Friday, May 28, 2004
provide your own context
The Real McCoy, by Darin Strauss
ill-fitting shirt from TJ Maxx
They Were Wrong So We Drowned, by Liars
that Belle and Sebastian DVD
Medal of Honor: Rising Sun, for the GameCube
new jeans for $2.50 from Filene's Basement
chicken spinach pizza, from the unfortunately named Pizzapalooza
Moneyball, by Michael Lewis
the Tim Noble / Sue Webster exhibit at MFA
last night's Frontline, the unfortunately named "The Way the Music Died"
Acid Mothers Temple / Subarachnoid Space at TT the Bear's
Oh Me Oh My..., by Devendra Banhart
Singha Malt Liquor, one bottle
that really early Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns runs for governor
lightly stroking DJ's hair before he wakes in the morning
The Real McCoy, by Darin Strauss
ill-fitting shirt from TJ Maxx
They Were Wrong So We Drowned, by Liars
that Belle and Sebastian DVD
Medal of Honor: Rising Sun, for the GameCube
new jeans for $2.50 from Filene's Basement
chicken spinach pizza, from the unfortunately named Pizzapalooza
Moneyball, by Michael Lewis
the Tim Noble / Sue Webster exhibit at MFA
last night's Frontline, the unfortunately named "The Way the Music Died"
Acid Mothers Temple / Subarachnoid Space at TT the Bear's
Oh Me Oh My..., by Devendra Banhart
Singha Malt Liquor, one bottle
that really early Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns runs for governor
lightly stroking DJ's hair before he wakes in the morning
Thursday, May 27, 2004
recumbent upon the hump of wonder
Acid Mothers Temple was good. It wasn’t great. I expected to be nearly destroyed, but my haphazard walk home had more to do with beer than overwhelming riff rape. There were only four of them, which surprised me, and might be one reason why it seemed less powerful than the records. Also the guy who sang the most wasn’t the gray-haired wizard dude, like I thought. They played some amazing stuff, but it was all just a bit more sedate than I had expected. There was a lot of a capella chanting, which was cool, and some fantastic guitar shit by Kawabata and the other guy. The centerpiece of the set was a song that went on for a good fifteen minutes or so, and that had a more straight-forward, classic rock feel than most of their stuff. I’m sure on record it sounds like a thunderous orgasm in outer space, but live it was just a pretty good rock jam that could have been played by an amped-up Grateful Dead. They did meet my expectations when it came to wrestling related content, however; the bass player wore a HHH shirt, and the only English they spoke all night was “finally, Acid Mothers Temple has come back to Boston”. So yeah, it was a very good show, but it wasn’t half as manic or crazed or revelatory as I had expected / hoped.
Subarachnoid Space opened. Their longish jams (maybe not jams at all) swooshed a lot, but their Rob Van Dam looking bass player kept things from getting too out there. They weren’t too bad; their rhythm section was grounded in some traditional-sounding rock territory, and that kept them from hurtling into a vortex of formless cosmic bullshit. It also prevented them from branching out and playing anything all that interesting. They did have some good films projected behind them, though.
Some other band played first. I didn’t see ‘em. I was too busy drinking with my future mother-in-law.
Acid Mothers Temple was good. It wasn’t great. I expected to be nearly destroyed, but my haphazard walk home had more to do with beer than overwhelming riff rape. There were only four of them, which surprised me, and might be one reason why it seemed less powerful than the records. Also the guy who sang the most wasn’t the gray-haired wizard dude, like I thought. They played some amazing stuff, but it was all just a bit more sedate than I had expected. There was a lot of a capella chanting, which was cool, and some fantastic guitar shit by Kawabata and the other guy. The centerpiece of the set was a song that went on for a good fifteen minutes or so, and that had a more straight-forward, classic rock feel than most of their stuff. I’m sure on record it sounds like a thunderous orgasm in outer space, but live it was just a pretty good rock jam that could have been played by an amped-up Grateful Dead. They did meet my expectations when it came to wrestling related content, however; the bass player wore a HHH shirt, and the only English they spoke all night was “finally, Acid Mothers Temple has come back to Boston”. So yeah, it was a very good show, but it wasn’t half as manic or crazed or revelatory as I had expected / hoped.
