Watching the trailer, it hit me like a load of bricks: they are trying to make Where the Wild Things Are without Muppets. Somehow this seems like a sin against childhood.
March 2009 Archives
The new Mirah album opens with rising perfect strings. Her outfit in the album art looks like she has thrown tauntaun entrails over her shoulder, but with a voice like this, she can do whatever she wants. Forever. It has been five years since C'mon Miracle, and early springtime is the best time for the epic and solemn sweetness of her grown-up endeavors.
My grown-up endeavors this week have been adjusting to a 4:30am alarm clock and a new affinity for songwriting. When your workday ends by 1pm and the sun is setting later, you have all early evening for sitting around and fiddling around on guitar. I had come to some sort of resentful acceptance of my inability to complete a song, when- like a couple that finally gets pregnant as soon as they have stopped trying- I suddenly and with great astonishment completed three songs in one week!
One song was luck; two was coincidence; by the third, I was convinced that the dam had finally broken. (My output over the past nine years hovers right around a total of two songs, with unattached riffs and phrases scattered across notebooks.)
Proud mother that I am, I've been showing them off all over town.
My grown-up endeavors this week have been adjusting to a 4:30am alarm clock and a new affinity for songwriting. When your workday ends by 1pm and the sun is setting later, you have all early evening for sitting around and fiddling around on guitar. I had come to some sort of resentful acceptance of my inability to complete a song, when- like a couple that finally gets pregnant as soon as they have stopped trying- I suddenly and with great astonishment completed three songs in one week!One song was luck; two was coincidence; by the third, I was convinced that the dam had finally broken. (My output over the past nine years hovers right around a total of two songs, with unattached riffs and phrases scattered across notebooks.)
Proud mother that I am, I've been showing them off all over town.
According to this informal survey, more than 80% of performers at SXSW this year are male. That remaining 20% includes all variations of girls in the band: solo artists, female-male duos, Sharon Jones & the Daps Kings-scenarios, all-girl bands.
These numbers are pretty par for the course; most statistics put female involvement in indie/alternative music at about 20-25%.
These numbers are pretty par for the course; most statistics put female involvement in indie/alternative music at about 20-25%.
A bunch of people are freaking out because some dude asked Rachel Maddow if she used to have a dyke 'stache. I googled that this morning, minus the words "Rachel Maddow," and nothing came up- so thanks for the neologism, man. It's in bad taste to ask, yeah, and maybe we didn't really have a word for it before Vanity Fair interviewed the Darling of Lesbian America- but the dyke mustache is a legitimate, if largely unacknowledged, phenomenon.
It's true! Many dark-haired ladies have a shadow on their upper lip. Most get rid of it. I'm finally coming to terms with mine, thanks to the above role models. What is undesirable in most hetero circles is the same thing that garners you flattering comparisons to JD Samson when you're among queers.
"What has being queer done for YOU lately, young lady?"
"Well, it's made me feel hotter & more comfortable in my own non-depilated skin."
Ellen's been doing a pretty good job of convincing people to leave their lesbian-flannel-mullet stereotypes in the past, so let's 'fess up: some dykes have mustaches. And thank God. If the revolution doesn't include hairy women, then I don't want to be a part of it.
My two favorite cases in point:
It's true! Many dark-haired ladies have a shadow on their upper lip. Most get rid of it. I'm finally coming to terms with mine, thanks to the above role models. What is undesirable in most hetero circles is the same thing that garners you flattering comparisons to JD Samson when you're among queers.
"What has being queer done for YOU lately, young lady?"
"Well, it's made me feel hotter & more comfortable in my own non-depilated skin."
Ellen's been doing a pretty good job of convincing people to leave their lesbian-flannel-mullet stereotypes in the past, so let's 'fess up: some dykes have mustaches. And thank God. If the revolution doesn't include hairy women, then I don't want to be a part of it.
I've been texting band name possibilities back & forth all afternoon. The right one could be ANYWHERE, and a bad name can be a deal-breaker.
BUT THE RIGHT ONE IS ALWAYS SO ELUSIVE.
BUT THE RIGHT ONE IS ALWAYS SO ELUSIVE.
Third month in a row that I am fully synced up with the full moon. That's right, HELLA MENSTRUAL. Don't be jealous.
Gossip are being positioned for their big Rick Rubin-engineered US breakthrough, I get it, I get it. But I do not think Beth Ditto yet qualifies as a stateside celebrity, which is why I am bewildered in the check-out line these few times when I have seen her on the cover of National Enquirer.
Something like, "Too fat? Too thin? Celebrities and their weight!" and there is a question mark over the famous person's face and you are supposed to guess whose thighs are whose.
I recognize that chin! that hair! the "Mama" tattoo! National Enquirer, who are you fooling? Your readership doesn't know who this fine lady is, and anyway, the whole point is that she is fat! Next thing, you're gonna be like, "omg, guess who is a lesbian!" Duh, it's not secret, it's part of what makes her the most authentically punk rock thing to hit the mainstream since Kurt Cobain.
