The summer after my first year of social work school I worked at a camp outside of New York City. I had never worked with 5th and 6th graders before but I was eager for a job and happy to be working with kids. It was at this camp that I met a 5th grader named Paige. Paige was tall and lanky…
I’m not in a particularly loquacious mood right now, but I’m listening to #1 Record by Big Star and this, the second track, is really floating my boat. I like Big Star and all but I’ve never quite heard what other people hear in them that makes them such a big big big deal. I think maybe I’m getting it. I wonder who/what “El Goodo” is and why this song is the ballad of them/it.
Right now, Big Star is singing this:
I’d like to go to India Live in a big white house in the forest Drink gin and tonic and play a grand piano Read a few books Far from what saddens my heart Try to live away from it
I won’t bore you with all the details, but this was a particularly fun Bostonian weekend. On Friday afternoon, I decided to kill some time at Bukowski while I waited for Aaron to get out of work. A couple of cool things happened. One: After she got a couple of Tears for Fears songs out of her system (ain’t nothing wrong with that) the bartender played like 90% of The Beastie Boys’ Check Your Head, which is like a milestone-level important album to me. It’s a cornerstone in my ten-year friendship with Scott, whose wedding I best-manned earlier this year, and in my relationship with music in general. “You can’t front on that.” R.I.P. MCA. Two: A 40 year old man from Portland, Oregon named Eric boldly interrupted my reading to strike up a conversation. He was wearing a backwards cap and traveling in Boston on business. Eric told me he’d found Bostonians to be friendly, which I was glad and surprised to hear. He said Portland was just like it is in Portlandia. He bought me a beer! Set a great tone for the fun days to come.
Raymond Carver has been killing me. He writes with the precision of a surgeon; the details he leaves out are almost more significant than the stuff he includes. I have been obsessing over his short story Why Don’t You Dance? Read it here. I’m downright evangelical over it. It’s a quick read, and I promise it’s worth it. Why are all the best short stories so sad? There are a lot of great novels that aren’t sad (aren’t there?) but all the short stories I’ve ever loved have been just absolutely devastating. Can anyone direct me to a great happy short story? I’m just going to keep reading Raymond Carver in the meantime, crying into my oatmeal and wishing I had a bloody mary at hand (assuming I’m reading at breakfasttime).
Definitely see Spring Breakers.
Here’s a picture I took today from the top of Peters Hill in the Arboretum:
Last year, I got to interview the filmmakers of Don’t Think, the Chemical Brothers’ concert film, for the Together Guide, which supplements Boston’s annual music+art+tech festival. It was my first (and, so far, only) interview. These dudes were presumably somewhere in Britain and there was a crazy time zone mixup so I got the call from whatever PR people were connecting us like 6 hours before I expected it. I didn’t have time to print the questions I had prepared and I conducted the whole thing by the seat of my pants from the bathroom stall of my workplace. Not to mention, I hadn’t even received the DVD of the film yet. Baptism by fire.
The piece turned out good enough that I was asked to help out the Together folks again this year. I’ll be blogging for them on Fridays for a few months. My first post is about Drinkify and Music Hack Day. Check it out!
I had today (yesterday, as of a few minutes ago) off in remembrance of Evacuation Day, which is one of two Boston-only holidays that are still observed by the city, despite a lot haters’ best attempts. I like to pretend it marks the evacuation of Boston in the wake of the Great Molasses Flood, which is a real thing and my favorite historical event of all time, but it actually has something to do with the Revolutionary War. According to Wikipedia, “The holiday commemorates the evacuation of British forces from the city of Boston following the Siege of Boston, early in the American Revolutionary War,” and “It is the same day as Saint Patrick’s Day, a coincidence that played a role in the establishment of the holiday.” The other Boston-only holiday that city employees still get off is Bunker Hill Day, which is another Revolution thing. As they say in America, “America!”
