LED IT BE
For some mysterious reason, preset number 4 on the satrad has been stuck on a classic rock station all week. I tried switching it to old-school hip-hop, I tried switching it to whatever the hell the determinedly eclectic station is called, but no dice.
It's made for an average of one amusing moment per day. And yesterday it was What Is and What Should Never Be, that mockjestic Zep text rimed with the hoarfrost of 35 stoned winters...
Sure, it's got a castle, and a trip way up high in the sky.
But the best thing bar none is that channel-jumping riff that precedes the gong. And oh yeah, the gong...
Fucking hilarious.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
YOU KNOW I'M ALRIGHT NOW
Guilty pleasure
Feelin' Stronger Every Day— Chicago
Chicago was as doomed from the point of conception as poor Tristram Shandy, what with all that incessant cocking about with Got to Get You Into My Life horns. I mean, sweet muted Jesus, of all the Beatles tangents on which to base a career...
But this one crackles with so much winter-into-spring, got-to-tape-it-off-the-radio energy, that for 4:14 you forgive the soulless bastards.
Especially that part where the tempo shifts and gets all metronomic and in your face.
Nyah-nyah-nyah...
Guilty pleasure
Feelin' Stronger Every Day— Chicago
Chicago was as doomed from the point of conception as poor Tristram Shandy, what with all that incessant cocking about with Got to Get You Into My Life horns. I mean, sweet muted Jesus, of all the Beatles tangents on which to base a career...
But this one crackles with so much winter-into-spring, got-to-tape-it-off-the-radio energy, that for 4:14 you forgive the soulless bastards.
Especially that part where the tempo shifts and gets all metronomic and in your face.
Nyah-nyah-nyah...
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
WOMEN OF THE WORLD
I pulled out Jim O’Rourke’s Eureka to play for some friends as we navigated our way to Georgetown for lunch last week.
“He’s a post-rockin’ genius!” I exclaimed, with two parts enthusiasm, one part consciousness that they were staring at the CD cover of a rotund bald dude coyly hiding his genitalia behind a stuffed rabbit.
What I didn’t mention was that O’Rourke’s version of Women of the World was the soundtrack to my daughter’s birth...
It was around 11:30 pm on May 29, 1999 when my wife went into labor. We tiptoed out of our bedroom, each tipping of her toe punctuated by a heavy breath.
Her parents were visiting from Japan and sleeping on the floor in the living room, and as we stepped out the sliding door, her mother lifted her head slightly and watched us exit into the darkness.
It was a Saturday night, but the Long Island Expressway was uncharacteristically serene and cooperative. We made it to the hospital in about 30 minutes.
Our daughter was born—quivering, beautiful, and from another world— at 6:47 am on Sunday morning. My wife’s blood pressure spiked right after the delivery, so she was moved to critical care as a precaution.
For the next three days I shuttled back and forth from the house to the hospital, bringing visitors and gifts.
In quiet moments, I held my daughter to my chest, and brushed the hair from my wife’s forehead with my fingers.
And as I drove up and down the Expressway for those three days, I listened to Women of the World almost exclusively.
“Women of the world, take over, for if you don’t the world will come to an end, and it won’t take long...”
I pulled out Jim O’Rourke’s Eureka to play for some friends as we navigated our way to Georgetown for lunch last week.
“He’s a post-rockin’ genius!” I exclaimed, with two parts enthusiasm, one part consciousness that they were staring at the CD cover of a rotund bald dude coyly hiding his genitalia behind a stuffed rabbit.
What I didn’t mention was that O’Rourke’s version of Women of the World was the soundtrack to my daughter’s birth...
It was around 11:30 pm on May 29, 1999 when my wife went into labor. We tiptoed out of our bedroom, each tipping of her toe punctuated by a heavy breath.
Her parents were visiting from Japan and sleeping on the floor in the living room, and as we stepped out the sliding door, her mother lifted her head slightly and watched us exit into the darkness.
