tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-246949862024-03-14T08:59:39.760-06:00the Thunderclap of my Father's IndignationI have a means to put a stop to this growing mischief.Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-31259356498379435162010-09-15T14:16:00.004-06:002010-09-15T14:20:19.008-06:00Wordpress Ahoy!You're looking in the wrong place! Should you have stumbled upon this blog in search of my terribly interesting misadventures, well, look no further than here:<br /><br /><a href="http://douglaseriggs.com">douglaseriggs.com</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.douglaseriggs.com"><br /></a><br />Adieu,<br /><br />DouglasLes Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-6415987595241636352009-10-30T11:30:00.004-06:002009-10-30T12:49:45.840-06:00Cranky Pants<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcn9NNSrl_osbjca2LO9OI5HxjadywJE3B5xsgT3aCd3BGdQr66N1GxUzWebQLruQvrtVx3PsRFf7okVnQC2z1u_CFRipLRFPU9YqJbamyouDMgSbqcSL8-MQdoxPGvMxSbdruw/s1600-h/tantrum.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 260px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcn9NNSrl_osbjca2LO9OI5HxjadywJE3B5xsgT3aCd3BGdQr66N1GxUzWebQLruQvrtVx3PsRFf7okVnQC2z1u_CFRipLRFPU9YqJbamyouDMgSbqcSL8-MQdoxPGvMxSbdruw/s400/tantrum.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398447007270844082" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Man, I'm not sure if it is the crappy weather, or if everyone is not getting enough sleep worrying about H1N1 or what but boy have people put on their cranky pants today. The worst part of this is that 'innocent bystanders' have to suffer for that most insufferable of qualities: entitlement. Both of the incidents I'm about to narrate could have been avoided if people just didn't assume the world revolves around them, or that the rules don't apply to them, or that everyone is out to ruin their day.<br /><br />About an hour ago a gentleman came into the store and wanted to make a return. Here is, to the best of my memory, the transcript of his conversation with (unbeknownst to him, the worst person he could have possibly pulled this stunt on, let's call them Beth):<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Customer</span>: "I purchased this book yesterday because I couldn't find my other copy in my room. I found it now, and I'd like to return this. I'm returning this book."<br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255); font-weight: bold;">Beth</span>: "I'm sorry, but we can't do that. That is textbook; it's being used for a class. All books used for classes had to be returned by October 9th."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Customer</span>: "But I just bought it yesterday."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Beth</span>: "That... doesn't really matter, sir. The returns information is on that bright pink slip of paper stapled to your receipt..."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Customer</span>: "I didn't read that. I didn't know. I'm returning this book."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Beth</span>: "But you got in from the textbook aisle, right? And you didn't know it was a textbook?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Customer</span>: "Right."<br /><br />long pause.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255); font-weight: bold;">Beth</span>: "OK, I'm going to make an exception, this one time..."<br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Customer</span>: "Good, 'cause I make an exception to shop here. I've bought thousands of dollars of books here."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Beth</span>: "An exception from what?"<br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-weight: bold;">Customer</span>: "From shopping at other bookstores. From buying books on-line for a fraction of the price."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Beth</span>: "OK, look, you've already won here. We're allowing the return. You don't have to yell anymore."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Customer</span>: "Good, so let's just drop this, OK?"<br /><br />long pause. transaction completed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Beth</span>: "Have a nice day." (said, amazingly, sans sarcasm).<br /><br />There is lots to say here but firstly, even though I work here and have our best interests at heart, at the outset I hadn't taken sides. Our returns policy for textbooks is harsh, but it was enacted to prevent people from treating us like a lending library. Students would actually walk in, buy the book for class, and then return it an hour later after class was over. Most times the book would be damaged enough by handling, that the publishers we order from would deny us returns. In short, we're stuck with lots of books that don't look new and won't sell. Add that up every semester and in an unforgiving economy and yikes. No wonder bookstores are closing all over the place.<br /><br />So yeah, the returns policy is harsh. And in this situation, I actually would have been inclined to cave. But it became very clear early on, perhaps the second "I'm returning this book" that this guy could give a care about us. He was used to getting his way, and in this case, being denied a return was the equivalent of telling him he failed at life. We were a tool at his disposal which when functioning correctly, always left him feeling better. Now I'm not sure if the whole "I already had the book" was true, or if he just did as he implies he goes out of his way to avoid, and his Amazon order just took longer than he thought to arrive. But the guy sure was a piece of work. We're not going out of our way to disservice you as an individual.<br /><br />The second incident involved a woman who was asked to check her bag up front. She then proceeded to rattle on about how she "always hated this policy" and "been coming here for 20 years..." Well here's the thing. New people work the register every few months. To them it makes no difference if this was your first time in the store. And they aren't profiling. They are not judging you. You have to check your bag because everyone does. Everyone does because a few folks would like to fill their bags full of books and walk out with them. That, and its tiny and cramped in here. If everyone was walking around with a University sized book-bag stuffed with laptops and everything there would be no room to do anything. Don't be so entitled; it is unfair to give you preferential treatment.<br /><br />rant over. sorry. weekend? ohsweetjesusyes.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-17880897521635242912009-10-27T09:24:00.003-06:002009-10-27T09:48:28.715-06:0014 OF 69: Love You, Obviously / Like You Really Care<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqs-ADsJyXrz46FPsi4Vje249ru-yXyc-wdLLB0Rc_aukxanUTFkdRjDOk1aF3_Dhv6Zu_O3pMHKHodrvwbyoKe518CdQz0AdpQpITNF4kNAjq5jNP0MYAc03-oRM4pFWpeR1Q6w/s1600-h/waltz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqs-ADsJyXrz46FPsi4Vje249ru-yXyc-wdLLB0Rc_aukxanUTFkdRjDOk1aF3_Dhv6Zu_O3pMHKHodrvwbyoKe518CdQz0AdpQpITNF4kNAjq5jNP0MYAc03-oRM4pFWpeR1Q6w/s400/waltz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397301403604626914" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Oh, how we get so jaded so fast.<br /><br />Its funny how all of those same things that get the poets all worked up, a beautiful sunset, a bright shining moon, when set in the wrong context can also make us pretty damn cranky. How fucking romantic, but I've been there.<br /><br />There is something terrible about this feeling, something selfish and untoward. When you are single, even the sight of a couple holding hands can give one a bad case of snark. Holding hands? How cute. They must have just met. Roses? Nobody has ever thought of those before! You may as well have gotten that Valentine's bear from CVS.<br /><br />Its odd, too, how this feeling is a mostly youthful one. I'm sure its far from universal, but I'd bet that most people who enter in this mindset are in their early 20s. So wise but so young. So old but so sensitive. A good reminder that not all emotions generated from Love are pleasant, far from it. And this one might be the worst.<br /><br />Structurally this song doubles up its power by fusing the lyrics to a sort of beat-poet form. Very pared down, I can almost hear the finger-snaps at the ends of the line. And there are some dandies. The "love you, obviously" is a killer, it's delivery, with the 'obviously' splintered with cynicism just makes you roll your eyes. Oh dear.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Sadness and depression, from being rejected or let down? I get that. But then to turn the tables and make it so that everyone else who is having a good time, they're the walking cliches? Poor form. Yes indeed Mister Singer, you are a dancing bear and you look ridiculous. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-31096549169611619292009-10-26T11:59:00.005-06:002009-10-26T12:22:30.930-06:0013 of 60: Fido, Your Leash is Too Long / Fido, Your Leash is Too Long<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7D415Z6qk8AxysSvF0SUwaVAFvR2YG_Boc8T8hCXEz28lFm05hVyf15eFh6y70vv_DekBdmmd0rf7eD8dCP4q9NEqBnrC73oDsWNs922Osa2Oei99ESQ9Thda6-T1Ls0QZXWxA/s1600-h/collie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7D415Z6qk8AxysSvF0SUwaVAFvR2YG_Boc8T8hCXEz28lFm05hVyf15eFh6y70vv_DekBdmmd0rf7eD8dCP4q9NEqBnrC73oDsWNs922Osa2Oei99ESQ9Thda6-T1Ls0QZXWxA/s400/collie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396970585047442978" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Ostensibly a song about sticking your nose, or perhaps other things, where they don't belong, "Fido, Your leash is Too Long" can be boiled down to a couple of pretty clever to semi-clever dog breed puns. I've never been a huge fan of this tune, mostly because I consider it a throwaway between two very powerful moments on the first album, the aforementioned "Book of Love" and the acerbically funny "How Fucking Romantic" (a paean to hipster dating if I ever heard one).<br /><br />The bubble and pop of this song can't be entirely ignored though. The synthy, electro vibe is as silly as the puns, which in the end don't scan as puns at all. I'll give you shitzu for "shit, you"; but foxhounds has to be pretty garbled to come out "fucked."<br /><br />Calling a cheating lover a dog is one thing...<br /><br />rating: (an apropos) "puppy love" </span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-65286094398351204022009-10-21T12:50:00.005-06:002009-10-21T13:22:52.721-06:0012 of 69: The Book of Love is Long and Boring/ No One Can Lift the Damn Thing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7-Uo8xiyljPm1tJPvOZ_m_hIDQzA6-JfCDcRZyIQl4QWsAtMBGxytktKPoLTy_dOUljSvZU8WY0Cs3676TDMDUzeHQe5GqUSHelSQ_NS68baVoi3J0weSC8paztOduPUpFwfrQ/s1600-h/BOOK.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7-Uo8xiyljPm1tJPvOZ_m_hIDQzA6-JfCDcRZyIQl4QWsAtMBGxytktKPoLTy_dOUljSvZU8WY0Cs3676TDMDUzeHQe5GqUSHelSQ_NS68baVoi3J0weSC8paztOduPUpFwfrQ/s400/BOOK.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395128287990352866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">A fascinating premise: a single book containing everything you ever wanted to know about Love. Every single relationship, the pit-falls to avoid, tried and true methods of landing that perfect person, all the crazy stuff anyone has ever done in It's Name. Some Borgesian mammoth of a text, conceivably infinite in size and scope. A document of humanity, or at least, the better parts of it.<br /><br />And, of course, it is also the physical record of music. As the singer remarks, "the Book of Love has music in it/ In fact that is where music comes from." We're not just talking 'love music' but music. period. And that's not so unreasonable a theory, right? This song is also a reminder that music can also be read, both in a written form, with the clefs and lines and squiggles and all that, with words or without. And not just 'scanned,' but interpreted. My Book of Love would be filled with chicken scratches lining the margins, copious underlined passages and frequent "No, no no, no, no"s, "ew"s and "You're damn right!"s.