Subarachnoid Space opened. Their longish jams (maybe not jams at all) swooshed a lot, but their Rob Van Dam looking bass player kept things from getting too out there. They weren’t too bad; their rhythm section was grounded in some traditional-sounding rock territory, and that kept them from hurtling into a vortex of formless cosmic bullshit. It also prevented them from branching out and playing anything all that interesting. They did have some good films projected behind them, though.
Some other band played first. I didn’t see ‘em. I was too busy drinking with my future mother-in-law.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
cds listened to at work today (in no specific order)
1. the Unicorns - Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?
2. Dinosaur Jr - You're Living All Over Me
3. Can - Tago Mago
4. Je Suis France - Tittania
5. Archers of Loaf - Icky Mettle
6. Animal Collective - Sung Tongs
7. Garlic Yarg - Snow Goat and the Seven Wolves
amount of time spent on internet at work today: five hours, thirty-seven minutes.
lunch eaten: turkey club sandwich with mustard, one bag cheezits, one can Pepsi (free), one chocolate chip cookie (also free)
pants worn: jeans (blue)
1. the Unicorns - Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone?
2. Dinosaur Jr - You're Living All Over Me
3. Can - Tago Mago
4. Je Suis France - Tittania
5. Archers of Loaf - Icky Mettle
6. Animal Collective - Sung Tongs
7. Garlic Yarg - Snow Goat and the Seven Wolves
amount of time spent on internet at work today: five hours, thirty-seven minutes.
lunch eaten: turkey club sandwich with mustard, one bag cheezits, one can Pepsi (free), one chocolate chip cookie (also free)
pants worn: jeans (blue)
Friday, May 21, 2004
the people in our neighborhood
Shortly after moving to Boston Allyn told me that Glenville Avenue reminded her of Sesame Street. The building next to ours houses mostly immigrant and lower-income families, and so the children who play on our sidewalks and in the middle of our road definitely reflect the diversity of Sesame Street. The analogy is pretty apt otherwise, too, but with a few minor differences. We have a small convenience store in the middle of our block, but instead of being operated by a kindly old man, its run by a kindly Asian family who speak no English. It also gets held up once every couple of weeks. And, instead of Big Bird, we have Mr Butch, an alcoholic six-foot-eight-inch homeless man, who sports dreadlocks and a suit, and who frequently can be seen either playing free-jazz on a plastic recorder or stumbling repeatedly into the sides of buildings. Mr. Butch is the second kindest homeless man I’ve ever encountered; he never begs for money, and he only occasionally asks me for what he calls grass. He's also never bloody and never has random facial wounds, like most other homeless guys in our neighborhood. Finally, like Big Bird, he is the moral compass and backbone of his community. It’ll be a shame when Harvard tears this whole town down, but I guess they have to build their launching pad and horseshoes stadium somewhere.
Shortly after moving to Boston Allyn told me that Glenville Avenue reminded her of Sesame Street. The building next to ours houses mostly immigrant and lower-income families, and so the children who play on our sidewalks and in the middle of our road definitely reflect the diversity of Sesame Street. The analogy is pretty apt otherwise, too, but with a few minor differences. We have a small convenience store in the middle of our block, but instead of being operated by a kindly old man, its run by a kindly Asian family who speak no English. It also gets held up once every couple of weeks. And, instead of Big Bird, we have Mr Butch, an alcoholic six-foot-eight-inch homeless man, who sports dreadlocks and a suit, and who frequently can be seen either playing free-jazz on a plastic recorder or stumbling repeatedly into the sides of buildings. Mr. Butch is the second kindest homeless man I’ve ever encountered; he never begs for money, and he only occasionally asks me for what he calls grass. He's also never bloody and never has random facial wounds, like most other homeless guys in our neighborhood. Finally, like Big Bird, he is the moral compass and backbone of his community. It’ll be a shame when Harvard tears this whole town down, but I guess they have to build their launching pad and horseshoes stadium somewhere.
sunday's work on a thursday evening
The Russian knows his rock and roll. He knows how to move, and he knows how to make the rest of us in the laundromat move in turn. It's not the life he's chosen, it's the life he was born unto, but left undiscovered until escaping to America. He intermittenly removes his clothes from the dryer, alternating this with periodic air guitar solos and sudden dramatic jabs to the air with his clenched fist. The chord to his headphones sways lazily down to the walkman clipped to his belt. This is the best version of "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" I've ever heard.
