October 31, 2007


The best Missed Connection ever placed.

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October 30, 2007


It turns fall and I can hardly do but sleep; I wake up every morning thinking of Neil singing "It's better to burn out / than it is to rust". Pre-hiemal rusting, writing rusting, rocking rusting; r n' r never dies but everything else will. Everything I ever needed to know about getting older I've learned from Rust Never Sleeps, "Welfare Mothers" and "Sail Away" are the only two songs that aren't predom. set in the past tense. N. Young pressing on down memory lane, thigh deep in Pancho's gtr scruzz, all "I wish" "I remember" "I wanna" I'm gonna" and "I was"--almost no now, everything at a distance--inextricable, unwindable behind-you or some runaway, gotta get over that lies just beyond the horizon. Woeful and unmoored in the present --all he knows for sure is who he was then, which is hardly a comfort to begin with. Pocahantas as his fantasy girl--longing for something pure that was dead before he was born, to keep his heart young. With this new knowledge born of age, he knows he can only ride through the old neighborhood--there's no going back now, even on that llama. "Powderfinger", as ever, still up for some debate--hee-hawist sympathies? Post-colonialist comment? Vietnam hangover? Good old bad America, ancient blood and sanguinary motives in it's mouth? It's the bulb of un/certain age, exploding--a gun shot spray of WAS; '77 was his Jesus year.

In my dream last night, I saw Keith Morris on La Cienega. He was bruised round his eyes and edges; he'd just had a face lift and he knew my name.

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October 29, 2007


You don't have any costume ideas? Your roommate going as Amy Winehouse too? The "Dick in a Box" costume too risque for the office? Let me solve your problem with some easy costume suggestions.

Adult Fetus.Wrap yourself in saran wrap, thickly. Wear normal clothes underneath. Make umbilical cord from some red string and more saran wrap and safety pin it to your middle.

A ladder. Cut out a ladder from a long pc of cardboard, affix to your neck with string.

Moses. All you need is 2 bathrobes, baby powder in your hair, cheap beard if you can get one, cardboard tablets w/ the commandments on them.

Cuckoo clock. Find a cardboard box that fits over your head, draw it into being a cuckoo clock. Make a space in the middle for your face. Get or make a small fake bird, glue it to a popsicle stick, put popsicle stick in mouth.

Steakback Out House. Your front is a cardboard outhouse door, your back is affixed with steaks or cardboard/felt steaks. Matt's idea, not mine.

the Neil Young song "Pocahantas". This is a costume for three people going together. One is Rust Never Sleeps era Neil.
White T, white pants, white shoes, blk suspenders--harmonica and look of disgust optional. Second person is Pocahantas. Third is Marlon Brando, any era/chrchtr--it doesn't specify--put on some fatigues and cover yourself in vaseline and ouila--you have a Capt. Kurtz outfit.

Suri Cruise. This was Kelly's costume from last year and it's kind of the best idea ever I think. All you need is a witch wig cut short, a jumper dress or onesie and a copy of Dianetics.

Sufjan circa 2005
All you need is a cardboard banjo, a stripey shirt, a runned-over hat and a map of Illinois.

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October 27, 2007


I ALMOST FORGOT Nedelle's new band is coming yr way probably, maybe this week, maybe next or after! & it's her and Chris the grtist from Deerhoof and someguy who does instructional cowbell videos! They are playing in Chicago at the Bottle on Thursday 11/1. Also, the band is called Crypticize. FYI.

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October 26, 2007


Jonah was in town and hit the couch for a night; after the Spoon show he quizzed Kells about lesbian insemination methods and blended gay families.

Ian's home-made Margaret Mead stencil. The shirt says "Culture Is Complicated"--no kidding, eh?

DS came to town with Go Team. I am glad I went to go see them-- party rap cheerleading, first Huggybear 7" gone career funk. The audience: MOSHING AND SCREAMING. Like football hooligans in Lincoln Park car coats, deep in their cups, llllloving it.

