19c. by 8 a.m. and a little kickass nuevo (neuvo?)-motown
Beverly Knight (review)
Come as You Are (mp3) [this ain't no Nirvana cover]
Friday, May 26, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Back Fat Land
Under the weight of the pug, his snoring taken for possibly mine, I get out of the annual herb sale. Whew. Freed to wander, I go looking for a beverage that doesn't have aspertame (is there such a thing in the midwest, the land of fat girls in tight bras?) and find a secret sanctum of network servers in the basement. O thank you God for my brother-in-law--I love this guy. I think this might be the only place inside 100 miles right now where I could hide with music blogs . . . . leave it to me to find a place to run away to that looks just like home.
The Theater Fire - These Tears Could Rust A Train
The Lucksmiths - There is a Light
The Theater Fire - These Tears Could Rust A Train
The Lucksmiths - There is a Light
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
gen x zeitgeist
And I try, sit alone and I cry
Yo I won't tell no lie, not a moment goes by
That I don't pray to the sky, please I'm beggin you God
Please don't let me get pigeon holed in no regular job
Yo I hope you can hear me homey wherever you are
If you've never had some thoughts like these, then I got nothing to say to you. Flat out. I could run to China listening to this: 8 Mile Road
Sometimes
My mouth just overloads the ass that I don't got
Yo I won't tell no lie, not a moment goes by
That I don't pray to the sky, please I'm beggin you God
Please don't let me get pigeon holed in no regular job
Yo I hope you can hear me homey wherever you are
If you've never had some thoughts like these, then I got nothing to say to you. Flat out. I could run to China listening to this: 8 Mile Road
Sometimes
My mouth just overloads the ass that I don't got
Sunday, May 14, 2006
my scruffy city
I was just tasting my first Wisers n’ Pepsi when a giant spirit train rumbled through the city. We could hear it echoing through the bar, through the windows from honking horns blazing in every direction, and trembling up under our feet in a ground swell.
The city was projecting.
People who’d just met each other started making elated plans to drive in carloads to New Jersey. A haze of communal bliss better than a city sized wedding. And that Drury guy, he’s kinda hot . . . look at that scruff . . . so the after interviews even, it was alllllllllll gooooooooood.
brighter than sunshine - aqualung
The city was projecting.
People who’d just met each other started making elated plans to drive in carloads to New Jersey. A haze of communal bliss better than a city sized wedding. And that Drury guy, he’s kinda hot . . . look at that scruff . . . so the after interviews even, it was alllllllllll gooooooooood.
brighter than sunshine - aqualung
Thursday, May 11, 2006
genre: absurdist drama, one act
“Playing Easy to Kill” Five characters: Madame Theory/Zombie-of-Kitten, Robot/Figurative-Cousin, and The Firing Squad. Setting: Empty stage, two chairs.
Madame decides to take Zombie-of-Kitten out for a spin. ZK’s been good, turning baby tears into something decorative, like a Chia Pet on a window sill. Robot’s been measured for a tux recently. Madame decides to go see how that’s coming along . . . . She walks center stage into the half light of dimly seen shapes. A spot light comes down on Robot, who is sitting in his chair. Madame turns to the shapes opposite him, asks, How’s he measuring up? The lights come up, revealing a Firing Squad, two men, one standing one sitting and a series of others coming in and out to bring ammunition. Madame is standing between the Squad and Robot.
What’s your relation to the prisoner?, asks the Squad.
Suddenly, a Zombie of a Chia Pet is pulled out of recesses of Madame Theory’s mind, out her nose, through her sinuses. Ow, she says.
Zombie-of-Kitten, stunned to find herself in the light at Madame’s feet, blinks a few times, looks around, says to Madame: Uh Oh.
Madame looks toward Robot quizzically.
Robot says, I’ve got this under control—I don’t want a cigarette.
Madame turns back to the Firing Squad. What’s he done?, she asks.
He’s toast, the Squad answers. Is he a friend of yours?
Um, yeah, says Madame, like a Cousin, Figuratively-speaking.
Zombie begins to giggle at Madame’s feet. Did you really just say that?, she asks Madame. Madame whips out her gun and shoots from the hip at Zombie, who scuttles out of range.