<br /><br />The Book of Love also occupies the center of the first CD of songs. I'm guessing that not everyone purchases all three albums at once, so for many of us, at least for a while, this song operates right at the heart of things. It's a weighty song, both in tone and in meaning, arguably the 'textbook definition' of Stephin's 69LS project. The voice, as always, is gravely and wonderful--as old as the Book of Love itself. I could easily picture this voice narrating the whole thing, droning on and on, and he must have been at this for some time now, because it's getting kind of ragged.<br /><br />But then there are the beautiful moments, where Stephin sings what might be my favorite line of the whole damn piece:<br /><br />"I love it when you read to me/<br />and you<br />you can read me anything."<br /><br />It's such a romantic moment, he can't even say it all in one go. He breaks up on the most important word, 'you,' ends up repeating it, doubling its presence, and finally get that single line reading "and you". Another precise distillation of love. What is love? "and you".<br /><br />rating: 'infatuation"<br /></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-63665717369310142542009-08-03T14:18:00.004-06:002009-08-03T14:41:29.527-06:00While I Was Away<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSg8soRI0B2_tr1C4IHYUWZ9epZtoTtEG0i_D4UcOWz-mpPPHT7QkRi9J1G2uLcrXZvFs4pdQK6Mcv8Mlh_d2AZpim65bLzNj1Y8CVn7mJAm4GPC2DQgZJBfqQqDTKAoNKF8-S8Q/s1600-h/dps.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSg8soRI0B2_tr1C4IHYUWZ9epZtoTtEG0i_D4UcOWz-mpPPHT7QkRi9J1G2uLcrXZvFs4pdQK6Mcv8Mlh_d2AZpim65bLzNj1Y8CVn7mJAm4GPC2DQgZJBfqQqDTKAoNKF8-S8Q/s400/dps.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365839219737931458" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Fear Not loyal readers. I will be back to the 69LS breakdown soon. I've just been busy. The Summer storms have come and gone and left us up to our ears in... well congratulations, if you can finish that quote on your own, you're as much of a <span style="font-style: italic;">Mr Show</span> fan as I am.<br /><br />Stuff that has been keeping me sane these past weeks in the face of work:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Mad Men</span>. A recent affair, but a good one. Just finished the second episode. To quote the missus: "Ergh! This show gets me so mad!... in a good way!"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">09.</span> M83. The frenchy electronica band that played Pitchfork a few weeks back. I've been listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Saturdays = Youth</span> a lot. Its very summery and light, but my work friends have told me: "You listen to the same music as pretentious 12 year-old girls." Um, thanks?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">08.</span> the Tribe. My favorite baseball team has slowly been dismantled. Goodbye Victor. Goodbye Phifer. Hello 2012.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">07.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">United 93</span>. A terribly disturbing re-enactment of 9/11 and the passengers who attempted to re-take their hijacked plane. Not a perfect film by any means, but the subject matter alone makes it deeply moving.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">06.</span> Green Lantern Comics. Sinestro War! Blackest Night! Zombie Elongated Man and Martian Manhunter! Scratch the 'pretentious 12 year-old girl' comment from above an replace it with 'average 12 year-old boy'. But man I love me some green lantern.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">05.</span> Dirty Projectors. Their latest album <span style="font-style: italic;">Bitte Orca</span> is my runaway choice for album of the year so far. It's strange and catchy and playful and awesome. Listen to the song "Stillness is the Move" and if you aren't sold, then you should just give up on contemporary music.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">04.</span> the "Very Short Introduction" series by Oxford. So far I've read their intro to Dinosaurs and WW1. Up next: Consciousness? Dada and the Surrealists? We'll see...<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">03.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Homicide</span>. The non-fiction account by David Simon. I am a <span style="font-style: italic;">Wire</span> fiend and it's come to this in order for me to get a fresh fix.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">02.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Inherent Vice</span>. the novel by Thomas Pynchon. technically it goes on sale tomorrow, but there are some perks of working in books. I liken this novel to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Big Lebowski</span> set back in 1970, where the Dude isn't a burn-out quite yet. A little more conspiracy-er, too. But that's just, like, my opinion, man.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">01.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">The Simpsons</span>. I've made it my mission to rewatch the series in order. So netflix has been sending me a DVD or 2 a week. I've just finished Season 2. Amazing how good this show was so early on. They really found themselves quite quick. Also amazing how much better the 3rd-7th season will be, if memory serves.<br /><br />anyhow. thanks for your patience...<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-14144837647956033522009-06-19T11:55:00.004-06:002009-06-19T12:25:50.822-06:0011 of 69: Cause I always say I love you / When I mean turn out the light<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLXdQxdjO203yHuXbWtdYRBhJhtZg6SuwdStzyUXtOlJLamvFA1vUemTWNDzLwEJsvI6d0R28Oc6bgLMwTBQjTga0NwDkiekqDUxMtBKVh97KruLPuZFtKSKE7LhN0jWskMz5Vg/s1600-h/new+heart.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLXdQxdjO203yHuXbWtdYRBhJhtZg6SuwdStzyUXtOlJLamvFA1vUemTWNDzLwEJsvI6d0R28Oc6bgLMwTBQjTga0NwDkiekqDUxMtBKVh97KruLPuZFtKSKE7LhN0jWskMz5Vg/s400/new+heart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349099442207916706" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"I think I Need a New Heart"<br /><br />Human beings rarely say what they mean. That in itself is sort of a meaningless statement--through the 'duh' factor of how obvious it is. Of course we don't say what we mean. Language is too sloppy and evasive and full of multiple meanings. Even the most careful and taciturn among us slip up sometimes. What I find interesting though is when people purposefully say the wrong thing for the right reasons or vice versa.<br /><br />If a person is psychologically exhausted from a long day of work, has possibly fought a bit with their significant other during the day (but things are good now) and is just tired of further conversation and they say "I love you" they may very well mean "Please turn out the light (I want to go to sleep)." But that "I love you" still functions the way the person intends it--most of the time. If the other person is kind, or intuitive enough, they'll respond with a "I love you too," and *click* off goes the lights. Simply asking the person to "Turn off the light" would be the honest route, but also the one most fraught with peril. If the significant other is still fuming, that's the last thing they want to hear. If they are in the middle of a story or anecdote about their day that they feel is very important, and you blurt out "Turn out the light," you sure as hell better believe that the light is staying on.<br /><br />And that's just the domestic reading of that couplet. I think the actual lyric refers more plainly to 'If I tell you that I love you then we'll end up having sex.' But is this more or less duplicitous? It's certainly selfish and unfair, but does the other person really not know what they are getting?<br /><br />I think its wonderful that the narrator can only speak the truth in song. It's pretty much the thesis statement of <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span>. Forget everything the singer is actually telling their lover, their real message is in the song "I Think I Need a New Heart" which just so happens to be<span style="font-style: italic;"> this</span> song. If <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> is an album of love songs about love songs, then this is its heart. Odd (or maybe perfectly apropos?) that this heart needs replacing.<br /><br />Grade: "Adoration" (5 of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-8026627698916097772009-06-12T08:34:00.004-06:002009-06-12T08:54:59.558-06:0010 of 69: The Cactus Where Your heart Should be / Has Lovely Little Flowers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hvmHSEvWval__rz_FbUkwwU2INmjDBVijfebhEfyerTQJcDCL-TBhmCbBv-g2-znkAoX1C2VM-ZVbATJiVu1r3_yY_3q6l3rupsfrHnAzSWo2BQGi_j9ZDp-0RMvJXV9bKkMrw/s1600-h/Final_Fantasy_8_-_Cactuar_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hvmHSEvWval__rz_FbUkwwU2INmjDBVijfebhEfyerTQJcDCL-TBhmCbBv-g2-znkAoX1C2VM-ZVbATJiVu1r3_yY_3q6l3rupsfrHnAzSWo2BQGi_j9ZDp-0RMvJXV9bKkMrw/s400/Final_Fantasy_8_-_Cactuar_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346451020440993586" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"The Cactus Where Your Heart Should Be"<br /><br />Alright, time to man up and get back on this project. <a href="http://brennaehrlich.tumblr.com/">My competitor</a> is gearing up to lap me. Although to be fair, my discussions of the <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> have like, paragraphs and stuff, whereas hers are twitter-esque in their succintity. Anyhow, on to my tenth entry in what increasingly appears to be a Summer long quest to pick apart the Mag Fields magnum opus.<br /><br />"Cactus" coming right on the heals of "Bunnies" packs a helluva a one-two punch. The playful randiness of the previous song (where our protagonists are content to roll around in the hay all day--let's disregard the 'furries' undertone) is supplanted by a downright cranky guy who is refreshingly equal parts wistful. This is just another example of how strategic the 69 songs are arranged. And disparate pairings like this have the effect of augmenting each partner's salient features. you know, like a collage. or a really nice BLT.<br /><br />At first blush, a cactus doesn't seem like a particularly attractive vehicle in a metaphor for love. Rather simplistic, no? It's spiky and forbidding. If your heart was a cactus, well, you wouldn't be attracting to many mates. But this short song is overflowing with unexpected connotations. Leave it to Merritt to remind us that just like any other forbidding plants, cacti produce incredibly beautiful flowers. And thus the singer can be both 'stuck' on their love object's spines and completely enamored of her "lovely little flowers."<br /><br />And when the cactus becomes less a person and more a person's heart all kinds of nice lines of thought can be drawn. A cactus is one tough customer, built to thrive in a harsh environment. It can go long periods of time without nourishment. It defends itself with princkly spines but can also be quite grand and statuesque. "Cactus" the song doesn't cite these possible meanings, but they are there, and suddenly a heart as a cactus isn't all that far-fetched. It's actually pretty damn wonderful.<br /><br />A surprisingly powerful little song. Grade: "Adoration" (4 out of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-81324291241560158692009-06-08T10:15:00.007-06:002009-06-08T10:40:05.067-06:009 of 69: Let Abbots, Babbitts and Cabots / Say Mother Nature is Wrong<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-CBVTYCBHJIxl8WVKCFKGMKCXj2NCUJgGLHguMwxB6w4AlPjm57kSJxTxWzIWUA1gWB0i900LuMngCqB3AVlrh0aJmgW09KVkai3eDdfHGBuDqAM8IgtMIQJtzwTIBCIIJf7Zw/s1600-h/Big+Black.