It's Friday....I'm too lazy to make up a title.
After hearing from one of my best (and brightest) friends that he couldn’t understand my blog because he “doesn’t watch that much TV,” I decided I was going to try and class this joint up. No more rants about Lucas and Saved by the Bell and the Surreal Life. Or, to be more realistic, maybe I would just try and have ONE post that was about something other than the drivel found on TV. (Though, in my defense Kenneth, a lot of my postings are about music, not television. But I get your point—it’s not like I’m musing on Tolstoy!)
Anyway, I thought I had a great subject all prepared because I got involved in a fight with some co-workers about modern fiction. Now, granted, my knowledge of modern fiction is only slightly higher than “laughably low for someone with a college education” because I spend my free time reading an absurd amount of magazines and non-fiction. However, I do know my Cheevers from my Moodys and my Updikes. (Which was the starting point of said argument.)
But, I don’t know. Now that three days have passed and feverish flush of literary argument has drained from my cheeks, I don’t much care to write on my ridiculous blog about a bunch of WASPy, New England writers. Then last night I was hit with new inspiration as I watched the first presidential debates. Though I had to watch much of it through my fingers like I would a horror movie (dude, the idea of W. smoking Kerry in an oratorical competition is scarier than Freddy Kruger and Jason combined!), I was pleased to see Kerry look so authoritative and comfortable and confident. I was thrilled that he was able to be specific about his plans and quote facts and figures about Iraq while still being “plain-spoken.” (Though I must say, I don’t get what the American public’s obsession is with “plain-spokenness” and the mediocrity of their leaders. I want my president to be smarter than I am.) Bush looked flummoxed and angry and short. The best moments of the debates were when he admitted he wanted to leash his wild daughters!
But even the debates—which I watched with great interest and clearly care passionately about—aren’t really adequate fodder for blog talk. I mean, what do I have to add to the political discussion? Nothing. I’m not an expert or an insider. Christ, I can’t even vote!
So then I got to thinking…why do I even keep this dumb online journal? Isn’t this a hobby for middle schoolers? Everything I write here, I eventually say to my friends who compose the majority of my readership. I’m not interested in being on blogging scene. I’m not looking for recognition. I don’t even really use this as a diary—I mean when have I ever written about a fight that I’ve had with a friend or a boy that I liked? (never) No, the only reason I keep this “blog” (god, I hate that word!) is because I’m a frustrated writer. My job, while allowing me lots of opportunity to write for the paper, doesn’t afford me ENOUGH writing opportunity. (Or, should I say, I’m too chicken shit to actively seek out more/better opportunities.) So this online space is like my own personal newspaper column. (Though without the pesky copywriters and editors!) I can write about whatever I want. And, since all I want to write about is the minutiae of pop culture, that is why my “columns” are filled with dumb references to TV shows and albums that I’m obsessed with. Plus, since I’m a terribly lazy writer (I would NEVER finish a novel!), this at least forces me to sit down a couple of times a week at the computer and crank out some opinions about dumb bands and reality shows. Hey, at least I know where I stand on the Flava Flav/Brigitte Neilson hookup! (Poor Flav, she’s gonna break his heart!)
So, that being said, here’s what I’m listening to this week:
“So Alive” by Ryan Adams. I’m really trying to give his most recent album a fair shake. I mean the man is my favorite, young, living singer-songwriter. I think most of it is copycat, Replacements-lite but this song—obviously his nod to Morrissey—makes great use of disco-eighth note drumming and really shows us a different side of Adams singing voice. He croons and keens and whispers in a faux-British accent and holds off on the familiar yelp and drawl that we’ve come to expect of him until the very end of the song. Maybe I’ll learn to love this album one song at a time?
“An Open Letter to NYC” by the Beastie Boys. I know I’ve talked this song up on this blog already but now—after about a million listens—it’s not the Dead Boys sample or the local shout outs that are my favorite parts. Nope. Now, I giggle every time I hear the verse, “Shout out to South Bronx, where my mom hails from right next to Highbridge across from Harlem. To the Grand Concourse where my Mom and Dad met before they moved on down to the Upper West.” I just love the way Mike D (I think it’s Mike D.) brats out the words “Upper West,” like it’s a super-tough place. Like he’s saying that he grew up in the projects in Bed Sty. He makes his kinda posh, pussy neighborhood sound so badass. So I giggle.
“Shrink”—the whole album—by the Notwist. This is another discovery made by my ipod. (Thank you, Return of Retardo Montalban!) I really loved the Notwist album Neon Golden that came out last year. (In fact, now that I think of it that was one of those albums that I learned to love one song at a time. I heard “Pick Up the Phone” and was hooked by the symphonic electronic textures of music and how it melded with the soft-spoken vocals, the fingerpicked acoustic guitar, and the hard dance rhythms.) I was surprised the album didn’t make more “Best of” lists at the end of the year. But I never really knew their earlier albums—even though I had some of them on my ipod. About a week ago, my ipod became obsessed with songs off of “Shrink,” their 1998 album and now it has become the album I listen to exclusively at work. The crunchy electronic beats keep me focused and motivated and the sweet guitar lines are unobtrusive. I’m falling in love with Markus Acher’s voice; it’s soft and throaty and sometimes you can hear his German accent. Mostly, I’m impressed with how cerebral and clinical the music is and yet how infused with feeling (often melancholy) it is.