Speaking of St. Patrick’s Day, this is not only the first year in a long time that I didn’t celebrate it recklessly, but also the first year in my 25 years that I barely acknowledged its existence. Growing up, my mom always used to make what we called “boiled dinner,” which is pretty much what it sounds like: a bunch of vegetables, like cabbage and carrots and potatoes, meat, and some other stuff boiled together in a pot and served with mustard. The one thing is that she (and my grandmother before her) inexplicably use kielbasa instead of corned beef or smoked shoulder, which is super weird (but also super delicious because, you know, encased meats). I never thought twice about it until I left home and I really ought to ask someone how/when/why/where they made the switch. Kielbasa in the boiled dinner is exactly the sort of random-ass left field substitution that turned me into the kind of monster who always tries to order what he’s “supposed to” get at certain restaurants. But it’s also good! So what’s my problem? We’d always bring some Irish soda bread to my Irish grandfather, too.
This year, I drank one beer, and it wasn’t even a Guinness. I drank no Jameson, nor carbombs. I ate no soda bread; no corned beef or cabbage. I wore no green. I didn’t force The Pogues on anyone. (I’ve never understood why I am always made to feel like I’m the only one who wants to listen to the goddamn Pogues on goddamn St. Patrick’s Day, but so it is. I think it’s the Dropkick Murphys’ fault.) The baked potatoes Becky and I made on Saturday were just a coincidence. I didn’t even call my Irish grandfather. I wish I called my Irish grandfather. There has been an undeniable backlash among forward-thinking folks in recent years who want to put as much distance between themselves and drunk white people on what has basically turned into National Drunk White People Day as possible. I get that — Jesse told me that on last year’s St. Patrick’s Day he had the unique privilege of running into a girl who was both peeing and vomiting, at the same time, on the street, which we concluded was some surreal Dawn of the Dead-type shit — although I have been known to be a drunk white person, on occasion. My lack of celebration was not in protest; I just didn’t feel the need to make it a thing this year. It barely registered. Walking around the usually tranquil Upper East Side with Becky, watching the decked-out day drinkers spilling out of/cramming into every single bar was totally bizarre. It was way more Jersey Shore than Brendan Behan, whose name, I will admit, I only know because there’s a bar named after him. But still.
I’m up late because there’s a snow day tomorrow. Impromptu four-day weekend: very exciting. A lot of people have a lot of nice things to say about writing late at night. I’m chasing that mythical place where the quiet and the dark and the fatigue all coalesce into something sublime or at least good and I believe it exists but I don’t think that I’ll ever find it. Writing this late, as you may have noticed, just makes me lazy and rambley. Writing about writing is a bad look, unless (and sometimes even if) you’re Charlie Kaufman. I only pulled, like, one all-nighter in college. Then I rewarded myself by ordering a buffalo chicken pizza from BHOP at 10:30 in the morning. I may have eaten the whole thing. It was incredible. One thing I sure can’t do this late is focus. I’ll cut to the chase: Everybody’s talkin’ about this new Beyonce song, so I went to see if it was on Spotify yet, and it wasn’t. But I found something that’s just gotta be better: Apparently, there’s a version of Irreplaceable, which was, like, my favorite Beyonce song already, with Ghostface on it! Maybe it’s just my tinny laptop speakers speaking, but his verse doesn’t add a whole lot to the song — I think I’m more into the idea of it than anything else — but Ghost does manage to fit the word “unjustifiable” in there, which might be a rap first. The man’s just got so much soul! I wouldn’t be mad if he recorded a verse in the middle of every R&B song from the last 20 years.
