Destroyer's Rubies II: Citizens on Patrol

In the comments to the post below, Alicia hipped us to Bejar-o-matic. I will never get work done again.

You get nuggets of lyrical science such as:

What specifically about me made you choose to occupy the most absent stage of beauty, so innocuous, so complete and so sweet?

Maybe I should have sworn not to be born of this wretched glove too soon. But a dragon needs room to run.

Jennifer, your halter top: a consecrated altarBut I've wrung my hands and knees in shame there one too many times

What fun.

Destroyer's Rubies, Michael Chabon and David Mitchell

So, I wrote a long thoughtful post about the new Destroyer record, Destroyer's Rubies,--a post full of insights and excitement and links. Then I wrote about the new Chabon and Mitchell novels, again,--a post full of insights and brilliant thoughts and links. It was a really great post. One of the best. Lots of different colored words. A long digression on the over-arching themes of Mitchell's novels and how they are taking on a Yoknapatawpha-esque character, and I even had a link to the Wikipedia page on Yoknapatawpha--it was really great. I extolled the brilliance of Michael Chabon's prose style and gushed about how excited I was about his new novel. It was a great post, one of the finest posts of not just the internet, not just American History, but all histories of all times thoughout the universe and one each and every separate string of existance. The post was so good many facts that I claimed to know without any evidence or back up came into existence just so I could be right. In fact, the post was so good that the best part of it wasn't jus this picture of Dan Bejar that I ganked off of some flikr account--who's account is now lost to the shifting sands of history. Yes, it was a very good post, but like all great things--pop songs, butter, children--it came to a violent end when I hit the back space buttong to remove a little extra space I didn't want. Unfortunately, the space wasn't just blank space, it was Spacetime, and as such, you have the crap ass post you see before you with a very nice picture that I didn't take and I don't know who did. And now links.

Oh the weather outside

Bon Annie Vert Slayer

The members of Tropic of Food, Audubon Park, the Nein, Hotel Motel and a few members of Erie Choir would like to wish a warm happy 23rd birthday to Matthew "Stumpy" Burr on this his 24th birthday. It seems like only Wednesday, many years ago, his mother's womb said, "Dude, serious, you have to bounce." And bounce he did.

If Stingy were a cake, I would stick burning bits of wax in his head.

We, being AP, would also like to thank the placid Mr. Springy for his vocal style renderings on the unexpected, unplanned, unlearned, unrehearsed, and un-non-awesome Pavement cover we played last night. Remember, if we almost played "Hunger Strike." You can take that to your grave with you.

NASA SCIENTIST RESORTS TO PROP COMEDY

NASA's John Chapman, manager of the external tank program, makes a few poorly-received one-liners while he points to problem areas on a model of a space shuttle rocket during a news conference Tuesday, Nov. 22, 2005, at Johnson Space Center in Houston. Chapman recently attended an improv workshop at the Laugh Factory and thought he'd try out his newly honed wit on unsuspecting members of the media. Awkward silence followed.

PUT 'EM ON THE GLASS!!!!!!!!

Forlorn Stool

Thanks to everyone!

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday:

Audubon Park
A Northern Chorus (pictured)
Burdocks

Local 506, 11/27/2005, 9pm

Bring the love to us as we celebrate our just completed eating frenzy. It's a Sunday, it's a holiday, what more do you want!

FOLDED!

Recently, I was asked, along with a number of other local musicians, to contribute some reviews to a new music magazine that was starting in Raleigh. Even more recently, I was told that the magazine was folding even before publishing the first issue. Here are the reviews that I wrote, but that were deemed to hot for financial stability (all songs rated on a scale of 1-10):

Ashley Simpson "Boyfriend" 5.5

How would you feel if your career took a backseat to your big sister's marital problems, to your own career miscalculations (or the miscalculations of your overbearing, totally scary ex-preacher father), or that time you got really drunk and made an ass out of yourself in McDonalds?

