miss u Sam Malone

As you all know, I am moving to Boston to become my generation’s Diane Chambers. So needless to say, I choked on my Cheerios when I encountered THIS little gem from the fine bros over at GQ. You may not find that as squealable as I if you’ve not spent your summer embroidering & wine-spritzing to the finer points of Ted Danson’s sweater collection & infinite inseam, in which case you should commence straightaway.


everyone knows it’s a cryin’ shame

Today my student loaners called and I was like, actually I’m going to spend one hundred (100) US dollars on getting my hair as white and close to the edge of my cranium as Our Lady of Perpetual Platinum, Gwen. The woman who’s been cutting my hair for almost two years has been married for four, is a possible Mitt Romney voter, pregs with number three and … my age. As I get older, my inability to commit to a full 16 ounce slurpee of all one flavor reveals itself as weird or something (red and blue at the same time, delicious & makes purple, searching in vain for a metaphor here, prolls waste of time) (unless of course the flavor in question is my super-mega-ultra- love-bro, in whichever universe he is currently inhabiting, probably not this one). Meanwhile, people (strangers!) with whom I regrettably come into contact ask me if I “have kids.” This question is just RIDDLED with assumptions about gender and socioeconomics and rife for the parsing. Without being overly douchey (while of course being extremely douchey) I like to answer “no, I have student loans” or “no, I have a haircut.” Or perhaps I should just say that I was lucky enough to be cripplingly self-conscious in my prime years for making such life-altering mistakes? Maybe I’ll just stick to “like I would give up this butt to a fetus just so some jagoff in 501s can stop returning my calls.”
Well into my 20s, I took a moment to breathe a belated sigh of relief re: having made it out of the teen woods unscathed by a lil me (except mini jean vests: GUHUHUH!) . The victory was slightly and hilariously marred when I realized that since I make about a thousand bucks a month, don’t own a car, can’t pay for food, rent, beer and platform sandals at the same time,  and when I say “let’s get cray/weird” I actually kind of mean it,  getting knocked up today would basically be as disastrous as it would have been ten years ago.
For the record, I don’t dislike babies or kids or parents or families. Full disclosure: I have all my kids’ names picked out. They will all be roller blading by age 4 and they will all go to experimental colleges and will never know what the internet or white sugar or Top 40 radio are, and they will probably hate me and become Republicans. But here’s a question: do men my age get interrogated about the current state of their genetic material in a similar fashion? I am willing to bet the 9 dollars in my checking account that they don’t. Is it because my time is “running out” while a man my age still has about three decades to populate the planet and legitimize his existence? Is it because men tend to “have kids” to a lesser extent than women, in the sense that they can always opt out of parenthood? Or is it because that some humans in the year 2012 still believe a woman’s greatest and only fulfillment comes in the form of motherhood, whereas men are expected/allowed to embody whichever role in society they choose to take on, their role as parent second?
I don’t doubt the transformative experience of becoming a parent (or whatever it is that people like to tell you) and I would never judge a young- or once-young parent. It’s difficult to discuss this topic without sounding like a condescending jerk, (plus pro-lifers will put a skewer through your neck). I look at young moms and don’t doubt that they love their kids and their lives, but the reality is that teen motherhood doesn’t exist as an option to girls of specific (i.e. monied) backgrounds while it is basically an inevitability or even a rite of passage for others. It doesn’t help that women-hating representatives and political groups have a surprisingly firm grip on our nation’s collective psyche and actively bully young women into keeping their fetuses under some imaginary code of “morals”, when we really know that these are just sad, small white men who fear female sexuality with such soul-shaking abandon that they try to end this sex nonsense altogether by making sure women don’t have access to safe abortions. I wonder how many young women’s lives are “transformed” by that.

kinda feel like 40 ounces isn’t even that much, you know?

do mandroids dream of electric goldfish?


Sometimes when my fish is sleeping I’m worried that he’s dead and that will mean I failed him [I genuinely enjoy his calming nature]  and also that I’m unfit to care for a fish. And also I’m worried that a whole new generation of 18 year olds discovers Sublime each fall. Also let’s talk about science fiction, because I’m sort of confused.

Who’s going to tell you when

Please Kill Me (seminal punk text, kind of makes heroin seem normal) paints the Cars as a corporate-backed iteration of  Television, who were basically nineteenth century French poets reincarnated on the Bowery and 100% the realest, downtownest, CBGBest thing you’ve ever heard (spend the rest of the day hearing them and get reborn into another realm of nihilistic ennui– but the sexy, dirty-haired-pouty-lipped kind). And who needs to hear “Just What I Needed” ever again? But. A friend picked up Heartbeat City (1984) for me this summer and it’s 82% dark cocoa for your ears: just sweet enough with that bitter sting that HURTS SO GOOD. This album should come back to life as a human male so it can suck the sno-cone of my heart completely dry. Seriously, who’s going to drive you home? (video is kind of a miss: pre-girl-interrupted-core?) Just let the synths and suits leak into the empty pockets of yr soul.

c’mon lover

Some guy called my radio show yesterday and requested Fugazi but I played my favorite jam of the summer instead. Keep the faith// kill the light. UHHHH YEAH I WILL.