Then you can go back and delve into Beyonce’s immaculate rap&b (ugh) track record. There aren’t a whole lot of her tracks with raps on them, but the ones that exist are momentous: Bun B, Andre 3000, Kanye, Jay-Z (doy). Remember that Destiny’s Child had a song with both T.I. and Lil Wayne on it all the way back in 2004! It’s not like it’s a deep cut — in fact, it was a huge hit — but the fact that those guys would go on to rule the world makes it a pretty exciting listen in retrospect. I remember talking to my friend Tank, who was the only person in my high school who took rap as seriously as I did, and he was quoting Lil Wayne’s verse in this song: “Cash money is a army,” and all that. He used to give me Southern Smoke mixtapes and I would call them “big dumb rap” to make myself feel comfortable about listening to them. I was part of the problem, presenting myself as some superior authority, all, “Whatever man, rap from the south sucks!” But by the end of the year, I had already bought The Mind of Mannie Fresh. The next year, The Carter II came out, and the rest is history. But what I’m saying is, Tank was right. Not only right, he was downright prescient: Somewhere in a closet in Raynham is a physical copy of Dedication 1 that he gave me in a big pile of mixtapes like it wasn’t even special! Lil Wayne was just some dude to me, and to most of the rest of the country. The more I have learned about regional rap, the more I have realized that Tank knew way more, and had way better taste, than I did. How did he get that way? What was his source? Everything I was reading and listening to was reinforcing the regressive, damaging notion that conscious/old school/New York was the only way to go. Where was he buying actual mixtapes and learning about UGK? We grew up in suburban Massachusetts! I tried to keep in touch with him in college — I remember trying to talk to him about Hell Hath No Fury (predictable) and he wasn’t really trying to hear that — but we drifted apart, as you do. Tank is married and — I’m pretty sure — a Republican now. For all I know, he doesn’t care about music at all anymore and/or he lets his wife listen to the country that I unfairly assume she’s a fan of. But I hope sometimes, maybe on special occasions, he still rides around and listens to songs about rims at high volume (preferably, in residential areas).
I don’t want to be a designer, a marketer, an illustrator, a brander, a social media consultant, a multi-platform guru, an interface wizard, a writer of copy, a technological assistant, an applicator, an aesthetic king, a notable user, a profit-maximizer, a bottom-line analyzer, a meme generator, a hit tracker, a re-poster, a sponsored blogger, a starred commentator, an online retailer, a viral relayer, a handle, a font or a page. I don’t want to be linked in, tuned in, ‘liked’, incorporated, listed or programmed. I don’t want to be a brand, a representative, an ambassador, a bestseller or a chart-topper. I don’t want to be a human resource or part of your human capital.
I don’t want to be an entrepreneur of myself.
Don’t listen to the founders, the employers, the newspapers, the pundits, the editors, the forecasters, the researchers, the branders, the career counselors, the prime minister, the job market, Michel Foucault or your haughty brother in finance – there’s something else!
I want to be a lover, a teacher, a wanderer, an assembler of words, a sculptor of immaterial, a maker of instruments, a Socratic philosopherπ and an erratic muse. I want to be a community center, a piece of art, a wonky cursive script and an old-growth tree! I want to be a disrupter, a creator, an apocalyptic visionary, a master of reconfiguration, a hypocritical parent, an illegal download and a choose-your-own-adventure! I want to be a renegade agitator! A licker of ice cream! An organizer of mischief! A released charge! A double jump on the trampoline! A wayward youth! A volunteer! A partner.
I want to be a curator of myself, an anti-preneur, a person.
Unlimited availabilities. No followers required. Only friends.
This is kind of facile and corny, but it’s also kind of beautiful. We could use more corny, maybe. Do I just automatically call anything earnest “corny” to protect myself from looking uncool? I do realize the irony of posting Leduc’s “poetic rant” on Tumblr, but, hey, even Adbusters has a website. “This is the way things are” vs “things are pretty fucked” vs “how do we change things” vs “beat ‘em” vs “join ‘em” vs “any asshole with a blog can say anything they want” is an everyday struggle. What are we working towards, here? It’s super easy to eat at McDonalds, shop on Amazon, and rock Nikes, but are any of those things good for anyone except the malignant fucks at the top of the “food chain?” Operate on the fringe or integrate and get yours? Can’t walk down the street without seeing an advertisement. Sometimes I feel like apathy and consumption are the twin pillars of our generation. Then I remember to have more faith in us and the great things we can do. Do I sound like a pot-smoking freshman? Is it a luxury in and of itself to even have the time to worry about these things? I don’t know, man, I don’t know, man, I don’t know, man, I don’t know, I don’t know.