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx-CBVTYCBHJIxl8WVKCFKGMKCXj2NCUJgGLHguMwxB6w4AlPjm57kSJxTxWzIWUA1gWB0i900LuMngCqB3AVlrh0aJmgW09KVkai3eDdfHGBuDqAM8IgtMIQJtzwTIBCIIJf7Zw/s400/Big+Black.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344994794419609346" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Let's Pretend We're Bunny Rabbits"<br /><br /><br />Not to put too fine a point on things but this song is about fucking.<br /><br />After a few days of combing through the lyrics of <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> I decided to cut short what may be a fool's errand to document any all usage of or allusions to sex. If my basic knowledge of Freud proves in any way accurate, if you look hard enough, you'll find sex everywhere. So hopefully the list that follows chronicles only the most overt references. Anyhow, and away we go:<br /><br />"Putting folks on the moon"<br />"Have an affair"<br />"Stars exploding in the night"<br />"Bang"<br />"Making you feel like a woman"<br />"A tryst"<br />"I've had him before"<br />"Two fireflies Fluoresce"<br />"The same song a million times in different ways"<br />"Do it"<br />"The things we did and didn't do"<br />"The way you say goodnight"<br />"See(ing) God"<br />"One night stand"<br />"Things we're all too young to know"<br />Any time "Dancing" is mentioned.<br />"Make love"<br />"Spinning like a gyroscope"<br />"Feeding your bear"<br />"Sex"<br />"The night you can't remember, the night I can't forget"<br />"Make things dark"<br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"I miss doing the wild thing with you"</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Cried out"<br />"Electric eels under the covers"<br />"You flew"<br />"Until you've had sweet lovin' there's no lovin' worth the name"<br />"I made you mine"<br />"You'll be the Pope"<br />"A twirl"<br />and....<br /><br /><br />drumroll please...<br /><br /><br />"Let's pretend we're bunny rabbits/<br />Let's do it all day long"<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-38867397485878574532009-06-01T12:59:00.004-06:002009-06-01T13:55:37.878-06:008 of 69: I Only keep this Heap for You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMNpeIH3Xj3sarC-4v4kpagCn6KNVyxtyynAv2Yt-e2qDbE7wmNDdg0YZKYP2iTlESpMzdSxOdxX3B3_7abZpbbBxTh63Bg4FdJ5sLBEh_irSfBIels38rSLqccB6USrvTIvrRA/s1600-h/Graffiti_Lower_East_Side.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqMNpeIH3Xj3sarC-4v4kpagCn6KNVyxtyynAv2Yt-e2qDbE7wmNDdg0YZKYP2iTlESpMzdSxOdxX3B3_7abZpbbBxTh63Bg4FdJ5sLBEh_irSfBIels38rSLqccB6USrvTIvrRA/s400/Graffiti_Lower_East_Side.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342445939674165970" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side"<br /><br />Saving Graces.<br /><br />You've just spend an entire weekend enjoying the gorgeous late Spring weather and then Monday rolls around and demands you return to work. Inside. In a basement. The saving grace? The second you step in the old stone structure the sky opens up and it's raining dogs and cats. So what happens if the girl you like just so happens to be a big hit with the menfolk, could theoretically be with anyone up to and including professor Blumen (who alledgedly makes her feel like a woman) and you aren't exactly doing so well in the looks department? Relax. Everything is okay. After all you're the luckiest guy on the lower east side. You've got wheels and she wants to go for a ride.<br /><br />"Luckiest Guy", for me, is the first game changer on <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span>. If the album were boiled down to a dozen or so essential songs, this would be on the ballot for sure. It's beautifully simple if not offering the deeper registers of meaning like some of the others that came before it. It's merely the tale of a dude with a busted mug, the girl he loves and the rusted heap he hangs on to just for her.<br /><br />It strikes me these kids are young and poor. Maybe its just in his head, but I doubt that any of the many guys buzzing around the object of the singer's affections are actually astronomers or buying her expensive gowns. Andy, bicycling across town in the rain just to bring her candy seems much more likely. And even if that guy pedaling through puddles is a regular Don Juan, <span style="font-style: italic;">you're</span> the only one (for the moment) who can make the wind blow through her hair and laugh like a little girl. Yeah, maybe there's no chance for anything more, but sometimes the laughter of the pretty girl in the bucket seat next to yours is enough.<br /><br />grade: "Infatuation" (5 out of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-40867433293754170592009-05-27T08:42:00.005-06:002009-05-27T09:41:28.196-06:007 of 69: Damn you/ I've never stayed up as late as this<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBEFJt_xfLIdPL8NbiUdUtDdZ3j-fMWoBjePA82U-68YSaAP4JzUWKhWPRIiZ7cPCC7SS3nhTmCFL182TQvW7kv404Y-RD-xYcou3sJAJHkX-Dd-hTI8UklCHcdMQi9cm3aPXQg/s1600-h/hurry-home.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYBEFJt_xfLIdPL8NbiUdUtDdZ3j-fMWoBjePA82U-68YSaAP4JzUWKhWPRIiZ7cPCC7SS3nhTmCFL182TQvW7kv404Y-RD-xYcou3sJAJHkX-Dd-hTI8UklCHcdMQi9cm3aPXQg/s400/hurry-home.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340525373710261298" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Come Back From San Francisco"<br /><br />Ah, the long distance relationship. Or rather, the long distance non-relationship, since much of what I can tease from these lyrics suggests a one-way street of rueful longing. It just so happens that street runs the breadth of our entire country, from New York to San Francisco. Not a small piece of real estate, that. In either case it doesn't seem like anyone is coming back to anybody else anytime soon.<br /><br />Shirley Simms sings the lyrics on the album and this generates some interesting gender confusion ("Should pretty boys in discos/ distract you from your novel" implies that either a) the singer's far away man is bisexual or b) if the person in San Francisco is a girl then the singer herself is gay or at least bisexual) since the words are carefully arranged not to give away any gender pronouns for the love object. It's always just you, you, you. I've heard that Merritt will perform the vocals in concert if Simms is not around. This smoothes out some wrinkles, if anything makes the story 'simpler' so to speak seeing as Merritt, a gay man would most likely be pining over another man.<br /><br />The second most notable theme of the song is an unattractive and overwhelming inferiority complex. The singer is constantly showing how insecure and just not good enough she is. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">There's some wordplay here. She's not just "in love with them" she is "awful in love them." </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Key difference. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">She talks of worrying, quitting all her bad habits, being inevitably betrayed, to sum up, "Will you stay/ I don't think so." And that only if her lover comes back to her in the first place. Even the (mightily) strained metaphors imply a submissive relationship. Her object is powerfully vast like the Moon (which will carry on being a heavenly body with or without her assuming the role of its dutiful poetry) or a force of nature like the Wind (which will go on blowing through anything and everything regardless if the singer is its trees). The object of affection needs her only in so much that she enhances its already very obvious attractive qualities.<br /><br />Even the soft strumming of the guitars give away the singer's true feelings. "You need me," she says, but I'm not sure even she believes that. Perhaps something with more percussion, or a more confident electronic rythym would be more convincing, more likely to change my mind. But does that mean 69LS doesn't need "Come Back from San Francisco"? Nothing of the sort. This sort of love, while perhaps unattractive, has its place. I for one, am just happy its way the hell over in New York.<br /><br />grade: a "fondness" (1 out of 6)<br /><br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-5185227067770315432009-05-26T07:38:00.005-06:002009-05-26T10:03:11.741-06:006 of 69: I guess I should take Prozac, right/ and just smile all night/ at somebody new?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgwmxNQtYR6mSTXaB4buL4zfLi67mztUr39jjcJbNKOSD7PMgMN12EHIbbygFIsl_q0qnmYEONosiB_kfYt6uNHqvRGuFSGqpXZ7caNqYrg1xWB6g6wbXqz60fTIjKkjB43GpHg/s1600-h/beatnik+.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 341px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpgwmxNQtYR6mSTXaB4buL4zfLi67mztUr39jjcJbNKOSD7PMgMN12EHIbbygFIsl_q0qnmYEONosiB_kfYt6uNHqvRGuFSGqpXZ7caNqYrg1xWB6g6wbXqz60fTIjKkjB43GpHg/s400/beatnik+.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340157594715864770" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"I Don't Want to Get Over You"<br /><br />Read just about any critical assessment of <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> and you'll be bombarded with praise. This was a very favorably reviewed project, and almost every article I've read boils down to the same key topics. Granted, music journalism has become even more 'catching' with the advent of blogging and the rise of the internet as the key source of information about new music. By now it feels like most writers on the web are spewing the exact same regurgitated catchphrases </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">(as opposed to, say, physical "zines" whose material, while more original, can and often does feel dated in the mere time it takes to get the damn thing to the printer and back)</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. However it is surprising how much reviewers aped from each other even in 1999. Either that, or everyone just noticed the same things:<br /><br />1. The scope. The album's massive length has been discussed as both a positive (a sweeping magnum opus) and a negative (can one actually sit down and listen to the whole damn shebang in one go?) And <a href="http://brennaehrlich.tumblr.com/post/113223247/so-my-brother-in-law-is-apparently-miffed-at-me#disqus_thread">as some have joked</a>, like, totally 69, dude!<br /><br />2. Fascination with Merritt's voice. This comes largely from folks who, like me, were first introduced to the Magnetic Fields through <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span>. At the end of this project I will have to gather all of my Merritt Voice descriptions and have a simile "battle to the death". Everybody, it's a Metaphor-off! (Listen to your friend Billy Zane...)<br /><br />3. And the eclecticism. Perhaps the most signature aspect of the album is just how many different styles of music are embraced, parodied, messed with, sincerely reinterpreted, savaged, honored, and buried. Which makes it all the more frustrating when casual listeners say the darndest reductive things.<br /><br />A few weeks ago I was listening to V1 in a back room at work and a passerby heard a snippet of "I Don't Believe in the Sun" and groaned. He then cracked his typical litany of jokes that the situation appeared to cry out for:<br /><br />"Awww, cheer up, emo kid!"<br />"Put on some sad bastard music, see if I care!"<br />"Rob, that's the worst fucking sweater I've ever seen, that's a Cosby Sweater, a Caaaawwwwwzzzzby sweatuh!"<br /><br />This wouldn't have been so irritating if not a week earlier, just days before this project sprang forth from my forehead fully grown, the prime antagonist dismissed this music in an equally casual manner as being 'emo.'