Ha Ha missed—You better stay on your game there Madame! Your turn to get shot at! And with that, Zombie zips into the wings stage left to cue up a jukebox.
[from stage left: Stuck in the Middle with You]
Very funny, says Madame.
The Firing Squad reads out the charges against Robot. A looooooong time later, Madame, somewhat dazed, asks, Can I have Robot’s cigarette? I need to think a minute.
Sure take your time, says the Squad.
The lights dim. Thought bubbles descend over the heads of Madame and the Squad members:
{I am clueless.}
{Somebody should have killed this guy a long time ago.}
{You stay sitting—Beta becomes you.}
The lights come back up, the thought bubbles ascend, and in the corner can be seen Figurative Cousin spinning a soccer ball on his finger.
Can I have a moment alone with the prisoner(s)?, asks Madame politely, sparks flying out her face.
Are you sure that’s wise?, suggests the Squad, smugly.
Madame stares them down.
Ok Ok, says the Squad—They’re all yours. You’ve got until sundown.
I’ll stay on top of them, she says.
[from stage left: lol]
The lights go down on the Squad. Madame walks over to where Figurative Cousin is lying on the floor, throwing the ball from hand to hand.
Hi, she says.
Ho, he says cheerfully. What’s up?
Madame puts down a pile of books next to him.
Ooo, Stone Soup, I love that one, says Figurative Cousin.
[from stage left: Want to throw a Cosmo Magazine on that pile, cuz what the hell eh? haha So Weird.]
I have a new theory, says Madame.
O yeah?, he smiles at her.
Yeah, baby, I think you might be flat out bonkers, Madame smiles back at him.
That’s impossible, he says, There are no gay or bonkers people in the Greek Community.
Madame Theory reaches out, lays her hand tenderly on the side of his face, then takes him by the shorthairs in a vice grip.
OW, he yipes.
Madame starts dragging him across the stage, him slapping at her grip and she impervious. She pauses for a moment in front of Robot.
I didn’t want to settle for just any execution, says Robot.
Madame cocks her gun and blows him to smitherines against the backdrop.
[from stage left: WOOHOO! There’s an upside to everything!]
Madame continues to drag Figurative Cousin into the wings, stage right.
Waitit’sbackgammonnightwaitIgottacheckthehockeypool—Can we talk about this?, asks Figurative Cousin, trying to pry her fingers up.
NO, says Madame calmly
[from stage left: Good luck Cous! Johnie Be Good.]
Madame decides to take Zombie-of-Kitten out for a spin. ZK’s been good, turning baby tears into something decorative, like a Chia Pet on a window sill. Robot’s been measured for a tux recently. Madame decides to go see how that’s coming along . . . . She walks center stage into the half light of dimly seen shapes. A spot light comes down on Robot, who is sitting in his chair. Madame turns to the shapes opposite him, asks, How’s he measuring up? The lights come up, revealing a Firing Squad, two men, one standing one sitting and a series of others coming in and out to bring ammunition. Madame is standing between the Squad and Robot.
What’s your relation to the prisoner?, asks the Squad.
Suddenly, a Zombie of a Chia Pet is pulled out of recesses of Madame Theory’s mind, out her nose, through her sinuses. Ow, she says.
Zombie-of-Kitten, stunned to find herself in the light at Madame’s feet, blinks a few times, looks around, says to Madame: Uh Oh.
Madame looks toward Robot quizzically.
Robot says, I’ve got this under control—I don’t want a cigarette.
Madame turns back to the Firing Squad. What’s he done?, she asks.
He’s toast, the Squad answers. Is he a friend of yours?
Um, yeah, says Madame, like a Cousin, Figuratively-speaking.
Zombie begins to giggle at Madame’s feet. Did you really just say that?, she asks Madame. Madame whips out her gun and shoots from the hip at Zombie, who scuttles out of range.
Ha Ha missed—You better stay on your game there Madame! Your turn to get shot at! And with that, Zombie zips into the wings stage left to cue up a jukebox.
[from stage left: Stuck in the Middle with You]
Very funny, says Madame.
The Firing Squad reads out the charges against Robot. A looooooong time later, Madame, somewhat dazed, asks, Can I have Robot’s cigarette? I need to think a minute.