“When e-mailing a resume, don’t use words in the document or headline that could be misinterpreted by spam filters. For example, use “graduated with high honors” instead of “graduated cum laude.””—Lisa Vaas
Yesterday, I had to take an 11am Lucky Star back to Boston because the New York <-> Boston bus scene is in shambles in the wake of Fung Wah’s early demise. R.I.P., Fung Wah — we barely knew thee.
Top 5 reasons the Fung Wah bus was the number one bus (copied and pasted from an email to Scott):
1. Bus ticket prices will almost definitely go up. [Note: As predicted, Lucky Star ticket prices have already increased by 10 dollars a pop, which is an outrage.]
2. Fung Wah was the fastest way to get to New York! I know this is because the drivers were speeding, but it’s also because other buses drive all the way through the Manhattan clustercuss to get to their stop, whereas Fung Wah dumped us right off the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
3. Fung Wah stopped at a McDonalds/Subway/pizza/convenience store rest stop. Bolt and Megabus stops at fuckin’ Arby’s. Lord knows where the other Chinatown bus, Lucky Star, stops. [Note: Lucky Star stops at a Chinese buffet in a Big Y plaza in *Haven, CT. This is great if you happen to feel like Chinese food, but pretty bummy otherwise.]
4. Fung Wah dropped me off right near a Subway line straight to Becky’s apartment.
5. You need to buy tickets for Bolt and Mega in advance because they sell out. Fung Wah runs every half hour or hour so all you have to do is show up at the booth whenever you wanna go and you’ll be on a bus within an hour.
Anyways, leaving New York so early was a real bummer, but, thanks to Daylight Savings Time, I still had some Daylight left over when I got back to Boston. I texted Phil, “Had to take an 11am bus this morning because the rest were sold out. It’s pretty nice out in Boston. And still sunny! What should I do?” and he texted me back, “Wow plenty of day left! Is your bike in working order?” So I hopped on my bike and headed down the road to fart around on Centre Street for awhile. This song was playing when I walked into Boomerangs, and it grabbed me right away:
It’s always thrilling for me to recognize part of an otherwise unrecognizable song — a section I’ve heard sampled in a rap song or, as in this case, a familiar lyric. But the really thrilling part of hearing this song was realizing how awesome it was. I can’t claim to be knowledgeable in any capacity about reggae, but reggae covers, as I had known them before yesterday, were pure novelty; “Jah Side of the Bong,” or something. This is great. What do I like about it? For starters, that descending riff that comes in after most of the choruses. I don’t know how you describe that sound, but that’s my sound. Fuzzy? Three tracks later, there was a cover of “For What It’s Worth” that just didn’t do it for me, but maybe I’ll go back to it.
I didn’t get anything at Boomerangs, but I bought two books at Goodwill: Ragtime by E.L. Doctorow and The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. I am going to read one of them after I finish reading Becky’s favorite book, which is John Irving’s A Widow for One Year. That one’s just ramping up; I might have more to say about it later. So far, it has been about a failing marriage and a very horny sixteen-year old named Eddie.
Earlier this week, I had the luxury of catching Down By Law at the Coolidge Corner Theatre, which is my favorite place in the world. I love going to the movies in general, but there’s something special about Coolidge. It’s not just that they sell beer, although that doesn’t hurt. It’s not just that they show movies on actual film — I know some people get really psyched on that, but I don’t know enough about the mechanics of film to understand why so many people think 35mm is the be-all end-all of the moviegoing experience. That doesn’t mean too much to me. I’ll admit, though, it is really satisfying when they run an old copy of a classic and it pops and hisses and crackles like a dusty vinyl record. There’s definitely something more “alive” about the slow degradation of an analog artifact vs the predictable permanence of a digital file. A bunch of us caught The Shining in Somerville last year, and it looked like they’d left the film on someone’s dashboard since 1980, which only made it scarier and more awesome. When a file gets corrupted, it’s unusable. When a record or a film strip gets corrupted, it builds character. There’s something to that. Anyways.