Ninja makes everything else around her disappear. Zijillion watts and highkicking in her aerobic socks, she is all you care about.

That storm came and gone!

It was a real show.

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October 25, 2007


Mary's back. Rich Juzwiak wrote something about this song feeling Womack & Womack, but I actually think Mary has become Henry Rollins. Rollins, like Mary, represents a survivor lifestyle, his cache and livelihood is a diaristic gutting. Mary's K-Ci/drugs/self-loathing years are her living-in-Greg-Ginn's-mom's-garage equivalent, the pain from which all of her work orients. Their brands are based exclusively on sharing how they feel--ROLLINS/BLIGE=TWINS.

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The dude with the septpocketed workmans belt came nice and early this morning and now the household is back to conjugally knowing the rest of the world with internet. A week off this thing, and Good Riddance was my main thought. I busied myself listening to Frankie Lyman & the Teenagers while washing the floor by hand for a few hours, reading and trying to decipher death-of-the-fifties-man motives of Blume in Love. It was progress and motion I could track--real, even.

The internet is not as good as it used to be, as a friend said yesterday--I'm ambivalent about it's new high speedy return to the living room. I'd got back into using the actual dictionary, as opposed the dot com one, and it made me feel legit and writerly. Feeling writerly is half the pleasure of being a writer.

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October 23, 2007


New York friends and fellows, i'mma comin--and I'm reading a record review of Mecca Normal's last album. I know from last reading tour that reviews don't work aloud unless they are funny, but hey, here's to hoping. But the real reez you should stop by is Chris Ryan reading his blog darts. For fucks alive, man. Into the wild, he is.

Best Music Writing 2007 Reading featuring:

Robert Christgau
Daphne Brooks
Chris Ryan
Elizabeth Vincentelli
Jessica Hopper
David Kastin
Nitsuh Abebe
Arye Dworkin
Will Hermes
Rob Harvilla

Monday November 12, 7pm
Housing works
126 Crosby Street, NYC 10012

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October 22, 2007


Lance Hahn, R.I.P..

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October 21, 2007


TLG-reader Mike Arria writes:

