They make it magisterial, melancholy—my two favorite descriptors for music(?). Also Stuart Staples sounds more natural than Malkmus singing “crotch mavens”; he sings it as if he knows what it means.
Today I drove past the high school while it was letting out, and my windows were down because this January is the most pleasant springtime I’ve ever lived, and some kids got stinkface when they heard this chamber music spilling out of my car, so I pulled over and explained to them that this cover is CULTURALLY SUBVERSIVE.
Recent tour diary of Dean Wareham (Galaxie 500, Luna):
From the stage tonight I notice three different people crying as I sing “Blue Thunder,” which is a song about the power-steering action in my old 1975 Dodge Dart and doesn’t quite seem worth crying about, though admittedly it is also a song about being alone behind the wheel, and I wail about driving “so far away,” so maybe that’s what did it.
Other performers are not so glib talking about how fans interact with their work, but Dean Wareham is enough of a jerk not to mind.
“'It is one of my joys, not to be a house-owner,' wrote Nietzsche as early as The Gay Science. To this should be added: ethics today means not being at home in one’s house.”—Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia (via hollovv)
Humbling moment in which you relate to something kind of dumb and then make a metaphor from it
I was having a terribly shitty week, but friends have made me feel better bit by bit, and then today I watched a mid-period episode of The Office and realized that after Andy dated stern, 90-year-old Angela, he met Erin, who is so fun and—to me—almost unfathomably charming, and I thought, This narrative can be my narrative, and now I feel much better and am going to take all the Vic Chesnutt off my iPod and play Iggy Pop in the car tonight, all aboard for funtime.
If you get your parents’ cable account info, you can watch CNN live on the website or app. I don’t care about tonight’s primary but will watch some of the coverage for nostalgic pleasure. The pageantry and inane commentary was thrilling four years ago, like how it must feel to follow your football team as they ascend to the Super Bowl, if the quarterback quoted MLK a lot. I miss screaming at the TV.
Wolf Blitzer, I haven’t seen you in years! You are looking gaunt. Five minutes have passed and you have not read Twitter out loud yet. Is everything OK?
The panel tonight includes Erick Erickson, Dana Loesch, and James Carville, making it more hate-soaked and ineffectual than ever!
Gloria Borger looks older and like she has had work done. I wonder what she does in between election cycles, if she has been in hibernation for three years. Even Anderson looks older. I, on the other hand, am aging backwards.
This is good and all but what I really need is an app on my phone that will RING THE ALARM when this baby slides out (and it will slide out, from Beyonce’s womb to a bathtub full of chocolate sauce). Then I can stop everything I’m doing and, I don’t know, put a dagger through my heart because there’s nothing left to live for. Just kidding!!
Thursday a friend asked if I loved or love-loved her. Sunday I was driving down the street and, in my rearview mirror, saw the friend walking her dog; I recognized that she was with her boyfriend, whom I have never met. Now here is the notable part of the story. Her boyfriend looked tiny, maybe four feet tall. I stopped my car in the middle of the street to get a better look. I was headed downhill, and they were partially covered by cars and trees, so I could not see clearly—I never saw him head-to-toe, just a head floating above the tiny dog—but the boyfriend was much shorter than my friend, and she is about 5’1”.
It is a dwarf or me. Is this my lot in life, to be loved by a lover of dwarves? Am I even more culturally marginal than I understood? Do I have “special needs”?
L. said: “I mean, I don’t know her, it could be a number of things, and I can’t tell if you were being tongue-in-cheek, but I don’t think you should question something like your lot in life based on one woman’s apparently diverse taste in men.” I agree with L. in theory, and her response resembles something I might say when I am speaking from my most abstract mode—I especially like the feminist flavor of “one woman’s apparently diverse taste in men”—but entering into a public romantic relationship with a dwarf would entail a willingness to have strangers think, “Oh, isn’t that sweet! That pretty girl is dating a little person,” and when I imagined myself as a recipient of that charitableness of someone’s affection, it felt so uncomfortable, it felt like an acknowledgement that something is—not unappealing exactly but—challenging about me.
This post is starting to seem harsh about dwarves, so let me assert my beliefs that - my immediate emotional reaction seemed to devalue dwarves but was actually claiming some kinship with their outsider status; - all love is charitable love undeserved by its recipients, so I am always and only a recipient of that charitableness of someone’s affection; and - dwarves are fully wonderful, fully capable people, or at least as wonderful and capable as non-dwarves.
I’m intellectualizing it when all I meant to say was, Weird, someone was trying to ditch a dwarf for me. That’s cool, or something. Am I difficult to like?
Kurt Wagner of Lambchop once said during a concert, “We’re a hard band to like, but we’re pretty easy to love.” I have always wanted to imagine people explaining me to their friends that way.
Anyway the question has to remain unresolved, because when I got home last night I checked Facebook, and he’s not a dwarf, he looks 5’10” or something.