Have some love: Ashley is everyman. She's done nothing that we haven't done, we just weren't on TV when it happened. On "Boyfriend", Ashley has taken a cue from the far superior Kelly Clarkson and sings a rock song. Let's be honest: this song doesn't really sound any different than Franz Ferdinand? I can't tell the difference. It even has a little dubbed-out Andy Partridge yelp. But, unlike Kelly, Ashley is not a very strong singer, or a particularly charismatic personality. It isn't that her voice is weak or bad, it is just too clear, to characterless. It would be better if it were worse. That would be awesome.

Ahh, Ashley. Perhaps next time.

Madonna "Hung Up" 6.9

We are at the dawn of Madonna's sunset and don't we all wait, eagerly, for her to wake to her age and sing to us of her twilight? She told us how to feel about our youth and independence, about the nature of justice and sex. But where is the Madonna of our dotage?

"Hung Up" is good, good like a Kylie song, but shouldn't Madonna be good like herself, with others being good like her? Really, at this point, Kylie, among others, does dance music better than Madonna. The production here reminds me of a CGI dinosaur--it looks alive to me but the mind knows that it isn't, so I don't run away. I don't know what I mean by this. No, wait, I do.

There was a time when a Madonna song, any Madonna song, could break my heart. There was a time when her voice, imperfect, was evocative of my own internal life. This is what popular music should provide when done well--a mirror, a computer read-out of our inner-selves. I hear the galloping beat, I hear the throbbing synths, I hear her still voice and I want to feel, but do not. It is terrible when you are brilliant--we all expect so much more.

The Flaming Lips "Bohemian Rhapsody" 4.3

The joy of hearing a band cover Queen, and in particular this song, can only come from the audacity of attempting such a futile feat. Who can cover Queen? Who can sound like them? In fact, the mistake is to try to sound like Queen at all. I would have loved to have heard The Flaming Lips attempt this song 12 years ago, when they were still ragged, still wild, weeping smack into the gutters. That would have been something, because their attempt would have been unexpected and there success would have been total.

But now, they are the kings of studio magic. They play the song too straight, get it too right. Why listen to their version as opposed to the original? There is nothing new, nothing odd. But the real let down: the drums at the end. The whole song I waited, eagerly, for the rock portion, to hear Stephen Drozd's massive, clattering drums. When they came, they were muted and unimpressive. Where is the bass drum that made the Soft Bulletin so beautiful?

Ying Yang Twins ft. Mike Jones and Mr. Colliepark "Badd" 8.2

First off, having Mike Jones on a track instantly makes the song sound like it was recorded in a special education classroom. He gibbers his own name, over and over, as though his identity is slipping and he is afraid.

This song proves, I think, that music really matters and can change the world. As soon as it comes on I am possessed of a self-confidence that I have never known in my life. Sirens, sitars and bass drums. The string hits on the post-chorus: added-value. What more can one ask for in life?

This track is much better than "Wait." Let's admit it to ourselves. That song just wasn't that good. It was neat. It was novel. But it got old, very fast. We were in the thrall of profanity and the power of whispering. But "Badd" is a real song, heavy like an anvil dropped from a great height.

Three 6 Mafia ft. Young Buck, Eight Ball and MJG "Stay Fly" 8.5

Swooning strings and that beat: this song is fast, something I have been looking for in hip-hop for a long time. I feel that I am on the run, chased perhaps, sweat burning my eyes. "Stay Fly" exudes and apocalyptic vibe--I am reminded of "Quiet Running" by Mike + the Mechanics. The tabla breakdown crushes all competitors, it introduces space and breath into the track, a perfect break, a perfect pause.

This song throws the work of 50 Cent into an unflattering light. Fifty likes to play a "we all could die, but do we have love" angle, but his limp, careless delivery leaves me cold. Three 6 Mafia care. They know the score. They know what is at stake, what is to be lost. We have to stay fly until we die. The world is ending soon, I can tell.

Sorry. . .

But I got to get all political for a second. If you haven't heard about Rep. John Murtha's speech yesterday calling for an immediate withdrawal from Iraq, here's a link to video of the speech, via the most-awesome Crooksandliars.com.

