" But women say they are also treated to another line of inquiry. Would male veterans, they ask, hear friends or relatives say, “How was the shopping?” Or “In that heat, how did you wear makeup?” Or “How could you have P.T.S.D. when you sat at a desk with a typewriter?”"
I played Matt some Gatekeeper to try to entice him to come to a party they are playing tonight and he goes "And now presenting the starting line up of your Chicago Bulls!!!"
He's got a point. Synthetic get pumped music is synthetic get pumped music whether it is on Kompakt or a Jock Jams CD.
"I would like to meet him and kiss his hand and say something horrifically stupid that I would regret for the rest of my life. I bet his home is filled with the most charming little knick knacks, such as autograph manuscripts of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and Schubert's "Trout" Quintet, original Picassos, a little wooden whistle carved by Wittgenstein during a long lunch they shared before the war, a photograph of him pinching the Queen of England's cheek, a Wedgewood sugar bowl given to him by Lionel Trilling and which he now uses as a water dish for his terrier, Antoine."
I like it when you feel you can safely trust a writer. When you feel assured what they are laying out for you will not take a reasonless turn. I am trying to finish Jennifer Egan's Look At Me. I thought I could trust it, but am realizing I can't. I am really loving some parts, caught up in all the cruel idiocy, and then suddenly there is the uncle, who appears to be swapped in, via exchange plan, from a Rick Moody short story. He fits in another book where his well researched but totally boring academic preoccupation that is just a device to show us he is smart, obsessive and bonkers IS the plot, or is at least central to his vindication. He is on the other side of ruin, in a book full of people who are ramping up to it, or thought they were through with ruin, but their other ruin was a prelude. So I skip the uncle and his tutorial. I wanted to keep reading it, but the library robot said I can't renew it because someone has a request for it in.
I am not sure who said it first, but This Recording is basically the only thing on the internet that makes you think-think, makes the mind linger. I feel honored to be contributing to such a cool thing.
Saw The Road today. O, man, it was scary.
Cheveu are good. Think I might have to waddle down yonder to Perm. Records and pick it up.
Dudes. Dudes. Not to floss, but it's the thing I dreamt of in 10th grade: Girls Guide to Rocking got a glowing review in the November issue of MRR. Nuzzled right in by ads for Italian hardcore singles, surely!
Girls Rock Houston is trying to get off the ground, folks. If you are in H-town, have a friend there who might be down, know a girl, have a daughter, have some resources, amps, etc--holler at these women.
PASS IT ON.
RIP Maryanne Amacher. You know yr a total noise badass when you're too loud for Thurston.
The farmy markt is in it's second to last regular week here and seriously, bubblegum pears at $2 a pound--the one time of year I make sure not miss at the markt. It makes you wonder why god even bothered inventing other fruit. Except for maybe dinosaur plums/pluots.
Tomorrow it will be 70, it said on the news.
I will have to unhibernate. Premature hibernator, the rumors are true. I am already like 3 months ahead at that point where you have barely seen anyone in two weeks, you have five books out from the library and are managing to finish them all and Netflix streaming is really getting the best of my brain power, alternating trash-suck pop tv with tragic Korean orphan movies (Treeless Mountain was sad and so great). It's not even November and I have given up like it's the lustreless end of February.
Perhaps I will take the "what you should be doing with your life" quiz in the Oprah Magazine I got for the plane, and it will tell me whats up.
Nancy Spero, one of my feminist heroes, has died.
If you do not know her work, seek it out. Here's a clip from Our City Dreams a doc about five female artists in New York that came out last year. You can get it on Netflix. When I saw it last year, I prayed a little--please god let my work be that vital when I am 80--and a little envious of her true, true partnership with Leon Golub.
Spero's work was and is explicitly feminist, explicitly political, explicitly anti-war, suffused with eroticism, hidden natures and protest. I had read about her in a book about another feminist artist and went to the library to find the monograph on her. I couldn't check it out and I remember sitting there looking very slowly at the whole thing, debating trying to steal it because I just wanted to be with it. Like all great feminist work, it says something you have been trying to express your whole life but didn't have the prose or the strokes or the anger or compassion--to take it in feels like new language at your disposal.
Eric Ziegenhagen on 'Ye's movie with Spike J:
"Kanye may be learning something from R. Kelly: when people don't really want to see you do an interview, speech, or fashion spread, they'll still be interested in seeing your weird Jungian dreams."
Cincy is like Cleveland, but with more furriers and zero litter anywhere, more deco.