Something like, "Too fat? Too thin? Celebrities and their weight!" and there is a question mark over the famous person's face and you are supposed to guess whose thighs are whose.
I recognize that chin! that hair! the "Mama" tattoo! National Enquirer, who are you fooling? Your readership doesn't know who this fine lady is, and anyway, the whole point is that she is fat! Next thing, you're gonna be like, "omg, guess who is a lesbian!" Duh, it's not secret, it's part of what makes her the most authentically punk rock thing to hit the mainstream since Kurt Cobain.
Great songs have been written amount many things. Okay, actually, that's a lie. They are mostly all about love. Love lost, love won, love unrequited, underage love- it's all there in the pantheon.
I would like to break with tradition.
I would like to write a song about insurance.
Love is the perfect subject to write about because everyone has either experienced it, wishes to experience it, or wishes they could take back their experience with it. Universal.
Kind of like insurance in the U.S. You either have it, wish you had it, or ... have had bad times with it, I guess?
The dentist said, "It's a quick and easy procedure. Just a quick snip with the laser, then it's done."
Price tag on quick + easy procedure: $600.
Then there's the other four things I need, the most expensive ones being the most urgent. If I only do the pressing ones, my bank account will still be flattened like dough through a pasta machine. Maybe I should think about getting a job with insurance coverage? my mom gently suggested. I am PMSing and idealistic and NO FUCKING WAY (but I don't use those words, because I do not swear in front of my mother). So this is me reaping the consequences of my choices, my mom says, which is the closest she has ever come to criticizing my post-university employment decisions.
I will be super-frugal, it will be a Challenge. A problem-to-be-solved, which is something I like to do.
Us kids, in our twenties, no dependents, college-educated- we are so lucky. Even when we are feeling broke (and most people I know have been, at some point)- this is all relative, we can still afford to go out to a show now and then, bring something potato to a potluck, not have to hock our music equipment.
And when I am worrying about the economy, it is not so much about the people I know- we've got class and education and family on our sides, we will land on our feet, and we talk about this as an excuse to abandon capitalism and start bartering with our neighbors for vegetables. Worse comes to worse, a few of us might have to move back in with our parents. So I'm not too worried about us. I am worried about the folks with families, with mortgages, with all of those grown-up things that anchor you and that I have opted out of thus far.
(How to talk about these things when you are super-privilegey yourself? Just sounds asshole-ish, like the socialites from Atlanta that they interview in the New York Times who say things like, "Oh dear, I will have to dig an OLD DRESS out of my big ol' closet for this charity luncheon, instead of buying a brand-new one from fucking Chanel or wherever. OH MY STARS, it's been difficult. Go ahead and canonize me whenever you're ready.")
The fancy dentist with too-bright teeth will get a healthy chunk of my (minimum) wages next month. ouch ouch ouch. But Lord knows I used to spend at least that on tuition every quarter. Grocery Outlet instead of Co-op, stringent budget, no extra spending anytime soon.
(Tangentially related: as the hygienist was scrapping away at my teeth with that pokey metal thing they stab at your gum line with, the tv in the background was set to CBN. 700 Club was on, silent. Bleeding from my gums and watching Pat Robertson first thing in the morning- it hurt. In the bathroom, I worked myself up and swore to only patronize lady-doctors now, good goddess-worshipping types who will treat my mouth with tincture of appleblossom and not charge an arm and a leg for all this tomfoolery.)
I would like to break with tradition.
I would like to write a song about insurance.
Love is the perfect subject to write about because everyone has either experienced it, wishes to experience it, or wishes they could take back their experience with it. Universal.
Kind of like insurance in the U.S. You either have it, wish you had it, or ... have had bad times with it, I guess?
The dentist said, "It's a quick and easy procedure. Just a quick snip with the laser, then it's done."
Price tag on quick + easy procedure: $600.
Then there's the other four things I need, the most expensive ones being the most urgent. If I only do the pressing ones, my bank account will still be flattened like dough through a pasta machine. Maybe I should think about getting a job with insurance coverage? my mom gently suggested. I am PMSing and idealistic and NO FUCKING WAY (but I don't use those words, because I do not swear in front of my mother). So this is me reaping the consequences of my choices, my mom says, which is the closest she has ever come to criticizing my post-university employment decisions.
I will be super-frugal, it will be a Challenge. A problem-to-be-solved, which is something I like to do.
Us kids, in our twenties, no dependents, college-educated- we are so lucky. Even when we are feeling broke (and most people I know have been, at some point)- this is all relative, we can still afford to go out to a show now and then, bring something potato to a potluck, not have to hock our music equipment.
And when I am worrying about the economy, it is not so much about the people I know- we've got class and education and family on our sides, we will land on our feet, and we talk about this as an excuse to abandon capitalism and start bartering with our neighbors for vegetables. Worse comes to worse, a few of us might have to move back in with our parents. So I'm not too worried about us. I am worried about the folks with families, with mortgages, with all of those grown-up things that anchor you and that I have opted out of thus far.