It’s a beautifully restored theater — “art deco,” I’ve been told, though I don’t really know about such things. They keep it old fashioned: Beautiful marquee, curtained screens, ticket window, real butter on the popcorn (probably), tickets and concessions that don’t require a second mortgage. They often play honky tonk country music before the movie starts. But it’s not about nostalgia. First and foremost, it’s about the love and preservation of great film. We need that! Regal’s not doing that. I guess Netflix is, to some extent. But they’re certainly not in it for the love of the game. Coolidge is. Whoever curates the Big Screen Classics series, which runs old movies on Monday nights for most of the year, has impeccable taste. Providing the chance to see old favorites the way they were meant to be seen — in a dark theater, with your phone on silent, sometimes at midnight — is a great service. I mean, here’s a sampling of the movies that I’ve seen there on Monday nights over the last year: Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, The Apartment, Dr. Strangelove, Se7en, The Big Lebowski, and the list goes on and on. The list of ones I’ve regrettably had to miss is even longer and better.
I had watched Down By Law probably four or five years earlier for the first time, along with Stranger Than Paradise, during my “watch every important film by every important director” phase, which I guess is still going on and will probably never end. I liked them, and I like pretty much every other Jim Jarmusch movie that I’ve seen, but all I could remember about either was that everything about them was exceptionally “cool” and that Paradise prominently featured my favorite song of all time: “I Put A Spell On You” by Screamin’ Jay Hawkins. What really grabbed me about Down By Law this time is Roberto Benigni. He would later blow up with his own international hit, Life is Beautiful (which I still haven’t seen), but Down By Law was his first appearance in an American film. His role here, as an English-deprived Italian tourist who gets tied up with two lovable losers, is more than comic relief. It’s one of the finest, most heartfelt comedic performances of all time. It’s the heart of the film. The riffs on his bad English are hysterical, but I might have to go and use the word “expressionistic” to describe the power of his body language. He’s got the screen presence of, like, Buster Keaton or something. Check out his introduction. Five or six lines, two minutes, that’s it. But it’s indelible, and it’s hilarious:
I think I was predestined to fall in love with Parquet Courts. I usually ignore the Pitchfork “Rising” profiles because I’m not really that interested in reading at length about artists I haven’t heard of before I even hear their music. Something about that Parquet Courts piece grabbed me, though, during a daily pre-work Internet check. I’m not sure what it was: The name? Pretty standard indie bullshit. The photo? Nah, they look like vegans. I’m convinced it was destiny.
Whatever the reason, I read and liked the write-up, and was compelled to listen to the album on the walk to work. From the first notes of “Master of My Craft,” I suspected I was in for something special. Little did I know I was listening to the first Great “New York” Album since Is This It, probably. They have a certain strain of slacker indie music, for unfortunate lack of a less repulsive descriptor, down to a tee. The common points of comparison among the music Illuminati have been The Fall and Pavement (using one kind of makes the other moot, doesn’t it?), but what I hear in Parquet Courts more than anything else are the deceptively muscular econo-jams and poignant philosophical musings of the Minutemen. Austin Brown and Andrew Savage are brilliant songwriters, and their energetic dueling vocals bring a lot to the party. Their words can paint evocative portraits of urban malaise and have you bust out laughing at the same damn time. Their characters are people I can relate to deeply, whether they’re searching for purpose in their lives or just for some munchies. Their music is rife with moments that get me psyched every single time I hear them — the seamless transition between the first and second tracks, the tight false stops in “Borrowed Time” and the title track, the sublime breather that is “North Dakota.”
I can’t quite figure out why I connect with it so much. They transplanted themselves to New York and started something great, just like I want to do — maybe that’s a big part of it. The lyrics are great, but it’s more than that. I will happily sit through an album of garbage lyrics if the music itself is good enough. The opposite is also true. It’s not like Parquet Courts are the first band to pair literate, evocative lyrics with solid music, but I guess they’re just the first I’ve heard do it in awhile. Rancid was my first favorite band ever, and they do that. The Hold Steady does that. Hell, that’s what rap is all about, sometimes. Lots of artists do that — and I love them all unconditionally. Is it the talk-singing? Savage and Brown talk-sing up a storm on this album. Come to think of it, Tim Armstrong and Craig Finn are all about talk-singing. Sometimes John Darnielle talk-sings. And David Berman. D. Boon from the aforementioned Minutemen. Jonathan Richman! Most of my favorite guys. Well, mystery solved. I guess the key to my heart is talk-singing. I can live with that. Forget everything else I wrote.
