I finally made the pickled grapes from the Lee Bros most recent book. They are insane and totally splendid. William's babysitter remarked "it's like eating a Greek salad in one bite" and Matt just went "Gaaaah. Ug Ug Ug. What the fuck?" and then asked for another one and then asked "what else can we pickle?". The the purple ones are a little sweeter and kind of pop when you bite them, but the green ones are a little more complex. Because of their shape and briney-ness, you expect them to be olives because all your life this is what olives are like. And then they are sweet and it's a surprise. Next time I am using bigger garlics (we only had four of those sliver sized ones) and will use more chilies. I think this might be the holy grail, a perfect intersection of healthy stoner food and weirdo pregnancy craving snack. It's salty, sweet, sour, hot and briney. The spring onions and baby asparagus I quick pickled after is totally meaningless in comparison. I suggest you find yourself a big jar with a fastener top and get to it. This took about 20 minutes and that included going out to the garden to cut the rosemary and also answering the door for UPS.
Erika Anderson, nee EMA, had this to say when I interviewed her this afternoon:
"I feel like if women see guitar as an obstacle or imposing symbol of rock, I want to defile it. I want to play it in a way that makes it not an obstacle, that makes virtuosity not an obstacle."
Andy Coronado sends this along. Jesse Michaels, undead Op Ivy singer, has a blog, which is tape recordings of him talking on YouTube. If this is fake, it's genius, and if it's not, it's even more so. "A lot of people ask me--What's the best thrash metal band? Let me explain something. Fuck your shit."
Via my co-pilot of I SAW THAT, Ms. Regarding, I present to you, this thing that is the best. Bridesmaids junket interview for French tv, where the host only asks questions about pooping and farting. The mindblowingness starts around 1:30.
First one to write the spec screenplay for "Homeless Fart" wins.
Also, can anyone possibly explain at all why it took me this long to get fully obsessed with Billy Bragg? Why did I think he was like, adult contemporary MOR with a punk past? I think collaborating with Wilco threw me off the trail and in highschool, everyone I knew who loved Billy Bragg were equally obsessed with like, The Housemartins and The Farm (peace to "Groovy Train") and British people I could not get down with. I did not know he is the siren truth of the worker. Thusly, his time is never more now than now, as there is not a one of us, really, who is not living the speedup just to get by.
"Mr. Kultgen “speaks the voice of our generation very authentically. And you rarely see that in the media today.” He said he saw the same truth in the Judd Apatow movie “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” in which male friends sit around playing video games and talking about sex and women’s bodies.
“That’s exactly what we do,” Mr. Ouzounian said. “But capturing that voice and that feel is very, very rare."
Really? Are these people not aware that most everything that is not a Harry Potter book is catering to this very same male desire that seemingly they are unaware of? Maybe Mr. Ouzonouian is living in some far-cast matriarchy where a book of straight-talk about jerking off is some real underwraps thing. Someone should wake him up to the fact that there is a patriarchy and a post-Portnoy world of literature that is here to speak his mantruth.
This is like some other things, but I like this one better. You know what I am saying.
Also, is it like Giraffe and riffage or is it like "Giraffe Age" like the giraffe version of No Age or perhaps, the Age of the Giraffe is upon us? Cuz it iz. The rest is for free, here, though you can also give him/them some ducks.
1000 times yes yes y'all. Bree from Tacocat takes it head on.
"The straight music-journalist dudes disapprove and want us to be more political, just like the queer punks disapprove and want us to be more political. Is it your duty as a female in the punk community to have a specific political agenda when making art? I sure wish I was a dude, then—I could make party songs and not have to worry about all the people I was letting down. Meanwhile, Tit Pig get to sing about partying in the USA as much as they want and no one questions it. Must be nice."
"Amber Rose is now dating Wiz Khalifa. Whenever Kanye hears "Roll Up," I bet he imagines Amber and Wiz having sex in a hot-air balloon while he stands on the ground cursing them and being tiny. "I could be your best friend, and you could be my homie." Bitches ain't shit but hoes and best friends!"