<br /><br />This is frustrating for a variety of reasons, least of all the aforementioned remarkable variety found on <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span>. But even still, if you take the Magnetic Fields body of work into account, whatever it is that 'emo' describes would hardly be accurate in the first place. Merritt's fallback style appears to be variations on 80's electro-pop. Snappy synths and playful guitars. Generally upbeat and fun. So is <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> so different? Or do people just love dismissing stuff as 'emo'?<br /><br />"I Don't Want to Get Over You," is certainly not the best place to begin my rebuttal. It is mopey and despondent, but gets interesting as it describes how easy it is for a person to slip into this mindset, the "happy being dumped" philosophy. This comes after the real pain of separation, the not being able to eat or sleep part, the raw depression where something you had is missing and the mind and body have yet to build up psychic and physical defenses. There is a romantic, poetic aspect to being so broke up over love, a misguided egocentric place where you are so sure that most people just don't have the ability to love like I do man, but good friends will only tolerate you acting like an idiot for so long. But some people don't respond to their friends hints, and this drudgery becomes a lifestyle choice. There's a slippery slope down to maudlinville, full of "clove cigarettes and vermouth" where people "dress in black and read Camus." Merritt, to his credit, appears to be making fun of this kind of behavior, dismissing it as only fit for 17 year-olds.<br /><br />But its slightly more complicated than all that. Because there is no quick fix. You can't go from being in love to miserable to all better in 24 hours. There is a time where sleeping pills to get through the night might actually be a wise choice, and where a night out with friends sounds just nightmarish, and Prozac might be the only way to be able to "smile all night" and not bring everyobody else down. Which is the genius of even a mediocre song on this album. That it can take itself seriously and not so seriously all at once.<br /><br />Or, you know, it's just a bunch of emo whining.<br /><br />Grade: "Puppy Love"<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-87517064540874639332009-05-21T09:26:00.007-06:002009-05-21T10:34:15.826-06:005 of 69: Have I annoyed you or is there a boy who well he's just a whore<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1E4sCvFMstBJXsw5TWk0QIa7Mj3rS7pjpHiAJ2tABBEwxo1KRXs8aR2OYH8U-1OWR8qPpm06qMZn1CL27AbrMZTG2xpSLW7sTDaEtgYCEKxpBWfT9IQ5vStd7ONVD7cIpoSjGg/s1600-h/COLOURlovers.com-pantone_292.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1E4sCvFMstBJXsw5TWk0QIa7Mj3rS7pjpHiAJ2tABBEwxo1KRXs8aR2OYH8U-1OWR8qPpm06qMZn1CL27AbrMZTG2xpSLW7sTDaEtgYCEKxpBWfT9IQ5vStd7ONVD7cIpoSjGg/s400/COLOURlovers.com-pantone_292.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338314941117136610" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Reno Dakota"<br /><br />I suppose this short, playful (I wouldn't exactly call it disposable) song is a chance to explain how I came upon the <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> in general.<br /><br />As the last entry suggests, I'm a sucker for lists. And I simply LOVE year's end 'best of' lists. Back in 1999 I was a junior at Syracuse University. There is (I hope this shouldn't be modified to 'was') a great record store downtown called, perhaps somewhat unfortunately, Soundgarden. It was the record store that sold me my first Les Savy Fav EP, my first White Stripes album, my first Le Tigre, Fugazi and inevitably, Magnetic Fields CD. The kind of record store that has a scruffy mongrel dog that kicks around your feet as your fingers clickety clack through the bins of used CD jewel cases. The kind of record store that gives birth to hipsters such as myself en masse.<br /><br />As 1999 dovetailed into 2000, I flipped through <span style="font-style: italic;">SPIN</span> magazine's year end best albums article. This was right around the time <span style="font-style: italic;">SPIN</span> was very tough on music, had become the slightly pale and freckled <span style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span> of its time (while <span style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span> no longer had any sort of critical acumen toward music, e.g. putting the backstreet Boys on the cover and celebrated Kid Rock as a musical savant). A few years later someone must have realized that this wasn't a very good business model, and <span style="font-style: italic;">SPIN</span> caught up with <span style="font-style: italic;">Rolling Stone</span> once more, only the crappy contemporary era version of <span style="font-style: italic;">RS</span>, (you know, sans the meaty political journalism) that it has never been able to shake. Of course I'm being way too hard on <span style="font-style: italic;">SPIN</span> (why oh why did you play fast and loose with my heart?), but only because I've since fallen for magazines like <span style="font-style: italic;">Magnet</span> and (RIP) <span style="font-style: italic;">Punk Planet</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">SPIN</span>'s 1999 best album list had some serious chops, with names like the Flaming Lips (at their peak IMO, with <span style="font-style: italic;">Soft Bulletin</span>), Beck (with his insanely catchy party album <span style="font-style: italic;">Midnight Vultures</span>), Mary J Blige, Rage Against the Machine, Wilco, Built to Spill, Ol' Dirty Bastard and at number 4, the Magnetic Fields <span style="font-style: italic;">69 Love Songs</span>. The latter entry struck me as just the sort of over-ambitious magnum opus I might like (I really like excessive trainwrecks, especially films, like <span style="font-style: italic;">A.I</span>. and the <span style="font-style: italic;">Fountain</span>), and when I had a chance the following June, while restoring the empty coffers of my paltry bank account with shitty Summer jobs, I picked up the first volume.<br /><br />And the thing is, I really didn't get into it. I liked it, but certainly didn't appreciate it. I listened to it a bunch of times before it slept and gathered dust on my CD tower for several years. It wasn't until I picked up a used copy of Volume 2 (just filling out my collection really) that I fell in love with the Magnetic Fields. That is the CD that captured my heart and urged me to buy V3 a mere week later, but wouldn't even allow me the sonic space to listen to that later purchase, or go back to V1 for that matter. To this day I've probably listened to the series in this kind of ratio 5 : 9 : 2. And the first 23 songs only so much because I've owned it nearly twice as long as the rest.<br /><br />Alright, I suppose this narcissistic music history lesson must end. Short story made shorter, <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span> is a grower of the best sort. As I descend into the depths of adulthood (to say nothing of middle-age) I find that I can finally appreciate work of this caliber. Because I'm wiser? Probably not. Mostly, I would guess, because it is fucking awesome.<br /><br />grade: "puppy love" (2 out of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-50229272170157326462009-05-20T12:13:00.005-06:002009-05-20T12:51:22.898-06:004 of 69: Woah Nelly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHenmBTXeu761Af8r1k1C7SYAF42SEVz-RnS2Mmm2uy1CPKUxNMmwx_XsM9tz_4n8jNEVaBYR7M6lVNEojXXaRSNUoHVaOuaKhRUAjWGchnHp4E44ISFIZGGpRxw8Tw8ZzlA-EWA/s1600-h/il_430xN.17657303.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 387px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHenmBTXeu761Af8r1k1C7SYAF42SEVz-RnS2Mmm2uy1CPKUxNMmwx_XsM9tz_4n8jNEVaBYR7M6lVNEojXXaRSNUoHVaOuaKhRUAjWGchnHp4E44ISFIZGGpRxw8Tw8ZzlA-EWA/s400/il_430xN.17657303.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337979529479706994" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"A Chicken With its Head Cut Off"<br /><br />Among the many reasons why I love this song, it begins with a list. Hurray for lists!<br /><br />1. Eligible.<br />2. Not too stupid<br />3. Intelligible<br />4. Cute as Cupid<br />5. Knowledgeable<br />6. Not always right.<br />7. Salvageable<br />8. Free for the night.<br /><br />My man here is <span style="font-style: italic;">modest</span>. Look, he's not asking for the Moon. Not this time. No, he's sitting at the dive-bar, glancing around and is hoping for the best. Is this Convenience Mart love? Nope. It is everyone you've ever known love. Because knights in shining armor/princesses with their braided golden locks are hard to come by. And one can waste a whole lot of time obsessing over that shit.<br /><br />Maybe its because the weather is getting its Summer on around here and is making me recall the days when I was a perpetual undergraduate bachelor, but there's a feeling built up in this song, along with the modesty of course, that the singer is falling in love with just about every person that walks by. There were times when I'd walk out of design studio at 8 in the morning (after staying up all night) to go home and catch some winks until 1 or 2 in the afternoon or so before starting the whole work press all over again. And on those shambling, warm May mornings I'll tell you what. I must have fallen head over heels in love with every girl I passed. "All around the barnyard falling in and out of love" is quite apropos. Now I wasn't the drooling idiot variety of underclassmen. No, I could barely manage a smile before blushing and looking away at my feet, but it sure as hell felt like my "heart was running around like a chicken with its head cut off."<br /><br />Though to be fair, I have to imagine the singer of this song sees a lot of action. There's a suave everyman-ish character to his romancin'. He's up front about what he's looking for, but he probably won't call you back. All that matters is right up there in that crushingly simple yet wonderfully poignant list. Are you single? We don't want to be upsetting a more important relationship here. Let's have you be able to keep up your end of the conversation and be cute about it. As far as 'knowledge' goes, I'm fairly certain he's not looking for book smarts. And if you are a fixer-upper? Whatever, doesn't matter if you're free for the night. Because he's also kind of a horn-dog. He's looking to get laid but don't be expecting "stars exploding in the night or electric eels under the covers." Bottom line, he's realistic.<br /><br />And although Merritt sings this with with a roly poly bawdiness in his belly, its not too difficult to listen to this song with a woman on the mic. I might have used a lot of "he's" in the above review, but its as gender non-specific as any of the 69. In fact, in my life I might have known more women who behave this way than men. And while this behavior "ain't pretty", its not like anyone is coming out of this little tryst with hurt feelings.<br /><br />Another solid "adoration" (4 of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-44150683216573882082009-05-18T09:14:00.009-06:002009-05-18T12:47:47.048-06:003 of 69: You said you were in love with me/ Both of us know that that's impossible<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbW1ihVY8hsPQvvjKr5XqprjaLIzhzXTCg0SGKDSerACpJbWMaEFLknkrhmDvSJpHACC5AtoZhxWOkkcXC_nIwv_S_xWVcoq2ybRNa4n-KRQ2cjKwWSQlVRuDN30flhzXSOj2XPQ/s1600-h/46807654_076b449c30.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 344px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbW1ihVY8hsPQvvjKr5XqprjaLIzhzXTCg0SGKDSerACpJbWMaEFLknkrhmDvSJpHACC5AtoZhxWOkkcXC_nIwv_S_xWVcoq2ybRNa4n-KRQ2cjKwWSQlVRuDN30flhzXSOj2XPQ/s400/46807654_076b449c30.