And fucking Brueggers. No one has salt bagels but Brueggers. I die for those.
I asked my phone directions to the thrift store and it guided to me to the middle of the alley behind the bus station.
I didn't know anyone know anyone at the book festival except I half know Anne Byrn, aka "The Cake Doctor", best-selling author through my same publisher. She says she has to do cooking demos with her stuff otherwise no one believes her baking skill because she is skinny. I also saw Carol Tyler twice. I blushed whenever we talked, I had nothing to say, just geek out. I used to read her in all the feminist comic anthologies when I was in 10th grade. I felt like I was flirting, because I would say stuff and instantly think "Oh my god, I am such a moron." She's got a new book out--a memoir--from fanatagraphics. Go get it!
I am at the Cincy book festival this Saturday, if you are around the expo center and want to have me sign a book for your cousin.
Why aren't we all watching Mannequin II right now?
Morgan hipped me to this wonderful story I missed about Al Franken being fucking rad and as usual Halliburton being utterly evil, and well, Jeff Sessions being the helpmeet of rapist. TAX DOLLARS AT WORK, y'all.
Then, in the privately-funded horrors segment: A truck with an aborted fetus bill board will be circling a phoenix high school all week long to impress on the young minds within it that the end result of doin' it could very well be "murder". How totally Taliban of them.
And. And. And.
Bloom County is coming back. Opus, despite being a comic strip penguin, was kind of the closest iteration my romantic ideal pre-9th grade.
Saw this on someone else's blog tonight, though it's from Rjyan's blog a few years ago:
"Go to the grocery store. The way that people ignore each other so casually there sickens me. If you try and interact with any other humans at the grocery store, they act like you're crazy. I went to the new Wegman's in Hunt Valley yesterday, part of the new Hunt Valley "Towne Centre." There's a mezzanine with tables for eating at which overlooks the main floor of the store. If you stood on that mezzanine at the right time, you could address 200 people at once-- maybe more, I'm not that good at estimating numbers of people-- they'd all be able to see and hear you very, very clearly. I left without speaking, thinking that I should think of something thought-out and eloquent to say, but the more I think about it the more I feel that going straight off the top is what needs to be done at the grocery store. Volume and frequency are probably much more important elements for any speech that would come off that mezzanine.
I propose that boring, isolationist grocery shopping should be abolished from the lives of our people this New Year. Gather your friends and neighbors and pick a day and time that's convenient to everyone, and go grocery shopping together every week at that time. And when you shop together, shop ecstatically. Run to the good deals and shout out for all to hear once you have found them. Sing grocery-shopping shanties. It's not crazy to talk to other humans that are all around you-- it's crazy to shuffle around as if they weren't there. "
My favorite neighboorhood puppy, a Burmese mountain puppy, has grown into a medium dog, which is actually hugenormous. I saw it bound down his owners stairs eagerly and unceremoniously start shitting. It made me like it less. Big oaffish pooper. This is why no one likes Knut, the Berlin Zoo's orphaned ice-bear, anymore.
Dre, my least favorite neighborhood hoodlum, returned from a short time a way somewhere else with cornrows and a teardrop tattoo coming out his eye. I think cornrows are a bad look when your hair is as white as your skin. He looked like a ribbed lightbulb permaffixed to the stairs of his friends moms house. Today his other two hoodrat associates bound past us yelling and laughing "We got away! We escaped the cops!" and about 30 seconds later the cops met them at their house. Or Dre's friends mom's house.
The Kid Sister album is like the record you wanted Monie Love to make and she never did. Except she says "shit" A LOT. Depending on how you feel about course language, you might love this record. It verges on perfect in a lot of ways.
The Bobby Birdman record on the otherhand, might make you want to kill yourself. It's like a YACHT bootleg, but with someone impersonating Wayne Newton. It's where "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" and the post "Such Great Heights"/Portlandia freedom disco movement intersect and blow out your tiny speakers with douche-chill inducing badness.
My essay on the importance of The Raincoats is in this weeks Portland Mercury.
Country, popular country, is a music guided by a certain morality. Airquote "morality", natch, as I think Toby Keith's/et. al.'s patriotic zealotry + the old ways "notalgia" + "Christian" is heinous. But it is moral. This may be beside the point.