In the Spotified world, it’s becoming harder and harder for me to develop anything but a fleeting relationship with new albums. The ones that stick are few and far between — I’m working on that — but when they stick, they really stick, and they stick for a reason. The Parquet Courts might go onto bigger and better things, or they might dissolve, who knows. I hope they don’t, but if they do, I’ll always have Light Up Gold.
This is a picture of me from last Spring. I’m in front of the Earth somewhere along Harris Wash in Escalante, Utah. I would like to write about this experience someday, but I would put a lot of pressure on myself to do it justice. So, not quite yet. But you know what they say about pictures.
Stuff that has been setting my world on fire lately, pt. 1:
When a certain kind of TV viewer talks or writes about TV, they often offer The Wire, The Sopranos, and Deadwood as some kind of televisual holy trinity. I don’t know if I buy that in a pop cultural landscape where worthwhile TV shows pop up and get cancelled like every month, but having, along with the rest of the world, already plowed through and obsessed over the former two, taking up Deadwood just seemed like the right thing to do. It is not an easy show to get into, but then again, neither is The Wire. Like that show, it rewards patience. Deadwood has dozens of characters and slow-burning plotlines that intersect with each other in meaningful ways. But instead of that show’s attempt at journalistic realism, Deadwood is theatrical as all get out. It’s way more than the HBO’d out take on the Western genre I expected it to be, although it’s got plenty of drugs, boobs, and violence, if that’s what you’re into. In fact, it may just instill in you a newfound affinity for the word “cocksucker.” Ian McShane’s whiskey-drinking, violence-prone, whorehouse-owner Al Swearengen just might be the greatest TV character of all time. My boss told me this guy used to play some kind of detective on the BBC, but for me he came out of nowhere. Where did they find this guy? More importantly, where has he been since? He lights up the screen to the point where I get genuinely amped when he’s in a scene and genuinely bummed when he’s not. I could listen to him talk all day. He’s one smart, despicable cocksucker.
I’ve spent all morning digging through the archives of my favorite music writer’s (as far as I can tell) first blog. It has been inspiring. I am hoping to actually start writing here again. My major holdup has always been, is, and will always be, figuring out what to write about. There is no shame, I realize, in writing about stuff you like. I tend to get super self-conscious and bent out of shape over whether or not what I’m writing is worth writing and whether or not anyone will read it or it’s self-indulgent or whatever, but I’m going to try my damnedest to get over it. I love reading about what other people love. I love writing about stuff I love. Most of all, I love loving stuff. It’s time to hold or cut bowstrings and put it all out there.
Happy New Year! I started to make a freeform, unranked list of my favorite “stuff” of 2012 including movies, music, books, television, trivia teams, possessions, moments, experiences, and meals, in the style of Pitchfork’s annual guest lists, but it turned out to be quite an unwieldy process as I started to worry about encapsulating the whole year, making sure that all the artists, friends, and family who made up my 2012 got their rightful due. I don’t have the ability to get out of my own head enough to make something like that without worrying out loud (like this) if I’m forgetting anything or favoring anyone so instead I’ll just say it was a shall we say DENSE year, in a good way, rich with travel, flavor, culture, and — most importantly, by miles — the company of the people I love, whether I met them this year, ten years ago, or twenty-five years ago. Here’s to 2013 — most of us haven’t lost our marbles yet. Let’s keep that going.
Well, it turned out that Fiona Apple rightfully ended up on a whole bunch of year-end lists and I honestly don’t even know what lists I had looked at that didn’t have her on it that inspired me to write that last post, but I’m standing by it because I think it came out pretty well anyway. Forest chest! You know? You know.
Anyway, right now I’m listening to my turntable with headphones for literally the first time, which is crazy for a few reasons:
It sounds amazing.
I’ve had a turntable and mildly baller headphones for a long time.