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337236837079293602" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9as417RdlA">"All My Little Words"</a><br /><br />At the risk of descending too far into the soggy morass of psychology and all those french philosophers of objects and subjects, there is something be said of being in love with someone, but not yet with them. In a ten round title bout, Desire might very well clean Love's clock, especially in the early rounds, and there are plenty of reasons for this, particularly for the </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">romantically inclined and the </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">imaginative among us. Before declaring your affections, before being recognized, accepted, brushed aside or bluntly rejected, before one actually knows anything of consequence about what will surely be your Great True Love, anything is possible. Your object can be anything you want him or her to be, they are a gigantic projection screen for all your fantasies. And wooing them! The mind revels in an infinite number of possible futures where we are impossibly suave and witty and say all the right things. Where we fully command all our little words. And nobody can possibly resist them.<br /><br />At first listen, "All My Little Words," seems simple enough. Merritt gives up his vocal reins to another man, one L D Beghtol. Unlike Merritt's famously untrained bellow, Beghtol's voice, to my ears, is a floral, almost histrionic affair, especially when paired with the sparse strumming of the simple accompaniment (strummmm, bdang-dang bdang-dang). It is a voice that seems comfortably at home playing the troubadour at a renaissance fair. And it is sincerely lamenting a failure, of sorts, and if one cursorily examines the lyrics, well, that failure seems like one of courtship. The end result was rejection, this object was 'unboyfriendable.'<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Yet "You said you were in love with me/ Both of us know that that's impossible," is as loaded a pair of lines as any song on <span style="font-style: italic;">69LS</span>. I completely apologize for the perhaps half-baked interpretation that is to follow, but I'm of a mind to say that the "you said you were in love with me" is entirely in the songwriter's saccharine-sweet head. They then follow this up with "both of us know that that's impossible" because they know they'll never get up the courage to ask. Or perhaps they know their lovely object would never go for them for a thousand and one very real life reasons. The fact that someone said yes, even in thier head, while nice in a heady day-dream sort of way, in the end remains just so many little words.</span></span></span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br /><br />But the "you said you were in love with me" of the first stanza can be read in many different ways, least among them literally. Perhaps they did indeed receive an affirmation, but in that case what went wrong? More to the point, what exactly is the singer really in love with?</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br />One one hand, almost certainly another human being. But on the other hand, I'd argue that on some level Beghtol isn't singing to anyone at all, at least not in the objective sense. His object is "a splendid butterfly," it's most wonderful feature: it's wings (they <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> what make it beautiful after all). The imagery is both delicate and transformative. It's difficult to think of a butterfly without recalling its extraordinary metamorphosis, and to call out its wings is to specifically latch on to its elusive nature. In my mind, the singer is also describing his desire in the first stanza, a powerful and dramatic emotion that has undergone so many odd transformations and one which might just be narrowing in on it's target. Confused, excited about all the possible outcomes only one thing is certain of desire, no power on earth will ever make it stand still, will "ever make it stay."<br /><br />This one gets another "adoration" (4 out of 6)<br />(and apologies for a simultaneously overwrought yet undercooked review. The next one will be better, I promise!)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-61023294130231234892009-05-15T09:02:00.006-06:002009-05-15T10:21:32.893-06:002 of 69: The only Sun I ever knew/ Was the Beautiful one that was You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wlDe4EKkurUHh6tLsjkPkIj4XrlAtbcJY4cpOLEMFeWYeFr0Gz_RRXyxgl8ohxgN8vgMwPf-NawGu_pTNA5RbjfYhC0MgP_X0qG_tIFr34yeevnfOav6aCiRegbF58T9lcr_0w/s1600-h/iStock_000006010440XSmall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wlDe4EKkurUHh6tLsjkPkIj4XrlAtbcJY4cpOLEMFeWYeFr0Gz_RRXyxgl8ohxgN8vgMwPf-NawGu_pTNA5RbjfYhC0MgP_X0qG_tIFr34yeevnfOav6aCiRegbF58T9lcr_0w/s400/iStock_000006010440XSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336081740395257154" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"I Don't Believe in the Sun."<br /><br />Only two songs in and it's already come to this. It's come to 'went aways,' 'nevers,' and 'given up and dies.' It's come to astronomical revisionism. Not only has the world been turned upside-down, the heavens are in a state of disrepair. And all because he's just not that into you.<br /><br />Although that is slightly unfair. This isn't the indignant anger and frustration of putting yourself out on a limb, of asking someone out and being rejected. That would easier to swallow. No, this is the deep gloom of being loved, of actually getting in and finding a place for yourself, of being shined upon for a time, and <span style="font-style: italic;">then</span> being rejected. This shit hurts.<br /><br />And this is the first time on the album that the listener gets a real taste of Merritt's broken basset hound voice. A voice that really feels like it could keep the Sun from rising. He says he doesn't believe in the Sun and when I hear him I'm inclined to agree. Even the moon and stars aren't safe. You took them all with you, you son of a bitch. But again, this isn't a song about resentment. It's about longing. This person doesn't want to rewrite the heavens because you left. This person still thinks you are beautiful.<br /><br />There is something kind of wonderful how Merritt tips the romantic universals that poets have harnessed from the Sun (or more often the Moon) and parlays them into something personal and specific. Here Love is the fundamental right of all people, it "shine[s] down on everyone." Yet the singer's Sun is an individual one, "the only one he ever knew" the "one that never shone on other guys." In other words, just because you have felt the sun shine, doesn't mean you understand a damn thing about how it felt like shining on him.<br /><br />There is only one moment where I feel like the singer might be finding their way through this, one crack in their armor of romantic melancholy:<br /><br />"Since you went away/<br />it's nighttime all day/<br />and it's usually raining too."/<br /><br />That last little addition sounds, to my ear, like a half-hearted attempt at a joke. Merritt is winking at himself because he knows how ridiculous it sounds to believe the Sun won't ever shine on him anymore, that this blackout is a cruelty perpetuated specifically for him. There is a lightness in the last line that betrays a subtle enjoyment of being left in the cold. As if Merritt is almost perpared to admit that feeling this shitty might, in the long run, be a good thing. 'Cause the only way you get to night is through the day, and with a little astronomical tinkering, hey, we might be able to rig up another Sun sometime after all. But not too soon.<br /><br />I give this song an "adoration" (4 out of 6)<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-8812847191266186382009-05-13T09:52:00.005-06:002009-05-21T10:48:51.679-06:001 of 69: It's only fair to tell you/ I'm absolutely cuckoo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkO-nh9pjMvVesciMVTLc9mAw6q1FZ5zmesxb7bTuQeh-o9_JzL6O3Qaxy8aqpsfuJqk7yOUg0RiLo8E1fmybihODl08JuOhFuAb65EeCuNbD1NMSwBw5ZGJaV8M9u-p-M6OOEA/s1600-h/I'm+Absolutely+Cuckoo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAkO-nh9pjMvVesciMVTLc9mAw6q1FZ5zmesxb7bTuQeh-o9_JzL6O3Qaxy8aqpsfuJqk7yOUg0RiLo8E1fmybihODl08JuOhFuAb65EeCuNbD1NMSwBw5ZGJaV8M9u-p-M6OOEA/s400/I'm+Absolutely+Cuckoo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335353437629740642" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Recently a friend of mine sent me the following little missive:<br /><br />"I only like about 3 of the 69 Love Songs."<br /><br />I had to read the damn sentence four times in order for it to penetrate my thick, disbelieving skull. Surely I had read it incorrectly? I was baffled, flummoxed, completely bamboozled as to how someone could have any other opinion of the Magnetic Fields magnum opus other than completely outfuckingstanding. Gradually my perplexed mind succumbed to slight case of miffery. How dare anyone hate on Stephin Merritt! My brow furrowed and I may or may not have snorted. But that emotion was silly and short-lived, and quickly faded to my natural fallback state of quiet curiosity and general bemusement which lead to the following question:<br /><br />"Why <span style="font-weight: bold;">do </span>I love <span style="font-style: italic;">69 Love Songs</span> so much?"<br /><br />And thus a new blog feature was born. In the coming weeks (and most likely months) I plan on digging through each and every one of those 69 precisely crafted pop songs and waxing a little poetic on one of my favorite albums of all time. I've also devised a scale, or ranking system, less to weed out any possible stumblers, and more to separate out those songs that truly affect me, the ones that really sing, the ones I can't imagine living without. So after a (sometimes not so) brief discussion of each song I'll give it a grade from least enjoyed to most liked:<br /><br />1. fondness<br />2. puppy love<br />3. weak in the knees<br />4. adoration<br />5. infatuation<br />6. ecstasy<br /><br />And seeing as we all have our own opinions on what composes a great song, feel free to castigate me in the comments for not loving your favorite or for really enjoying something you think is a complete joke. And without further ado...<br /><br />1/69 "Absolutely Cuckoo"<br /><br />I don't know about you but I tend to really dig albums that open with a bit of quirk. It is the rare album that can come out guns blazing with the might of a single or knock-out punch caliber song and not make everything that follows feel like an afterthought. Even big serious albums sometimes have a sort of throwaway first song, not that I view 'Cuckoo' as inessential. But it's tone is playful and just barely hinting at the amazingly comprehensive rumination of love that follows on the rest of the album.<br /><br />There is a bit of self-referentiality here with lines like "Don't fall in love with me yet/ We only recently met/ Give me a week or two to/ Go Absolutely Cuckoo." As in don't judge a book by its cover or an album of 69 (!!!) songs by a single tune that clocks in just over 90 seconds. It presupposes a wealth of good stuff to come but is coy about it, offering up a single warning: "I only tell you this 'cause/ I'm easy to get rid of/ But not if you fall in love" which, as I mentioned far above I have a hard time beliving anyone with even a scrap of a soul could not possibly do after giving this album a listen or three (hundred in my case).<br /><br />The playfulness is also very reassuring, and adds to the winking title of the project (aka "69 Love Songs") in disarming the worrisome notion that no topic can be as pretentious, overwrought or heavy (in the most perjorative sense) as Love. So why not come running out of the gate with a bit of levity? There's plenty of time for inamorato and "can't live withouts".<br /><br />I give this song a glowing "weak in the knees" (or 3 out of 6).