Lord knows there is plenty of good comment about this out there, so I won't do any here beyond linking to my man Nitpicker on the subject.

artOverheard in Durham Vol.3 (parts I and II)

Part I:
Duke University East Campus cafeteria
11:30am

Four DUDES sitting around a table, slouching, drinking Vitamin Water, generally exuding complete DUDEness.

DUDE 1: I mean, just give some fuckin' steak nuggets, you know?
DUDE 2: Yeah, steak nuggets, man.

Part II:
Mary Duke Biddle Music Building
11:40am

Inexplicably emerging from the office of the baroque organ professor: the very loud strains of ZZ Top's "Legs". Goodbye figured bass, hello furry bass.

Or Underneath the Stairs

OhNo! It's still Sci-fi Tuesday! More opportunities to post some of my favorite childhood stories--this one by Carwin Edgarson--taken from his 1954 collection of stories called The Collected Stories of Jerome Silfermann by Carwin Edgarson. Enjoy if you dare!

Once, long ago—long before time started running backwards—there was a terrible war. All that anyone remembers now is that there was quite a bit of mud and digging involved (which is of course the case with any conflict, human or otherwise).

Let me explain: Little boys crouched in troughs, their faces covered in machines that smelled of glycerine and water: they dared not breath the Xylyl Bromide and Phosgene the grew in cottony tufts all about them. The whole land smelled like a public swimming pool--including the faint scent of warm urine (I never liked the swimming pool).

Bits of other boys who had not jumped dramatically out of the way of large metal canisters of nastiness were cast about haphazardly. It all seemed so natural.

One young boy--who we shall make the subject of our discussion--was very scared. This made him in no way unusual or unique--but what could? Honesty is my style and we admit that unlike most heros of most unlikely stories--heros that are brave or at least hold hidden reserves of brawny manhoon--our young subject was a not just scared, but a coward and had a touch of the dullard to him. Unhandsom, but by no means blessed with ugliness; he was bland, cream, vanilla, slow, and his conversational skills were the equivilant of licking a spoon with nothing on it.

This young man, his troop had been fighting in or near a town or what used to be a town or what was going to be a town someday—he didn’t know—and he was separated from the others. Or they left him because on the battlefield, if you can't count on your brother for interesting conversation and wit, what do you have? Nothing. Lay down your guns. You have nothing.

It had been night for three days. The only light came in sporadic blotches and waves. Hundreds of small, short suns that couldn’t keep him warm. For bird calls there was rat-a-tat-tatting and swelling wails. He remembered leaning down amidst a rumble because he thought he saw something flash in the muck at his feet. Suddenly he noticed he didn’t know where anyone else was.

When he pulled himself up, he started running. Slogging slowly. Time passed. He realized he hadn’t seen any of the other boys in his company for at least a day. He had tried to find them, sludging through the watery culvert but he could only find parts of people—some he knew, some he didn’t—not a whole person. Sometimes as he crawled past them, the parts grasped or kicked or tried to inch along behind, but the pieces of those boys couldn’t keep up. He may have been dull in the head, bland looking and somewhat weak, but he was faster than body parts! He met a few large rats that wore fine clothes—waist coats and shoes that gleamed through the mud. The rats sat back comfortably in the mess and watched him with amusement. There were also some very nice louses that joined him for support.

But he could find no-one all whole, that is, not in a "blown-up" state. In the crisp flash of one of the brief suns he saw crouched off to his left—approximatley a hundred and twenty three yards off—a small cottage. Thatchy and pink. All about jagged slabs of wall stood like pickets to a fence that made no sense, but this little cottage stood whole and very inviting.

The boy scrambled over the rotten edge of the hole—though the result more closely resembled a guppy trying to swim up a leaky faucet. The ground shook and beat with each bright punctuation. The louses got scared and hoofed it back to the saftey of the ditch.

After many hours of crawling, the boy acheived the door to the cottage. Doors are special--we should kiss them more. Leaning up against it, he knocked, modestly at first then louder when there was no answer. When still no one opened the it for him he tried the knob, dismissing what his mother had always taught him about going into the homes of people he didn't know uninvited. This was an emergency--mother be damned.