It was a Saturday night, but the Long Island Expressway was uncharacteristically serene and cooperative. We made it to the hospital in about 30 minutes.
Our daughter was born—quivering, beautiful, and from another world— at 6:47 am on Sunday morning. My wife’s blood pressure spiked right after the delivery, so she was moved to critical care as a precaution.
For the next three days I shuttled back and forth from the house to the hospital, bringing visitors and gifts.
In quiet moments, I held my daughter to my chest, and brushed the hair from my wife’s forehead with my fingers.
And as I drove up and down the Expressway for those three days, I listened to Women of the World almost exclusively.
“Women of the world, take over, for if you don’t the world will come to an end, and it won’t take long...”
Friday, June 23, 2006
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
WHAT WOULD I DO TO BELIEVE?
So here I sit, a committed agnostic. And yet, I am drawn to faith...
The woman I love is a devout and lifelong Buddhist, and I am warmed to see my children kneel before her altar and chant.
My mother, after many years in retrograde, has returned to the very church that I abandoned on that long-ago Christmas Eve, and I find myself encouraging her to attend.
And as long as they do not proselytize too aggressively, I connect very well with folks like Sufjan and Stuart Murdoch. Committed Christians.
I guess that the mystery inside me never truly died away...
So here I sit, a committed agnostic. And yet, I am drawn to faith...
The woman I love is a devout and lifelong Buddhist, and I am warmed to see my children kneel before her altar and chant.
My mother, after many years in retrograde, has returned to the very church that I abandoned on that long-ago Christmas Eve, and I find myself encouraging her to attend.
And as long as they do not proselytize too aggressively, I connect very well with folks like Sufjan and Stuart Murdoch. Committed Christians.
I guess that the mystery inside me never truly died away...
Monday, June 19, 2006
ANGELS WE HAVE HEARD ON HIGH
The last time I attended a church service was the Christmas Eve when I was 15.
It was the first time that I recall incense being incorporated into the ceremony. The priest slathered it on until the elderly portion of the congregation was clasping wrinkled silk handkerchiefs to their collective noses. The elongated vowels of Gloria in Excelsis Deo competed with brisk, spirited coughing.
It all seemed so absurd at that moment, in the special unvarnished way that things seem absurd when you’re 15.
I excused myself from my mother’s side and slipped out the front door. I walked the mile and a half home in a damp cool midnight, with still-white streetlamps throwing large dots of light across the periodic darkness. It was peaceful— Christmas Eve peaceful— and all I heard was the faint hum of mystery dying inside me...
The last time I attended a church service was the Christmas Eve when I was 15.
It was the first time that I recall incense being incorporated into the ceremony. The priest slathered it on until the elderly portion of the congregation was clasping wrinkled silk handkerchiefs to their collective noses. The elongated vowels of Gloria in Excelsis Deo competed with brisk, spirited coughing.
It all seemed so absurd at that moment, in the special unvarnished way that things seem absurd when you’re 15.
I excused myself from my mother’s side and slipped out the front door. I walked the mile and a half home in a damp cool midnight, with still-white streetlamps throwing large dots of light across the periodic darkness. It was peaceful— Christmas Eve peaceful— and all I heard was the faint hum of mystery dying inside me...
Friday, June 16, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
TONIGHT I’M GONNA PARTY LIKE IT’S 199
It’s the Sliced Tongue 200th Post Gala Black Tie Celebration!
Now without further editorial ado, here are the best 10 and worst 10 posts to date...
BEST
August 12, 2005
September 8, 2005
September 16, 2005
October 7, 2005
January 26, 2006
March 3, 2006
March 8, 2006
May 22, 2006
May 24, 2006
June 12, 2006
WORST
August 3, 2006
September 22, 2006
October 3, 2006
November 2, 2006
February 6, 2006
February 7, 2006
February 17, 2006
March 30, 2006
April 17, 2006
May 12, 2006
It’s the Sliced Tongue 200th Post Gala Black Tie Celebration!