My take on the Wes Anderson-thing that is evolving on your blog: the new movie reminds me of "Lost in Translation"; a film that attracted hype and praise that I could not even being to understand. Coppola started out with a prolonged ass-shot and proceeded to tell a xenophobic tale about a financially well-off, distressed woman stuck in a strange land, surrounded by Asians. Eventually, she found a way to battle her insomnia and inability to apply her Philosophy degree anywhere: she discovered a sad, rugged older-man; also rich. Many reviews, and many of my friends, prattled on about how the movie highlighted an "intellectual affair" but I don't recall Johansson or Murray saying anything even slightly interesting to one another. In short, I hated the movie.
I don't hate the new WA movie as much as LIT. In fact, I consider myself something of a WA fan-I think the commentary on desire within "Rushmore" and "The Royal Tennenbaums" is much more intriguing than anything Hollywood typically churns out and if I was writing an essay on all this, I would probably use the next few lines to quote some Paglia on the history of taboo variations of love and/or bring up Christopher Hitchens' line about "Lolita" being the only believable love story.
But I digress: "The Darjeeling Limited" is at best offensive and at worst racist. It's tremendously depressing that someone like Wes Anderson, beloved by emo-kids, scenesters, and "countercultural types"-the majority of which presumably hold political and social beliefs which could be defined as "liberal" or "left-wing", are willing to overlook the problematic nature of his new film based on the fact he pays close attention to detail and can construct a hip soundtrack.
There's this perplexing distinction between "high-brow" and "low-brow" art in American society. Suggest something ridiculous like JD Salinger is responsible for the death of John Lennon or "The White Album" should be blamed for the Manson murders and be, justifiably, laughed out of the room. Bring up the equally farcical point that gangsta-rap, not domestic policy, is crippling the black community or point out that Marilyn Manson is the culprit behind suburban school-shootings and be invited to some sort of governmental panel to break down your ideas.
"Alternative" plays by the same rules as the "Mainstream" in this regard; more people should be up in arms about the racism in the new WA film but I haven't even read much in this vein-beyond your stuff and the Salon piece. On the flipside, a pop-artist like Britney Spears shaves her head and gives a drugged-out performance and the same people are exchanging myspace posts about how retarded she is. Please.
Maybe I'm digging too far into this but hear me out: last winter, "The New Yorker" ran a short bit about President Bush's reading list. Apparently, one of the books he consumed was "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. Now, there are a lot of inexpensive jokes of the Michael Moore-variety that one could make at this juncture about pop-up books or young-adult novels but this is true: the President really read Camus and, evidently, had some discussions with his minions about existentialism
I wish Bush would have also read the (late, great) Edward Said's commentary on the novel, where he discusses the fact that Camus wasn't very sympathetic when it came to the issue of Algerian independence. The Arab that the main character, Meursault, kills at the beginning of the novel is nameless; merely a plot-device to get to more pressing issues, mainly, the personal philosophy of the Western protagonist. Said concludes: "It is accurate to say, therefore, that Camus's narratives lay severe and ontologically prior claims to Algeria 's geography."
Certainly there's something ironic about Bush, a leader who had the difference between a Shitte and Sunni being explained to him weeks after the American invasion of Iraq, reading the aforementioned text without the proper context.
The "prior Western claims" that Said refers to certainly can lead to some ambitious actions, as evidenced by the invasion of Iraq . What would be the least ambitious ideas that one could use such claims as a vehicle for? I think Anderson wins the prize for aiming the lowest: this time around they're being used as a device to determine where Jason Schwartzman will or will not stick his dick. Two thumbs down.
Back to Said-from the introduction to "Culture and Imperialism": "Yet all these works, which are so indebted to Conrad's anti-imperialist irony in "Nostromo", argue that the source of the world's significant action and life is in the West, whose representatives seem at liberty to visit their fantasies and philanthropies upon a mind-deadened Third-World. In this view, the outlying regions of the world have no life, history, or culture to speak of, no independence or integrity worth representing without the West..." and Anderson's faults are, therefore, all the more aggravating because "contemporary novelists and filmmakers" have done their work "after decolonization, after the massive intellectual, moral, and imaginative overhaul and deconstruction of Western representation of the non-Western world."
That's my two cents.

Posted by Jessica at 02:53 PM | TrackBack


That darn windstorm durn wrecked something. The dude at the help line said "that light on your modem shouldn't even be on! If it thinks it's synching, that's a real problem!" He said it in incredulous tones, like as if I had called him to tell him I walked in on Wyatt reading Monkee The Kite Runner from atop their litterbox. Alas, the house is gloriously internet-free, in case you are wondering why I didn't write you back.

I went to a soccer game in the suburbs--it was actually a tournament, I think. I had never been to that kind of a thing and it made me think of what activities turn little boys into who they are later on. Into dudes. Sports dudes. Team players. Femmes. What makes you a normal kid and what doesn't and is it your duty, as a parent, to put yr kid on teams and socialize them that way? I was deep in my brain on it--sports and teams are the locus of many a childhood trauma; gym class and a summer sports day camp stint c. 85 might be the entire reason I grew into being a punk. After the game, all the boys got medals and prizes for the season, everyone got to be recognized and special and I kept thinking about the poem in the new poetry mini-book of Jordan Davis, the one about his name and his sons name, and another poem that had a idea about becoming, or sonning-- or rather, being a son, I guess. Around all those kicking kids swimming in their polyester team shirts, I drifted in an Updike-ian hangover--or that same certain familial fatalism; wondering which families will explode, sensing that they all will, inevitably.