What is guiding music now, is there a guiding principle? It would appear that music--punk, underground, pop --(basically everything outside of hardcore political punk/Dead Prez lps)-- is being guided entirely by capitalism. As in Lady Gaga is Brokencyde is Pavement reunion. Morality is totally inconvenient frame, and capital is the only frame we really have to discuss or analyze, and, as my friend Kevin Erickson wrote to me yesterday "...it's eroded and displaced every other kind of values/morals language. But we don't like what it says about us
either, so we don't want to have any serious reckoning with this problem and we do whatever we can to duck that kind of accountability to ourselves and each other and we cocoon ourselves in every different flavor of evasion."
The current, all-pervasive resistance to meaning trend in music is a way of forgoing that conversation, that consideration all together. It is pretend. To assume that being against interpretation (or against anything bigger than whatever the singular listener might decide on a personal level) is somehow a more open idea (and somehow not political in and of itself), as if a work can be "just art", and that there should be no accounting for context , intent, it's makers point of origin--as if this is a flat, even world free of history. We cannot sever history; if we freed or suspended art from it's context--would it even still BE art? (We cannot sever history so that a swastika on an album cover can just be a mere decoration and exist on a purely aesthetic level.)
So what guides music now? Is capital the only language suitable? Available? Do we require a moral language?
But the films reminded me that I was not a biological sport so much as an anachronism: a grown-up lady. I live at the top my 30s and have counted among the tall bottle blonds of this world since I was 11. I strap on tall pumps, tight skirts, and red lipstick, and am not known to suffer fools gladly. I’m that old-time broad with a wisecrack and a broken heart. Someone who earned her face—for better and worse. A woman rather than a girl in a town, a country, an era that does not embrace growing up.
Pow. Pow. Pow. Lisa Rosman is baaaaack, girls blogging bout film.
Before we cha cha out with the previous question, our fair friend, Jane Dark, to the West asks:
"Who gets to decide what morality is?"
The eternal brain burner.
Meanwhile, Kate Harding's blog has a pretty splendid guest post about male privilege right meaning that dudes get to walk down the street without having to assess whether the other people on the street are a rape threat. "Do you think I’m overreacting? One in every six American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. I bet you don’t think you know any rapists, but consider the sheer number of rapes that must occur. These rapes are not all committed by Phillip Garrido, Brian David Mitchell, or other members of the Brotherhood of Scary Hair and Homemade Religion." Everyone needs to read it. Also, it is funny, unlike most articles about rape fear. I wish I had the email of the guy who I thought was following me home two weeks ago, though he clearly saw it as something else as he placed a missed connection for me later that day. Matt did me the tender yet manly favor of writing to the dude and letting him know that following me from Reckless, for the better part of a mile, is actually totally fucking creepy. The guy wrote back saying he didn't even consider that, he was just hoping to talk to me.
Jen May and Devon's got a blog where they do the thing, like in their zine, facing pages, most every day, make art about how they are living. Click to enlarge
Squished "It's Showtime!" bucket is how I am living.
Eleven hours of sleep is how I am living.
Itemizing 2008 is how I am living.
I miss making a fanzine. Thought last night about "art thats not for sale", and do I do anything that is not for sale in some way. Internet free and art not for sale are really not the same in my mind. Thought about how I never used to get paid to write, and when I did it was like a treat and now that I make a living at it--though less and less the living it was--I don't do it for free except for fanzines, except the fanzine I was doing it free for is gone. No one does a fanzine anymore and maybe that is good enough reason to do one. Cyndi was right.
This weeks People Magazine--granted, not exactly the paper of record or anything--comes down on the side of apologists, never referring to it as rape, only as an "encounter" and features a "flirty" fully body shot of Geimer at 12. Their only quote from Geimer is about how she carries no ill will and feels sorry he lost his family in the Holocaust. RAPE IS NO BIGGIE SEZ PEOPLE. If used as a verb, encounter--to unexpectedly meet and confront something--begins to crack the lid on what happened, though as a noun, "unexpected or casual meeting" doesn't quite cover it.
Interview with Agnes Varda in the new Believer.
I just realized I have her haircut.
Returned my 4 months overdue copy of Dave Hickey's Air Guitar, which got lost in a pile of laundry from first book tour. I think I got through the introduction before I lost it. $47.50 later, they let me check out collected Maxine Kumin and Adrienne Rich. Writing A Woman's Life inspired a serious reading list and the desire to get feminist book club off the ground for winter. Spend a life-changing penny and get it. All the books that changed my life go for under a dollar these days. Maybe I will just buy 100 of them and hang out on the street passing them out to cool girls and dudes. Make a little stand, Peanuts style. Stop by if you want to talk about subverted anger in womens autobiography and where that got us, Doctor is in.