Now without further editorial ado, here are the best 10 and worst 10 posts to date...
BEST
August 12, 2005
September 8, 2005
September 16, 2005
October 7, 2005
January 26, 2006
March 3, 2006
March 8, 2006
May 22, 2006
May 24, 2006
June 12, 2006
WORST
August 3, 2006
September 22, 2006
October 3, 2006
November 2, 2006
February 6, 2006
February 7, 2006
February 17, 2006
March 30, 2006
April 17, 2006
May 12, 2006
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
I AIN’T GOT NO PAPERS ON MYSELF
I periodically spin on my chair to open a drawer and catch my eye wandering out of my sixth-floor window to the green below, where more and more people gather in shirt sleeves to eat, smoke, sun, and gab.
For the last couple of days I’ve played nothing but the Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim CD, in an effort to bring a little outdoors indoors...
I periodically spin on my chair to open a drawer and catch my eye wandering out of my sixth-floor window to the green below, where more and more people gather in shirt sleeves to eat, smoke, sun, and gab.
For the last couple of days I’ve played nothing but the Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim CD, in an effort to bring a little outdoors indoors...
Monday, June 12, 2006
DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC?
I spent a couple of hours yesterday scouring the perimeter of the Wolf Trap parking lot, hunting for bottle caps with my three-year old son.
We got a good three-year old’s handful, some shiny and pristine, some rusted, nicked, and flattened.
At one point, I picked up a discarded ticket stub from the New Cars/Blondie Road Rage Tour. I showed it to my son, who threw it on the ground with quick disdain.
“That’s not a bottle cap, silly!”
Rock on, Sebastian. Rock the fuck on...
I spent a couple of hours yesterday scouring the perimeter of the Wolf Trap parking lot, hunting for bottle caps with my three-year old son.
We got a good three-year old’s handful, some shiny and pristine, some rusted, nicked, and flattened.
At one point, I picked up a discarded ticket stub from the New Cars/Blondie Road Rage Tour. I showed it to my son, who threw it on the ground with quick disdain.
“That’s not a bottle cap, silly!”
Rock on, Sebastian. Rock the fuck on...
Friday, June 09, 2006
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
CAPTAIN TRIPS
A new-music fix on the way, courtesy of Newbury Comics, and the raves of brain coral: Art Brut and Danielson.
I really like what I've heard of Art Brut, and I'm getting over my concerns that they're a novelty act.
Haven't heard any of of the Danielson Famile stuff, so my mind is wide open.
I ordered Eno's Music for Airports too. Into every life a little ambience must fall...
I have a business trip following the upcoming holiday, so I won't be posting for a while. What say we meet back here around about June 7th?
Peace.
A new-music fix on the way, courtesy of Newbury Comics, and the raves of brain coral: Art Brut and Danielson.
I really like what I've heard of Art Brut, and I'm getting over my concerns that they're a novelty act.
Haven't heard any of of the Danielson Famile stuff, so my mind is wide open.
I ordered Eno's Music for Airports too. Into every life a little ambience must fall...
I have a business trip following the upcoming holiday, so I won't be posting for a while. What say we meet back here around about June 7th?
Peace.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
UMBILICAL NOOSE
Chances are that your copy of In Utero is sitting on a shelf somewhere, the walls between the pits of data wearing away slowly. It will one day be a mirror that makes no sound.
I pulled my copy out a couple of nights ago, and listened from start to finish.
And there it was again. The 18th Century repulsion at the physicality of birth, and the 19th Century horror at being born.
And, oh, the 20th Century.
Really, In Utero is already a mirror that makes no sound...
Chances are that your copy of In Utero is sitting on a shelf somewhere, the walls between the pits of data wearing away slowly. It will one day be a mirror that makes no sound.
I pulled my copy out a couple of nights ago, and listened from start to finish.
And there it was again. The 18th Century repulsion at the physicality of birth, and the 19th Century horror at being born.
And, oh, the 20th Century.
Really, In Utero is already a mirror that makes no sound...