(How to talk about these things when you are super-privilegey yourself? Just sounds asshole-ish, like the socialites from Atlanta that they interview in the New York Times who say things like, "Oh dear, I will have to dig an OLD DRESS out of my big ol' closet for this charity luncheon, instead of buying a brand-new one from fucking Chanel or wherever. OH MY STARS, it's been difficult. Go ahead and canonize me whenever you're ready.")
The fancy dentist with too-bright teeth will get a healthy chunk of my (minimum) wages next month. ouch ouch ouch. But Lord knows I used to spend at least that on tuition every quarter. Grocery Outlet instead of Co-op, stringent budget, no extra spending anytime soon.
(Tangentially related: as the hygienist was scrapping away at my teeth with that pokey metal thing they stab at your gum line with, the tv in the background was set to CBN. 700 Club was on, silent. Bleeding from my gums and watching Pat Robertson first thing in the morning- it hurt. In the bathroom, I worked myself up and swore to only patronize lady-doctors now, good goddess-worshipping types who will treat my mouth with tincture of appleblossom and not charge an arm and a leg for all this tomfoolery.)
Long Ago and Far Away was a weekly program broadcast on PBS for a few seasons in the late 80's/early 90's. VHS'd by both my dad and my aunt. Watched into the ground by me, sibs, and cousins. Every week, different fairy tales, weird French clowns, James Earl Jones hamming it up.
My dad recently digitized my aunt's tapes of the two seasons, I think they include nearly every episode. Alison and I marathoned a little bit at the beginning of this week. I fell asleep to the claymation "Wind in the Willows" the other night.
But "Svatohor"- it is better than I ever ever remembered. It's dark (and not just from aging VHS tapes). Russian fairytale, Czech stop-motion animation, exquisite storytelling, I present: my childhood.
It comes in three parts.
Friday night just make me want to sit by the heater and watch tv shows from my childhood or read fiction on loan from my sister. I am on old-lady-time now, striving for 10:30pm bedtimes.
This is something at which I am mostly unsuccessful.
Wednesday was my day off; I finished one of these Katie loaner books and spent the next hour laying on the floor in my pajamas in a post-story mope, the book was so good and then it just went and ended and I wasn't ready/am never ready to disengage from a really good story. Especially when there are nice little chunks of emo profundities that give me pause, ones like this (which so affected me that I had to find my notebook and write it down, lest I forget the ultimate futility of life and creation):
My dad recently digitized my aunt's tapes of the two seasons, I think they include nearly every episode. Alison and I marathoned a little bit at the beginning of this week. I fell asleep to the claymation "Wind in the Willows" the other night.
But "Svatohor"- it is better than I ever ever remembered. It's dark (and not just from aging VHS tapes). Russian fairytale, Czech stop-motion animation, exquisite storytelling, I present: my childhood.
It comes in three parts.
Yesterday it was hard to tell for sure; but today, the sun was definitely on its way up when I left the house at six.
Friday night just make me want to sit by the heater and watch tv shows from my childhood or read fiction on loan from my sister. I am on old-lady-time now, striving for 10:30pm bedtimes.
This is something at which I am mostly unsuccessful.
Wednesday was my day off; I finished one of these Katie loaner books and spent the next hour laying on the floor in my pajamas in a post-story mope, the book was so good and then it just went and ended and I wasn't ready/am never ready to disengage from a really good story. Especially when there are nice little chunks of emo profundities that give me pause, ones like this (which so affected me that I had to find my notebook and write it down, lest I forget the ultimate futility of life and creation):
"Maybe, after all, what she could no longer tolerate was her growing sense that to make a thing was to set yourself up for the loss of if it; that creation was nothing more than a prelude to mourning."And I spend the rest of the late morning feeling sweaty because the heater is on too hot and I am still wearing my flannel pj's and I have things to do with my day, but they feel so pedestrian and useless in the face of my existential crises (plural). I am like a fucking college freshman who has just crammed a quarter with philosophy classes and clove cigarettes. This is why I mostly stick with nonfiction these days, it provokes a different and more manageable kind of malaise.
"ooh girl" slow jams have become an important part of my musical diet lately. thanks to my roommate. "ooh girl, I like yr cervix." get her in the right mood (wine helps), and she will ooh-girl you about breast-feeding, guerilla gynecology, the keeper ...
also, she hates internet, technology in general, and "the blogs" in particular; since I know she won't say anything about it, I have to. #1 OOH GIRL song in our lately has been "whatcha doin'," falsetto white-boy jams from Nick Krgovich (no kids) and P.W. Elverum. sometimes reminds me of Jemaine?
whoa whoa
melisma
crack pipe, crack pipe, whatcha doin' smoking on that crack pipe?
also, she hates internet, technology in general, and "the blogs" in particular; since I know she won't say anything about it, I have to. #1 OOH GIRL song in our lately has been "whatcha doin'," falsetto white-boy jams from Nick Krgovich (no kids) and P.W. Elverum. sometimes reminds me of Jemaine?
whoa whoa
melisma
crack pipe, crack pipe, whatcha doin' smoking on that crack pipe?
