My interview with Charlotte Gainsbourg who was so cool and nice and I wanted to stay on the phone with her all day and talk about mom stuff. She missed our initial interview time because she was nursing her baby. COOL MOMZ.
Woody Guthrie's resolutions for the New Year, including "Beat Fascism". Though I like that that is #27 and remembering to brush his teeth is #3. Priorities!
"The sweater made me look like a witch who was 11 months pregnant". Claire Zulkey on the poor choices made at the Anthropologie sweater sale.
I wrote about some of my favorite unheard/unheralded/unPitchforked records of the year for the Reader. I still have a bunch of shiz to catch up on (do I have interest in caring about another Weeknd thinger? TBD), though today I got through most of the Fluxblog 2011 singles survey to see if there was anything I missed. It served to remind me that the Drake/Lil' Wayne song about vaginas is unspeakably terrible, topically and as a song and secondly, that the Danny Brown song "I Will" about his delight in oral sexing the ladies should be on my top ten singles for the year on principle alone, because it's not the Drake/Lil Wayne song, and because it's good and any song that outlines so many protocols and rules for oral is kind of funny.
I was also reminded that Toro Y Moi is basically new-gen Gary Wright, giving us variations of a less majestic "Dreamweaver". Not bad, but, you know, not good news either.
Much of the survey comp just re-enforced that hip kids will only give into Ibiza Bass once it comes to them on their own terms. We can sniff and turn our noses up at David Guetta as being pleasure pap of the masses, or pretend like we are just in the moment when air-humping at the club to some Tiesto-y Britney remix or whatever, but c'mon, Araabmuzik is like half a foamparty away from that vibe and somehow it's cool, not stupid--yet the difference is negligible. Other than it being less successful as danceable music. MOR pop ideas at middling fidelity gets you BNM. That's the fact! Words to guide your next career move by, indie rock America. Trust.
That's the thing about dance music that I love, and have always loved. You can be cool and snobby about it, sure, yes, but if it makes you dance, it makes you dance, whether it wins you over is not up to how DIY the maker is. You cannot front. It operates on it's own terms, to which you are wholly subject. It can be colossal, or it can be something you get lost in, but it's all gradable on the outcome--how does it perform as danceable music? There are smaller questions, smaller ideas of course, within it all and worth entertaining and discussing, but ultimately, all that matters is does it move you?
I am busy trying to read to catch up on my pact of 36 books in 52 weeks. I was really hot to trot and knocked out like 12 books in the first 8 weeks of this year and then once I got preggo again, and William starting walking (and then running) I was a special kind of unintellectually tired come the night, so,mostly I just wanted to watch multi-part BBC historical dramas on Netflix like an old biddy. (So much unspoken Victorian romance! Season 2 of Downton is like Gossip Girl in pinafores, it starts on PBS here in a few weeks, you are gonna freak out! By the end of Season 1 of Foryste Saga I was ready to chew a hole in the screen of my laptop so as not to have to watch that pinched mouth of the rapey, orange-haired Soames Forsyte--with that humanizing ending, please, I have just spent the last 5 hours hating his poor richboy gutz!!!) I am trying to catch up on books proper before the pact-deadline of mid-January, and am breeeezing thought the Saturday Night Live Oral history, though I am in a chapter that seems to be mostly people saying over and over again "Eddie Murphy was a kid and so natural, everything he said was funny"--because what else can you say about 1982's season of SNL other than "And Gilbert Gottfried was also there, on the show". After this I will return to the Anita Hill book. It made me so mad, I had to quit it for a while. It made me want to mail the contents of the litter box to Clarence Thomas and an extra little package of poops to all the still sitting senators that help confirm his lying ass.
Also, how bad do you want this Outsider Art book. I also asked for this lovely book of art from olden-days educational charts. I am trying to absorb all the things I can before the end of March rolls around and I no longer get long hours to read or watch or peruse art books because I have a new kiddo who will be awake and needing to eat every three hours. IT BEGINS AGAIN. Baby II: The Squeakuel!
I went to New York City last week and did things. On the airplane home, I ran out of magazines to read because the bummer about travelling twice in the same week span (I went to Portland the week before, to meet a baby) and had already burned through that week's trash mags--and while I will pay a few bucks for In Touch I am not so desperate to read Life & Style which is like a budget version of In Touch, but with less Kardashians and more tertiary TV stars. Thank my lucky stars--the previous passenger in my seat was a OB/GYN doctor or ladyparts researcher (or someone with an intense hobby) of some sort and left behind a bunch of medical journals about birthing, gnarly lawsuits related to birthing mishaps, really intense diseases of the hoo-hoo, the likelihood that women who are really hirsute from hormonal imbalances feel shy about their bodies, warts, FDA black boxes warnings and syndromes. So gnarly and so, so fascinating. I read all four of them cover to cover even though I barely understood some of the studies and reviews. Oh, and I learned that we should all be using IUDs, for efficacy and ease. The syndromes I learned about, I won't even tell you, they are totally intense. Way, way better than Life & Style.
Regarding writes on our I Saw That blog about watching Cool Hand Luke with her parents, and relates several anecdotes, including: "I had one of those moms who loved talking about sexual issues, to the point of embarrassing us when she would tell people that our horse had cancer “on his penis.” This, while true, was humiliating to middle school-aged kids and we begged her to stop saying it. “But it’s true!” she would protest, which was true. She also went through this weird period of talking about the gestational cycle of a cat, I guess prompted by our cat being pregnant. But it was like, okay, mom, we get it. The cat’s pregnant."