Nothing like a Friday night spent elbows deep in the guts of awkward HTML and stupid CSS. It’s okay, though, because I have a bottle of Domaine de la Chanteleuserie Cabernet Franc from Vine and I’m not afraid to drink it. (Nor am I afraid to admit I’ve already consumed most of it already.)
This has been a week of music. First off, did you know there is nothing you can’t find on the Internet? IT’S TRUE. For example, I found two albums by Cakekitchen that I only ever had on tape. (Side note: I remember, in Savannah, my friend Dan and me wandering around a Media Play looking for music. Him: Isn’t this the record you were looking for? Me: No, that’s Cake. I’m looking for Cakekitchen. Him: Wait, is that different from Sea and Cake? Me: I have that already. Him: Oh for Christ’s sake. Get me the fuck out of here.)(I’m sure there are real record stores in Savannah now.) Picture Henry Rollins right now being all like IS THAT A FUCKING RECORDER? FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!
Second, my office mate and I both love Streets of Fire pretty much more than anyone else in the world (aside from these folks, I suppose). I mentioned once that I dressed up as Ellen Aim for Halloween one year. He one-upped me by saying that he tried, unsuccessfully, to find a pair of the rubber/garbage bag S&M-style waders that Willem Dafoe wears. (For Halloween — or so he says.) He even went into various bondage boutiques in the West Village asking for them. No one knew what he was talking about, except for this one dude who was like, “Oh, from Streets of Fire? No, we don’t have them. But that would be awesome.” (Me: How is it you didn’t switch teams right there? Him: It’s the only time I’ve ever questioned my sexuality. Me: Imagine how lonely he is. No one likes Streets of Fire.) So we downloaded the soundtrack and have fist-pumped from our desk chairs for the past few days.
Third, there’s a subsection of Metafilter devoted to music. There’s this guy named bgm who goes by chococat and he produces the most beautiful songs.** Some are covers, some are originals. Part Elliott Smith, part Stephin Merritt, part Lee Hazelwood, part Jens Lekman…and a lot of originality. I like it a lot to listen to.
Another thing: There are two security shifts in my office building. The daytime guard, Robert, is a 50-something guy who makes incredibly inappropriate jokes. On paper, it seems odd that he still has a job, but in person, he’s just not the type of person you could bring yourself to dislike. And while the jokes he tells are horrible, they’re also so outdated that they’re almost nonsequitur. (His primary source material is the Truly Tasteless series, so there are lots of jokes about women’s libbers and Ed Meese.) It’s only on rare occasion that he crosses the line. (Him: Did you work out this morning? Me: No, I had a doctor’s appointment. Him: Trouble with your lady parts?) The nighttime guard is a nondescript guy, probably approaching 50. He seems to like reading the bible and listening to a small radio. One night I came down into the lobby, though, and he was listening to Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning.” I figured this is what they play on classic rock stations now. Then a few days later I came down and he was listening to “Radiation Vibe” by Fountains of Wayne (What.) which I thought was an unusual song to hear on the radio. And then the other night he was listening to the Lemonheads cover of “Mrs. Robinson.” So now I can’t tell: is there some special radio station that I don’t know about that he just happens to be accidentally listening to, or is this his jam? (Why do I care? I don’t know.)
Oh, yeah, and I downloaded Nicky Minaj’s new record. It’s not bad. I still think she’s an asshole.
The Cakekitchen, Silence of the Sirens
Streets of Fire soundtrack, Tonight Is What It Means to Be Young
*This has nothing to do with anything other than the fact that Roger Ailes is a fucking jerk.
**It doesn’t really matter where you start, but this and this are two of my favorites.
I love this ghost story about the Gray Man at the Chelsea Hotel. Excerpt:
I hadn’t heard anything outside of the traffic down on 23rd Street and the occasional jet engine, and when I asked her what it was she said “I keep hearing a man’s voice saying ‘jump, go on jump. You’ll be fine, just go ahead and jump” and explained to me that a bizarre and inexplicable urge to jump off the roof of the Chelsea Hotel had entered her mind and would not be shaken. She asked that we move away from the edge of the roof where we had been perched, which is when we saw it.
A few yards away, half obscured by a chimney stack was the darkened silhouette of a man, watching us from an inkwell of a corner. It could have been my eyes playing tricks on my mind and I tried to convince myself this was the case. That is up until it moved, stepping back into the darkness behind it.
I can’t help it; I believe in ghosts. Yes, I’m an avowed atheist. I realize this is the dumbest thing (among the many other dumb things) I’ve admitted on this blog, but I believe in…something. My feeble rationale is that there must be some kind of…residual…um…energy? Like static electricity perhaps?
I once argued about it for three hours with my boyfriend at the time. I think I watched too much In Search Of as a kid.
This is me, just about the time that I was enrolled at Mrs. Brucie’s School of Dance, clumsily twirling my baton to Bob Seger’s “Still the Same.” I think that, for the purposes of the photo, I was made to wear the hat. In my memories from that age, I am always wearing that dress. Like the time I picked a bouquet of poison ivy for my mom, or when we went to the county fair and she accidentally popped my balloon with her cigarette, or when my dad accidentally pushed me off the swing. (I doubt I was actually wearing that dress at the fair or on the swing, but it’s possible that I was in fact wearing it when I picked the poison ivy, because that incident occurred around the same time this photo was taken. Anyhow, children are unreliable witnesses.)
I loved playing baseball with my dad. That’s why I’m holding that yellow plastic bat. Why on earth did they enroll me in dance class?
Bob Seger, Still the Same
As you know I’ve been going through my old photos and I came across a few from a certain era — 1991 — and was reminded of driving around in my friend’s mom’s station wagon, making her pull over so that I could talk to some dumb skater guys. At that point I had thoroughly embraced both early hardcore and hip-hop, based largely on the tastes of guys that I liked a lot, so I remember the tape playing: Son of Bazerk, Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk, which — come to think of it — was far cooler than any of the hip hop any of those dudes were listening to. It was a fluke. I loved that album, remember listening to it for years and playing it during parties in college and whatnot.
So imagine the amazing synchronicity: Just the other day, N and I were talking about that silly Jimmy Fallon/Justin Timberlake “history of hip-hop” medley that’s been making the rounds and arguing about who was unjustly left out (hint: EVERY SINGLE WOMAN MC except Missy Elliott and also the Bay Area, but I digress) and we were sitting there trying to name all the notable female MCs out there and coming up woefully short. And then I remembered: “How about Half Pint from Son of Bazerk?” And in a moment notable only because N’s knowledge of rap trumps mine to the power of ten, he said, “Who’s Son of Bazerk?” And I was all like, let me see what I can find on FilesTube. Lo and behold, there we go. (And hey, I bought Bazerk Bazerk Bazerk in 1991 — I’m merely replacing it under warranty.)
And so then I thought, what the hell are they up to these days? So I googled them and here’s the synchronicity: They have totally returned and released their first record in 19 years in September: Well Thawed Out. (Am I crazy, or is it some big secret?) So, goody. I bought it.
Son of Bazerk, Change the Style [1991]
Son of Bazerk, I Swear on a Stack of Old Hits [2010]
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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