Ted Leo at South Street Seaport

Some things I've been thinking myself

The Burning Man festival has always seemed to me to be the ultimate celebration of self-centered behavior, chock full of personal revelations that don't lead to anything. Feelings of being closer to god leading to... nothing! No change, just a return to the grind. God no longer omnipotent but, instead, omnimpotent. I don't get this faux hippie bullshit, revelations not leading you to new heights of understanding of the interconnectivity of all things, just a really far-out way to be into yourself and whatever dramatic, amazing thing you're experiencing... for yourself.
(photo found via Warren Ellis' blog)

Mr. Brian Jonestown

Last night on my way to a 2-4-1 happy hour at 151 Rivington we walked past Iggy's, and who should be standing outside broodingly smoking a cigarette in a peasant shirt but the guy from Brian Jonestown Massacre. I proceeded from there to see an entirely shitty apartment in Williamsburg.

Fotki

Son Volt at the South Street Seaport. Hope to have some Ted Leo pics for the free show there this Friday.

People don't mind the floor on the n train. Interesting. Someone has a knack for this.

I'm reading The Winter Men

I wandered into Forbidden Planet yesterday to see if the riot of color, fetishized representations of sexy authority and authority confused with sex, and retarded people buying Green Lantern T-Shirts (and not even the old-school, Golden age Green Lantern in a yellow circle on a red background, insignia, either) would overstimulate me into a coma like it's done for the past year or so. It didn't! I ended up picking up two books that jumped out at me, both on Wildstorm. One was Desolation Jones #2, the new series from writer Warren Ellis, and the other a book about the whereabouts of secret Soviet supermen in the present day- The Winter Men. Highly enjoyable, extremely dense. Looking forward to collecting this one.

North Korean Browbeatings!

You psychopathological traitor, such a provocation will be regarded as a declaration of war!

The CHUD Menace

Download a free CD's worth of Stereo Total Rarities

Do it.

Podkasting ist rad

For kicks, check out the podcast at Splendid . Also, all entries from 8/12 till this one should be read from bottom to top.

encroachment of chaos into the visible standards of a sloth bureaucracy fastidiously opposed to deviation from routine?

blue that in the Russian would contain the accusation of homosexuality. A clever, nearly inaudible defacing of federal property? The

There is a mailbox of nonstandard hue on the eastern corner of 4th and cooper square. It is a buoyant tint of electrical sky, a hopped up baby

File under phenomena solely of interest to me: I saw Richard Hell on the street Friday night.

These people are trying to kill me.

Trying to kill me." They, of course, are. It is again very hot in New York City. I have to find a place. I have to remember to pay my fines.

Heard exclamations during apartment searches, as a matter of trivia, is the same as that consuming task of finding servitude: "these people are

Shelter. One of the tests of conspicuous consumption posed generally sometime before "will you sleep with me" is "where do you live?" One of the

Rooms to let, tempting one to focus all one's powers on the ephemeral, passing, but all too near to the bone material and social need for

Ransom. There is tomorrow's excursion into wage servitude and the grappling with the choosy, spelling-challenged internet enthusiasts with

It is August,and August gets on. There is the matter of library fines unpaid and the hostage titles of learned attainment for which they're

A magazine cover reads "how to wear navy and black." instruct us on our military/mourning options, o giants of print!

At breakfast we chastise the valkyrie

Having someone else's dreams
drinking someone else's drinks

stuck with your own laundry.

Portishead was rumored to be back in the studio, making dark and fuzzy. Everything in our past is reapproaching; once announced, permanent.

Where is my swiss miss pouring me rivers of warm, fragrant, deep brown coffee from her gravid, gibbous, hell-white cleaves? My parchment-white, hundred-weight serving titaness who shines the light of the world when she turns and bends to pick up my fork.
The breakfast ritual ends in Valhalla with the tipping of maidens and history lessons, shouts of
"Present your singularity!" We begin burned by coffee and we end with our end in the beginning of all things.

Recent Music

Röyksopp: The Understanding
Daddy like. Big, atmospheric sound you can get inside, deep bass, pretty electronics with full, round tones, nice filter sweeps from bwoom to bwaaaaw. Disco exuberance.


Easy Star All-Stars: Dub Side of the Moon
I know this is old. I just heard it a few months ago for the first time, and I really needed to hear it again this week. Hot shit. It is exactly what it sounds like it would be.

La Dusseldorf: La Dusseldorf

I haven't listened to this all the way through yet, but, you know, krauty mechanical sounding stuff from the seventies. "Silver Cloud" tweets happy. "Time" goes on for as long as that expanse goes on, or seems to, burying you in afternoon light. Hooray.

summer

Everything around me is was and will be drunk for the forseeable future.
I'll tell you anything and forget it just to hear you quote it back to me brand new, like it fell from the perfect slobbering bullhorn lips of the single archetypal orator.


Your thigh landed like a hammer when it brushed against my knee.

I dreamed my back was covered in fur and I spoke in tongues all night last night as I dreamed of your arrival. You are still arriving, arriving two weeks gone, you are scheming for a moment when again you can shiver and rush south like a hot wind of lead. It's not my plan, but still, it is joyous, even if I am disgusted at my own weakness. My hands swim south through you like scorpions, all skeleton, racing like sperm to find you and fix you with the sharpest, hollowest parts of themselves. You arrive banging like a washing machine jumping against the wall, madly humping, love held out over your heart, pointed down your tit like a knife. That's how you get off the bus. That's how you unpack your bags. That's how you insist on reading the story straight, always to the equator, always to the end, the pages tearing where the bones and brads have tacked them, supposedly permanent. Your love becomes a long, singing cleavage as I, the dumb wolf, paw and slobber, the things I've heard men say drooling off my teeth and blackening the pages we have abandoned ourselves to removing, to putting behind us as though we were discarding the shells of aeroplanes.

This isn't our story. This isn't our house. We've been borrowed and told how it's going to end. However many times we run there, however many pages we fix and turn, tearing, we will hit the end aglow like the embers of tuning forks to lie as flat as starfish.