My review of Friday night's My Morning Jacket show for Rolling Stone dot com. Last time I saw them was in like 1998 (99?) at Schubas and I do not remember it but I think it was their second Chicago show and there maybe 40 people there? They are way more popular now. I wish I could have written a review of just the people around me. The guys behind me, Fitched out drunk bros havin' the time of their life, huge fans. I was relying on them to provide song titles I couldn't remember, but stopped doing so once they edged towards wasted. They spilled beer down my back but I didn't anything, it was out of exuberance. I was across from a pre-teen or barely teen couple, braces both, 13ish, tops 14. They did not know the songs and I have a feeling maybe they did not even like the band that much they just went because it was a concert. I wonder how or even why they got such good seats (7th row, center). The boy held the girl in traditional concert couple backrub embrace until like, an hour in, they were clearly exhausted by standing and swaying. Their kidness started kicking in and the date vibe receded and they sat; little did they know that MMJ was playing, per usj, a two and a half hour set. At one point I looked over the boy had his head on the girls shoulder, trying to act casual even though he clearly was new to such intimate contact with a girl. She was expressionless, ready fall asleep, staring in the backs of the waaassted adults in front of them. I bet Jim James, thick and hirsute in his tiny trenchcoat, yeti boots and Chico's rack sale scarf is not exactly their idea of a rock star. I bet watching someone play pedal steel when yr thirteen makes you feeling like killing yourself. The show, towards the end was super scary. I could not look up or around. Chicago is notoriously a drunk town, and MMJ fans were shitfaced as far as I could see (illuminated by seizure lights and LED glow) and JUMPING, clawing at their stomachs (air guitar gone wild), teetering, grabbing and shaking their friends--all along the super low, knee height balcony. The Auditorium theatre is nearly 120 years old and was built for little people who did not yet have vitamins, and certainly for drunk people freaking out. I was positive someone was going to pitch forward and fall from their third story boxseat.
I reviewed the new Key Losers, Purple and Green, Ice Age, The Men, White Rainbow mixtape and Nu Sensae/White Lung split in last week's Reader. Key Losers is my second favorite record of the year. The Men I liked more than you can tell from what I wrote, but I am feeling really done with the nineties --esp. with the revisionist nineties being sold back to me culturally. Not that I am more desiring of an accurate nineties revival (I mean yes, I will take nouveau grunge over Aerosmith, Korn, when everything went trip-hop, the dawn of remix albums, Paw, Candlebox) but it's just... lifeless. I am trying to move forward with my ironic embrace of the recent past, so I am thinking I might get super into Papa Roach. Be ahead of the curve.
Here's a bit of straight reporting I did about Big Bill Broonzy and his life in Chicago and legacy on the blues and folk scenes that he helped establish. Get obsessed. Do not hold the fact that he's Eric Clapton's main blues inspiration against him.
When you become a mom all you see is little things everywhere. I have laser sites on all other little kids as well as little dog, birds, chipmunks and plants to show William when we walk; the world feels like a showcase of the tender and vulnerable things of the world when you are introducing it all to your baby. And you see 90 year olds at the bakery so desperate for a conversation and not able to remember the word for pie, and the toothless guy that is washing the window and comes into announce that his other toothless friend with him is getting lucky with a lady outside and you look outside and the friend is offering his almost empty bottle of booze to a middle aged hippie lady in Tevas waiting for the bus and all you think is "that is someone's baby" and imagine the person who the happiest day of their life was when they birthed this old guy, or the adult windowwasher guy who has as many teeth as my baby son.