I’m not sure how or why I managed to go this long without doing this. Maybe I was subconsciously (I wish you had seen the way I mis-typed that word originally, it made me look like a third grader) trying to avoid emulating Rob from High Fidelity any more than anyone else is emulating Rob from High Fidelity. Know what I mean? There are full-blown forums on audiophile websites trying to figure out what headphones he was wearing in that movie. Oh, brother! (I only just found them when I googled “Rob High Fidelity Headphones” in a failed attempt to get a good pic.) Wait, I just found one:
I wish my chair were as comfortable as that one looks.
The album I picked to listen to on turntable-connected headphones for the first time is Skylarking by XTC, for a few reasons:
It was the first one I laid eyes on in my “crates.”
It always gets a lot of love as a great and/or important album and it’s never quite clicked with me.
Skylarking is a very shiny-sounding album. Here’s the cover:
I only put in the picture so I could make the following caption: Kama Flute-ra.
I came here to write about some other stuff, but this will do for now. Some famous writer definitely has some famous advice about stopping when you feel like you have more to say. Maybe Hemingway? OK, I found it. It was Hemingway in A Moveable Feast, which I haven’t read yet, but he does say something similar in The Paris Review. Here you go:
"The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will kill it and your brain will be tired before you start."
"It’s that time of year again," a time of year that I’ve probably read best described as something along the lines of "list orgy season." As much as I eat these end-of-year best-of lists up (and I absolutely do) and as much as I want to make sure that Future’s "Turn On the Lights" gets its propers (it probably won’t), I never really make lists myself. Part of that is my aversion to contributing to what is essentially noise, but that’s hypocritical because, as I just pointed out, I love de lists. If you follow this stuff closely enough, it can get really inside-baseball (inside-baseball is my top 1 adjective of 2012, by the way, and year-end-list inside-baseball is the closest I will probably ever get to talking about actual baseball). For example, you might remember that year that Animal Collective, Phoenix, Grizzly Bear, and the Dirty Projectors basically just moved around in the top 4 spots on each list. Four great albums, I agree, but the whole thing stank to high heaven. Groupthink to the max. Not that contrarianism is the answer. That’s how people start riding for Soulja Boy. (He does have his moments.) Life’s great dilemmas.
Speaking of inside-baseball, if you follow this sort of thing, you might start to notice that Fiona Apple hasn’t really been as prominent on these lists as you might expect and you might wonder if this is a knee-jerk reaction to the hyperbolic (was it?!) hype surrounding her return or if people are just forgetting how good The Idler Wheel… is because its an album that kind of exists in its own world. Like if you’re talking about popular or, if you prefer, “relevant” music in 2012, you kind of have to talk about Fiona Apple in a vacuum because her music is so much its own thing. As opposed to let’s say the other Big Names of 2012 like Kendrick Lamar where you can talk about the rise of Black Hippy and the Return of West Coast Hip-Hop, Frank Ocean where you can talk about Odd Future and the rise of hip and/or weird R&B, or Grimes who, despite being a great artist who makes excellent music, is also a meme. Except, isn’t that vacuum why people should be talking about it more? I guess more people are more psyched on the return of California rap than the return of the Lillith Fair. Which isn’t a fair thing to say at all, but I hope it’s at least funny. Other questions regarding this year’s list orgy: Is everyone over the Walkmen? (I’m not.) Has anyone actually listened to Channel Orange all the way through? Do Italians really do it better? If Drive came out last year, what the hell is my favorite movie of this year?
