I am not sure what they were called, but thats Eleanor from Bird Names in the cooling gel mask playing the xylophone with her hands. The dude in the white frock coat played the antlers. Not pictured: The girl in the hammer pants who pretended to have sex with her microphone when not playing the whistle, the second drummer with the Hitler stash, the other four people in wigs and the keyboardists underwears. It was only their second show, but if they stick around, by xmas they'll be a fantasy and a half.

We closed out Bacci's after last call, Kate, judiciously, peed on a copy of Seabiscuit in the BK parking lot across the street and we called it a night.

I WAS A LOVER BEFORE THIS WAR

I didn't mention the final highlight (sic) of Lollapalooza! It was a doozey. Four songs into Pearl Jam's set, there was a drum solo. The drum solo intersected with the fireworks from the Bears game at Soldier Fld. We were like a mile away from that action, watching it all go down, sated and sweaty from TV On The Radio (miracle cure, Tunde's wiley hand wildly wiping the air, "I meant every / word"--amen, baby.) and everyone turned and looked at each other like "Is this really happening?!" It may not sound like a big deal, but it was like being face fucked with Old Glory: Tens of thousands braying along to "Jeremy", fireworks, sunburnt ppl barfing 9 hours worth of Miller Light onto the side of a muddy port-o-let.

I biked home alone, slow, up Fulton.
Fulton, my heart is there.

Fulton market is what remains of Carl Sandburg's Chicago, in my mind, at least.

Ruddy brick bldgs, streets dead at 6, stinking hard of meat and heavy industry in the August heat.

The city still, ever, the "tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities."

I KEEP THE BEAT LIKE A CONCUBINE

First phone call of this morning, from a good friend: "And so last night I was on this rich man's yacht, totally stoned on his weed, and this satellite radio station was playing smooth jazz, and I thought "I don't want this smooth jazz to ever end." It was a real Donald Fagen moment for me." The watershed moments of a true punk.

Mike, fellow survivor of the good old bad ol' emo days boom n' bust.

Perhaps you thought I was embellishing yesterday when I told you I went to the gala-benefit and everyone was sitting on white leather couches, talking through Spoon's set. Not pictured: Trish and not Trish.

Wisdom of no exit.

And after the party, theres the birthday party.

Joe and Craig. Probably trading insider information about the Egg Hunt 7".

And here's exactly what me and Morgo did all day.

Laid on the hill and took pictures of our friends as they walked by. Then we sat up and watched Yeah Yeah Yeahs from SO VERY FAR AWAY, like, downtown BFE adjacent far, but fuck they were good. I don't like to get religious about the possibilities of mainstream pop bands because it's just a really rock critic-y thing to do, but I was a about a half mile back squinting at them on a Jumbotron screen obscured by scaffolding and I got the shivers.

Joe got choked up during Hold Steady's set closer, but I missed it, I was focused too intently on the stuffed chicken in the front row that someone was holding aloft and making dance through the entire set. Fandom is so intense and beautiful and complicated.

Craig went on Kent Hrbek's fishing show. He did not get his homer hanky autographed though.

And then night fell, and we watched Spoon in the rain and it was the best show I'd seen them play, there was a quiet violence to them. Something shunted forcing it's way out. Terse and kicking. Pop! and then we rode home under the L tracks in the rain.

Cool kids in love.

OH YES IT IS!

Stevie doing Superstition on Sesame Street, via Chad. :38 and 4:40 are just... amen, baby.

HONEY BUNNY

File it under "stuff you told me about already, like, 150 times, ok?" but my lil' bit on & pics of Abe Vigoda, Screaming Females and Rollin Hunt in this weeks Reader. "Not Lollapalooza" is one of my fave headlines of late. Secondly, throngs= 180,000 ppl that paid $130 each. I went to this Lollapalooza fundraiser for the Chicago Parks where 200-odd people paid between $350-$15,000 to be able to sit on white leather couches in front of Petrillo bandshell and talk through Spoon's set while administering bottle service. Perry Farrell introduced them and big upped the community and good vibes of Lolla, and the spirit of the fundraiser, which if I am not mistaken, pays for new bushes for city. Thanks, P-Dog, shrubs for life! Some society matrons straight out of the pages of Sheridan Road attempted to befriend me. Trish and Trish's friend and Mimi. Well, Mimi wasn;t a matron, she was just a spunky young party gal who said she had to talk to me because she hadn't actually seen someone eating an apple "off the core" since "third grade". She was really inquisitive "Why not bananas?" she asked. Bananas don't hold up well in the purse. "Do you have celiac disease? Is that why you are eating it?" No. Apples are in season and I like them. I think it was a real mindblower for her, me and my apple. She also told me that she considered it a real tragedy that I don't drink. Trish was not baffled by my apple. She walked up to me, appropros of nothing and said "Oh, you're here alone, too" and handed me a cigarette without me asking. Trish just wanted to hang out because watching the band would keep her from drinking and thus keep her from getting in trouble. Her and her friends just wanted to dress up, rock out, get loose and take a night off from their kids. She poked me in the tit , in the Sonic Youth of my shirt and said "I used to love Sonic Youth." She also liked the first three Spoon songs, but not the fourth, and wondered why Britt was singing with a British accent if he's not from England. She likes Spoon cos they remind her of Oasis. She kept begging me to dance with her, but her version of dancing is actually just twirling and seeing as I had just eaten, I passed. Spoon were good, but Trish and not Trish were really the highlight of the show for me.

WEEKEND WOW

I'd like to recommend you pick up Black Chiney Presents Drumline Riddim. The Assassin, Mr. Vegas and Elephant Man tracks are worth the price alone. Seriously, it'll make you wanna do The Pony on yr own face.

BONUS DISC

Caught the last half of the Joan as Policewoman show. Last time I saw Joan Wasser play a show, it was in the Dambuilders c. 1994 and she was whipping her dreads around the basement at Speedboat Gallery. She's a lot more refined now. She was wearing formal knickers and a gold lame shirt and her hair was mega blown out, like she'd been driving in a convertible all day. She was playing without a band, and there were lots of twirly details and classical references and sultry, breathy indie soul. Like Feist doing Jethro Tull songs. She's a real enchanteuse.

Her manner behind that Wurlitzer was real performy. She does dramatic head movements and agony faces while she holds those long notes, which was sometimes hard to watch. Like she's gobbling for air or smelling something terrible. It's funny that both her and Nathan Larson were in a band together (Mind Science of The Mind, y'all!)--he had the most dramatic stage moves ever. It must have been like dueling banjos. A D.C. friend used to have a joke about making special glasses with one eye blacked out so you could watch Shudder to Think without being distracted and annoyed by his action moves. I'm a midwesterner, I prefer bands to be sweaty, scary, forceful and earnest, not purposefully entertaining. It weirds me out.

Newly blonde Nora bobbing in a high fashion swimsuit she lifted in high school.