Interview I did for GQ with Rufus Wainwright and Mark Ronson about being friends. Mark Ronson was totally jetlagged and had recently roused himself from sleep. Wainwright was wide awake and across the globe, and he was witty and rapacious. He is someone who could carry an entire dinner party with his wit.
I was thinking today that I should try and post something aside from a link to other work now and again, but for now, there is really just work and folding baby laundry, going to the grocery store and potty training. Just another SAHM on the grind. Just puttin' food on the table and shoes on their feet with R. Kelly charticles. Last night I multi-tasked, wiping down all the toys in the playroom with disinfectant wipes while listened to the new Cat Power (yr gonna die, shit is perfect, "Manhattan" is my favorite thing since Moon Pix). I interviewed Chan for an hour on Father's Day and she was a little drunk and hanging out in Hamburg and didn't want to get off the phone so she started asking me about my kids, which is a total trick that will keep any parent talking. "What are their names?" "William is two and Jude is four months." "But what do you call them?" "William and Jude, no nicknames, really." "Awww, Willy and Judey!". She was sweet.
I was thinking about the Kanye West show that I covered that was just for honor roll students, maybe 3 years ago and how when he took questions someone asked for his life motto or something and he told them "I. Go. Hard." I want to make a shirt that says my life motto--"I Go Soft"-- but I think people might assume I am talking about something other than a feminism based in love. I am going soft, though. Caught myself thinking "Has Huey Lewis always been this good?" the other day. Since baby two I just can't listen to hardcore, nothing more punk than No Age, even. That'll change when I get a minute to put on the new Nu Sensae. I just feel like punk records are a harsh toke for the little ears here, so I keep it dialed to Nilsson and RAM and The Spinners.
Last week I taught William that you can make up songs, so he sings along sometimes with his own versions, and the words are usually something like "Juje Trush Juje Trush" ("Jude Trucks") or "Mom Daddy Home" repeated over and over. Pretty much the best thing ever.
Tomorrow I am going to try a new no-knead bread recipe; last time it was too wet and every time I transferred it, I lost about a third of it and wound up with a delicious loaf of sourdough that was approximately one inches tall. It was about the height of a Mrs. Field birthday cookie from the mall. It made for a slender sandwich, I will tell you.
In honor of Prince's birthday, my top 6 favorite Prince songs, in whatever versions were Youtubeable. In relative order:
I came to this late, skipped it's brilliance and revisited about 10 years ago when Travis Morrison told me it was his favorite Prince song. Or maybe his favorite song. It's Prince at his most sublime, perhaps.
How fucking immaculate and vulnerable. Really.
I used to play all, like, 7 minutes of Erotic City when I dj'd. The super long intro makes the choruses pay off that much more.
I can even handle this song in it's Vegasized version. The original is brutal.
I used to listen to Sign O' the Times on my walkman while I mowed the lawn when I was about 11 or 12, and this song is the one I would rewind and repeat trying to figure out what the fuck it meant. Also, this song was the first song that made me have the idea that there was weirder music in the world and I wanted to hear it. Also, whenever I think of Sign O' The Times, I think of a manual pushmower.
Yesterday, just shy of dusk, Matt and I were walking our children home from Do Division where we went not to get our Divisions did, but just to talk to an old friend who was in town playing, which we did, mostly about the Allman Brothers.
We turned up the street, away from the troop surge of spraytanned girls in purpose-driven packs and flip-flop bros in deep drunksplanation, with the baby in the double stroller and big kiddo exhausted and limp on Matt’s shoulders. We were talking about houses and then the science of bras and why all the young women at the street fair had melon cleavage that splayed just shy of the clavicle. We were walking past a porch where three hip young-twenties dudes were enjoying beers and such, all leaning towards the rap from the laptop, silently, nodding. They might have had a hibachi going. Matt stopped talking and squinched his face for a second and just as we passed beyond their porch he backed up and asked, “Is that “What’s Up, Fatlip?”. “Uh, yeah,” replied one of the boys.
I started laughing. “You just ruined those boys lives. Here they are thinking they’re cool with their nineties rap party on the porch, and they just got the flash forward of their lives in 10 years. That sooner than they think they are going to be an old dude with two kids, a giant stroller and a button down shirt.”