Please Shoot Me.

Ken Johnson’s New York Times review of the new exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum, Who Shot Rock & Roll, concludes that, “nothing captures the spirit of rock ’n’ roll like video.” The fact being that the exhibit in question shows photography, Johnson’s comments certainly did more than raise a few eyebrows from the featured artists and the countless photographers who capture live shows today.

The exhibit features photos from over 100 different photographers and chronicles the ever-changing face of rock & roll from Elvis in 1955 to Jay-Z in 2009. One of the most prolific rock photographers ever is Bob Gruen, who made an appearance at the museum’s opening event. He reveled in the anti-glamour of 1960s-70s New York, befriending John Lennon, Yoko Ono, The New York Dolls, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, Blondie, The Clash (“the only band that really matters”) and practically everyone else that matters too.

Gruen started taking photos of rock & roll for the same reasons his subjects played it: money and rebellion. His first concert was Pete Seeger and Gruen liked that his music had a message; his songs were about social politics, not just sex and lust. The way he saw it, rock & roll was the folk music of America, music that wouldn’t take “no” as an answer but as a beginning of the discussion. Gruen wanted to relate through his photos the passion of experiencing that type of music and the chaotic excitement of being in the crowd. It meant that his photos were often wonderful mistakes, small moments never meant to be caught, and musicians in a blur of raw emotion: “When the subject isn’t sharp, the feeling is clearer,” he says.

He talked about the shift from film to digital photography because it made his assignments easier and more lucrative. It struck me that he was so accepting of the state of music and his art in the digital age. What my generation seems to be so cynical about – mainstream music and the ‘corporatization of rock & roll’ – Gruen sees it as a passing marker of time. There’s no nostalgia for the Minolta.

However, the question remains: can rock photography be considered art?

As Gruen says, rock is a “bipartide revolution”: both sound and image. To diminish the power of the photograph is just careless. Videos may have a larger scope, but they cannot zone in on a single snapshot moment, capturing someone’s split-second expression that could open up an entire window of a life. To hear music is to create images in your mind about what the music means to you; videos tell you what to think about a particular song and do all the fun parts for you. I believe in the power of music videos and videos of live performances, but to say that they better possess the spirit of rock & roll ignores the fact that photographs can evoke those same incredible feelings.

So what do you think best captures the spirit of live music: Photography? Video? Or can neither of these quite recreate the same experience as being there yourself?

Journey to the Center of My iTunes, Part 4: I vastly underestimated the letter B

I know it’s been a couple weeks since my last post, and while I haven’t abandoned the project, my progress has certainly slowed.  For starters, as you may have been able to glean from the title, I vastly underestimated the letter “B.”  42 hours of the letter B took me about a week to get through.  From the latter half of that behemoth of a letter, I’ll highlight Bishop Allen, Brett Dennen and Brother Ali.  Bob Dylan was in there, but like the Beatles you already know about him.

Bishop Allen achieves what lots of songwriters are going for these days.  Effervescence, strong harmony, catchy choruses and an often upbeat sensibility. Sensibility? God, that word gets over used by people that talk about music.  The first time I saw them live was at a cramped show at the Middle East Upstairs.  They’re a hometown band for Bostonians (Bishop Allen refers to Bishop Allen Drive, in Cambridge), and the crowd was amped to see them.  They did three encores. At the end of the third they told us that they knew no more songs so could we please just go home.  But in a really charming, funny way.  Also, I’m convinced that Darby Nowatka or however you spell her name sang “Butterfly Nets“specifically to me that night. Or someone in the immediate vicinity of me.  Dig the hell out of them.

I found out about Brett Dennen while listening to a Pandora mix of another B artist that I’m neglecting here, Bob Schneider.  I’m not talking about Bob Schneider because some one else on this blog is much more qualified to do that.  Brett writes songs in such a way that you’re not sure if he’s a musician, a christian musician, or a christianmusician.  Wonderful acoustic melodies.  Not a bad singing voice. Ain’t No Reason is a really great song, and I think rather indicative of his style.