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
FIFTY ACORNS TIED IN A SACK
The five worst Beatle Number ones.
Which I realize is akin to picking the five worst $100 bills from a stack of $100 bills.
But slag I must…
5. Yesterday
The slow and “serious” song that made it safe for the bluebloods and bluehairs to indulge in a bit of Beatles.
4. The Long and Winding Road
Slathered in strings and Spector's waning relevancy. And frankly, long and winding roads make me carsick...
3. Lady Madonna
Eleanor Rigby done flippantly.
2. The Ballad of John and Yoko
Sorry, but I just can't find a reason to give a measurable fuck. Presaged martyrdom? Yawn. Dawning of the modern cult of celebrity? Strettttch. Bed-inism? Bagism? Onanism? Scratch scratch scratch...
1. Let it Be
These choices make me look like a confirmed balladophobe, but I swear that's not the case. I just don't like them when they're as cloying and unctuous as this...
The five worst Beatle Number ones.
Which I realize is akin to picking the five worst $100 bills from a stack of $100 bills.
But slag I must…
5. Yesterday
The slow and “serious” song that made it safe for the bluebloods and bluehairs to indulge in a bit of Beatles.
4. The Long and Winding Road
Slathered in strings and Spector's waning relevancy. And frankly, long and winding roads make me carsick...
3. Lady Madonna
Eleanor Rigby done flippantly.
2. The Ballad of John and Yoko
Sorry, but I just can't find a reason to give a measurable fuck. Presaged martyrdom? Yawn. Dawning of the modern cult of celebrity? Strettttch. Bed-inism? Bagism? Onanism? Scratch scratch scratch...
1. Let it Be
These choices make me look like a confirmed balladophobe, but I swear that's not the case. I just don't like them when they're as cloying and unctuous as this...
Monday, May 22, 2006
ONCE THERE WAS A WAY TO GET BACK HOMEWARD
I entered a long weekend distracted and kind of disjointed. The mingled aroma of the past, present, and future was swirling around me, encouraging a fog.
As I set out to drive my daughter to what was ultimately the wrong dojo for her white-belt test, She Loves You came on the radio. Alvin and the Chipmunks’ version.
I heard a giggle rise up from the backseat. “I know this song!” my daughter chirped. My head began to bob back and forth, and I started to sing along in my best approximation of a heliumated Beatle.
We laughed together through two right turns and the length of a stoplight.
Later that same day, as we prepared for her birthday party, I heard All You Need is Love.
And I remembered a moment when I was driving with my mother back from Mt. Sinai Hospital, where my brother laid in ICU recovering from a liver transplant.
I remembered how we listened to the same song on that long quiet drive, and how our eyes met when we heard the line “No one you can save that can’t be saved.”
I remembered how I said to her in a near whisper, “I know. I know.”
I remembered that this same day full of dojos and birthday parties would have been my brother’s 45th birthday.
Happy Birthday Jeff. Happy Birthday…
I entered a long weekend distracted and kind of disjointed. The mingled aroma of the past, present, and future was swirling around me, encouraging a fog.
As I set out to drive my daughter to what was ultimately the wrong dojo for her white-belt test, She Loves You came on the radio. Alvin and the Chipmunks’ version.
I heard a giggle rise up from the backseat. “I know this song!” my daughter chirped. My head began to bob back and forth, and I started to sing along in my best approximation of a heliumated Beatle.
We laughed together through two right turns and the length of a stoplight.
Later that same day, as we prepared for her birthday party, I heard All You Need is Love.
And I remembered a moment when I was driving with my mother back from Mt. Sinai Hospital, where my brother laid in ICU recovering from a liver transplant.
I remembered how we listened to the same song on that long quiet drive, and how our eyes met when we heard the line “No one you can save that can’t be saved.”
I remembered how I said to her in a near whisper, “I know. I know.”
I remembered that this same day full of dojos and birthday parties would have been my brother’s 45th birthday.
Happy Birthday Jeff. Happy Birthday…
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