Posted by Jessica at 02:41 PM | TrackBack

October 18, 2007


I didn't know that the feminist stereotype was specifically "ugly lesbians". But according, to this research, feminists are actually (sometimes!) attractive straight women having satisfying sexual relationships with men. HUZZAH! OUR REVOLUTION IS NOW BACKED BY SCIENCE! LIBBERS REJOICE--WE HAVE THE PROOF!

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October 16, 2007


Dudettes and Duders, tiny remindo: Rutu Modan, whose work you may know from the Israeli daily papers you subscribe to, or from her work in the NY Times and for Drawn and Quarterly, is the guest of our lil' city tonight, down at Women and Children First . I will be asking her the questions, and such and so on and so forth. Please come if you can. At 7 pm. Also, of you check the events page, it's a pretty fantastic week coming up at WCF--Naomi Wolf, a woman who was a member of the Weather Underground as well as the the author of the guidebook for girls, bOObs, which is the book I'm giving everyone on my xmas list.

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October 15, 2007


To qualify, I was referring to my friends who have said they have big issues with Wes Anderson movies, but are still giving him a pass because say, they like how the movie looks*. And I'm not trying to equate that with like, someone being into Screwdriver for how they sound, despite hating their Nazi message. I think everyone should see Darjeeling and then we can all have informed arguments about it. I love you friend/stranger, no matter what movies you like--even if your favorite movies are all the ones where Eddie Murphy stars in a fat suit. I want us all to unpack this, but somehow wanna save everyone from shilling out $22.50 plus parking for Jason Schwartzman's 90 min. mustache ride.

Also, Cindy writes and poses a good question re: bringing twee ideals to the big screen--what differentiates Wes Anderson and the work Miranda July then? Lets discuss. Message me your idea.

(*thats what I like best.)

Posted by Jessica at 11:39 AM | TrackBack


To qualify, I was referring to my friends who have said they have big issues with Wes Anderson movies, but are still giving him a pass because say, they like how the movie looks*. And I'm not trying to equate that with like, someone being into Screwdriver for how they sound, despite hating their Nazi message. I think everyone should see Darjeeling and then we can all have informed arguments about it. I love you friend/stranger, no matter what movies you like--even if your favorite movies are all the ones where Eddie Murphy stars in a fat suit. I want us all to unpack this, but somehow wanna save everyone from shilling out $22.50 plus parking for Jason Schwartzman's 90 min. mustache ride.

Also, Cindy writes and poses a good question re: bringing twee ideals to the big screen--what differentiates Wes Anderson and the work Miranda July then? Lets discuss. Message me your idea.

(*thats what I like best.)

Posted by Jessica at 11:37 AM | TrackBack

October 14, 2007


People, friends technically, keep saying "But I have to see Darjeeling Ltd.", as if there is a social contract with Wes Anderson because he's brought twee values to the big screen. Would, with anyone else, we turn a blind eye so willfully to such regular appearance/deploy of Ethnic Stereotype as "the help" (see also: Jonah's Slate pc). And it's not like he's doing as an biting, artful commentary-- dude is not Kara Walker. So why the have to?

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October 12, 2007


Actually, the part I keep thinking about from last nights panel was when Amy said (this quote is approximate, not exact) "It's depressing--I know no band will ever mean as much as Hole did to me in 1994." I think Amy was the only one of us being honest with the kids about the how writing professionally tampers with your fandom. Perhaps it's the raw affliction of teenagerdom--your mind is not yet crammed with the lame particulars of adulthood; your heart is not yet wise to the wide world outside of grunge fascination.

Posted by Jessica at 01:42 PM | TrackBack

October 11, 2007



I was complaining in internet emails with Senor Philip about the heavy embrace of disco francais stateside. I think this Boys Noize record is what people are pretending Justice is: terminal godhead--the throb of pure pleasure disco, with a tasteful refinement and sense of punishment that is exclusively German. Justice, my friends, has one and a half good songs. I never got it up for italo disco and I could die a peaceful death with out ever having to hear Uffie "rap". Not to be all freedom fries about it, but the only French person who knows what the fuck he's doing is Feadz. Check the first 12" on B-Pitch from like, 4 summers ago, and you will realize, you are buying a bridge from those other greazy funnabe Daft Punk wonderkindzzzzz.