Anyway, I thought I had a great subject all prepared because I got involved in a fight with some co-workers about modern fiction. Now, granted, my knowledge of modern fiction is only slightly higher than “laughably low for someone with a college education” because I spend my free time reading an absurd amount of magazines and non-fiction. However, I do know my Cheevers from my Moodys and my Updikes. (Which was the starting point of said argument.)
But, I don’t know. Now that three days have passed and feverish flush of literary argument has drained from my cheeks, I don’t much care to write on my ridiculous blog about a bunch of WASPy, New England writers. Then last night I was hit with new inspiration as I watched the first presidential debates. Though I had to watch much of it through my fingers like I would a horror movie (dude, the idea of W. smoking Kerry in an oratorical competition is scarier than Freddy Kruger and Jason combined!), I was pleased to see Kerry look so authoritative and comfortable and confident. I was thrilled that he was able to be specific about his plans and quote facts and figures about Iraq while still being “plain-spoken.” (Though I must say, I don’t get what the American public’s obsession is with “plain-spokenness” and the mediocrity of their leaders. I want my president to be smarter than I am.) Bush looked flummoxed and angry and short. The best moments of the debates were when he admitted he wanted to leash his wild daughters!
But even the debates—which I watched with great interest and clearly care passionately about—aren’t really adequate fodder for blog talk. I mean, what do I have to add to the political discussion? Nothing. I’m not an expert or an insider. Christ, I can’t even vote!
So then I got to thinking…why do I even keep this dumb online journal? Isn’t this a hobby for middle schoolers? Everything I write here, I eventually say to my friends who compose the majority of my readership. I’m not interested in being on blogging scene. I’m not looking for recognition. I don’t even really use this as a diary—I mean when have I ever written about a fight that I’ve had with a friend or a boy that I liked? (never) No, the only reason I keep this “blog” (god, I hate that word!) is because I’m a frustrated writer. My job, while allowing me lots of opportunity to write for the paper, doesn’t afford me ENOUGH writing opportunity. (Or, should I say, I’m too chicken shit to actively seek out more/better opportunities.) So this online space is like my own personal newspaper column. (Though without the pesky copywriters and editors!) I can write about whatever I want. And, since all I want to write about is the minutiae of pop culture, that is why my “columns” are filled with dumb references to TV shows and albums that I’m obsessed with. Plus, since I’m a terribly lazy writer (I would NEVER finish a novel!), this at least forces me to sit down a couple of times a week at the computer and crank out some opinions about dumb bands and reality shows. Hey, at least I know where I stand on the Flava Flav/Brigitte Neilson hookup! (Poor Flav, she’s gonna break his heart!)
So, that being said, here’s what I’m listening to this week:
“So Alive” by Ryan Adams. I’m really trying to give his most recent album a fair shake. I mean the man is my favorite, young, living singer-songwriter. I think most of it is copycat, Replacements-lite but this song—obviously his nod to Morrissey—makes great use of disco-eighth note drumming and really shows us a different side of Adams singing voice. He croons and keens and whispers in a faux-British accent and holds off on the familiar yelp and drawl that we’ve come to expect of him until the very end of the song. Maybe I’ll learn to love this album one song at a time?
“An Open Letter to NYC” by the Beastie Boys. I know I’ve talked this song up on this blog already but now—after about a million listens—it’s not the Dead Boys sample or the local shout outs that are my favorite parts. Nope. Now, I giggle every time I hear the verse, “Shout out to South Bronx, where my mom hails from right next to Highbridge across from Harlem. To the Grand Concourse where my Mom and Dad met before they moved on down to the Upper West.” I just love the way Mike D (I think it’s Mike D.) brats out the words “Upper West,” like it’s a super-tough place. Like he’s saying that he grew up in the projects in Bed Sty. He makes his kinda posh, pussy neighborhood sound so badass. So I giggle.
“Shrink”—the whole album—by the Notwist. This is another discovery made by my ipod. (Thank you, Return of Retardo Montalban!) I really loved the Notwist album Neon Golden that came out last year. (In fact, now that I think of it that was one of those albums that I learned to love one song at a time. I heard “Pick Up the Phone” and was hooked by the symphonic electronic textures of music and how it melded with the soft-spoken vocals, the fingerpicked acoustic guitar, and the hard dance rhythms.) I was surprised the album didn’t make more “Best of” lists at the end of the year. But I never really knew their earlier albums—even though I had some of them on my ipod. About a week ago, my ipod became obsessed with songs off of “Shrink,” their 1998 album and now it has become the album I listen to exclusively at work. The crunchy electronic beats keep me focused and motivated and the sweet guitar lines are unobtrusive. I’m falling in love with Markus Acher’s voice; it’s soft and throaty and sometimes you can hear his German accent. Mostly, I’m impressed with how cerebral and clinical the music is and yet how infused with feeling (often melancholy) it is.
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