The Russian knows his rock and roll. He knows how to move, and he knows how to make the rest of us in the laundromat move in turn. It's not the life he's chosen, it's the life he was born unto, but left undiscovered until escaping to America. He intermittenly removes his clothes from the dryer, alternating this with periodic air guitar solos and sudden dramatic jabs to the air with his clenched fist. The chord to his headphones sways lazily down to the walkman clipped to his belt. This is the best version of "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" I've ever heard.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Lindsay Graham just told the army man that he has "very good jag-offs". I really should be too old to find that funny. I think I'm devolving; I wouldn't have found that funny ten years ago. I'm getting stupider every damn second...
I can understand a mainstream news magazine not wanting to put too graphic of an image on their cover, but the US News and World Report probably picked the worst available photograph for their Abu Ghraib cover story. If you haven’t seen it, it’s the one where a prisoner has a pair of panties on his head. Above that, in huge letters, are the words “shocking and disgusting”, or something like that. What’s been happening in Abu Ghraib is definitely disgusting, but the photograph they use is less shocking than it is ridiculous and stupid. Sure, I wouldn’t ever want to be forcibly tied up and blindfolded with some military broad’s drawers, but this picture is a whole hell of a lot less offensive and depressing than any of the other hot pics they’ve released thus far. The immaturity and pettiness of this particular act actually make the picture sort of funny, in an amazingly bleak way. The strong language used in the headline certainly describes the full range of mistreatment that has been revealed, but it certainly looks overblown and exaggerated when contrasted with the relatively tame photograph with which it shares the cover. Ah, but who reads the US News and World Report, anyway?
I did that chocolate thing - it was good.
Yes, we only partially exist, but that is for we are illimitably powerful men, with precious few spare seconds to waste upon this computer boondoggle. Who has time to write bullshit about nonsense on the Intraweb when there are Netflixes to be encountered? This past weekend we saw much, and learned far more, and with each successive occasion the truths of the moment and our collective sacred past offered themselves up like bosoms to the suckling babe.
Raiders of the Lost Ark is as marvelous as ever, effulgent with wit and verve lacking in most subsequent summer blockbusters. It even puts Star Wars to shame in terms of pure visceral excitement. It’s almost as good as The Scorpion King. I can’t wait to see the next one, Indiana Jones and the Commute from Hell. HAHAHAHAHA!. Stuck on You is easily the Farrelly brothers’ most likable film. It may not be their funniest movie, but it is relatively well acted, and who doesn’t love Matt Damon? He is lovable, and loved. And Cher! She is as brilliant as the Sun devouring Albert Einstein and Leonardo Da Vinci’s baby. She should be given a million billion Academy Awards, an Oscar for every transcendent utterance of each unassuming syllable, and a gallon of Golden Globes for each seductive motion. And Eva Mendes’s surgeon should get a fucking Nobel Prize. But it’s an amusing little trifle, with some laughs and some tears, and one ineffably great scene featuring ex-pat Patriot Lawyer Milloy and everybody’s favorite North Quincy resident Tom Brady. We also watched Thirteen, an amazing comedy starring Holly Hunter and that girl from that show nobody watched. I really like these mockumentaries that are so popular these days, and this one might just be the best. This irreverent girl keeps on getting all mixed up in wacky scrapes and mishaps, and she just can’t stay out of trouble. Her follies and foibles are just like real life, but with a little twist. Hunter plays the girl’s exasperated but loving mom, and some of her reaction shots are pure comedic gold. I mean, what can you do with a daughter like this, except shrug your shoulders, shake your head, and laugh? Some of the girl’s hilarious schemes reminded me of myself when I was thirteen, and I’m sure this will be true for most of you. We’re all thirteen once, if you live to be that old, and being thirteen means acting a little bit nutty. Keep your eyes pealed for Atlanta native Kip Pardue’s brief cameo – his hilarious antics nearly steal the show. The bravery it took for Jon Lovitz to portray the sweet mentally handicapped drug baron trying to recover that important microchip that was mistakenly slipped into the girl’s purse is astoundingly inspiring. But so Thirteen is as funny as Requiem for a Dream, but without all that anachronistic slapstick. And it’s sure to leave you feeling so good.
