Our fine son now sleeps in his crib every night, through the night. Both are newish developments. As a result Matt and I have our bed back and so we can have pre-sleep conversation, which I sorely missed during the five months baby William tossed and turned his footed-jammied plumpness between us. Last night, as we were laying in the hot heat, I decided to see if I could make up a joke as I told it and have it be actually funny by the time it arrived to the punchline. It almost worked a few times. It started with one about a cannibal rooster who eats chickens and devolved into one about "two balls, who are roommates, are in a pasture, and they pass a mirror" into puns about dogs and hot dogs. Matt insisted none of them were funny, but his laughter spoke otherwise. I am just trying to keep up with him. He has a comedic mind. He thinks up punchlines and works backwards. He was besting me, including an epic one about a bear, a detective and a blackhole looking for the drinks at a party, with a punchline that was "All this just to get to the punch line?!" It worked as joke, whereas mine just were just gross existential riddles told from the point of view of testicles.
I do not have a ton of other business to share, save for two things: Slutwalk Chicago is Saturday at noon here in Chicago, starting at Thompson Center and heading to Daley Plaza, and you should be there, to protest a culture of victim-shaming and motherfucking old white men redefining rape into you know "rape that is not really rape" and the traditional ol' "forcible rape". As opposed to say "requested rape"? DO YOU NOT JUST WANNA THROW OLD DIAPERS IN THE FACE OF THE GOP SENATORS? I want there to be a hail of human excrement to pour from the rotunda ceiling, ala You Can't Do That On Television-style every time they start talking about anything to do with anything that has anything to do with a woman's own body. Lava-hot make-you-gag-your-nosehairs-tingle style baby diarrhea. Just raining down, coating their bald pates and white hairs alike.
New Erykah video, self-directed. Love.
In the panels depicting sex acts, the women tend to look lovely, while Mr. Brown with his tight, unsmiling mouth; bald head; and long, thin body resembles a praying mantis with testicles. " I am glad that the paper of record will never describe me that way. I mean, at least I hope not.
Congrats to Caryn Ganz for her story about Nicky Minaj getting in the Da Capo Best Music Writing 2011 (guest editor Alex Ross)-- and same to Evelyn McDonnell for her profile on Runaways drummer Sandy West and Hit it or Quit it alumnus Chris Richard for his great story about the lost P Funk mothership which prompted the Smithsonian to find and acquire it (!). There is not much in the way of honors in rock crit world, so this is kind it. My MIA essay made it in. This is the fifth time. It's always a thrill to be included. Two or three more times and I beat Greil Marcus, he's in it every year it seems. I think Christgau and I are tied at five. I would like something, like, a trophy, or a vast sum or even steady work would do.
Tied with Christgau! I might make myself a plaque; or just etch it in the side of a banana and keep it on my desk until it rots.
Tricia Lockwood, the poet--or if we are writing a trend piece--FEMALE POET, or perhaps "poette"? is really funny on her blog. I like it. I bet dollars and donuts you will as well.
Sorry I have not been making much blogging over here, I am more in love with my new blog than this old thing. ALSO, I kind of took the month off from working so much to try and get "caught up" on listening to records and finding new bands to like for the summer, which is sort of happening, but mostly not because it's summer and me and the young baby William are on the go in the greater Chicago out-of-doors. The little dude loves to go. There are swings to be swung in and many different dogs to yell "HI DADA" at.
Someone in a band that I am writing about and I were exchanging facebook messages about getting a promo of his new record by the time of my deadline and such and then he sent me this really long, aggrieved message about how hard it is to be a broke solo musician and then also in a newly popular band on the side and how he is going to be a dick to these people who suddenly care about what he is doing now after years in obscurity. Like 1000 words long on this topic. I think he was thinking out loud. I wrote him back and said "I understand frustration--I spend half my day trying to keep my son from eating toilet paper off the roll." It's true. Though I wanted to tell him what I used to tell bands I managed or did PR for when they whined like: "Then just stop." I am not about to pep talk anyone's band into soldiering on. The world is not hurting for bands. Being in a band is hard, but it's also really fucking easy as far as hard things go. Today I caught myself playing along with The Clash's "Straight to Hell" on William's wheeled Fischer Price rainbow xylophone and thought "I may never be in a band again." And I felt kind of sad until I remembered what it is to load into a practice space at 3am and then I felt deeply relieved. I will have a daytime only family banjo band, maybe, and thats all. Fuck a load out and fuck a bar, I wanna play Buck Owens songs poorly with my future children in your yard.