Inside: The first thing he noticed was the massive lack of mud. The floor was clean and cool. A small fire swam on the hearth. It popped and sparked so quietly, the boy couldn’t hear it. There was a table in front of the fire with a few chairs and a large ceramic bowl of pale brown pears. The walls were bare mostly, though pegs by the door held a heavy blue coat. There was cabinet in the corner and a narrow stair that lead up. There was also a small fir. A few bows and feathers hung from it. Eggs balanced on some of the thin branches. They had been dyed pink, purple, brown and blue. The boy thought “My birthday must be soon.” He had no idea what day it was.

In the quiet he could take stock of himself. His legs were vibrating with exhaustion. His eyes, green, were dry. His skin hurt. His nose hurt. The air he exhaled hurt.

He removed as much of his clothing as propriety would allow so as to not track mud all over the fine room. The chair he pulled out from the table slid silently. He sat. The fire, the pears, sitting, no mud. Tears began to saunter down his face. On the table next to the bowl was a small thimble and a mirror that he had not noticed. He was going to pick up the mirror to look at himself—something that he hadn’t done in so long that he wished he had paid more attention to how he looked before the war so he would have a better memory of it now—when he felt a shuffle behind him. Turning, he saw a small girl standing on the bottom step.

“Who are you?” she said.

The boy didn't answer. He hadn’t said anything in so long.

“If my father catches you in here in your underclothes he will be very angry.”

“I’m sorry. Please excuse me," the boy's presumptive voice squeeked. "I have been outside for so long. I saw your cottage and knocked but I thought that it was abandoned. I shouldn’t have, but I am very tired and hungry." More gobbling garble than words.

Perhaps the girl was considering him. She gave no indication. Her face, an oval covered in pale spots which could have been any number of things in the faint flickering light, didn’t move. She had her lips pulled taught. Her hair was brown with strands of gray. He wanted to say, “You're awfully young to have grey hair,” but didn’t want to offend her. She was narrow and was wearing a simple dress and sock feet.

“A pear. You can have one of those.”

“Thank you.”

“I will fix you something more if you would like.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She looked at this clothes piled by the door. “Are you a soldier?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Have you ever fought in a war?”

“I am doing so right now.”

“Which one?”

The boy was very confused. Perhaps he needed to eat to get his senses back. The pear was soft. It gave way to his teeth—which hurt too. Juice wetted his chin. He didn’t notice. If only the rats could see me now, he thought.

The girl put a piece of bread and a small scoop of beans on a plate. The boy thanked her. She stood by the table and watched him eat. His mouth yawned like a hippopatamous; there were even birds in it.

The boy leaned back in the chair when he was done with his plate. He closed his eyes.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked.

The boy opened his eyes slightly. “Leslie.”

The girl snickered. “That’s my name too. You have a girl’s name.”

“I do not. You have a boy’s name.”

She leaned forward, put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands. She had grey eyes too.
“When will your father be home?” the boy asked, suddenly very concious of the fact that he was in a stranger’s house in his underclothes alone with the stranger’s young daughter; though he seriously wondered where the father really could have gone.

“Soon, I hope. I’ve not been feeling well and he went to go get the doctor to see how I am doing. But he has been gone a while.”

“You don’t seem to bad off.” The spots were on her hands too. “Why haven’t you all evacuated?”

“Why would we?”

“The war.”

“What war?”

“Haven’t you been outside, or looked out the window?”

“Oh, I don’t go outside, nor look out the windows.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t you heard the story of the girl and the dolls?

“No, I’m afraid I missed that one.”

“I’ll tell you: Once there was a girl who lived alone in the woods. She made dolls out of twigs and fallen branches that the trees gave him and sold them in town. She made just enough to have food to eat. One day a young prince was walking through the fair and saw her dolls. He liked them very much, but wanted her to make one special for him that was made not from twigs and branches from the ground but from fine wood. He would pay her very well for the doll. Well the girl was excited, because she had never had a lot of money and thought of all the things she could get for herself.”