Sure take your time, says the Squad.
The lights dim. Thought bubbles descend over the heads of Madame and the Squad members:
{I am clueless.}
{Somebody should have killed this guy a long time ago.}
{You stay sitting—Beta becomes you.}
The lights come back up, the thought bubbles ascend, and in the corner can be seen Figurative Cousin spinning a soccer ball on his finger.
Can I have a moment alone with the prisoner(s)?, asks Madame politely, sparks flying out her face.
Are you sure that’s wise?, suggests the Squad, smugly.
Madame stares them down.
Ok Ok, says the Squad—They’re all yours. You’ve got until sundown.
I’ll stay on top of them, she says.
[from stage left: lol]
The lights go down on the Squad. Madame walks over to where Figurative Cousin is lying on the floor, throwing the ball from hand to hand.
Hi, she says.
Ho, he says cheerfully. What’s up?
Madame puts down a pile of books next to him.
Ooo, Stone Soup, I love that one, says Figurative Cousin.
[from stage left: Want to throw a Cosmo Magazine on that pile, cuz what the hell eh? haha So Weird.]
I have a new theory, says Madame.
O yeah?, he smiles at her.
Yeah, baby, I think you might be flat out bonkers, Madame smiles back at him.
That’s impossible, he says, There are no gay or bonkers people in the Greek Community.
Madame Theory reaches out, lays her hand tenderly on the side of his face, then takes him by the shorthairs in a vice grip.
OW, he yipes.
Madame starts dragging him across the stage, him slapping at her grip and she impervious. She pauses for a moment in front of Robot.
I didn’t want to settle for just any execution, says Robot.
Madame cocks her gun and blows him to smitherines against the backdrop.
[from stage left: WOOHOO! There’s an upside to everything!]
Madame continues to drag Figurative Cousin into the wings, stage right.
Waitit’sbackgammonnightwaitIgottacheckthehockeypool—Can we talk about this?, asks Figurative Cousin, trying to pry her fingers up.
NO, says Madame calmly
[from stage left: Good luck Cous! Johnie Be Good.]
Monday, May 08, 2006
genre: absurdist drama, one act.
“Playing Easy to Get”
Four characters: SmittenKitten/Madame Theory, Robot/Mr. Softee. Setting: Café with one table, two chairs.
Mr. Softee shows up with flowers. Then he walks off stage. Then he comes back and speaks in tongues.
Madame Theory gets out her sketchbook, turns on some music, starts drawing.
Mr. Softee strips to boxer shorts. He changes the tune(s).
SmittenKitten descends from the ceiling on a string, lands on Madame Theory’s shoulder, takes out a Cosmo magazine and starts reading from “Glowing Skin at Any Age”. Madame finds this unnerving but is bemused. At first.
Robot enters, pulls a chair into the corner, sits and watches.
Mr. Softee and Smitty sneak off to smooch stage left, while Madame and Robot eye each other with increasing trepidation. Petals begin falling from the sky, like motes at first, then a giant dump of petals comes down all at once. Madame Theory falls on her ass, SmittenKitten digs her claws into Madame’s shoulder trying to gain purchase. Ow, says Madame. Mr. Softee disappears in the melee. Robot emerges and stomps past while everyone else is still spitting petal dregs. He orders coffee.
I’m fine, says Robot emphatically at them all. Get. The Fuck. Away from Me.
Madame Theory is trying to pick petals out of her nooks and crannies, but when SmittenKitten hears Robot’s pronouncement, she climbs on top of Madame’s head, fur standing on end, hissing and digging her claws into Madame’s skull.
Ow Ow Ow, says Madame. Can we talk about this?
SmittenKitten, Mr. Softee (buried in petals still) and Robot all answer in unison: NO.
Listen Sister, says Robot, Take a chill pill.
Sister? (Madame takes out a book about Greek drama.) A tradition of characters giving incest a try and then thinking better of it--This is doable, she says.
SmittenKitten meanwhile launches into a girly rant: “Picky my ass you little bastard I’m gonna scratch your eyes out” etc etc.
Madame Theory gets out a gun.
A thudding sound finally interrupts Kitten’s temper tantrum. What’s that?, she asks Madame Theory.