I bought this JUMBO art book about Los Angeles, which is kind of pricey, but a real ness. purchase if you have ever lived there or read Day of the Locust or obsessed over Didion's White Album or Los Angeles Plays Itself. I am just got through the 1880s, when houses just start to dot the area, and there is only one house--a farm/orchard--in all of Laurel Canyon. The rest is just treeless brush. It's a real boogie of the mind, this truly instant city of self-invention.
Ann on Patti and girl genius--just a banner essay here: "This hits so close. The feeling of seeing ourselves and our ambition in reflected in someone great and immediately quashing it with self-denial. Saying, I could never do that. I could never be that. Im just a 22-year-old girl." Also, Ann's parody of this totally WTF trend story about how white men are finally getting their due and landing jobs editing magazines... just like they have been since the 1880s. Your trend piece is my patriarchy.
I know we all are likely suffering OFPF (Odd Future Profile Fatigue), butRachel Haadzi Gansah's piece in Black Book is new information in spots, some freshness to it--I think she's a writer to start paying attention to, thought no one has deemed to include her in a special trend piece on lady writers (why not just call us "scribettes"?) that mostly just highlights how there are like 4 or maybe now 5 female pop critics working in all of America, how there are few-no female assigning editors at major publications, how many super talented ladies are a decade into freelance hustle, still.
Sara of Tegan and Sara open letter to critics and fans on why she's had enough of critics making excuses for why it's okay for Tyler the Creator to say "faggot" et. al.:"Maybe its because in this case I dont think race or class actually has anything to do with his hateful message but has EVERYTHING to do with why everyone refuses to admonish him for that message."
Maya, the drummer from Austra's other band. I like this video, and the sharing of the Gummi Cokes.
Watch "The Wizard of Oz" while listening to "Dark Side Of The Moon."
Watch "Transformers" dubbed with the audio from "Transformers 2."
Watch "Transformers 2" while listening to "The Piper at the Gates Of Dawn."
Bring an air horn to a laser show.
Take acid at a monster truck rally.
Watch "Transformers" on an iPad at a Roger Waters show.
Ask Megan Fox how she feels about being replaced by a Victoria's Secret model.
Google pictures of Megan Fox's stunt thumb.
The desire to become a writer struck suddenly and without warning when she was a teenage backpacker in the early 1980s, traipsing across Europe, lonely and depressed, missing her family. This was the era of queuing for the public phone box: "There was a kind of intensity to the isolation of travel at that time that's completely gone now. You had to wait in line at a phone place, and then there weren't even answering machines. That feeling of waiting in line, paying for the phone and then not only having no one answer, but not being able to leave a message so that they would never know you called. It's hard to fathom what that disconnection felt like. But I'm actually very grateful for it. Because it was extreme. And that kind of extreme isolation showed me that I wanted to be a writer."
'Member my book tour summer before last with Katie Stelmanis and her band and the twin Ghost Bees? They all have different band names--Austra and Tasseomancy respectively but look at them together in this Austra video, which is on Pitchfork and everything. Perhaps the twins won't have to support themselves doing Burrito Bike (google it) forever! Maybe they can be the next LCD soundsystem or whatever Antler/Panda-related band is most popular now. Pantlers and such, please cede your popularity to these fine Canadian womens! It's only fair! I pledged money to the Tasseomancy kickstarter for their record and in exchange I get a tarot reading via Skype. The last time the Twins did my tarot it predicted my pregnancy. I love those little witches!
No one ever told me about Come On's greatness. I find solace in that no one ever knew about them in the first place --even the people who were there. Imagine having the distinction of being like, the first local band to rip off Talking Heads. Being on to it before, really, the entire post-punkdom got hip to it.