nah pop, no style

Also, I feel a duty to report here my discovery of earlier today, which is that, in “You’re So Vain,” Carly Simon says:

Well, you’re where you should be all the time
And when you’re not, you’re with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend,

NOT, as I had previously believed,

Well, you’re where you should be all the time
And when you’re not, you’re with
Some underworld spy or the wife of a postman.

I like my version much better, thankyouverymuch, and if I’m ever drunk/stupid enough to attempt karaoke (not to say that karaoke is itself that stupid, I just can’t sing, y’all!), I will certainly sing this song, and I will sing this song MY way.

I mean, it’s only fair that while the postman’s out “deliverin’ the mail,” his wife should be shaggin’ with the hero of our song. Right?

Right?

Today, hanging out with the mother on MLK day, I end up after a somewhat harried search for somewhere to eat lunch quickly without having to resort to fast food, at, of all places, Denny’s. Home of the American Slam meal, 20 percent of the proceeds of which go to the Urban League’s educational efforts. A bizarre coincidence (I say this because we had both already forgotten about the chain’s spotty past with regard to racism, and because we both had been to Denny’s maybe once in our lives) and one that resulted in a pretty miserable dining experience for us.

Highlights included a dining room that was about 80 degrees, despite it being maybe 40 tops outside, a table next to the kitchen door and all the ensuing noise, a lot of colicky children and old ladies, and a woman in a different uniform, presumable the manager, who would occasionally step into the room and look around sluggishly with a look on her face that could only accompany a mental sigh meaning “Oh Christ, this is what my life is all about.” Throw in a carpet that may have been dirtier than the one in my bedroom, my mother’s observation that the restroom was less than pristine, and I could only thank the chain diner gods that I’m not horribly germphobic.

Also today, on same trip through the suburbs with same mother, I spent some time in Borders, and found that for perhaps the first time ever I was pretty unsatisfied with spending time in a bookstore. I trace this somewhat to the fact that I’m bogged down with things to read right now (and overdue library books), but more so to the fact that I work with so many books anymore, I can’t find as much pleasure in being surrounded by them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not turning antiliterate here, I just am feeling worn on the experience of being inundated by text. I also don’t ever want to see contemporary popular fiction, because that’s the shit that is most often missing from the shelves at work and also is the hardest to get from other libraries. You are the bane of my existence, Dan Brown.

I found refuge, though, in the magazines, which I don’t see as many of, and which I could leaf through and see people I know (in MRR, for example, and in Skyscraper, which featured a Modey Lemon interview with Charissa’s pics from roundabout a year ago).

Also, a stop at Half Price Books netted me a few dollar records (The Supremes, Carly Simon) that are a little scratchy but hey what do I expect, paying a dollar and all? And also a book about medicinal herbs and one about Gourmet Vegetarian Feasts, the usefulness of which is yet to be determined.

Now I have to knuckle down on this article I’m working on in a molassesian manner and also play lots of rock this week.

Here it is. I haven’t seen it in person but so far as I know the packaging is gorgeous. $8.00 through Electric Human Project. LP available shortly from Hardtravelin’.

1. Jerome Bettis was on TV talking about how the Colts have an 8-foot-tall, 500-pound player whom they only use as a tight end, and about how, if the Steelers had him, he’d be a running back and would be unstoppable. So then the Colts decided to use him as a running back and the Steelers had no chance. Good job, guy.

2. I showed up at a party Alicia was having and immediately absconded away to the bathroom, where I began clipping my nails. At some point during the dream I found that, instead of my nails, I was clipping the serifs off of serif-font letters.

I still have a band, I promise. We’re really playing a show next week (1/19, at Roboto, see sidebar), even though we’re still recovering to an extent from the flood. We really do have a record coming out with the assistance of one of our favorite bands and two of our favorite labels. The official release shows should theoretically be the first weekend in February. If possible, we may have the LP ready in time for next week’s show.

