Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I'm Looking Forward to This...
Beck Enlists Devendra, MGMT, Lidell to Cover Albums for His Website
First up: The Velvet Underground
Photo by Beck/Drew Brown, front page photo by Autumn de Wilde
When most of us have extra spare time on our hands, we end up zoning out in front of "Daisy of Love" reruns or rereading Watchmen for the billionth time. Beck, on the other hand, challenges himself to record cover versions of entire albums as quickly as possible. Different strokes, I guess.
Over the next month, Beck will be overhauling his website, and one of the features will be something called Record Club, in which Beck ropes in various musician friends to record an entire album in a day. For the purposes of scrappy immediacy, nobody will rehearse or arrange anything beforehand.
After that day of furious recording, Beck will slowly let the record out into the world via his website (as well as the websites of the other musicians involved), uploading a new song once a week. He'll kick this party off with The Velvet Underground and Nico. That's an ambitious start! Will Beck attempt the Nico vocal parts himself? We'll find out!
Future Record Clubs will involve friends-of-Beck like Devendra Banhart, MGMT, Jamie Lidell, and producer Nigel Godrich. Here's hoping they give 8Ball & MJG's In Our Lifetime a shot.
After that day of furious recording, Beck will slowly let the record out into the world via his website (as well as the websites of the other musicians involved), uploading a new song once a week. He'll kick this party off with The Velvet Underground and Nico. That's an ambitious start! Will Beck attempt the Nico vocal parts himself? We'll find out!
Future Record Clubs will involve friends-of-Beck like Devendra Banhart, MGMT, Jamie Lidell, and producer Nigel Godrich. Here's hoping they give 8Ball & MJG's In Our Lifetime a shot.
Posted by Tom Breihan on June 17, 2009 at 5:50 p.m.
She's Got the Look
bu-bu-bu-bukowski
"the well balanced individual is insane."
"almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot"
"sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing"
"an intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a different way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way."
and my new personal favorite...
"the ass is the face of the soul of sex"
"almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot"
"sexual intercourse is kicking death in the ass while singing"
"an intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a different way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way."
and my new personal favorite...
"the ass is the face of the soul of sex"
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Stranger than Paradise 1984
Directed by Jim Jarmusch
Starring John Lurie, Eszter Balint, and Sonic Youth's drummer Richard Edson
incoherent choppy film cuts.
funny misplaced cuts to black.
awkward character interactions
compensated by the exotic Eva and her matched foreign accent.
a muddled cut off ending.
brief and ordinary dialogue with a few memorable quotes...
"choking the alligator"
"you come to someplace new and everything looks the same"
Stranger than Paradise puts a spell on you and takes you on the road with a few edgy hipsters.
Starring John Lurie, Eszter Balint, and Sonic Youth's drummer Richard Edson
incoherent choppy film cuts.
funny misplaced cuts to black.
awkward character interactions
compensated by the exotic Eva and her matched foreign accent.
a muddled cut off ending.
brief and ordinary dialogue with a few memorable quotes...
"choking the alligator"
"you come to someplace new and everything looks the same"
Stranger than Paradise puts a spell on you and takes you on the road with a few edgy hipsters.
.. become a high-school history teacher, or rather storyteller. I am intrigued by all the historical myths, legends, and conspiracies that our history teachers always seemed to leave behind. I fear the world of numbers and arithmetic, feeling it confines me, almost suffocates me with its’ precision and accuracy.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Top Things Not to do at an Interview...
1. **RING RING** answer your cell phone... especially if you have the Jonas Bros' S.O.S as your ring tone.
