this is one of the days that will go down as massive.
- work matt & sarah g ... im not going to be able to stay up till 1am again trying to get wilco tickets
- exam #2 out of 3 until this guys is a master. what?!?!?! seriously though i am exhausted and over stretched on studying global environmental politics
- have a good family friend, mr dewey du., in town this week/weekend and its so comforting connecting with friends and loved ones while over here. good on ya dew!
- well my roomate, j. blackwood has is 1st gig tonight in manly on the beach at a pub called henry afrika's - if you are reading this in sydney ... come to the show. if you are reading this in the states, dont worry there will be pictures to come!
10/29/2008
10/22/2008
david sedaris' election short story via jmc ...
I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”
“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in.
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circles.”
“We don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in.
10/21/2008
more mandatory music ...
well ladies - and there might be a couple of guys who read this blog, but i know who my audience really is - the papers are all handed in, one more week and then 2 finals, a week off, and the last one on the 12th of november! i am officially back from burrowing under in order to finish the semester and the first thing i did was ... my laundry. but the second thing i decided to do was ... get some sushi from my favorite sushi train, makoto, and then thirdly i came home and decided to write about some mandatory music.
it feels good to be writing about tunes again - so this week i have decided to go back nearly a decade to the millennium (thats 2000 for you aussies) in order to talk about modest mouses smash hit, 'the moon & antarctica'.
'the moon & antarctica' is probably my favorite modest mouse cd closely followed by 'good news for people who like bad news' and it did receive a 9.8 from the music geeks (elitists) at pitchfork. so what the hell lets do this...
the album kicks off with a 'third planet' which has such an innocent beginning but slowly picks up to introduce you to lead singer, issac brocks vocal range and his ability to sound melodic
with a microphone and a bull horn. the soft opening theme thats playing on the creation of the world continues with the next track called 'gravity rides everything'. here the listener is introduced to the layered, multi percussion, rhythmic sound that is so central to modest mouses distinct post punk sound. following 'gravity' we are treated to the edgy and hallow opening of 'dark center of the universe' which starts off all hallow and innocent but then kicks your chair over and while standing over top of your body declares 'this is fucking modest mouse!'
the next section of the cd starts off with the banjo introduction of 'perfect disguise' a song filled with angst directed at someone who obviously hung brock out to dry. next track, 'tiny cities made of ashes' introduces the listeners to the choppy head bopping thumping angry rhythmic modest mouse that is so awesome that it makes me want to chain smoke camel lights while getting a full sleeve tattoo. sticking with the urban theme the next track on the album is called 'a different city'. 'different city' has that modest mouse cringing guitar set as the backdrop for some more pretty brock vocals.
'the cold part' is the next track whose full ensemble sound creates a very hallow vibe which exudes a fittingly cold ambiance.
the next song 'alone down there' continues the slow, cold, and detached feeling that started with 'the cold part' which helps to link the two tracks together. 'the starts are projectors' is the longest track of the album clocking in at 8:47. the song starts off disjointed and confusing but transitions from this initial confusion and turns astral and reflexive in a stripped down acoustic setting. funny enough the longest track of the album proceeds the shortest track 'wild pack of family dogs' which is just shy of 2 minutes. this song really emulates the upbeat and sing a long chilled out nature that modest mouse can demonstrate from time to time. the next track is the one that you have probably heard before - its easy to love 'paper thin walls' - i know i love it. the last song that i need to tell you about is 'lives' which starts out rather melodramatic but after the 1:26 mark the song turns out to be some of the most beautiful modest mouse out there.
let me know what you think if you pick it up ...
it feels good to be writing about tunes again - so this week i have decided to go back nearly a decade to the millennium (thats 2000 for you aussies) in order to talk about modest mouses smash hit, 'the moon & antarctica'.
'the moon & antarctica' is probably my favorite modest mouse cd closely followed by 'good news for people who like bad news' and it did receive a 9.8 from the music geeks (elitists) at pitchfork. so what the hell lets do this...
the album kicks off with a 'third planet' which has such an innocent beginning but slowly picks up to introduce you to lead singer, issac brocks vocal range and his ability to sound melodic
with a microphone and a bull horn. the soft opening theme thats playing on the creation of the world continues with the next track called 'gravity rides everything'. here the listener is introduced to the layered, multi percussion, rhythmic sound that is so central to modest mouses distinct post punk sound. following 'gravity' we are treated to the edgy and hallow opening of 'dark center of the universe' which starts off all hallow and innocent but then kicks your chair over and while standing over top of your body declares 'this is fucking modest mouse!'the next section of the cd starts off with the banjo introduction of 'perfect disguise' a song filled with angst directed at someone who obviously hung brock out to dry. next track, 'tiny cities made of ashes' introduces the listeners to the choppy head bopping thumping angry rhythmic modest mouse that is so awesome that it makes me want to chain smoke camel lights while getting a full sleeve tattoo. sticking with the urban theme the next track on the album is called 'a different city'. 'different city' has that modest mouse cringing guitar set as the backdrop for some more pretty brock vocals.
'the cold part' is the next track whose full ensemble sound creates a very hallow vibe which exudes a fittingly cold ambiance.
the next song 'alone down there' continues the slow, cold, and detached feeling that started with 'the cold part' which helps to link the two tracks together. 'the starts are projectors' is the longest track of the album clocking in at 8:47. the song starts off disjointed and confusing but transitions from this initial confusion and turns astral and reflexive in a stripped down acoustic setting. funny enough the longest track of the album proceeds the shortest track 'wild pack of family dogs' which is just shy of 2 minutes. this song really emulates the upbeat and sing a long chilled out nature that modest mouse can demonstrate from time to time. the next track is the one that you have probably heard before - its easy to love 'paper thin walls' - i know i love it. the last song that i need to tell you about is 'lives' which starts out rather melodramatic but after the 1:26 mark the song turns out to be some of the most beautiful modest mouse out there.let me know what you think if you pick it up ...
10/12/2008
who do i kiss? owl or bear?
the fellas at owl & bear have done it once again. bu 'it' i mean achieved levels of superior awesomeness in their dedication to music especially wilco.
wilco live set from lollapalooza (02/08/2008) - its a high quality streaming video bitches!
setlist and song info
10/10/2008
chicken little: "the sky is falling" ...
so its very interesting times. the aussie dollar is trading at a recod low (since i have been in the country) of US65 cents (which means i might get that pair of r m williams boots afterall) and the entire world is on egg shells about the apparent financial doomsday that is lurking - or depending on who you talk to has already decended upon us.
so i thought (insipired by this american life) that i would give you some links that might explain what is happening and why if you are interested. its kind of funny that we are all living or lives normally, but in actuallity we might all be pretty fucked!
this american life: 'another friehgtening show about the economy'
npr's planet money blog
new york times 'freakronomics' blog
so i thought (insipired by this american life) that i would give you some links that might explain what is happening and why if you are interested. its kind of funny that we are all living or lives normally, but in actuallity we might all be pretty fucked!
this american life: 'another friehgtening show about the economy'
npr's planet money blog
new york times 'freakronomics' blog
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