I wish there was a video that’s super sunset-tinged with long eyelashes and sunglasses and almost make-outs but you can imagine that while you listen to this:

alt-love traxxx

Gettin Breaked: LAW, c. 1977

Now that its Fall, summer’s electro-pop’d neck snapping gives way to Autumnal basement dwelling and I give up on leaving the house for six months and settle in with The Band, The Freewheeling Bob Dylan and Niño Rojo. Over at the station, I was rifling thru the stacks prepping for this week’s show and happened upon some GEMS.  Deep in the crevasses of music history and the station’s sixty year old collection of wax lies LAW (above) sometimes known as The Lawson 5. From Youngstown, Ohio, a veritable hotbed of erstwhile rust-belt genius RAWK (rust-belt-core?),  the band’s website proclaims:

From the 1950s through the late 1970s few areas of the country boasted a more dynamic or more exciting popular music scene than Northeast Ohio and Southwest Pennsylvania. The entire Steel Valley between Cleveland and Pittsburgh teemed with brilliant talent, great bands, and hundreds of clubs and concert venues for music fans of all ages. Many of the rock era’s most celebrated musicians spent their formative years in this area. 

(Next week’s topic: is a nation-wide exodus of this country’s young creatives to five or so coastal cities a new indicator of American cultural poverty or are such cycles natural: today’s San Fransisco is tomorrow’s Cleveland? Discuss.)

I pulled out their 1977 cut Breakin’ It, because puns in classic rock are criminally underused. A track entitled “Be My Woman (Be My Friend)” caught my eye because I am one large weak spot for such sentiments, especially when pronounced by shirtless long-haired dudes. It spun through the airwaves to all both of my listeners who were no doubt FLOORED by such a magical, Romantic and pure iteration of love, partnership and a truly modern&progressive imagining of that whole matrix. “It’s the 20th century! Neither one of us necessarily has to till the fields while the other one makes porridge with the kids! Let’s be friends!” with horns and stuff (Before we say we’re in love/ we both already know).  I might have to ditch the Eagles in favor of these guys at my commitment ceremony after-rager.  Not a peep from the band exists on teh youtube but you can listen here.

Every student of pop music will get bludgeoned in the cranium with decades of boring love songs that are about a) being in love with someone and it’s going to like, last forever or b) being in unrequited love that makes the singer want to supposedly kill themselves. I say go for it, I’m bored out of my skull. This is perhaps why Law’s track somehow seems novel even thirty-five years after its release, and why another, newer jam really worked its way into my hardened ears last spring (or around there, who can keep track of real time anymore; we have the internet):

“I don’t wanna own him or control him/ I just want our souls to be aligned.” Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Plus homegirl is a serious super babe. Respect. Friends released their full-length debut Manifest! in June, and the flip-side of the aforementioned transcendent union is the album’s other standout, “Home”. There’s no video, but can you listen here.

Peace, love and Death 2 FM lite*



*excluding the Eagles who I don’t even care, desert/peyote/leather vests, are fabulous.




packing party dresses.

let’s watch this 190 times today, ok?

I’m moving again in a few weeks, mostly because the shape of the American Midwest doesn’t quite match up with the shape of my infinite nature// I need to be making out with WAAAAY more babes. Henry Miller’s like “Our destination is never a place but rather a new way of looking at things,” and I’m like, totally, man. What Would William Least Heat Moon do? He’s like ” To be only a nub in the eternal temporary [BWOAH] is to have a chance to see, a chance to pry at the mystery. What is the blue road anyway but an opportunity to poke at the unseen and a hoping the unseen will poke back?”

I’ve met so many beautiful people here but the city puts a cop in the street to direct traffic when the mega church gets out on Sunday and my heart is never not going to sort of get caught in my throat at that, and my lizard-brain just lurches at this incongruence of its primal truths slamming up against its surroundings.  But mostly, lack of babes. So. See ya bros, I’ll be putting my “psyche of a dead French existentialist and tits of a pregnant German supermodel” (NYT Arts Beat, April 4, 2021) to use elsewhere. ❤



This sound reminds me of long wet falls in Portland and the brakes on my bike not quite working on old steel wheels and sliding through slick leaves.

Today I read the paper, thought about going for a bike ride and didn’t, baked a cake and ironed. It’s fall. ❤ ❤ ❤