Also from the maillady's mail bag: The Miranda July presents Learning to Love You More the actual book. Strangely, I like it better as a book than a website, it has a different energy; the book is less buzzy Portlandia feelgoodmystery-nothing and more regular people art. Not as precious. The banners that me and JR did not make it in there but we got a free copy as a consolation prize. I dunno the kind of people you give gifts to, but it screams "gift me." I now have two copies, so watch out, maybe one is about to be yours!

Also, Nikki Sixx cancelled my phoner two days in a row. Email me if you have a question for him. One day, I will ask him.

Fourthly, riding bikes to the bar doesn't count as "a bike ride", guys.

And not to be forgotten: Jim DeRogatis, Bob Gendron and Amy Phillips and I were on a panel at the university tonight. The advance reading homework for the students was K. Sanneh's article from the NY Times about rockism, where he uses DeRo as prime example. I was hoping to witness some freshman vs. crit establishment throwdown, but mostly they just wanted to know why no rock critics like Pearl Jam.

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October 10, 2007


Here's what I feel I have to tell you, to suggest: Ignore this Wes Anderson movie that just came out. It's murder on the Orientalism express. This ain't no spoiler, but just a straight alert: Jason Schwartzman, per usual, stars as a sucking wound, and (and!) has convienently written his character into a zipless fuck scenario with the help. She's so exotic, yet they have so much in common--she too is a smoker who wants off the train! After some mild fingerbanging in the bathroom, he reneges on the NSA end of the contract of encounter--he wants some emotional intimacy, the kind he never knew from his mother; and hey, while she's up, another helping of those nuts she is serving. And so closes the first act.

It's a sad thing to watch Schartzman loom large on the screen--his face rung with a mustache so revoltingly egregious that it wouldn't get one laid even in the deepest cokeified borough of Brooklyn--and wish he would just stay on tour with Phantom Planet for the rest of his natural born life. Darjeeling Ltd suggests that we should feel sad for his character because women are forever deserting him; the consumate poor little rich boy, a cad hapless to his role in his miserable plight. Anderson seems to believe, as he's repeated it ad. infin. in his films, that this is some uncanny, compelling truth rather than a well-worn trope of the patriarchy. To treat it as precious and unfamiliar merely affirms his obliviousness. To borrow from Greil Marcus' Shape of Things To Come, Schwartzman's character has become a stand-in for not only Darjeeling Ltd itself, but Wes Anderson's entire body of work.

Ever more pathetic is Anderson and his coupla Coppola co-writers quasi comedic comment on (white) people seeking easy transcendence, which is negated by their wholecloth broadcast of this idea; a reflection on whats truly important in life, offered up by a movie that has all the emotional nuance of a funmaze on the side of a Happy Meal box. Three brothers who never knew how fleeting life was until they had the oppurtunity to save the lives of some helpless natives--except one of 'em died--which in turn, gave their lives new meaning. Plot synopsis: Through the death of a nameless Indian boy, three dumb honkeys learn the true meaning of Christmas. It's like Frank Capra shitting out the World of Apu boxset.

As a meta-allegory on American foreign policy, PERHAPS, this movie could work, though it wouldn't be telling us anything Wolf Blitzer hasn't already and we'd still have to look at Jason Schwartzman barfstache for two fucking hours. Instead, it becomes what it is: an unfunny Three Amigos set in a different desert. The big question looms: Is there anything worthwhile in watching Owen Wilson, Schartzman, the script and Anderson get outclassed by Adrian Brody? Maybe. If going to the movies costs you ready pocket change or less, the use and display of Adrian Brody, lithe, running in slo-mo is almost worth the trouble. Almost.