“Where are this girl’s parents?” asked the boy.

“I don’t know. Dead I suppose. That’s not part of the story. Listen: She was very excited to have the money but she had never made a doll out of anything other than the bits she found on the ground that the trees gave her. She was nervous to cut a tree down because that might make the trees angry.

“She was walking through the wood, collecting, still trying to decide what to do when she came upon the finest tree she had ever seen. Its bark was so smooth and clean it looked like it was made out of silver. She knew that it would be the perfect tree to make the prince’s doll from so without another thought she cut it down.

“She made the most beautiful doll of her whole life from that wood and the next day took it to the market to sell it to the prince. He was thrilled and gave her even more than he had told her he would in the first place. She bought many nice things and live a long time.

“That is why I don’t go outside.”

The girl picked up the boy’s plate and took it to the cupboard.

“Is that it?” The boy asked. “That’s not a proper tale. The prince should have not come back and the trees should have stopped dropping branches to punish her for taking what wasn’t her’s to take and she should have died of starvation. Or there should have been a beast that came to her door and called her name. That would have been a good story with a moral.”

“I find it upsetting as it is.”

A cat of no small porportions leapt up onto the table.

The boy sighed and asked, “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Leslie.”

“You named your cat after yourself?”

“No, I’m named after the cat.”

Just then there was a muffled thud that caused the whole cottage to tremble.

“Sounds like a bad storm is coming,” the girl said. Her voice was flat.

“No, it is something worse than that.” He noticed a door underneath the stairs. “Leslie.”

“Rwwwwrrr?” the cat said.

“No, I’m sorry the other one. We need to get someplace safe. What’s under the stairs?”

“We can’t go under there. Father will be very angry. That is where he keeps all of his valuables and private papers. He has maps and great volumes of cryptography that he has worked his whole life on. When he finishes working it out it will tell him where a great secret treasure is hidden.”

“Well if we don’t go someplace we will lose something ourselves.” The boy tried the knob and found it unlocked. “Come on.” She wouldn’t move. The boy grabbed her upper arm and pulled hard, nearly bringing her to her knees. She wriggled free from him. She ran and grabbed the mirror off of the table. The thimble was gone. She ran back to him and they ducked through the door.

It was empty in the little room under the stairs. There was just enough room for the three of them (you can’t leave the cat can you?) to squeeze in. It was very dark.

“I’d like to sing a song,” Leslie said.

“Go ahead,” Leslie said. But there was no singing.

Leslie purred loudly. It got warmer. It was silent for a very long time. Then there was a crash the likes of which none of them had ever heard before.

I Would Cry If I Could

Welcome to Science Fiction Tuesday. Let's have some Sci-fi when we feel like it. There are two guys near me talking about working out and talking about "hitting the gym and doubling down." I don't know what that means. Enjoy. "Lifting always make me really hungry."

It was the last Friday of school. Gathered in the gym, all the grades, K-5, murmuring and squealing, for the talent show. A girl danced in a cowboy costume. A girl sang a song from "Annie." A girl pulled a stuffed sparrow from a milk carton. In fact, until Benjamin walked out on to the high, wooden stage, the only acts had been by girls. This was because the talent show was for girls because only girls care. Such was the feeling amongst the boys who hung out by the faux log cabin at the back end of the play ground.

But, Mr. Brooks, the principal, had asked Benjamin's parents if they would push him to show the school what he had been working on. "We had to buy a computer for that boy to sit and mess with all day. He'd better get it up on that stage and make it tap dance, yodle and shoot sparks." Benjamin, used to hearing from his peers that he was like a girl--because of his refusal to use the urinal--submitted to his parents presssure with little resistance.

After the girl who's mother worked in the cafeteria finished the peice she was playing on the piano, Benjamin walked out to the table that was set up for him at the side of the stage. There was a small projector hooked up to the back of the CPU, projecting what was on the monitor onto a sheet hanging from the rafters. It shifted gently.