2. Bring your dirty Sailor mouth aboard the Interview.
3. Treat your interviewer like your new BFFL... keep your ramblings and love life to yourself.
4. Dress like you do for your night job... stray away from Fishnet, strappy heels, and ruby red lipstick.
5. FART... keep your gases to yourself.
6. Lose any of your brushes... toothbrush, hairbrush, eyebrow brush, dog hair brush... etc.
7. Show up late for your very important date.
8. Describe yourself as "Insecure".
9. Recount your experience in the State Penitentiary.
10. Bring any of the following: Children, alcohol flask, warrants for your arrest, cigarettes, guns, or illicit drugs.
2. Bring your dirty Sailor mouth aboard the Interview.
3. Treat your interviewer like your new BFFL... keep your ramblings and love life to yourself.
4. Dress like you do for your night job... stray away from Fishnet, strappy heels, and ruby red lipstick.
5. FART... keep your gases to yourself.
6. Lose any of your brushes... toothbrush, hairbrush, eyebrow brush, dog hair brush... etc.
7. Show up late for your very important date.
8. Describe yourself as "Insecure".
9. Recount your experience in the State Penitentiary.
10. Bring any of the following: Children, alcohol flask, warrants for your arrest, cigarettes, guns, or illicit drugs.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
Nothing but cool and sophisticated...
"You spend a whole life of non-interference with the wishes of others, and nobody bothers you and you cut along and make it your own way." -Lester Young.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
And so begins, begins our odyssey
The aria is bleeding and the boyish voice is leaving
I've been an evil tenor, I filled the innocents' doe eyes with glue
You're my only softness, you're my only pleasure, it's true
And I never want to be your little friend, the abject failure.
- of montreal.
I've been an evil tenor, I filled the innocents' doe eyes with glue
You're my only softness, you're my only pleasure, it's true
And I never want to be your little friend, the abject failure.
- of montreal.
spring 09 all wrapped up.
"don't follow leaders watch your parking meters"- bob dylan.
wins and losses, fools on hills, smoking tea in shady places, and finding a new me. A+
Thursday, April 30, 2009
oh iggy and your lust for life...
Wednesday, April 29
Iggy Pop Causes British Musician Insurance Controversy
Iggy appeared in ads for a company that didn't insure musicians. Whoops.
Iggy Pop -- still stirring shit up! The 62-year-old Stooge has caused an uproar in Britian over his appearance in advertisements for the insurance company Swiftcover.com. As previously reported, musicians had been complaining about the fact that Swiftcover.com didn't actually insure musicians. Billboard quoted a Swiftcover.com rep as saying, "Swiftcover.com chose Iggy Pop as the face of its advertising because he loves life, not because he is a musician. He is an actor demonstrating the benefits of Swiftcover.com." Which is a pretty stupid thing to say.
However, today, Billboard reports that following a threat by the UK's Advertising Standards Authority to ban the spots for false advertising, Swiftcover.com has decided to alter their policy. They now cover musicians. Iggy Pop-- inspiring change!
Iggy's new album Préliminaires, is out June 2 on Astralwerks in the U.S. (May 25 internationally.) As previously reported, it's a jazz album inspired by French writer Michel Houellebecq. Based on that information alone, it is probably going to suck.
In other news, Iggy will perform May 8 at Club Nokia in Los Angeles as part of the 5th Annual MusiCares MAP Fund Benefit Concert.
Posted by Amy Phillips on April 29, 2009 at 1:20 p.m.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
brake... stop sign.
I am scared of the dark.
I have always been a little shy.
I wish I still had imaginary friends.
People make no sense to me.
"Blast you fiend" -Penelope Pistol
Prince Charmings are better left in fairytales.
The only sport I understand is football.
I think love is a drug.
I don't know how to react when people cry.
Looking at clouds make me complete.
Sometimes the scattered clouds remind me of Magnetic Wooly Willy's hair.
I wish I could unravel all of History's Mysteries.
I tend to have too much to dream at night.
I want a huge library filled with all the books ever written.
I want to be a mommy more than anything in the world.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
life of a pedestrian...
the awkward brief encounters with large trucks, loud rice burners, and clumsy woman drivers...
Sunday, April 26, 2009
just one more hit.
“…Then Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother had a nice lunch and a long chat. The End,” narrated Mrs. Cahill with her prominent teacher voice meticulously vocalizing each distinct syllable.