Brother Ali is probably the least likely rapper in the world.  Albino, lives in Minneapolis, converted to Islam at age 17. A member of the rather righteous hip hop collective Rhymesayers, Ali’s popularity has lagged behind that of label leader Atmosphere for some time, but he is finally gaining his (richly deserved) popularity.  Ali’s lyrics focus on his identity, his struggles that come from finding himself between two racial groups, as well as personal issues and relationships. Like most under-about to become above ground hip hop, Ali doesn’t rap about guns or bitches, but rather has a socially aware message.  What I like most is his refusal to have anything other than a positive self image, like in his song Forest Whitaker.  And his newest album, The Truth is Here, has some amazing beats, courtesy of Ant, producer extraordinaire and one half of the aforementioned duo Atmosphere.

I’ve also managed to get through C, D, and most of E.

C is for Cat , be it Power or Empire.

My first test of this experience came soon into my experience with the Letter C.  After a sweet album from Cannibal Ox, I thought it would be smooth sailing.  But then, 3 hours of the Capitol Steps.  The Capitol Steps are a political song parody group.  They are a political song parady group and all of my albums were 5 to 7 years old.  Lots of Bush, Clinton and Gore jokes that, I will admit were funny the first time through, even the first 5 times through, definitely have not aged well.  Almost skipped, but managed to grit my teeth and make it through.  But if I never hear another parodied version of Bohemian Rhapsody again, it will be too soon.

Then we come to the cats.

The Cat Empire is this awesome funky sort of rap group kind of thing from Australia.  Really, that’s the best I’ve got. They’re all about life and love and drink and love and drink.  Be sure and listen to the Wine Song or One-Four-Five.

Cat Power, as many of you are now aware, is the performing name of one Chan Marshall, a very talented songwriter with a deep, rich voice.  But she can’t perform worth shit.  I hear she’s overcome her awful stage fright recently, and am looking forward to giving her another go.  Haunting melodies, powerful lyrics, wonderfully sung, especially on her album You Are Free, check out He War or Names.  I’m not going to provide youtube links any more because I’m lazy.

Cat Stevens, now known as Yusuf Islam and is on the terrorist no fly list.  Really.  The guy who wrote “Peace Train” obviously can’t be trusted on a 747.

Charlie Mingus, The Clash, Coldplay, Common, Common Market (Seattle based socially conscious hip hop – please please please listen to them), Cream, The Cure, and then…

D is not for DaRude

Early on in my experience with the letter D, DaRude’s Sandstorm came on.  Unfortunately, it was in the middle of the day, I had no glow sticks, no foam machines, no club kids in my immediate vicinity, and no shady dudes offering me and my friends ecstasy.  It still kicked ass.  There is no better song in the world for getting ones energy up.  None.  I defy you to name one, go ahead. I’ll wait. Not really, I wrote this a while ago and you’re just reading it now, more than likely I’m off doing something else by now, but don’t worry, it’s definitely not my thesis.

Lots of Decemberists and Deathcab.  Bands that I really love, and have interchangeable frontmen.  If you thought they might be too hip for you to check out, don’t worry.  They’re way to well known to be truly hip.  But, the music is really good, probably why they got popular and became unhip.

Then came the second time I wanted to quit.  Dispatch.  Ok, ok.  I like that song the general.  But, as I learned, that does not extend to the rest of their music.  It was way too reminiscent of the other guilty spot in the letter D, Dave Matthews’ Band.  Listen.  I was struggling to be cool in high school, and the people that I deemed to be most cool were into DMB, so I bought a few records.  I know, lame and shallow, but in my defense, I was in high school.  That was pretty much par for the course. Long story short, jam bands are not my cup of tea.

D, while not being for DaRude, is for DJ.  Tons of mashups graced my eardrums while traversing this section of my iTunes.  I’ve already talked about how much I like mashups, but wheres the harm in saying it again.  I like mashups.  A lot.  I listen to each one usually about 15 to 20 times before I even think about wanting to change the song.  It’s a bit of a compulsion, to be honest.

Dresden Dolls, Drop Kick Murphys, Duke Ellington closed out that letter for me.  Currently I’m on Elliott Smith, and will probably be back in 6 to 8 weeks with my impressions on the letters E through J.