Additionally, Roboto is having a rilly big show on Friday, featuring Grand Buffet, the Dirty Faces, and Poison Arrow (Dan Goldberg and Bill’s new thing that is not in fact called “Broken Arrow”). Without owning up to anything more than I absolutely have to, I will note that after this show, a couple more of my Pittsburgh secrets will be no more. The show benefits the space, so go. And afterward, The Band That Is Not Arco Flute Foundation Because That Would Imply the Presence of McDowell will be playing at the Brillobox, and I caught some of their set tonight at Mofo (I was horrendously late to the show) and it was wonderful, as expected. (I only saw AFF once in their original incarnation and it blew my college sophomore mind.)

So, first garden post of the year. If I know that my adoring readership is expecting garden updates all year, perhaps I’ll do a decent job of actually taking care of business this year.

We’re planning orders from Seeds of Change and Territorial this year.

We’ve been talking about trying our hand at a small crop of corn for quite some time, and this may be the year. We’re currently discussing Hookers. We’ll probably go with it, if only for the endless crude joke opportunities afforded all those who choose to grow this variety.

Last year, we grew Nutri-Bud broccoli, which was okay, but it’s a big plant that requires quite a bit of spacing, so we might go with Small Miracle this year instead, and keep up with the succession planting, and not wait around for side-shoots, because they’re usually not worth it.

Pepperwise, I’m leaning toward Giant Szegedi for a sweet pepper and Hungarian Hot Wax for a hot. That’s subject to discussion and change, of course.

Still thinking about flowers. We’re definitely planning to bring back the nasturtium, which we just plain failed to plant last year, and I’m thinking about Bells of Ireland (when did I become someone who likes green flowers?) and Delphinium.

Further suggestions welcome.

The Steelers are definitely going to walk away with this game, and Cheez-its are union-made.

Life is a-ok.

Do pay attention, if you will, to Sara J’s blog as she is in India for the semester and making astute observations. A quick teaser of an excerpt for you:

A pile of puppies and dogs sleeping on the sidewalk not ten feet from a family, the mother cleaning her infant which seems newborn. The entire process of procreation must happen on the sidewalk, they must screw under those plaid blankets and bleed onto the pavement. There could be placenta in the gutter, amneotic fluid watering the bushes? I don’t know.

Plans for today include not wasting my day like I sort of did yesterday, potting the little white narcissus bulbs my sister gave me for Christmas, and watching the Steelers roll over the Bungles. Plans for this week include getting back on my damn bike hopefully, and trying to remember how to play our songs so that we can play them for people next week.

I watched this show on PBS last week and didn’t really have time to post about it: Imagining America: Icons of 20th-Century American Art.

Highly recommended if you get a chance to view it — and you know how PBS stations are about re-running things, so you’ll probably get a chance sometime in the next pledge drive. The way they integrate the visuals with the music is pretty great — “Pet Sounds” goes with Warhol, then when we stray a bit and go back to Stuart Davis we get some jazz, then back to the Beach Boys when we start looking at Warhol again. I could’ve done without “I’ll be your mirror” as the last song, as it was a bit obvious and kind of overkill in my eyes, but on the whole the musical choices definitely got my approval.

My favorite part is when de Kooning says:

Everything is already in art - like a big bowl of soup
Everything is in there already:
And you just stick your hand in, and find something for you.
But it was already there - like a stew.

Right on, Willem. Just . . . if you have an extra spoon perhaps, or a ladle or something, I’d be into using that.

So in that theoretically uplifting but in fact depressing end-of-year post, I sort of nested a quick “best of,” disguised so that no one could accuse me of having done a year-end “best of” list. It all would’ve gone off without a hitch if not for the fact that I left someone off of it, and I have no clever recourse by which to add that person without making it completely obvious what I had done.

By no means was my quick parenthetical meant to be exhaustive, but I can’t list anything about 2005 without giving props to Emperor X. Chad is an amazing songwriter and awesome dude, and “Fractal Dunes . . .” is definitely one of my favorite releases of last year, for sure. If you don’t have it, demand it, buy it, steal it from me. You’ll be proud to have done so.