Before the motherly figure could shut the wonderfully illustrated pages of the book or pull the glasses from her gentle, brown eyes, a rampage of little men and women charged toward the crayon table with over-zealous looks and feverish grins. A colorful assortment of tiny fingers muddled through great school boxes of Crayolas, Rose Arts, and unworthy, dollar-store, colored sticks of wax. As the fight for the popular reds, blues, and greens ravished the kindergarten classroom, I found a lonely Magenta Crayola creeping out from the box. More than content with the sharpened crayon, I clenched it in my fist, escaped the battleground, and proceeded to shade away at Little Red Riding Hood’s coat.
Peace was slowly restored as Mrs. Cahill took her rounds of the classroom, padding Jackie on the back, helping Andrew, praising Eddy. She was over my shoulder now. I felt her presence. I took notice of the dark shadow outlining her wild hair.
“That’s not red!” her once tender voice erupted.
Startled by her foreign, bitter tone, my shoulders trembled. I brought myself to look up at her and her nodding, pointed index finger. Her now lowered and cold glare scared me away and my shameful eyes found refuge in the toes of my white Keds.
“The rest of the class is using a RED crayon to color Little RED Riding Hood because she wears a RED hood,” she vulgarly pronounced to my peers hammering hard away at the bloody color.
It became quite apparent that had I used a red crayon, I would not have been scorned by Mrs. Cahill’s vast discontent. But why? In my simple five-year old mind it made complete sense to put to use the rejected Magenta. Little Red Riding Hood was a girl and all girls love any shade of pink; therefore she would probably have preferred a magenta coat anyway. Furthermore, the red crayons were all occupied. I was sure that by the time one reached me, the point would be dull and worn-out, a characteristic I came to find particularly irritable. Most importantly, when our work was up for display on the bulletin board, there would be no trouble at all pointing mine out from the rest.
Forgive me God for I have sinned! I have dared to be different, and now I am left to suffer the grave consequences of my actions. Society instills the concept of conformity on our young fragile minds as early as Kindergarten. A’s, stickers, and pats on the back for those who follow the paved path; on the other hand, those who seek individuality are disciplined by timeouts and harsh words.
Conformity is the process of abiding to an orthodox perspective, savoring entrenched concepts, and adhering to the mainstream standards. It is when a high-spirited freshman embraces the sisterhood of a sorority, or when sixteen-year-old girls flaunt their newly developed curves as they flock to the lines of Starbucks to order a Mocha Frap.
I put Mrs. Cahill’s lesson to use as I strutted down the halls of Palmetto Middle School with a trendy pair of hip-suffocating Brazilian jeans. The suave upperclassmen became my role models, as I mimicked their appearance, music interests, and personality. Conformity’s Casanova-like charm won me over by offering the acceptance of my peer’s in exchange for the slaughtering of my shabby, ultra-wide legged JNCO jeans.
I reaped all the social benefits of conformity as I realized joining the cheerleading team was a secure road to obtaining popularity. I remained only barely standing as the blur of rushing brawny football players passed through our parallel lines of clapping and prancing Killian cheerleaders. With eager smiles and passionate jumps, we waved high our dazzling green and gold pom-poms and shimmered our pompous spirit fingers. We stood together in our matching outfits, matching enthusiasm, and matching motives to pump up our school heroes.
I put to use my exhausted red crayon once more as I strived for the acceptance of a few unfamiliar faces. Christina, the driver of a brand new Volkswagen rabbit, was much like the real life version of the movie character Juno with a pragmatic attitude toward life and a sarcastic sense of humor. She wore thick black-framed glasses and swept her auburn bangs off to the left side of her face. A confident version of my younger brother I had never met proclaimed “shotgun” as if he had conquered front seat territory. I found myself crammed in the back seat between two bronzed versions of Beavis and Butthead sitting in what they referred to as the “bitch seat”. We raced off to a local Kwik Mart where we convinced the Arabian cashier to sell us a few Olde English’s and a pack of Camel Cigarettes unfiltered. After hours drifting up and down the streets of Kendall with barely two tires on the road, and Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” roaring from the speakers, we stumbled upon a high-school party with a few familiar faces.