I can’t wait to see who wins America’s Idol. Hopefully my “dog” Matt Rogers will pull off the big upset. That guy totally played in some football game! He’s the greatest generation.
Yes, we only partially exist, but that is for we are illimitably powerful men, with precious few spare seconds to waste upon this computer boondoggle. Who has time to write bullshit about nonsense on the Intraweb when there are Netflixes to be encountered? This past weekend we saw much, and learned far more, and with each successive occasion the truths of the moment and our collective sacred past offered themselves up like bosoms to the suckling babe.
Raiders of the Lost Ark is as marvelous as ever, effulgent with wit and verve lacking in most subsequent summer blockbusters. It even puts Star Wars to shame in terms of pure visceral excitement. It’s almost as good as The Scorpion King. I can’t wait to see the next one, Indiana Jones and the Commute from Hell. HAHAHAHAHA!. Stuck on You is easily the Farrelly brothers’ most likable film. It may not be their funniest movie, but it is relatively well acted, and who doesn’t love Matt Damon? He is lovable, and loved. And Cher! She is as brilliant as the Sun devouring Albert Einstein and Leonardo Da Vinci’s baby. She should be given a million billion Academy Awards, an Oscar for every transcendent utterance of each unassuming syllable, and a gallon of Golden Globes for each seductive motion. And Eva Mendes’s surgeon should get a fucking Nobel Prize. But it’s an amusing little trifle, with some laughs and some tears, and one ineffably great scene featuring ex-pat Patriot Lawyer Milloy and everybody’s favorite North Quincy resident Tom Brady. We also watched Thirteen, an amazing comedy starring Holly Hunter and that girl from that show nobody watched. I really like these mockumentaries that are so popular these days, and this one might just be the best. This irreverent girl keeps on getting all mixed up in wacky scrapes and mishaps, and she just can’t stay out of trouble. Her follies and foibles are just like real life, but with a little twist. Hunter plays the girl’s exasperated but loving mom, and some of her reaction shots are pure comedic gold. I mean, what can you do with a daughter like this, except shrug your shoulders, shake your head, and laugh? Some of the girl’s hilarious schemes reminded me of myself when I was thirteen, and I’m sure this will be true for most of you. We’re all thirteen once, if you live to be that old, and being thirteen means acting a little bit nutty. Keep your eyes pealed for Atlanta native Kip Pardue’s brief cameo – his hilarious antics nearly steal the show. The bravery it took for Jon Lovitz to portray the sweet mentally handicapped drug baron trying to recover that important microchip that was mistakenly slipped into the girl’s purse is astoundingly inspiring. But so Thirteen is as funny as Requiem for a Dream, but without all that anachronistic slapstick. And it’s sure to leave you feeling so good.
I can’t wait to see who wins America’s Idol. Hopefully my “dog” Matt Rogers will pull off the big upset. That guy totally played in some football game! He’s the greatest generation.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
are these letters too big?
So this band the Arcade Fire isn’t half-bad. Pitchfork had some news item up today about how Merge is putting out an album by these folks in September. I’ve been listening to some of their stuff today and it’s actually quite good, especially “Headlights” and “No Cars Go”. It sort of reminds me of Head of Femur, or if those Elephant Six people were more into early U2 and Wire’s second and third albums than the Beach Boys or the Kinks.