<br /><br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-23871011310202787062009-05-12T13:39:00.007-06:002009-05-12T14:42:25.765-06:00Heath and Esme Have an Adventure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N_o9OjYPDOvvOMWEaCwcK-Z4rFIKo6wzW1rAjBGdsBtbVwYGXqf82u5GS2H7pX8PcH5N1l0Lew1l_fLRQwQhTBmG5NAPCySHjqJJ1ZmiuDOqg1mMgNr137xn00uPf_dYzWqBaA/s1600-h/ice-cream-sandwiches-51.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N_o9OjYPDOvvOMWEaCwcK-Z4rFIKo6wzW1rAjBGdsBtbVwYGXqf82u5GS2H7pX8PcH5N1l0Lew1l_fLRQwQhTBmG5NAPCySHjqJJ1ZmiuDOqg1mMgNr137xn00uPf_dYzWqBaA/s400/ice-cream-sandwiches-51.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335039245189291778" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Disclaimer: It should be known to the reader that the following story (helpfully narrated in the third person) regards a pair of individuals whose names have been disguised under pseudonyms. Hopefully this veil of anonymity will protect them the harsh glare of the outside world for the subject matter of the anecdote below is a bit... sensitive. Under no circumstances should one imagine that the unfortunate experiences detailed below happened to me, or anyone else I might know. With that in mind...<br /><br />Heath and Esme decided to take a lovely vacation away from their native Madison. While their trip was not far, it was sufficient to get them away from it all, and their destination was a two stop-light hamlet in the middle of nowhere, Iowa. The sleepy town was chosen precisely for its backwoods, old-timey, slightly old fashioned ways, and when Heath pulled into the motel he had already shed his city stiffness and a smile crossed his face.<br /><br />Esme was thoughtful enough to have packed all kinds of foodstuffs for a simple cold dinner, as the pair had come here in years past and found the local restaurants either closed or... not particularly up to snuff. This evening was no exception as the diner was closed and a majority of the village's 12 cars were parked in front of the lone bar with a flickering Budweiser logo in the window.<br /><br />After checking in the pair decided that it would be best if they secured some sort of dessert to follow their simple repast before settling in for the rest of the night. Ice-cream topped the list of desirables, and it was this delicious treat that propelled them back out into the foggy midwestern night. However, as the doors of the Toyota banged shut, Heath was reminded of an unfortunate spat of forgetful packing earlier in the day. Heath is a respectable and loving young man, and the particular item he had forgotten, one does not speak of them in polite conversation. Needless to say it is easier to forget them than say, your toothpaste.<br /><br />Now, hours after the fateful blunder, it occured to Heath, that it might be advisable to procure some of said indelicate items. Surely this could be accomplished at the same time as finding some delicous ice-cream sandwiches, say, at a gas station or what passed as a convenient store in these parts. The first two stops proved futile, and whilst driving into the adjacent town they saw a glowing sign which might have had a hand in impeding their progress. There was a formidable sized Bible Camp in the area. As everyone knows, Bible Camps are notoriously anti ice-cream.<br /><br />Perhaps because of this powerful Camp, a jaunt into the neighboring town's supermarket was equally unsuccessful. But there in the distance, loomed the mighty sign of the Dread pagan god Walmart. Surely they would have both items the young couple sought as no mere Bible Camp could dictate what a corporate behemoth stocked on its shelves.<br /><br />Like the bar, Walmart appeared to be a recreational destination as a freakish preonderance of the (larger) neighboring town's populace roamed the megamart's aisles, looking for that one purchase that would complete them, I suppose. Sobbing human pupae in strollers and generously proportioned middle-aged men sauntered amidst scandalously clad tweens and prowling cougars. It took Heath and Esme no time at all to locate each and every item on their list, which had grown to include plastic cutlery for their ice-cream cups, some mints, and chapstick among the other <span style="font-style: italic;">items in question</span>.<br /><br />Esme did her best to select the cashier that might be least embarassed by the purchase, a firm but friendly mountain of a woman who as expected said little during the transaction. However the fate was not yet through with Heath and Esme this evening, for when they approached the exit doors they were greeted by a kindly old man, employed by Walmart simply to wellwish and say goodbye. And should by chance, an alarm go off, say, maybe he could check and see that the reciept for items pruchased matched the items in the bag.<br /><br />As the alarm sounded after the sweet grandfatherly septuagenarian mumbled a sincere "have a good night!" Esme rolled her eyes and muttered, "Oh for fuck's sake," which it is true, was particularly apropos for this trip. She handed the doddering man the bag and the receipt while Heath folded his arms in exasperation. The couple blushed as the greeter exclaimed, "Gee, you've got <span style="font-style: italic;">all kinds</span> of stuff in here." Which they did indeed. He was quite obviously just as embarrassed as the young couple and blushed profusely. However it must have been a Walmart policy or something because he then proceeded to take each item out of the bag and demagnetize it, following this up with a detailed scribbling on some notepad of each offending article.<br /><br />Five minutes later Heath and Esme were laughing quite hysterically on their drive back to their Podunk bunk. Surely this wasn't the kind of story they could tell their friends, at least, not without a modest amount of impropriety. So they passed it along to me, and here I sit, having just narrated a story that by no means did I have anything at all whatsoever to do with.<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-80495873261835257302009-04-28T11:28:00.005-06:002009-04-28T13:13:01.993-06:00Doctor Swinehart or: How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love H1N1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKtbZgy9T3hPyp4ASZpl1dxAlg5vSSRcjNr8-6aOllu68u2VdbFglP2hyphenhyphen7gk_eniMOLw33r_DmzaFxRPODKZGYs8QFe-10Nes32ftL2eI6tz8IxHTpgZHONblROYE7fC6Bx8qbw/s1600-h/king_the-stand2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyKtbZgy9T3hPyp4ASZpl1dxAlg5vSSRcjNr8-6aOllu68u2VdbFglP2hyphenhyphen7gk_eniMOLw33r_DmzaFxRPODKZGYs8QFe-10Nes32ftL2eI6tz8IxHTpgZHONblROYE7fC6Bx8qbw/s400/king_the-stand2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329805430469302242" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">blah blah blah swine flu. blah blah blah we're all gonna die. Blah blah blah ahh-<span style="font-style: italic;">choo</span>?<br /><br />But seriously, I'm enthralled by this media spectacle for more reasons than I can count. And I can't say that I'm entirely immune to the overexposed and relentless over-the-top coverage of what may be yet another in a long line of influenza bugs that continuously sweep over the globe. The early spin on this media fastball was that this flu was more dangerous because... well, why exactly was that again? Dig even a little bit below the surface and you discover the gross exaggerations and outright lies that have been spread, maliciously or not, and eagerly accepted by your average fairly well informed human being. 24 hours a go I actually thought there was a chance that my days were numbered and that I might actually die from this thing. Then my dear wife helped me come to terms with my obvious hypochondria. It seems I've read too many sci-fi "End of Days" pulp novels.<br /><br />In one such novel, Stephen King's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Stand</span>, a horrific portrait of a flu pandemic is illustrated in the story's earliest chapters. The army has designed a 'super-flu' that is 99.99% communicable and incredibly lethal. The fear of disease is swiftly circumscribed by a government response, equal parts cover-up and violent suppression until things fall apart and the center doesn't hold. (See, although in a completely different context, even King knows you can't trust the media...) However the spread of the virus must have been researched very carefully because the recent strain of influenza has spread in an eerily similar manner. In the novel a few cases in Texas end up spreading first to NYC and California, popping up in isolated towns in the midwest before blanketing the country.<br /><br />It is very obvious that the kind of latent fear of death and disease that makes this horror story so effective is the same one that has led the media to blow this thing up to elephantine proportions. News outlets offer us a service, at a price. The want us to follow current events, but most of all they want ratings. And people will tune in to this kind of story, at least for a while, because it is downright scary. It is frightening to think that in our modern age of superior health care, there are things that can sweep up over night and kill people. Never mind the fact that nobody outside of Mexico has died, and that those fatalities might be the result of extreme poverty. It is scary because it appears downright unstoppable. One can take all the proper precautions, but this might very well be one of those 'if you're gonna get it, you're gonna get it' phenomena. You know, the kind of flus that are out and about every year that kill people just as easily, but that everybody has seemingly forgot about.<br /><br />I loathe disease. It creeps me out. I am a complete germophobe and am continuously washing my hands, spraying my work keyboard, mouse and phone, which cowrokers occassionally share, with disinfectant. I always get my flu-shots. Why is this? Because the flu is annoying as hell. Two weeks of feeling like shit? Where do i sign up? But I'm not going to go so far as to stockpile Tamiflu and bottled water (although I offhandedly suggested the very same to my wife the other night). Maybe I'm not entirely convinced as I thought.<br /><br />What is stunning is the amount of misinformation out there that is greedily gobbled up and spewed out all over the place. The very name of this bug, for instance, is completely inaccurate. People aren't getting this from pigs. But that won't stop them from costing the pork industry millions of dollars in losses. Seriously people? You think you are going to get sick from eating bacon? Cooked bacon? <a href="http://highheelsinthekitchen.blogspot.com/2009/04/very-special-pig.html">More for me then</a>. From what I've read the strain is a new combo of swine, avian, and human influenza that is passed from person to person exclusively. Many have hollered that it shouldn't be called swine flu at all, but perhaps 'novel' flu or as one wag has put it, 'media' flu.<br /><br />The one good thing that I can see coming from this is that maybe, just maybe people will stop being quite so gross for the next few weeks. Masks here and there, sure. But hands being washed too. Coughs and sneezes being covered up. You know, like actual human beings. Funny how it sometimes takes a virus, something scientists aren't even sure to classify as alive or dead, to achieve this.<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-17458406377606004522009-04-22T10:05:00.003-06:002009-04-22T10:45:40.800-06:00You Wouldn't Like Me When I'm Angry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm95Z_JGwl2PvDswr4deo7zmELOXt5C6p3r1djibhNIWfEKnRPBonclHNBL1Ha_fq_ImnIPISdvsPCKHTWmvsEJ_EnW3L1dVe6aDnIQtNiPngK6oAD0FTSXT8fnkv1VCCWeu6Tig/s1600-h/sulk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm95Z_JGwl2PvDswr4deo7zmELOXt5C6p3r1djibhNIWfEKnRPBonclHNBL1Ha_fq_ImnIPISdvsPCKHTWmvsEJ_EnW3L1dVe6aDnIQtNiPngK6oAD0FTSXT8fnkv1VCCWeu6Tig/s400/sulk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327555624133103010" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Hell, I wouldn't like me when I'm angry. Which is fine since I rarely get all riled up. Once in a great while. Most people are surprised to hear I can emote anger as I am generally cool as a cucumber (a vegetable renown for its calm handling of tense situations). But this morning I nearly flipped out. That's actually exaggerating quite a bit, but my dander was certainly up. And all because of a stupid bagel.