Well-lubricated, I forcefully gulped down my last sip of beer. A pipe and a mini red lighter caught my attention as it made its way around the circle. With the opaque green bowl resting in her palms as if it was the sacred body of the Lord Jesus Christ, she directed me to “take a hit.” I felt a blank expression take over my face, as my paralyzed lips remained speechless. Christina, gripping the pipe with her thumb and forefinger, brought it up to her lips as she lit the grass with a fire that doubled in size to the tiny lighter. While slowly exhaling a puff of white smoke, Christina’s scalpel-like fingers punctured my trembling shoulders. “Your turn Geeg.” I glanced around the circle, and the pressure of a million eyes stared me down. I hesitated but saw my pale, trembling hands unconsciously reaching out. My emotions were incredibly complex and convoluted. All at the same time I wanted to say no, I wanted to say yes, I wanted to make believe I had done this before, and I wanted to run away. Before my mind, saturated with the weight of drunken thoughts, could grasp for a viable decision, the unbearable tension took hold, piercing away at my skin. I saw my hands mimic Christina’s as I almost instinctively wrapped my fingers around the foreign apparatus and watched the green shrivel away, realizing Conformity had conquered me. I had experienced smoking marijuana for the first time, not for any personal desire but simply to satisfy an environment in hopes of fitting in, much like my stint in cheerleading and Brazilian jeans.
While I pathetically coughed up my lungs, it dawned upon me that I was nothing but a prisoner to Conformity. It governed over me with an Iron Fist until all remnants of the magenta crayon melted away. I was another Conrad in the animal farm. No more than a teenage face at another high school party. Another statistic to tally up the victims of peer pressure. Just one more hit in the circle.
Before the motherly figure could shut the wonderfully illustrated pages of the book or pull the glasses from her gentle, brown eyes, a rampage of little men and women charged toward the crayon table with over-zealous looks and feverish grins. A colorful assortment of tiny fingers muddled through great school boxes of Crayolas, Rose Arts, and unworthy, dollar-store, colored sticks of wax. As the fight for the popular reds, blues, and greens ravished the kindergarten classroom, I found a lonely Magenta Crayola creeping out from the box. More than content with the sharpened crayon, I clenched it in my fist, escaped the battleground, and proceeded to shade away at Little Red Riding Hood’s coat.
Peace was slowly restored as Mrs. Cahill took her rounds of the classroom, padding Jackie on the back, helping Andrew, praising Eddy. She was over my shoulder now. I felt her presence. I took notice of the dark shadow outlining her wild hair.
“That’s not red!” her once tender voice erupted.
Startled by her foreign, bitter tone, my shoulders trembled. I brought myself to look up at her and her nodding, pointed index finger. Her now lowered and cold glare scared me away and my shameful eyes found refuge in the toes of my white Keds.
“The rest of the class is using a RED crayon to color Little RED Riding Hood because she wears a RED hood,” she vulgarly pronounced to my peers hammering hard away at the bloody color.
It became quite apparent that had I used a red crayon, I would not have been scorned by Mrs. Cahill’s vast discontent. But why? In my simple five-year old mind it made complete sense to put to use the rejected Magenta. Little Red Riding Hood was a girl and all girls love any shade of pink; therefore she would probably have preferred a magenta coat anyway. Furthermore, the red crayons were all occupied. I was sure that by the time one reached me, the point would be dull and worn-out, a characteristic I came to find particularly irritable. Most importantly, when our work was up for display on the bulletin board, there would be no trouble at all pointing mine out from the rest.
Forgive me God for I have sinned! I have dared to be different, and now I am left to suffer the grave consequences of my actions. Society instills the concept of conformity on our young fragile minds as early as Kindergarten. A’s, stickers, and pats on the back for those who follow the paved path; on the other hand, those who seek individuality are disciplined by timeouts and harsh words.
Conformity is the process of abiding to an orthodox perspective, savoring entrenched concepts, and adhering to the mainstream standards. It is when a high-spirited freshman embraces the sisterhood of a sorority, or when sixteen-year-old girls flaunt their newly developed curves as they flock to the lines of Starbucks to order a Mocha Frap.