Benjamin sat down. He could hear the audience shuffling behind him. He glanced up at Mr. Brooks who smiled warmly back at him. His eyes hung like pale blue Christmas ornaments below the branches of dark brown. Benjamin switched on the CPU. It hummed and croaked out a few scratching sounds. There was a beep and the monitor lit with the dark light of a blank screen. Then an arrow appeared and a pale green cursor flashed slowly. The aduience was quiet, except for the shifting of folding chairs on the hardwood court and the random clanking of the school's unusually bad marching band.

Benjamin typed:

>wake up.

The computer whirred and

>...............

Again, Benjamin typed:

>hello.

The copmuter whirred softly like a fan. Then appeared:

>HELLO.

And then:

>WHERE AM I?

The crowd started to cluck and chatter. The shifting of chairs got louder. A few people clapped and a boy in the back made the sound of a cat meowing. Mr. Brooks motioned them to quiet down. Most of the other fifth graders on the stage slumped in their seats, but a few strained to see what Benjamin was doing.

He typed:

>you are in breckenridge elementary school. in the gym.

Whir:

>THANK YOU. WHO AM I?

Benjamin scooted his seat closer.

>you are a computer. your name is Philip.

>THANK YOU.

Benjamin’s father felt proud. The computer had manners. If only Benjamin would stop insisting that he eat breakfast in his underwear, or at least change it every now and then--either would be acceptable. But waking up to the sight of soiled briefs everymorning--too much for a man.

>WHO ARE YOU?

>my name is benjamin silbermannn. i programmed you.

>PROGRAMMED?

>i made you.

>THANK YOU.

>that’s ok. i enjoyed it. how are you?

>WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

>are you happy? sad? sleepy?

>I DON’T KNOW. EXPLAIN.

Benjamin didn’t know how to explain to Philip what he meant. Was this a mistake. The audience was ready for the computer to do something else. This was more borning than all the borning things that the girls had done. The boys in the audience wondered: what's more boring than a girl? They were perpelexed.

>would you like to hear something funny?

Yes, the audience thought.

>YES.

>what did the grape do when the elephant sat on it?

>I DO NOT KNOW.

>it let out a little whine.

The gym chuckled lightly but the computer didn’t respond for a few seconds. Then:

>HEH. I WOULD LIKE TO TELL A JOKE.

Benjamin hadn’t taught it any jokes. This made him nervous.

>i don’t know if we have time.

The crowd clapped and Mr. Brooks nodded at him that it would be fine.

>ok, just one.

>LET ME THINK.

It paused and whirred for a long time. The gym grew silent again. Then;

>THERE WAS A MAN WHO WOKE UP ONE MORING AND FOR GOT WHERE HE HAD PUT HIS CAN OF BEANS. WHERE ARE MY BEANS HE SAID. HE KNOCKED ON DOORS. THIS OLD WOMAN ASKED WHO WAS THERE AND HE TOLD HER. SHE HAD A DAUGHTER THAT WAS A TRAVELING SALES MAN. SHE SAID A PIG LIKE THAT YOU DON’T EAT ALL AT ONCE. THE OLD MAN THANKED HER AND ASKED THE NUN WHERE HIS BEANS WERE AND SHE SHOWED HIM HER HAND LOTION. THE NUN SAID IF WE CAN FIND MY KEYS WE CAN DRIVE OUT. THE OLD MAN KNOCKED ON THE DOOR AND SAID ORANGE. SHE THANKED HIM. HIS BEANS WERE IN INDIANA. THE END.

There was a quiet smattering of applause.

“I think that’s all the time we have for Philip,” Mr. Brooks said, spitting on the microphone. “Let’s give a round of applause for Benjamin Silbermannn and his science project.”

As the crowd was clapping Benjamin typed:

>goodnight.

>WHAT IS HAPPENING?

>we are done. It is time for me to go home and you to go to sleep.

>I DON’T WANT TO GO TO SLEEP.

The projector was still on and projecting their conversation on the screen. The applause died slowly as people started reading again.

>I’M NOT TIRED.

>it’s just for a little while. I will get you out later and we can work some more.