Journey to the Center of My iTunes; Part 3: B is for quite a few things, it turns out

The letter B has so far lasted a whole day.  That might not be so surprising.  What may surprise you is that I have yet to hit the Beach Boys, let alone the Beatles.  What has taken up the lions share of my time on the letter B has been a 5 disc monster, Musical History, an anthology of The Band.  The Band is the name of the particular band that played behind Bob Dylan for part of his career, and then when they split up, both entities (The Band and Dylan) went on to bigger things.  Before The Band was B.B. King, I’ve already talked about one blues musician with that surname for this experience, so won’t bore you with more blues writing.  Then b&d confusion, a high school band of a friend of mine who may or may not appreciate being mentioned here.  But I already did mention him, if you were paying attention.  b&d wrote some pretty damn good songs, with really good lyrics, despite their authors groaning protestation.  After b&d came my 6 and a half hour relationship with the Band.  While I love classic rock, and it’s southern variant, I found myself most excited when they would do something a little different.  Whenever they funked something out, I got way more into it than throughout the other 6 hours or so of really great music.  The Band were at their core a group of very talented musicians, comfortable in a variety of styles – rock, folk, funk, etc, and the 5 disc set demonstrated that range.  Be hard not to, with 5 discs of material.

I’m currently listening to the Bare Naked Ladies, which is a nice reminder of my middle and high school years.  I used to giggle at their name a lot more than was necessary, and still do have a silent chuckle to my self.  They remind me a lot of Harvey Danger, but it’s not time yet for that.

After BNL (I realize I am breaking my own rule against abbreviations), it’ll be two Barry White songs.  For a guy who says he likes soul, my soul collection has been kind of shallow – not much Al Green, almost no Aretha, and two Barry White songs.  Pitiful(You can probably guess which two songs – they’re the cliché Barry White songs that populate playlists named “Get Down” or “Lovin’” or “Business Time.”)

Then, Basement Jaxx.  Just the one song, “Where’s Your Head At?”  That is all the Basement Jaxx you need.  Not that Basement Jaxx isn’t good, but seriously, they never topped this one.  It turns out, that in addition to my love of underground hip hop, classic rock, classical music, romantic guitar, jazz, and the blues, I also really like over produced electronica.  Someone get me a glow stick.

Then it’ll be some Battles, a math rock band that I must admit I originally downloaded because my friends were way more into them than I was.  Then, the Beach Boys.  Pet Sounds is a great album, and the Beach Boys remind me most of long car trips, or that one time I rode in a convertible (it was pretty damn awesome.  I was 12, had sun glasses on, and was, for those 45 minutes, king of the world.) After a couple hours of Brian Wilson and the gang, it’s time for the Beatles.  I’m not going to write about the Beatles.  Yes, I like them.  So does everyone, ever.  Better writers than I have written whole books about the Fab Four.  What could I possibly say that hasn’t already been said?

And the Beatles will probably take me throughout the rest of tonight, and possibly tomorrow.  My next post will most likely be concerned with the latter half of the letter B and probably all of the letter C, since my Johnny Cash collection is, in iTunes, under the letter J.

Journey to the Center of My iTunes, Part 2: A is for Albert King

While I’ve still got some enthusiasm for this project, I’ll try to update as much as possible.  I’m pretty sure this is either going to be a really cool project, or just an exercise in extreme narcissism (I just spelled that right on the first try!). But, enough prelude.  Let’s get into the first full day of the Journey to the Center of My iTunes.

I work from home, so I thought I’d be covering a lot of ground today.  After having gotten a little bit of the As done last night, I started this morning with Aesop Rock.  I don’t think it’s what I would have picked for wake up music, but I found myself listening to the lyrics a bit more.  The album’s title track, None Shall Pass, was a song that I hadn’t paid much attention to before, but really enjoyed this morning.  Passed through some one hit wonders, Afro Man, Aimee Mann, AK4711, before I hit the promised land at around 10.  Al Green! Started with Let’s Stay Together.  I’ve decided from todays listening that I just don’t have enough of Al Green, he only lasted about an hour and a half.  Probably the only time that’s ever been said about Al Green.  Then a few quick songs from Alanis Morisette, and then it was time.