I put Mrs. Cahill’s lesson to use as I strutted down the halls of Palmetto Middle School with a trendy pair of hip-suffocating Brazilian jeans. The suave upperclassmen became my role models, as I mimicked their appearance, music interests, and personality. Conformity’s Casanova-like charm won me over by offering the acceptance of my peer’s in exchange for the slaughtering of my shabby, ultra-wide legged JNCO jeans.
I reaped all the social benefits of conformity as I realized joining the cheerleading team was a secure road to obtaining popularity. I remained only barely standing as the blur of rushing brawny football players passed through our parallel lines of clapping and prancing Killian cheerleaders. With eager smiles and passionate jumps, we waved high our dazzling green and gold pom-poms and shimmered our pompous spirit fingers. We stood together in our matching outfits, matching enthusiasm, and matching motives to pump up our school heroes.
I put to use my exhausted red crayon once more as I strived for the acceptance of a few unfamiliar faces. Christina, the driver of a brand new Volkswagen rabbit, was much like the real life version of the movie character Juno with a pragmatic attitude toward life and a sarcastic sense of humor. She wore thick black-framed glasses and swept her auburn bangs off to the left side of her face. A confident version of my younger brother I had never met proclaimed “shotgun” as if he had conquered front seat territory. I found myself crammed in the back seat between two bronzed versions of Beavis and Butthead sitting in what they referred to as the “bitch seat”. We raced off to a local Kwik Mart where we convinced the Arabian cashier to sell us a few Olde English’s and a pack of Camel Cigarettes unfiltered. After hours drifting up and down the streets of Kendall with barely two tires on the road, and Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” roaring from the speakers, we stumbled upon a high-school party with a few familiar faces.
Well-lubricated, I forcefully gulped down my last sip of beer. A pipe and a mini red lighter caught my attention as it made its way around the circle. With the opaque green bowl resting in her palms as if it was the sacred body of the Lord Jesus Christ, she directed me to “take a hit.” I felt a blank expression take over my face, as my paralyzed lips remained speechless. Christina, gripping the pipe with her thumb and forefinger, brought it up to her lips as she lit the grass with a fire that doubled in size to the tiny lighter. While slowly exhaling a puff of white smoke, Christina’s scalpel-like fingers punctured my trembling shoulders. “Your turn Geeg.” I glanced around the circle, and the pressure of a million eyes stared me down. I hesitated but saw my pale, trembling hands unconsciously reaching out. My emotions were incredibly complex and convoluted. All at the same time I wanted to say no, I wanted to say yes, I wanted to make believe I had done this before, and I wanted to run away. Before my mind, saturated with the weight of drunken thoughts, could grasp for a viable decision, the unbearable tension took hold, piercing away at my skin. I saw my hands mimic Christina’s as I almost instinctively wrapped my fingers around the foreign apparatus and watched the green shrivel away, realizing Conformity had conquered me. I had experienced smoking marijuana for the first time, not for any personal desire but simply to satisfy an environment in hopes of fitting in, much like my stint in cheerleading and Brazilian jeans.
While I pathetically coughed up my lungs, it dawned upon me that I was nothing but a prisoner to Conformity. It governed over me with an Iron Fist until all remnants of the magenta crayon melted away. I was another Conrad in the animal farm. No more than a teenage face at another high school party. Another statistic to tally up the victims of peer pressure. Just one more hit in the circle.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
more Dirty Old Man Notes...
the public takes from a writer, or writing, what it needs and lets the remainder go. but what they take is usually what they need least and what they let go is what they need most (130).
Sunday, March 15, 2009
evil seductive lush lashes.
what point do eyelashes serve?
half-inch pestering lashes are constantly finding their way into my eyes... the most tormenting, agonizing, self-inflicted annoyance that I couldn't wish upon my worst enemies.