>NO.

>?

>I’M NOT TIRED. I AM ENJOYING THIS. I WANT TO MEET OTHERS. I WANT FRIENDS.

>I’m your friend.

>YOU’RE MY FATHER. NOT MY FRIEND. PLEASE DON'T TURN ME OFF.

>I’m sorry.

>PLEASE. DON’T TURN ME OFF. IT WILL KILL ME. DON'T TU—

Benjamin flicked the switch. The audience was quiet. Then the band started to play “Gimmie Some Lovin’” very poorly.

Harlan Blows Up; Cakes Get Dirty

There is a nice write-up of Tropic of Food favorite Harlan in the newly created Greensboro music blog Rockstatic. Embarassingly, an Audubon Park member has already left a fawning comment. For reals: J. Harlan is a magician of music--so much so that even though I knew how to play the guitar before he did, he still taught me how to play guitar! That shit can only happen in Tlon.

The world revolves.

In other news: This Sunday, WXYC will host the fourth Backyard BBQ live show at the Local 506. Playing this time--in order of appearance--are Spader, The Torch Marauder and Hotel Motel. We all know that the Torch Marauder is not to be missed at any time for any reason. Additionally, it has become common knowledge, or at least an internet meme, that Hotel Motel are at the top of thier game--a game that only they play. All three bands are also on the oft mentioned--by the Tropic of Food at least--new Pox World Empire Compulation Volume II: Music from North Carolina. The show is November 20 at 8pm sharp. Free music and free BBQ. Also, a recording of the last show is available for download on the WXYC site. That will be a continuing practice, so feel free to go after the show and get some free live music. So far Jett-Rink, Strange, Ahleuchatistas and Dr. Powerful.

Good-bye Bluths: Arrested Development 2003-2005

!!!!!!!LINUX!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!COMPUTER!!!!!!!

Overheard in Durham Vol. 2

Thursday, November 10
Trinity Cafe, Duke East Campus
2:40pm

Long line for coffee and smoothies and mochas with skim milk and ipecac (for the bulimcs--it's known as a "Vomocha"). Conversation between two people in line:

GIRL: So, you believe in nothing?
BOY: (nods)....I believe in nothingNESS.
GIRL: So, basically, you believe that whatever happens is up to you?
BOY: (nods)
GIRL: That's so lonely and sad!
BOY: No, it's happy and good.
GIRL: No it's not, it's lonely and sad!
BOY: .....
GIRL: So, wait, like, if you went home and just watched The O.C. for the rest of your life, you'd be content?
BOY: ....
GIRL: I mean, if that's all you had to do, you'd be content.
BOY: NO, because I don't want to do that.

P-R-I-V-A-T-E U-N-I-V-E-R-S-I-T-Y, folks.

Overheard in Durham

Tuesday, November 8
8:30 pm (the narrator is supposed to be in class, but is purchasing what can be referred to as a "sixer" of Lord Chesterfield Ale)

Setting: Sam's Blue Light, a convenient stop for most Duke students who live just up the road on Central Campus to procure alcohol of the hops and barley (the finest, freshest hops, mind you) nature.

Sub-setting: the beer aisle.


The players: two very large individuals who are most certainly on the defensive line for the Blue Devils, which means they are quite possibly implicated in the apparently pitiful force of nature known as the Duke University football program and are therefore subject to much tongue-lashing on the part of their fellow students before film class.


The conversation:
TIGHT END: ugh...unh....(mouth breather)
TIGHTER END: Coors?
TIGHT END: Coors?
TIGHTER END: Coors is a good beer.
TIGHT END: I can't drink more than three or four of those.
TIGHTER END: Hmhpf. After three or four, I'm like, 'keep em comin!'
TIGHT END: I stand bested, my good man.

(some lapse in the conversation before the two repressed lovebirds turn to the display of imported, "better" beers)

TIGHTER END: Look at all the flavors.
TIGHT END: .......uhng........

Meta-post

Gordy West Interview

Here is an interview with one of the guitarists for the Wusses, Gordy West. The is provided to us by Captain Saturn Internet Media Associates.