I've also been listening to that Summer Hymns ep that came out a few months back. I think this may be their best stuff yet. I've really liked all their albums, and I'm not going to say that this ep is better than any of them, but I enjoy listening to this ep from start to finish more than I enjoy listening to any of their full-lengths in their entireties. It's sorta like these sandwiches they sell at the shithole grill downstairs; the sandwich is excellent, but it's most powerful and thrilling when you only eat half of it. Past the halfway point it gets to be a bit much. I think maybe the Hymns are like that too; as good as they are, they're better in smaller doses. But even when I eat the whole thing (which of course I always do) that sandwich is still fucking amazing, so this should not be taken as a knock against the Hymns in any way whatsoever. No ma'am.
So hey, how about that war? Pretty rad, huh?
So this band the Arcade Fire isn’t half-bad. Pitchfork had some news item up today about how Merge is putting out an album by these folks in September. I’ve been listening to some of their stuff today and it’s actually quite good, especially “Headlights” and “No Cars Go”. It sort of reminds me of Head of Femur, or if those Elephant Six people were more into early U2 and Wire’s second and third albums than the Beach Boys or the Kinks.
I've also been listening to that Summer Hymns ep that came out a few months back. I think this may be their best stuff yet. I've really liked all their albums, and I'm not going to say that this ep is better than any of them, but I enjoy listening to this ep from start to finish more than I enjoy listening to any of their full-lengths in their entireties. It's sorta like these sandwiches they sell at the shithole grill downstairs; the sandwich is excellent, but it's most powerful and thrilling when you only eat half of it. Past the halfway point it gets to be a bit much. I think maybe the Hymns are like that too; as good as they are, they're better in smaller doses. But even when I eat the whole thing (which of course I always do) that sandwich is still fucking amazing, so this should not be taken as a knock against the Hymns in any way whatsoever. No ma'am.
So hey, how about that war? Pretty rad, huh?
Monday, May 10, 2004
five wacky english proletariat idiots
The Fall's latest album, The Real New Fall LP... Formerly Country on the Click, is going to be released in the States in June, by Narnack Records. Import copies have been going for $30 up here, so this is some welcome relief. I have no idea if this one's any good or not, but their last few records have actually been some of their best stuff since 1987 or so. So what if they haven't made a truly great record since I was nine - their last few albums have all had enough good songs to warrant some attention.
Narnack's looking like a winner more and more. Parts and Labor are excellent, and Aa's live show was most entertaining. I know very little about this operation, but they're putting out some great stuff.
The Fall's latest album, The Real New Fall LP... Formerly Country on the Click, is going to be released in the States in June, by Narnack Records. Import copies have been going for $30 up here, so this is some welcome relief. I have no idea if this one's any good or not, but their last few records have actually been some of their best stuff since 1987 or so. So what if they haven't made a truly great record since I was nine - their last few albums have all had enough good songs to warrant some attention.
Narnack's looking like a winner more and more. Parts and Labor are excellent, and Aa's live show was most entertaining. I know very little about this operation, but they're putting out some great stuff.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
these Braves are fucked.
DeWayne Wise, Mark DeRosa, Adam LaRoche, Johnny Estrada, Andruw Jones, Mike Hessman, Dave Hollins (!?!), and Jesse Garcia?
holy goddamned SHIT...
I believe in these dudes. Not these eight particular dudes, but in the Braves overall. You can't expect a Cox/Mazzone team to lose until they prove they can. But with any random two of the Furcal/Giles/Jones/Jones core out, this team is fucked. Factor in the expected absence of J. D. "Mr Glass" Drew and you've got a team that should be playing in Sarasota or Chattanooga and not Turner Field.
oh wait - it's Damon Hollins, not mulletted Phillie non-legend Dave. That's both slightly relieving and unfathomably depressing...
DeWayne Wise, Mark DeRosa, Adam LaRoche, Johnny Estrada, Andruw Jones, Mike Hessman, Dave Hollins (!?!), and Jesse Garcia?
holy goddamned SHIT...