Mostly, I have a hard time with the ranking part of the process. It wouldn’t be so hard for me to come up with a list of films/albums that I was really into in 2012, but, as much as I treat other lists like gospel, I can’t get over the personal arbitrariness of the ranking. Who can say for sure what makes whatever is in the tenth position better than the eleventh? But sometimes that’s the difference between being on a list and not being on it. I might have better luck coming up with, like, a symbolic number 1 and then an unranked mass behind it. That’s just not as fun. One thing I know for sure about 2012 is that, for me, it has been the year I embraced cooking like a bachelor; the year of ramen. I’ve always loved ramen — I grew up eating what we called “cuppa noodles” (the ramen cups with the freeze-dried vegetables in there) and “squiggly noodles” (ramen packets boiled and strained like spaghetti by my grandmother) — but I avoided it for a long time for fear of its sodium content, chewing-gum-esque lack of digestibility, and its presence on my shelf’s general implication that I barely knew how to feed myself. This year, though, after throwing out tons of old leftovers and half-used vegetables that had slowly went bad in my fridge over and over again, I admitted to myself that cooking for one was a different game; A game that single-serving packaging and Twinkie-like (R.I.P.) lifespan made a whole lot easier. Whether it be for its ridiculous value, its miraculous hangover-curing qualities, or its versatility, I was back to the ramen with a vengeance. While Frank Ocean filled my heart, Maruchan filled my bowl. Or Top Ramen, whichever one comes in cheaper 6-packs.
Ramen might not be the classiest bachelor dinner but it’s not like I’ve been microwaving Hungry Mans or anything. What it lacks in class, it makes up for in artistic potential. A packet of ramen is a blank canvas. It invites — no, demands innovation. You can throw the bouillon packet away, use half of it, or, blood pressure be damned, dump in the whole thing. You can strain the noodles and toss them in a stir-fry or eat them like pasta or you can keep the broth and make it an authentically soupy affair. You can add vegetables, egg, spices, and sauces. A handful of leafy greens is the perfect way to convince yourself that you’re eating something substantial. Ramen is resilient. I experimented quite a bit over the last year, but it is with minimal qualms and no small debt to Steve Albini’s AMA that I present to you the Top 1 Ramen Recipe of 2012:
Boil 2-and-a-splash-for-good-luck cups of salty water
Add a pack of ramen
Crack an egg into the pot
Let boil for 3 minutes
Turn off heat. Stir in a clove of chopped garlic, a liberal squirt of sriracha, a dash of soy sauce, ground black pepper to taste, and 1/2-3/4 seasoning packet
Pour into big bowl
Let it get cool enough
There you have it: the best dinner you could ever prepare for less than a dollar. Thank me later.
Websites I read always tell me to buy up my domain name before someone else does so I did that and figured I’d put another blog here. I’ve had some iteration of a website or blog since probably like 2001 when I was using Microsoft Frontpage to post custom animated gifs and cursor trails to the Correia family’s MediaOne webpage. Maybe you remember MediaOne. Their mascot was the Roadrunner from Looney Tunes. I’ve never understood how they were able to use the Roadrunner as their mascot or how the septic tank specialists (there’s gotta be a better name for that) down the road were able to use Pepé Le Pew (gross), but copyright is always confusing. Web 1.0. I moved the Correia Family Website (its official name) to Tripod after MediaOne became part of a conglomerate and took our free web space away. There were a lot of great animated gifs that I made for that site — including a pair of empty pants dancing by themselves, a Mario-style exploding bomb with a face on it, and Ernie, a character with an impossibly tall baseball cap and an impossibly tiny body (or, depending on how you look at it, an impossibly giant head) whom I used to draw all the time — they danced to a MIDI version of either Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!! or We Like to Party by the Vengaboys, I forget which — but they are lost forever since Tripod “accidentally” deleted the site. I’m still sour about it, obviously. I’ve now had and deleted a Livejournal, a MySpace blog, a Blogspot blog, a Tumblr, this thing (Go Huskies), and false-started several Wordpress blogs. Someday, I will probably delete this blog too, so enjoy it while it lasts! I know I will. I tell myself I start blogs because I feel like it would be a good way to flex my creative muscles, but there are plenty of private ways to do that, so the real reason I start blogs is that I unfortunately can’t help but thinking that my creative muscle-flexings are worth sharing with the world. I delete them when I realize that’s a bunch of baloney. I’m mostly planning to use this space to post links to stuff I’ve written for other websites. It will be good to have it all in one place.
OK, one gif from The Correia Family Website survived. Shoutout to the Wayback Machine. Here is the last remaining digital trace of Ernie. He hailed from a town called “Weirdville.”