Posted by Jessica at 10:19 PM | TrackBack


Kelly, her bff California Kelly, Annielaurie and I drove to 90 minutes to DeKalb for the only reason one should go to DeKalb:

Eat some carmel apples and then run through the haunted corn maze.

But not before we stopped at the drugstore for some bug spray. While we were there, I encountered some teenagers and made them pose for a quick pik. Imagine being that girl in the back with the temporary BF who unbeknownst to her is licking her hairdo.

Another highlight was Annielaurie getting a peanut nib up her nose, and Kelly made funny joke about nuts, and it made Annielaurie laugh it out. Look close and you can see the peanut leaving her nose.

Severed head that moans and moves.

Creepy Jonbenet wig.


A rule that they tell you that is not on this sign is that you are not to touch anybody working the haunted maze. I violated this rule, but we didn't get kicked out, thankfully. I bitchslapped a dude in a clown mask; it was a reflex.

Also, it's really hard to see the gorillas working in the parking lot. If you take a lot of pictures, it will scare them away.

If you are a screamer, they will pick on you. Same goes for the Chainsaw Guy. He gets Kelly bad ever year she says. Will chase her through rows and rows of corn. Screaming is good advertising for a haunted corn maze.

It is actually scary and took us a full two hours. We 86'd the map because bullshit that someone actually MOWED a acre-wide portrait of the NIU mascot, a husky dog with tail, into a giant cornfield. The map is a trick. You should really go if you can. It's every weekend until 11/6. Also, if you see a creepy grandpa man pretending to be lost, he's just to distract you from the first chainsaw guy. If you see the grandpa, watch out!

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October 09, 2007


I'm freelance, man, I do not own a calendar. Head of Skulls plays THURSDAY at the record store. Not today. Day after tomorrow.

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October 08, 2007


What the hell, right?
Tuesday at 5 pm, Head Of Skulls is playing at Permanent Records, the cities finest microsized indie rock and weirdness specialtystore, which, like all great record stores in the old timey legends, has a cat that lives in the store. Head of Skulls I wrote tiny stuff about this week, about their midwestern heart, their precision, their half Metal Circus half Over The Edge zuzz. When I think of Noah, who is in HOS on the drums, I think of when we were on tour together 3 pre-historic epochs ago and we were riding on the second row bench seat and I looked over and he was chewing a pen and mulling some writing. I asked him what he was doing. Turned out he was making a list of his top 100 drummers of all time, not out of boredom, but to know where they stood in his heart, I think. Thats a real PMA exercise. To know the exact shape of your love for music; non hierarchal lists of fandom. Could you do it?

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October 05, 2007


Oh my gosh and hey, next item up for bid:
I'm leading a Q&A at a book event with Israeli comic artist Rutu Modan at Women and Children First, Tuesday 10/16 at 7 pm. Her debut graphic novel Exit Wounds came out through Drawn and Quarterly this spring. Please come on down!



Posted by Jessica at 06:09 PM | TrackBack


Did y'all see or feel that fogstorm that rolled in 1 a.m. on Tuesday? This was right after the Blow show, and by the time I drove Kells home, it was less than a block visibility. It was very Something Wicked This Way Comes. Oh, the natural forebodence of fog. I thought the Blow was ok, and I have some questions about some things she said towards the end of her performance, and so rather than suppose what she meant I'm going to ask her what she meant and when I find out, we can talk about it here, within the blog universe. Kells is going to explode with jealousy if I do get to talk to her. She wanted to talk to Khaela at the show but got nervous. "Should I just go up to her and start taking off my clothes?" she asked. Miles and I suggested something more subtle, like complimenting her shiny white Asics. She did neither.