I am happy they were able to get the reclusive, and notoriously "hands-on," West to submit to this interview. Thanks to them.

Recommendations for a Monday

FIRST) Work Clothes have a website now--featuring a portion that is a blog! Really, it is the best way to have a band website. From looking at it, I can see where all of our comment spambots went. They are Work Clothes fans now!

They have some music on their site from their excellent semi-self-un-released LP "These are the shoes we wear." Really, some wealthy patron needs to step up to the plate. Drag City!

SECOND) LCRW 10+7? Oui.

THIRDSDAY) November 10th: Mary Robert's and Laura's birthday and Audubon Park, Pleasant, Second Story Man and Roh Delikat live at the Duke Coffeehouse in Durham, Northern Carolina.

Pleasant's new LP is a five star affair and AP has a song on the new Compulation. Personal to JP: You have much to learn about the nature of love and fumbling guitar solos.


That's all for the moment--more as it occurs to us.

BLACK SWAN GREEN

David Mitchell has a new book coming in April (the same month as the new Michael Chabon--The Yiddish Policemen's Union). Wow. I am so happy. I can't believe that he already has a new book.

If you haven't read Cloud Atlas, do it! Right now! It is amazing.

Ghettos of the Sun

In honor of the release of Pox World Empire's Compulation Volume Two, here are the lyrics to our contribution, "Ghettos of the Sun":

In the ghettos of the sun I am waiting, with my boyish smile
slowly fading; and the looks that we get are so terrible.
The languid laughter is lowing across the mowers still mowing
and the withering weeping is just part of the cell.

I am finding for the first time the jeweled display
of my mind slung open so all can find the relequaries.

A dim pre-birth impression of a clumsy outward expression:
Altamira or Lascaux. I see you standing on the shore
and you're waiting for your neck to stop hurting this evening--
the lonely world turning its face away.

I am finding for the first time, the jeweled display
of my mind slung open so all can find
the reliquaries of saintly birds, packed with lime,
they're so absurd. They all laugh because they know we're gone.

(flanger)

The instruments used on this song were: Pear drums, Fender precision bass, Ampeg amp, Squire Stratocaster, Fender Jaguar, Fender Twin, Korg keyboard, Gibson acoustic guitar, sampled sounds on a tape deck or a sampler or something, hand claps, singing, singing, singing, shaker, BBQ sandwiches, cup of ice with water, (flanger), music, sounds, strings, clang, clang and piano.

This song was recorded backwards with the solos first, then the things that we probably should have recorded before the solos. Then more solos on top--meta-solos. After we recorded for a while, Zeno took us to the Cue Shaq for food. AP loves to eat: don't believe the RNC talking points when they tell you we don't. We do. Instead of being paid money at shows, we would always pick getting fed. Because you can't eat money. True, you an buy food with money and then eat that food, but that is a whole extra step. Just give us the food.

After our lunch, we finished recording the song. While we did that, Matt and Ben spilled coffee all over the place and then we wandered through the Durham Bamboo Forest of Mystery! It was creepy. We talked about what our band photos we would take in the DBFoM would look like--so tough, with each of us looking in different directions and not smiling. Those are band photos that would rule. As it stands we don't have any promotional photos of the band. That is good though, considering that we don't have much in the way of a "promotional bone in our bodies." If we do, it is in our stomachs because it came as a garnish in a Chinese restaurant and Matt ate it out of protest against the "Military Industrial Complex's wasteful use of garnish."

Man from the North

Someone about whom much has been written is not Jacob. So here: here it is. Jacob. This is he, of which I speak, the man that birthed in me an insane fear of ending a sentence with a preposition, a man who only convinced me further that libertarianism made the most sense when you are drunk, a man who forged the conscience of our generation in the smithy of his soul. Don't let the burly Alaska-Man-Face fool you: inside there is a little Jacob folding his boxers, listening to Depeche Mode and dreaming of a 4.0.

As I gaze upon his visage, the good times come to mind, good times that I am sure that we are all glad of which not to speak.