Blast you, you fiend!
half-inch pestering lashes are constantly finding their way into my eyes... the most tormenting, agonizing, self-inflicted annoyance that I couldn't wish upon my worst enemies.
Blast you, you fiend!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
magic.
I always expect for great writing to take place without thought, simply appear before me by pure magic...
A great awakening has taken place, I have opened my eyes to see that the letters aren't going to type themselves and my pencil is no supernatural wand.
The toiling of the perfect words and phrases can be both pestering and enthralling, much like an intricate puzzle.
Amazing writing comes with creative thought, an arduous process of re-writing, re-vising, re-editing, re-imagining, re-inventing... and maybe just a dash of fairy dust.
A great awakening has taken place, I have opened my eyes to see that the letters aren't going to type themselves and my pencil is no supernatural wand.
The toiling of the perfect words and phrases can be both pestering and enthralling, much like an intricate puzzle.
Amazing writing comes with creative thought, an arduous process of re-writing, re-vising, re-editing, re-imagining, re-inventing... and maybe just a dash of fairy dust.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
thanks adele richardson..
for ripping out the passionately beating heart of Literature.
douche.
Going to school to learn... what a dumb thought.
douche.
Going to school to learn... what a dumb thought.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
pablo picasso v. charles bukowski
"Pablo Picasso" by The Modern Lovers
Well some people try to pick up girls
And get called assholes
This never happened to Pablo Picasso
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist his stare and
So Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole
Well the girls would turn the color
Of the avacado when he would drive
Down their street in his El Dorado
He could walk down you street
And girls could not resist his stare
Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole
Not like you
Alright
----
"Bukowski" by Modest Mouse
Evil home stereo, what good songs do you know?
Evil me, oh yeah I know, what good curves can you throw?
Well all that icing and all that cake,
I can't make it to your wedding, but I'm sure I'll be at your wake.
You were talk, talk, talkin' in circles that day,
When you get to the point make sure that I'm still awake, OK?
Went to bed and didn't see why
Every day turns out to be a little bit more like Bukowski.
And yeah, I know he's a pretty good read.
But God who'd wanna be?
God who'd wanna be such an asshole?
Well some people try to pick up girls
And get called assholes
This never happened to Pablo Picasso
He could walk down your street
And girls could not resist his stare and
So Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole
Well the girls would turn the color
Of the avacado when he would drive
Down their street in his El Dorado
He could walk down you street
And girls could not resist his stare
Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole
Not like you
Alright
----
"Bukowski" by Modest Mouse
Evil home stereo, what good songs do you know?
Evil me, oh yeah I know, what good curves can you throw?
Well all that icing and all that cake,
I can't make it to your wedding, but I'm sure I'll be at your wake.
You were talk, talk, talkin' in circles that day,
When you get to the point make sure that I'm still awake, OK?
Went to bed and didn't see why
Every day turns out to be a little bit more like Bukowski.
And yeah, I know he's a pretty good read.
But God who'd wanna be?
God who'd wanna be such an asshole?
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
dance the magic dance
Gigi Gonzalez: you remind me of the babe
RAMONEIAC1951: which babe
Gigi Gonzalez: the babe with the power.
RAMONEIAC1951: whcih power
Gigi Gonzalez: the power of vodoo
RAMONEIAC1951: which babe
Gigi Gonzalez: the babe with the power.
RAMONEIAC1951: whcih power
Gigi Gonzalez: the power of vodoo
Saturday, January 3, 2009
oy...
I am completely terrified by all things AWKWARD (and that just happens to be a prominent factor in every aspect of my life)
When hints of the unwieldy become evident, I hide myself away.
The clumsy and unmanageable bring tears to my eyes.
The difficult and inappropriate seize me and tear me apart.
Left alone in my own dark corner, eyes soaked, left in bitter pieces, I crawl searching for some sense of normality.
When hints of the unwieldy become evident, I hide myself away.
The clumsy and unmanageable bring tears to my eyes.
The difficult and inappropriate seize me and tear me apart.
Left alone in my own dark corner, eyes soaked, left in bitter pieces, I crawl searching for some sense of normality.
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