I believe in these dudes. Not these eight particular dudes, but in the Braves overall. You can't expect a Cox/Mazzone team to lose until they prove they can. But with any random two of the Furcal/Giles/Jones/Jones core out, this team is fucked. Factor in the expected absence of J. D. "Mr Glass" Drew and you've got a team that should be playing in Sarasota or Chattanooga and not Turner Field.
oh wait - it's Damon Hollins, not mulletted Phillie non-legend Dave. That's both slightly relieving and unfathomably depressing...
I don't see any point in complaining about the stupid decisions made by the baseball men of America. There is nothing any amount of outrage by any amount of Americans can do to make these people change their minds. Once they get fixated on something, it is destined to happen. Eventually they will get around to contracting the Twins, eventually uniforms will be a patchwork of alcohol and erectile dysfunction medication advertisements, and eventually Bud Selig will enter the Hall of Fame to the disgust of all right-thinking citizens everywhere. Railing against the ads or the lead-off meters or Flukie the Singing Knuckleball is a complete waste of time. That being said, the latest developments could have been worse; they could make the players dress like characters from Spider-man. And although it would be sort of cool to see David Ortiz wear Kraven the Hunter's awesome lion-cape thing, I don't think it's that much of a stretch to say that would probably be far more distracting than webbing decals on the bases.
But don't get me wrong - this is really ridiculous, and further proof that MLB needs a true commissioner, pronto.
a king's tale
it's 5:03 am and a surprising amount of people are burning the post midnight oil at the old U of Miami library. In about an hour I'm going to walk half a mile to a train that I will ride for a little while, then get off and walk 2 miles to my house where I'll take a quick shower and change clothes. Then I'm gonna walk those same two miles in reverse so I can get back on the train, where it'll take me to the court house where I will most likely get a stiff fine for the car wreck I was in 2 weeks ago. Miami rulz.
p.s. If anyone is stumped as to what to get me for my upcoming birthday, here's a hint. PLATNIUM FRONTS. I'll take them either open faced or diamond studded. Or a crunk chalice. The choice is yours.
it's 5:03 am and a surprising amount of people are burning the post midnight oil at the old U of Miami library. In about an hour I'm going to walk half a mile to a train that I will ride for a little while, then get off and walk 2 miles to my house where I'll take a quick shower and change clothes. Then I'm gonna walk those same two miles in reverse so I can get back on the train, where it'll take me to the court house where I will most likely get a stiff fine for the car wreck I was in 2 weeks ago. Miami rulz.
p.s. If anyone is stumped as to what to get me for my upcoming birthday, here's a hint. PLATNIUM FRONTS. I'll take them either open faced or diamond studded. Or a crunk chalice. The choice is yours.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Redemption Value
Perhaps I have had a bit too much to drink. Who knows. I do know, however, that I am not getting divorced, and that I am not 44, and that I have a full head (and face) of hair and no embarrassing tattoos, and that I did not snort cocaine and completely fuck everything up at practice tonight. And also my daughter is not twelve. My daughter is not yet a reality. No sir. I got shit down tight.
I bought a six pack of Old Peculier tonight. It cost as much as twenty-four cans of PBR. I had intended to drink a couple tonight, a couple tomorrow, and maybe a couple on Wednesday. After dinner, and after practice, and after the forty I drank at practice, I now find myself with an empty cardboard container and one hell of a joyless workday looming.
At least I stamped that fucking virus dead.
Perhaps I have had a bit too much to drink. Who knows. I do know, however, that I am not getting divorced, and that I am not 44, and that I have a full head (and face) of hair and no embarrassing tattoos, and that I did not snort cocaine and completely fuck everything up at practice tonight. And also my daughter is not twelve. My daughter is not yet a reality. No sir. I got shit down tight.
I bought a six pack of Old Peculier tonight. It cost as much as twenty-four cans of PBR. I had intended to drink a couple tonight, a couple tomorrow, and maybe a couple on Wednesday. After dinner, and after practice, and after the forty I drank at practice, I now find myself with an empty cardboard container and one hell of a joyless workday looming.
At least I stamped that fucking virus dead.