That would be Robot beating Mr. Softee’s head against the underside of the table, she replies.
Jesus. Guess I’ll stop hissing at him then, says Kitten.
Good start, says Madame.
What do you think we should do?, asks Kitten.
Madame Theory cocks the gun, points at the space above her head, blows SmittenKitten to smitherines against the backdrop. Ah well, says Madame, At least I won’t have to worry about how to apply cheek tint—everything has its upside.
She sits down underneath the table with Mr. Softee.
I’m miserable, says Mr. Softee.
Me too, says Madame Theory.
I’m hungry, he says.
([meow] Madame eyespies Zombie-of-Kitten piecing herself back together in the wings with a little toolbox. Madame starts reloading the gun.)
Want some KFC?, she asks. I like thighs best, how bout you?
Four characters: SmittenKitten/Madame Theory, Robot/Mr. Softee. Setting: Café with one table, two chairs.
Mr. Softee shows up with flowers. Then he walks off stage. Then he comes back and speaks in tongues.
Madame Theory gets out her sketchbook, turns on some music, starts drawing.
Mr. Softee strips to boxer shorts. He changes the tune(s).
SmittenKitten descends from the ceiling on a string, lands on Madame Theory’s shoulder, takes out a Cosmo magazine and starts reading from “Glowing Skin at Any Age”. Madame finds this unnerving but is bemused. At first.
Robot enters, pulls a chair into the corner, sits and watches.
Mr. Softee and Smitty sneak off to smooch stage left, while Madame and Robot eye each other with increasing trepidation. Petals begin falling from the sky, like motes at first, then a giant dump of petals comes down all at once. Madame Theory falls on her ass, SmittenKitten digs her claws into Madame’s shoulder trying to gain purchase. Ow, says Madame. Mr. Softee disappears in the melee. Robot emerges and stomps past while everyone else is still spitting petal dregs. He orders coffee.
I’m fine, says Robot emphatically at them all. Get. The Fuck. Away from Me.
Madame Theory is trying to pick petals out of her nooks and crannies, but when SmittenKitten hears Robot’s pronouncement, she climbs on top of Madame’s head, fur standing on end, hissing and digging her claws into Madame’s skull.
Ow Ow Ow, says Madame. Can we talk about this?
SmittenKitten, Mr. Softee (buried in petals still) and Robot all answer in unison: NO.
Listen Sister, says Robot, Take a chill pill.
Sister? (Madame takes out a book about Greek drama.) A tradition of characters giving incest a try and then thinking better of it--This is doable, she says.
SmittenKitten meanwhile launches into a girly rant: “Picky my ass you little bastard I’m gonna scratch your eyes out” etc etc.
Madame Theory gets out a gun.
A thudding sound finally interrupts Kitten’s temper tantrum. What’s that?, she asks Madame Theory.
That would be Robot beating Mr. Softee’s head against the underside of the table, she replies.
Jesus. Guess I’ll stop hissing at him then, says Kitten.
Good start, says Madame.
What do you think we should do?, asks Kitten.
Madame Theory cocks the gun, points at the space above her head, blows SmittenKitten to smitherines against the backdrop. Ah well, says Madame, At least I won’t have to worry about how to apply cheek tint—everything has its upside.
She sits down underneath the table with Mr. Softee.
I’m miserable, says Mr. Softee.
Me too, says Madame Theory.
I’m hungry, he says.
([meow] Madame eyespies Zombie-of-Kitten piecing herself back together in the wings with a little toolbox. Madame starts reloading the gun.)
Want some KFC?, she asks. I like thighs best, how bout you?
Friday, May 05, 2006
self help reading + music
from Naked Lunch, William Burroughs:
Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.
This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first.
After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it . . . Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit."
After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have amputated spontaneous — except for the eyes you dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eyes on the end of a stalk.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy (love this)
Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down you dig farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.
This man worked for a carnival you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriliquist act. Real funny, too, at first.
After a while the ass start talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags nobody loved it . . . Finally it talked all the time day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: "It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we dont need you around here any more. I can talk and eat and shit."
After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have amputated spontaneous — except for the eyes you dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eyes on the end of a stalk.
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy (love this)