Quite a few of my ladyfriend writer friends aired annoyance about this Edith Zimmerman GQ cover story. I think it's rad and ballsy in one regard, that a feminist lady got paid maje duckets to write about what basically amounted to a drunken date (PALM-KISSING?!) with this half-star and it reads like it's right out of Rollerderby or something--it's about her, not him. In another way I am annoyed because you know, whether yr 3 mos or 15 yrs into a writing career and no matter how serious you are there are always, always people who still assume you are in it for access to celeb diznick and anything that enforces that stereotype (remember Ultragrrrl doing interviews drunk on peoples laps?) is like...ugh. Then it's like, well, it's not Edith Zimmerman's fault that women are not allowed full spectrum expressions professional lives and she needn't be hemmed in by haters and sexist azzhats who think any woman having a goodtime outside of the laundry room is a "cum-guzzling slut". And then there is also a me that is jealous because for the money one gets paid to write a coverstory like that I would catch and eat a small dog on camera.
I wrote a longish thing about The Coathangers, the unspoken rules for girlss, the beauty of sucking and party bands in the Village Voice.
Chilean trio MKRNI starts their US tour tomorrow. This song is so my summer jam. I wish they were playing here.
And by here I mean my house.
I wrote a bit about the cultural importance of Girl Night at the IPU Convention and the galvanizing effect on Riot Girl and the splitting of the underground, post-Teen Spirit. I also wrote a little something about Sub Pop and The Gossip--all for the Guardian's 50 notable moments in underground music special.
LINDY WEST REVIEWS BRIDESMAIDS AND I LAFFED MYSELF TO DEATH:"I mean, look. I know I'm a white woman living in America in 2011, so I'm not particularly oppressed. It's not like I'm considered property fit only for domestic labor and baby manufacturing—anymore (it's been like 50 years already, ladies, take a Midol and quit cryin'!)! I can be anything I want to be, such as a nurse or a middle manager or a sexy policewoman or a real housewife! BUT OH MY GOD, SOMETIMES BEING A WOMAN IS SO INFURIATING I WANT TO EXTRACT MY UTERUS WITH A FORK AND THROW IT OUT THE WINDOW.
You know that look-at-us-we-killed- Osama-in-the-brains situation-room photo? Did you notice that there are only two women in there? Two. And we're 50 percent of the population. I get that President Hillary would have just gotten her menses all over the Oval Office and changed Martin Luther King Jr. Day to Raw Cookie Dough Makes the Crying Stop Day and slashed funding for men's reproductive health and made football illegal. And when football is illegal, only the terrorists will play football. Fine. I get it, all-you-people-who-are-totally-not-sexist. You are beacons of equality and tolerance, and I would be honored to serve as your sex- ottoman/chicken-nugget-delivery-system. Feminism is dead. Ding-dong.
ALSO, I am kind of on a tear ("I don' wanna wriiiite, I wunna wead! I'm tired!" I whined to myself inside my brain) and I just wanna read mean movie reviews instead of meeting my three deadlines but IF YOU TOO WOULD LIKE TO READ SOME MEAN MOVIE REVIEWS, get over to I SAW THAT and permalink it or put it in yr google reader. That is my film blog with my friend, Regarding. We are watching tunz of bad blockbusters so you do not have to also, Regarding wrote a super long and so amazing thing about fast vs. slow zombies and cold vampire penis--so don't be all "TLDR" about it.
Nora said "look casual" so we did our best.
And so we got hitched. Six year anniversary. "Reception" of me, Matt, Nora and baby William got the total cost on this whole shimdango to $100. The reception was at Pret A Manger. We toasted ginger ale and in lieu of cake, Matt and I shared a cookie, which we put in our freezer to take out and eat in a year like you are supposed to do with wedding cake, but if we manage to go that long without one of caving and eating it "accidentally", I doubt either of us is gonna wanna nibble on that frostbitten shit, but we're totally gonna.
Meanwhile! William was the littlest witness and was really patient for all three minutes of this important event. My dress is a $5 turn of the century linen sailor dress that Robin thrifted me like 4 or 5 years ago which I had never worn, inexplicably. I chose it because it fit and because I wouldn't have to iron it and I had never worn it before. Classic mom choices. We got married on Matt's lunchbreak, which, I know, SUPER ROMANTIC 3000--it's like, why bother to even have a honeymoon?! Matt, dutifully, went back to work and William and I went home because it was his naptime. But now we are legally a family! Huzzah!