The other things I wanted to tell you about:
Erol Alkan's podcast is worth the hard drive space, if you fancy techno and similar dancing musics. Even if you don't give a solitary ratshit about techno, if you click on "subscribe to podcast" it'll take you to his iTunes zone, and you can download the BBC6 broadcast he did earlier this month, where he plays songs he loves and enthuses about them with music nerd earnestness--and it's all psyche and proto this and that, deep weirdness and pop obscurities. The cool in trade of DJing, like many things, is about exclusivity, of having to be there and know about the secret and the obscurities and participate in keeping the wall up, so I'm into that he bucks all of that, posts all his gigs you couldn't get in to, playlists, explains it so everyone can understand, not just the people who already understand.


William Least Heat Moon is speaking at the downtown library on the 22nd, with Studs. Have you read Blue Highways yet? The version offered up by Amazon here make it look like it'll be some real M. Scott Peck vexed-cathexis self-discovery voyage; actually, it looks like the side of an illustrated kleenex box. It's not. It's a keening poem on the death of America, or perhaps the birth of the truest America (glinting dumb, evil and so beautiful in the harsh light of 2007), and the slaughter of the first America. If you have to buy this version, maybe you can put some colorful painters tape over it or cover the dustjacket of Rabbit Redux, so you can maintain your dignity when reading it on the bus.

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October 02, 2007


Joe Gross and I checked and independently verified, and according to Dischord and DC people who know such things, Ian MacKaye is alive and well.

Posted by Jessica at 07:53 PM | TrackBack


My favorite part of the Times' Knicks suit article was not the actual article, but the correction that followed:

An earlier version of this article misstated the location of a 2005 sexual encounter between Stephon Marbury of the Knicks and a team intern. Mr. Marbury testified that it took place in his truck, not in the trunk of his car.

Posted by Jessica at 06:03 PM | TrackBack


No Age, drum gaga, here, last week. Not sure the kids got it, but they were out. Displaced LA-born frosh and sophs now here fist pumped. Records and blog coverage failed to mention--No Age is blast punk--singe punk--rude howls hard hard hard. Randall line checked with "Sex Beat" as if to preempt any question of their allegiance or roots.

Creating friendship and dramatic hairstyles might be my big art pieces for the fall, and I don't think it's the lesser of any kind of steez, it's just a new medium. There's not much of a market for either and that appeals to me. Selling is a grief.

We went to see Max and Robin and Max was out of his burrito cocoon. Banner day with the friend family.

Happy Chef Dim Sum til 2 am, where, in leiu of tableclothes, the table is laid with a few hundred sheets of 1 mil plastic, each layer exaggerating each early wrinkle and rumple, so the teacups tilt and the table top squishes.

Went to a 72nd class reunion the night before, one of 11 returning classmates. Still driving. Knows my grandma from the Knights of Columbus. The curls of her bouffanted wig were like rams horns; she was all there.

Wide open miles flat and long, third time through that Mary Gordon interview, now hooked on her question about what goodness obscures--the patina of goodness.

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October 01, 2007


I'm posting this from my office-when-in-southern-Indiana, the rt. 41 Econolodge parkin' lot.

Back at the ranch: No love for the gentrifying power of the our new neighborhood grocery--I agree. Edmar had that amazing smell that can't be described, was much darker than any public place should rightly be, carried dusty-top boxes of cereal deemed too unhealthy and unfashionable by other stores that appeared to be some gently used cocoa crispies imported from South America--but it was utterly Chicago. This new place gots a starbucks and sprinklers over the produce. I'm scared of it.

Secondlike: I have no idea about her writing, but I listened to this interview with Mary Gordon twice yesterday and it's still unraveling in my mind. Most of the time when people talk about doing fiction, it's this classroom bruised bs ala "I'm into story'. (Not stories, not the story? I'm not being anti-intellectual or anti-academia, I just think that's some hi-faluted morony.) But Mz. Gordon is on to diff ideas about the big beast--and what ideas they are. I really recommend it if you enjoy either/both writing or reading. I keep chewing in my head the part where she says "currency".

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