<br /><br />I was running a bit late because I had elected to go to the gym this morning, and I still needed to stop and get something for breakfast. A bagel sounded perfect. Now I like my bagels (as I like my women?) lightly toasted with nothing on 'em (Zing!). Normally an easy thing to procure (again, we're talking about the bagels, not women). However at the Hyde Park Bagel Dispensatorium there was a dreaded new person working the line. If that wasn't enough, this coffee shop has the ridiculous practice of relaying what the customer orders at the register to someone else who actually fixes the sandwiches, etc. Ever play elementary school game 'Telephone" where one person whispers a phrase in their neighbor's ear and they pass it on and so forth? Yeah, that is slightly more effective way of accurately getting a message across. The following conversation took place immediately before I ordered:<br /><br />Jill Q. Customer: "Yeah, I'd like a regular coffee and a plain bagel with everything."<br /><br />Register Monkey: "That'll be $4.73. Hey New Employee, I needa plain bagel with everything."<br /><br />(Fairly Incompetent) New Employee: "With Everything? Like <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span>?"<br /><br />Above this riveting drama is a large menu with various suggested fixings. One of the options is, 'Everything.' Now 'Everything' does not actually mean everything. It is tricky like that. Because nbody actually wants a dab of each kind of cream cheese combined with several forms of breakfast meat and eggs and so forth. I could actually feel the stiff breeze from everyone in line behind me rolling their eyes.<br /><br />Needless to say I had high hopes that (Fairly Incompetent) New Employee would be able to fulfill my much more simple request without any hang-ups. However as I waited for the bagel to go through the toasting shute, and the other folks behind me placed their orders it dawned on me that perhaps my order was <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> simple. Surely no one just orders a plain toasted bagel with nothing on it. Already exasperated by the comedy of 'Everything', I began to lose my patience as my bagel dropped down, and before I could say a word, it was generously schmeared with a healthy dollop of seemingly randomly selected peanut butter.<br /><br />(Fairly Incompetent) New Employee: "Plainbagelpeanutbutter!" (she announces to the gathering crowd of customers waiting for their order) I purse my lips and look to the side, disevowing ownership all the while knowing that this reject construction is meant for me.<br /><br />Bagel after bagel is made correctly (astonishing!) and I continue to stand, patience slowly simmering away like so much coffee left on the burner. Not gonna make it to work on time, but suddenly this doesn't matter. All that matters is my fascination with the fact that someone could be so bad at something relatively simple. With no system of checks and balances or failsafes there is no way my actual order will be completed unless I speak up. Thankfully the Register Monkey, a very nice person actually who knows my order by heart, sees me still standing there and sighs, apparently this sort of thing was happening with some frequency this morning,<br /><br />"We got a plain bagel just toasted back there?"<br /><br />No, no they did not.<br /><br />But one was hastily made, and I walked away with what I wanted. And I assume they had what they wanted as well, you know, aside from efficiency, namely, my money and their limbless corpses <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> strewn about their establishment.<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-47728161618169724622009-04-20T08:29:00.005-06:002009-04-20T10:16:28.855-06:00Yee Olde Work Email Spam Comedy Hour<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTruR3Sgh1sqPaqPMe0JkMw1ZSAkzlALt5Zc87XPHyX94lRoo2HUzj_BHttjh46J-jUMrRDuPhY_CMpPCYJeLzo7ugBer0ijgEdvMEEme6e4enb48BHAyZ94jtbvt7Ok2qb-ChvA/s1600-h/PrevostMedicaments1670.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTruR3Sgh1sqPaqPMe0JkMw1ZSAkzlALt5Zc87XPHyX94lRoo2HUzj_BHttjh46J-jUMrRDuPhY_CMpPCYJeLzo7ugBer0ijgEdvMEEme6e4enb48BHAyZ94jtbvt7Ok2qb-ChvA/s400/PrevostMedicaments1670.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5326806873534353634" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br />Let's lighten the mood a little bit, shall we?<br /><br />It's always fun for me to return to the store after a nice relaxing weekend and take a look at the old work email. Why? Because my work email is a spam black hole. No spam can resist it's immense gravity and as a result I get quite an assortment of intriguing fare. And man have some people gone a long way to make sure their spam doesn't get filtered out into my junk folder. There appear to be a great many creative (and hilarious) ways to achieve this desired outcome. These include the use unfamiliar euphemisms in place of more common blacklisted words, incorrect spellings and odd chunks of concrete poetry, which I can only imagine help the email reach a predetermined requirement of enough different words to defeat various filters. The end result of course is a chuckle or six.<br /><br />Some great email subject lines:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"Hoist Your Sexual Times"</span> (with <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"the assistance of Good Medicaments,"</span>)<br />Oh boy, this one made me laugh. I'm sure 'hoist' has been employed as a sexual innuendo as long as there have been masts and rigging, but the addition of 'sexual times' kicks it into another gear altogether. And finally, the inclusion of some fancy English like 'medicaments'? Inspired.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"Empower Your Sexual Experience"</span><br />A minority group can be empowered. A political cause that desperately needs some legal or financial backing can seek to become empowered. Sexual experience? I'd love to see the legalese in the draft of that document.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">"Your Power Will be so Strong that You will think you are Sleeping."</span></span></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Um, I'm not quite sure that reads how you want it to read, Mr. Spam-bot.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"Raise Your Darling Bed Event"</span><br />This one actually makes syntactical sense. Mostly. But the hoops the author of this gem must have had to run through to make it 'see print.' I'm pretty sure nobody has ever called what happens in the bedroom a 'bed event' and to couple it with a snuggly word like darling, well...<br /><br />And last some concrete spam poetry:<br /><br />The wasn't any reason for the malfunction<br />Woman was on bad terms with her husband<br />he drinks.<br />Foreplay PPPlay it right!<br />In a different way, namely:<br />from the wild game a pleasant<br />middleaged man who, in spite of his better<br />have some supper<br />Pierre's face lightened than her form.<br />High cheeks had she<br />and a face strained voice that sounded like a dirge.<br />It imposible to describe the expression to be correct.<br /><br />All I can say of this monday morning ritual can best be summed up in yet another borrowed spam tagline:<br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">"satisfaction result assured!"</span><br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-59111727428033599962009-04-15T11:53:00.004-06:002009-04-15T12:58:23.938-06:00Where Does Your Honor Lay?<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguth4grxlZgSU2UPrujWDlt48ILQ7cRtk6r1hZiq3oDwh1mPKRfJRo9GPoWPrWIMZiDjl-v1i7RuQlcKucByIKRDXpNff042J9bxg__fpREAy_FOLhbmUWQW3htqzU99mfo0yKVg/s1600-h/887363476_535889d8b8_o.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguth4grxlZgSU2UPrujWDlt48ILQ7cRtk6r1hZiq3oDwh1mPKRfJRo9GPoWPrWIMZiDjl-v1i7RuQlcKucByIKRDXpNff042J9bxg__fpREAy_FOLhbmUWQW3htqzU99mfo0yKVg/s400/887363476_535889d8b8_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324994069029406562" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Independent as fuck!</span></span></span><br /></div><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><br />You've probably seen this phrase, most likely embossed in neon on a sticker affixed to a skateboard, streetlamp, or an otherwise "alternative" retailer's storefront window. It can mean various things, and i do not mean to suggest i am comprehensively aware of them all. But I do have a certain perspective, having worked for several years in an independent bookstore. I take a great amount of pride in where i work, and what I've been able to accomplish. And I've only just begun to understand the challenges and benefits of being independent.<br /><br />Independent bookstores are dying, there is no denying this. Curiously, big chain bookstores are also doing downright poorly as well, but people have to be getting their books from somewhere, right? Turns out Amazon is that somewhere quite often. Amazon is wonderful for a great many reasons, some of which include information gathering, price discounts, and used goods. Serving a buying public in the hundreds of millions, Amazon purchases its products in massive quantities, often on consignment (i.e. under the premise that the goods are theirs forever, even if they do not sell). As everyone knows, the more of something you buy all at once, wholesale, the less you pay for it, and this is essentially how Amazon can offer such great prices.<br /><br />An independent bookstore is a small operation, and cannot purchase things in large quantities. As such the products we receive are more expensive and need to be sold as such if we hope to break even, let alone make a profit. But this leaves us with a huge conundrum. Why on earth would anyone ever buy something through us, that they can get for cheaper elsewhere? In the end, we cannot hope to compete financially, but we can compete in the community, and that's where the 'Independent as Fuck!' attitude comes back into play.<br /><br />Amazon is great in a lot of ways but it isn't a place and indie stores have some advantages. Some of these are tangible. You can't go to Amazon to see your favorite author give a reading. Some are less readily observable, and bit more, well, how can i say this without sounding like a bleeding heart liberal... economically moral. It is a difficult argument to make, and i do not even pretend to think that i can adequately explain myself here, but i will give it a try.<br /><br />Every penny that comes in our front door goes to purchase more books for the store (and to pay our modest salaries etc.) </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">With all of us living and working in the community, much of the money we make goes right back into the restaurants, bars, stores and venues around us. </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">We also give small sums to various local charities and charge sales tax that goes to fix roads, fund schools, etc.<br /><br />(Except in New York) Amazon does not charge sales tax. And with revenue in the billions, that's a lot of lost funds that could be used for all sorts of important things. As a 'store' that is not a place, Amazon does not give to your local charities. how could it unless it gave to all of them? So there is a whole lot of money coming in that has to be going somewhere, right? Amazon may even be very fair to it's many employees, I do not know. But what I do know is that the founder, Jeff Bezos is worth 6.8 billion dollars, and he is just one of it's board members. I'm sure that kind of corporate financial underpinning can make a great deal of good things happen, but that kind of accumulation and consoldation of wealth strikes me as exactly what your local community does not need. Surely some of that 6.8 Billion should be yours, yes? But then again you did not earn it, in fact, you may even have saved significant amounts of money by purchasing goods on Amazon for far less than you could elsewhere. you see how complicated this gets so fast?