K2: oh sweetie I love you too it’s just that sometimes when i look in the mirror i don’t see a dude, i don’t see your husband, i don’t see the lovable veterinarian who all the town loves to wave to and even hang out in the vet’s lobby drinking the free coffee and listening to the awesome noisy loud “indie rock” we play all the time because the animals don’t mind but
spoiler alert! I’m super tired and swamped at work today. It is Sunday. Thank you for visiting my home page. For deeply, deeply personal reasons, earlier today I googled the text string “reggae snail,” and found this song by Israeli pop master Arik Einstein:
I wouldn’t mind playing drums like this in an Israeli pop band. Anyone?
I was happy when, after the video had finished playing, youtube “somehow” “automatically” took me to a new song, this time by 15/17-yr-old Colombian psych “visionaries” Ana y Jaime! I didn’t know youtube had this feature. Now I’m being carrommed (spp) around psychy little corners of the net. I am tired.
The programmers who wrote your word processor type all day long, every day, and they have the power to buy or acquire any tool they can imagine for entering text into a computer. They don’t write their software with Word. They use a text-editor, like vi, Emacs, TextPad, BBEdit, Gedit, or any of a host of editors. These are some of the most venerable, reliable, powerful tools in the history of software (since they’re at the core of all other software) and they have almost no distracting features — but they do have powerful search-and-replace functions. Best of all, the humble .txt file can be read by practically every application on your computer, can be pasted directly into an email, and can’t transmit a virus.
This is a good band, and a good blog:”when they arrived disheveled and stoned and impossibly old in a rental sedan (having driven from Chicago to play two shows on the West Coast), we were all in awe. Watching them stumble onstage, looking for all the world like post-apocalyptic scarecrows in wraparound sunglasses and tattered jeans and running shoes, wreathed in dope smoke, none of us had any idea what to expect; they hassled the harried soundperson for a bit, smoked a joint, demanded beer ‘without fruit in it’ (code for Budweiser or Pabst, anything but the microbrew on offer), and launched into one of the most alarming, psyche-altering sets of music my young self had ever seen.”
Take the intensity of a severe marijuana-induced panic attack. Now sap it of all anxiety: only a supercharged, translucent husk remains. Meet the New Villager: Seal, the performer, blissed-out and fetally coiled in the trunk of a black 1992 Audi. Subwoofers the size of a woman’s breasts shimmer as their wells fill with tears. And so the question must be asked:
NewVillager are only the most prominent members in a slew of new bands in the loosely affiliated “Diet Shaman” movement. A self-described “rag-tag crew,” Spielberg won’t touch them. NewVillager‘s music creates a hot, moist aura that actually reduces the appetite and tends to increase physical activity. Sexual intercourse and modern dance become indistinguishable. Do you like passionate, wet-sounding coitus? How about special suits that blind and deafen the babies wearing them, so the babies are protected from the loud love-acts the suits engage in? Would you like a falafel sandwich as tall as a mangrove, filled with curried, salted plant stamens? The sandwich shakes with frequencies that bake in the mozzarella, turning the cheese a deep golden brown. “Deepest Apology,” a 7″ CD MaxiSingle, will be released in the fall.
Because I got a press pass to a show I didn’t at first realize was free, I felt a vague obligation to the publicist to write something about the show. I have nothing much to say about the show. This is a blog.
I wrote the above “paragraph” about a week ago. It’s now been two weeks since the show. I am not going to force myself to write something special about the show right now, esp. since it’s 1:36 p.m. and I’m at work and am going to Georgia for the first time in my life in a week and a half. I have never been to the South, even though the Occluded part of Georgia I’m going to doesn’t sound technically “Southern” in a Research Triangle sort of way.
Last night had a beer with G, who returned Friday from two months in Sudan. He says everyone is skeptical of the census, people mistrust the SPLA as much as they mistrust the Sudanese government. Cobloggers had well-informed, well-placed questions. People in his village drink warm beer, so he had a shopkeeper keep 10 beers at all times in the fridge with the Cokes so he could buy a cold one on his way to dinner every evening. I had two more interesting details here but have since deleted them, since I don’t have a sense of how sensitive, how occluded, how etc
My life is irrelevant. Last night, was worried it was bedbugs but concluded ~4 a.m. it was mosquitoes. What’s a good free Mp3 hosting service? I want to post “Dr. Root’s Garden” by Chrysalis, but seemingly can’t. The final comment on this post links to the whole record.
Boredoms in L.A.: We sat near Hella’s Zach Hill, who was at the end of the spiral of 88 drummers surrounding the band. Other drummers flagged throughout the 88 minutes, but Hill held it down, no danger, no remote indication of ever letting up. Very impressive.
J.R. Valenzuela, one of the finest photographers of our generation, was cowed into leaving his camera at home by the publicists. He went home mid-show to get it, and the show had ended by the time he returned. In fact, I had finished my cold beet borscht and half egg sandwich from Canter’s by the time he returned. Everyone scattered and he and I spookily perambulated LACMA and the Tar Pits.
This billboard presided over the Boredoms in an obvious, noxious (yea, obnoxious) way. The stage lights were in the same palette. The silhouette depicted in the ad wasn’t listening to the Boredoms, or the 88 drummers. It was listening to a podcast of Liza Richardson.
I was briefly annoyed with J.R. — why are we walking moonily around the tarpits at night? Shouldn’t we be waiting for the bus? Then I realized I was being a douche and was glad we were there. As we were sneaking back into the Pits while the crew broke down the stage, an LAPD cruiser pulled up and an officer asked us in a really guileless, plainly inquisitive way what was going on. I told him, and pointlessly added that the Boredoms were from Japan. Then an unarmed security guard kicked us out.