Alice Bag. What real punk looked and twitched like.
This morning, on our walk, we passed a pile of Michelob Light empties (bottles, not cans) and then an athletic cup on someone's lawn. I fear they were related in a previous nights event. A party gone wrong. Or right. Who am I to judge that level of shenanigan? It was right by that Louis Sullivan-designed church in Ukrainian Village. In August, on an afternoon walk, baby Jude and I stopped for a minute as two young men pulled up in a car, which was driven by an associate, who left it idling at the curb while the older instructed the younger on some low level Parkour moves over the church fence. It didn't seem like Parkour, it was just jumping over a low wall and landing in the daylilies. I know this because I saw a video on YouTube of a dog doing Parkour, jumping out windows and floating up walls like it was on an invisible skateboard. Kids better up their ante if a Russian internet dog is besting them at their sport. And who was the driver? A roommate? Their manager? A dude they pay in Dew Red Alert and pinners? "Just drive around until you see a wall worth jumping over, k?"
My Fan Landers column is now syndicated. Check for it in the LA Weekly and whatever other Village Voice Media chain papers you peep.
Today I went and interviewed Kendrick Lamar. It was unlike all other experiences in the rapper personal vortex in that he was forthcoming and the interview started exactly on time. Not even a minute late. His bus, like all tour busses, was cold enough that they could keep a side of beef in the bunks and it wouldn't spoil for the duration of his US tour.
This very long Cat Power review is the best thing I have written in a while I think. That record made it easy though. "Manhattan" which is not a single, is my single of the year. "Hot Chee-Tos and Takis" running a close second.
Are you guys watching The Voice? It hasn't gotten totally musical schaudenfreude (sp?) musical meltdown yet, it's just in the auditions phase, which is totally high drama and lasting forever, but there are some people I am rooting for like the gender queer girl from Chicago, De'Borah and the kid that came out of a coma in time for the auditions. TELEVISION! And you thought THE WIRE was dramatic! Pssh. Anyhow, I am recapping it for Rolling Stone, which is kind of a bizarre-world dream gig. I get paid to write about the best-worst-best-again show on TV, which I already was watching, and by write about I mean mostly make fun of.
SYNDICATED ADVICE COLUMNIST/TEEVEE RECAPPER FOR RS. Not places you thought my career would go post-90's punk fanzine ghetto, did you? Also, I started writing for Pitchfork--like this one of Corin Tucker Band's Kill My Blues which kept making me want to type "Corin Tucker Blues Band", which would be kinda killer.
New leaves in 2012, y'alls.
You know what is remarkable? That President Obama issued an official statement on Donna Summer's death. "Her voice was unforgettable, and the music industry has lost a legend far too soon." There's no way Mittens is gonna win, right? I mean, America is a deeply fucked up and racist land, wrapped up in some rough endtimes capitalist lust, but we are not so messed up that people are going to vote for Mittens. Right, guys?
I am flirting with ideas of other types of living. Is there a way to live in a city and not feel beaten down by the ferocious wag of capitalisms tail, beating, as it does, against you like that of an over-eager chocolate Labrador? Can you timeshare your life with Peaceful Sanity? And be in Chicago? Is it a matter of being poorer or richer or somehow notching out time, somehow in someway that you have not yet thought about but cannot quite get to because you are busy with just getting by on life band-aids and supplication of the Gods?
In Michigan, I bought records at a garage sale and Matt laughed at me. And I knew why before he said it. William has removed the needle off the turntable with the surgical precision that only a two year old is capable of. The upside is that since it is "broken" he is way less interested in terrorizing our record collection, unsheathing the albums and bringing to them to me "this! this!"--or sometimes just trying to throw it on the player himself. The buying of the records was making a wish for time and circumstance that doesn't presently exist. Anyhow, I got a Black Byrd and a Leo Kottke record, some CSN, a Graham Nash solo album for Jenaine for keeping the cat alive while we were away.
I also got this wonderful and practical yet useless to me, presently, book One Acre and Security: How to Live Off The Earth Without Ruining It from the early-mid seventies. One rather topical chapter is called "Fish, Frogs and Turtles for Profit, Food and Fun". WHICH IS FOR WHICH?
HOW AM I LIVIN?
ON A POWERBOAT WITH MY MICRO MINIEEZ.
I BETCHOO DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THEY MADE LIFE JACKETS THAT SMALL FOR SOMEONE WHO IS ONLY 24 INCHES OF HEIGHT OR SO! IT'S LIKE THE OPENING CREDITS FOR MIAMI VICE BUT EVERYONE IS IN PAMPERS.
Matt was giving me a furrowed brow when I was maybe a touch unsure about Jude going on a multihour spin up the inside of the Michigan mitten thumb, even though he did turn 6 months yesterday, which technically makes him a big baby n' all, but... Anyhow, once we took off, Matt leaned over and said "I had never been on a boat that went faster than a sailboat until right now and now I understand why you might of had some reservations about bringing a little tiny baby on a boat", he said as my dad gunned it and we bucked through the waves, William staring into the wake and mumbling "Water Water Water Water We Water We Water Water Water."
I am totally 'tevs on the cult of Twin Peaks (had it's moments the first go 'round), but this pc over on Grantland for the the 20th anniversary of fire walk wiff me is great top to bottom and, also, funny:
"Cut to the WELCOME TO TWIN PEAKS sign, as seen in the opening credits of the TV show. It's one year later; Laura Palmer is spooning coke up her nose before homeroom and generally coming undone, after facing years of debasement at the hands of an evil spirit she knows only as "BOB." Lee, who managed to thoroughly haunt the TV series, is wrenching and phenomenal as the living Laura. Greil Marcus called her work "the most bottomless female film performance of the latter days of the twentieth century — the most extreme, the most dangerous," and he's not wrong. She's playing a child who tries to protect herself by co-opting a language of cruelty and sexual intimidation, bent on destroying her own innocence before BOB can, a lost little girl pinballing between abject despair, femme-fatale tough talk, canny seductiveness, and just straight-up being a monster. Lee is playing a vast range of stereotypes and archetypes here, all of which still seem to have sprung convincingly from one character's soul; this is, among other things, one of the bleakest, cruelest movie about teenage self-actualization ever made."
"While hologram technology effectively rendered the image of the revered ex-President, the 116-page script the panel settled on for Reagan's "address" was finally judged to be too ambitious. After factoring in the costs of having Hologram Reagan kiss every delegate in attendance, fire dozens of rounds from an AR-15 rifle into a target labeled "Government," and perform "Opposites Attract" with Paula Abdul, the feature was deemed to be too expensive."