<br /><br />I try and look at things as fairly as possible. This is less an us versus them scenraio, and more of a choice. You have a choice to buy independently, and a choice to buy from some entreprise like Amazon. It is not necessarily good versus evil, but do know that your choice has repercussions. Should you need to save those extra dollars by all means, do what you have to do to get by in increasingly difficult times. But also know that if you can afford to do so, shopping independently has its advantages. And a great many folks will benefit from your decision, not just a few.<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-30723427173528961562009-04-10T13:11:00.005-06:002009-04-10T13:28:48.629-06:00The Thing in the Basement<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHjwLPKEh6-NgaGfEIHIyYK-mM-jHLG8UyyM43fTgKNs2GlZ6UsRgas-GBAcyEV0Yxp-tMcbzDKEyvEdt3SgTbLalbfnKk7Qp2hCpppkcqhLEHVQlzZ2aOb7rVXFmckpNNdhcpA/s1600-h/blairwitch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHjwLPKEh6-NgaGfEIHIyYK-mM-jHLG8UyyM43fTgKNs2GlZ6UsRgas-GBAcyEV0Yxp-tMcbzDKEyvEdt3SgTbLalbfnKk7Qp2hCpppkcqhLEHVQlzZ2aOb7rVXFmckpNNdhcpA/s400/blairwitch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323146205768536050" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Basements are gross. They are dark, cluttered with crap you don't even want to keep upstairs in your closets, let alone out in the open. They usually have big clattering appliances like washers, dryers and hot water heaters. And more often than not there's a funk. A basement funk of stale air, the vaguely septic quality of water moving through the plumbing and on the other sides of the walls and floor, and of forgotten things. And if your landlord is our landlord, you get to look at that hideous painting which was banished down there years ago. blech.<br /><br />Speaking of our landlord, she's awesome. She's the sweetest lady, living right upstairs, often out of town, leaving us silly little notes and things. She sends us emails warning about attempted robberies in the neighborhood (it is Chicago after all) as well as letting us know the dates of various art fairs in the area. But she is also sort of absent-minded. Case in point: repairs.<br /><br />The inner doorknob of our building has been hanging by a thread of a screw for several months. Our furnace has kicked itself off several times for no reason--the temperature gauge has gone a little soft in the head and sometimes thinks it's hotter inside the furnace there than it really is. Our bathroom was plagued with clogs of the non-human variety (a bunch of sand and silt had built up over decades deep in the pipes) and now the opposite has happened just under the kitchen sink in the basement. A pipe elbow that looks to be at least 50 years old (probably much older, the apartment dates back to the late 1800s) finally blew out.<br /><br />At first the hole was the size of a pin-head. Then a dime, followed by quarter and half dollar. Now the water just flies right down our sink and out into the air between our dryer and furnace. Spraying bits of chicken and asparagus and all sorts of food particles that had built up inside over the years. All that filth is laying in a pool that drains slowly into the floor. Needless to say the funk has grown more powerful than can be imagined. Doing laundry has turned into a whelk hunting adventure in Ireland, replete with tall boots and rain gear.<br /><br />But its getting fixed next week. It only took a month or so. *rolls eyes*<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-80913582728658176412009-04-07T13:23:00.006-06:002009-04-07T14:02:54.215-06:00Clash of Kings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwsrkwOlRUQp-LabNKqh9EIpba68RU5crMHuRZM7FFCqihjFPG2LbJTwx64DD6UAD_wfv6YLeoYBL9Bb5qGVDQsqRVvdkyICCan-_gvgdpiWF-mIxSObn_Hz5MdrWRudrb3DhWg/s1600-h/McAusland-Studios-Fantasy-Flight-Games-Westeros-3d-map.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwsrkwOlRUQp-LabNKqh9EIpba68RU5crMHuRZM7FFCqihjFPG2LbJTwx64DD6UAD_wfv6YLeoYBL9Bb5qGVDQsqRVvdkyICCan-_gvgdpiWF-mIxSObn_Hz5MdrWRudrb3DhWg/s400/McAusland-Studios-Fantasy-Flight-Games-Westeros-3d-map.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322041274762294914" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >I heart George R. R. Martin<span style="font-family:times new roman;">. There. I said it. In particular I love Martin's epic 'high fantasy' series the <span style="font-style: italic;">Song of Ice and Fire</span>. I write 'high fantasy' in scare quotes because it seems that wherever I read this descriptor it is employed as defense against lowly ole genre fiction. I for one have nothing against lowly ole genre fiction. I like my pulp just as much as I like my Proust. More helpfully I think, is the kind of sci-fi/fantasy that 'high fantasy' implies. The scattered and often underwhelming forces of a few Good eggs versus a seemingly unstoppable tide of Evil. We're talking a broad scope, insurmountable odds, hundreds of characters, and thousands and thousands of pages. Tolkien is often the name folks cite when invoking 'high fantasy'. But Martin's world of Westeros, while it does contain fantastic elements, seems much more focused on people and how they deal with each other.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I have just finished the second volume of the saga, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >A Clash of Kings</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. Like all good sequels, it builds off the foundation without rehashing whats already come before. Straight out of the gates we're introduced to characters who previous played minor roles now creeping to the forefront after the treacherous political moves of </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Game of Thrones</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> decimated some the kingdom's more honorable figures. While there was war in </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Thrones</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">, there is carnage in </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Kings</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. Loosely based on the War of the Roses, Martin's epic features several rival families all clawing and stabbing to rule a continent. There is incest, backstabbing and blackmail aplenty. There are bitter sibling rivalries. There is religious fundamentalism. And there is Martin's trademark; no matter how important you think a character may be, nobody is safe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Unfortunately I'm way behind. There are 2 giant-sized novels to go, and fifth due out in September. L has read everything that has seen print, and smiles whenever I mumble 'Good Lord' under my breath as my fingers rifle through pages. She knows what is in store for me and it's time to catch up.</span><br /><br /></span><br /></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24694986.post-11483052588637082882009-04-01T07:28:00.005-06:002009-04-01T09:18:33.565-06:00Know Your 2009 Cleveland Indians<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GfIM_Fxoqx5fNJ71FulOqWA-2mm9KMt15V_b07Wm8Ah5vA0R1c1EwEV8aXbk4i4q6sLQH6WIu1vyMjPi97SGUJ-YB7mw7ikE2fXrzkC3KFSEFwQwhpaPigTPoKxVZAw7l2YcpA/s1600-h/indianswatch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8GfIM_Fxoqx5fNJ71FulOqWA-2mm9KMt15V_b07Wm8Ah5vA0R1c1EwEV8aXbk4i4q6sLQH6WIu1vyMjPi97SGUJ-YB7mw7ikE2fXrzkC3KFSEFwQwhpaPigTPoKxVZAw7l2YcpA/s400/indianswatch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319742071839689458" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Major League Baseball is just days away. 5 if both my math is correct, and the world continues to revolve around the Sun in the same speed and frequency for the next week or so. After that the Sun can do whatever the hell it wants. I mean, it should probably go on nourishing all life on this planet and everything, but if it wants to put a Kenny Chesney album on it's thermonuclear Ipod, who am I to frown upon a celestial body's taste in music.<br /><br />Considering the fact that a majority of my readership isn't interested in baseball, or if they are, not in the Cleveland Indians specifically, I thought I would write a little piece introducing some of the players on my favorite team in an unorthodox manner. I've tried to gather some unusual facts on these men to retain your attention. The accuracy of some of these statements is certainly contentious. However if you are thinking of hitting the brakes and running off to your Twitter, now would be the time. And away we go...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Asdrubal Cabrera</span>. Nicknamed "AstroCab" or somewhat unfortunately, "Droobs". Cabrera plays second base and is just 23 years-old. He was born on an oil-rig off the coast of Puerto la Cruz, Venezeula. In fact, 'Asdrubal' is Spanish for 'Petroleum Child' and his outstanding defense is just as slick. *rim shot*<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Victor Martinez</span>. Curiously, Victor has no known nicknames and demands to be called by his first, last and middle name (Jesus) at all times, which I will immediately fail to maintain. Vic is the Indians primary catcher. Baseball Insiders call playing this position 'donning the tools of ignorance' which is largely because catchers in general are incredibly stupid.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kerry Wood</span>. This oft-injured former Chicago Cubs relief pitcher will serve as the Indians closer. It is said that his right arm, from rotator cuff to the third joint on his middle finger is composed of chewing gum, rubberbands, sawdust and a surprising number of small tacs. What would hamper a normal man only increases the velocity of Kerry's devastating fastball.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shin-Soo Choo</span>. One of the majors few Korean born players, the "Choo-Choo Train" is actually still required to serve in the Korean military and may miss some MLB time in the near future because of this stipulation. Or he could just change his name to 'Dan Heimerdinger' and go into the witness protection program. I hear they have excellent house-boats.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Anthony Reyes</span>. This starting pitcher joined the Tribe late last season after spending too much time in the St Louis Cardinal doghouse. This isn't strictly true, however with his pitiful salary of just under $400,000, Anthony was unable to afford a large home and was teased mercilessly by the team, particularly manager Tony La Russa who refered to his 7 bedroom riverfront apartment as a doghouse.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Carl Pavano</span>. Another of the Tribe's new starting pitchers, I need not make up anything silly about this man, Wikipedia has done the heavy lifting for me: "In 2006 the Yankees expected [Pavano] to be healthy but he began the year on the disabled list after brusing his buttocks in a spring trainging game. Pavano would subsequently miss <span style="font-style: italic;">the entire 2006 season</span>." That's one hell of an ass bruise.<br /><br />That's if for this edition of "Know Your 2009 Cleveland Indians." I hope you found this as informative as I did.<br /></span></span></span>Les Savy Ferdhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05982164565549803749noreply@blogger.com1