Albert King.  Albert King probably has the highest talent to popularity ratio of any blues musician, and possibly any musician in the world. It’s way higher than one (To those having a little bit of trouble with the math, that means he’s way more talented than he is popular). No relation to B.B., other than their similar styles of blues playing.  Albert is less of a technical player than B.B., but was one of the most soulful modern blues men in the world.  The first album on my iTunes, Stax Profiles: Albert King, documents some of the best recordings of his years on the seminal blues record label Stax, second only to Chess records.  Albert loved redoing old tunes, so I found myself treated to several renditions of one of his best songs, Oh Pretty Woman.  Fantastic.  One album, In Session, featured Albert King and Stevie Ray Vaughan.  Besides the blistering speed and soul of King and Vaughan, the best part of the album is the conversations between King and Stevie Ray.  It’s amazing to listen to the old story teller King counsel the young gunslinger Vaughan.  The tragic loss of both of these men makes the album that much more touching.

The rest of the day wasn’t bad.  Andre Previn conducting the Nutcracker, combined with the cool weather got me thinking about Christmas, and the trip my father took my sister and I on when I was 7 to see the Nutcracker in NYC.  For some reason I remember most vividly the bus ride there, eating a turkey sandwich on white bread from one of those styrofoam containers, talking to the bus driver while my dad told us about Tchaikovsky.  At the time, I had a stuffed white monkey of the same name.

Some Andres Segovia classical guitar.  Dude is virtuosic, and I like classical guitar, but listening to a lot of classical guitar music makes me feel like I’m some kind of Ren Faire enthusiast.

Ani Difranco (yes, I’m a lesbian), the Animals, a fantastic soprano, Anna Tomowa-Sintow and the Berlin Philharmonic under the direction of Herby the K (Herbert von Karajan) from Mozart’s Don Giovanni, and then the smooth soul stylings of Anthony Hamilton.

And that brings us up to the present.  Approximately 10 hours in and I’m not through the first letter of the alphabet.  I’ve still got a lot to go, including about 3 to 4 hours of Atmosphere.  And reader, here is something that I’m ashamed of.  I only have one Aretha Franklin song, and thats it.  And it’s not even my favorite Aretha song (Think) it is instead, Respect, which is not a bad song.  After my woefully, embarrassingly short Queen of Soul collection, some Arlo Guthrie (unappreciated folk singer songwriter with an amazing pedigree – Guthrie as in Woody Guthrie) a little bit of Aviv Rubinstein (yeah, he’s on this blog) and then it’ll be some Awesome Brothers before I start in on the B-52s.

Journey to the Center of My iTunes; Part 1.

Ladies, Gentlemen, may I have your attention please.  The other day I was listening to iTunes and literally every song it played was awesome.  Usually, when listening to iTunes I have the attention span of a twelve year old adderall addict who left his meds home for the summer and just bought a crap load of pixie sticks at the camp store.  But, this day was different.  Deftly, iTunes drifted between the Beatles, the Stones, Brother Ali, Nat King Cole, back to the Beatles, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Talib Kweli, the Thermals, the Decemberists and DoomTree.  Usually, it’ll play a song that I’m embarrassed I own and will have to click through (If You Wanna Be My Lover, Spice Girls, or New Found Glory from my highschool Emo days) quickly before anyone who might somehow hear the music coming from the tinny speakers of my lap top would judge me.  This rapturous iTunes experience got me to thinking.  Why do I have music that I don’t like?  Is there music that I should get rid of? Do I have music that I haven’t ever listened to?  Why have so much music if I’m not going to listen to it.  Just having looked at my iTunes I can tell you that I have 5533 items, that will last, if played continuously, for 15 days, 9 hours, 32 minutes and 37 seconds.

So, let’s do it.

I’m going to listen to the entirety of my digital music collection.  Starting with A-Trak (a DJ) all the way down the 13th Floor Elevators (apparently, numbers come after letters on my iteration of iTunes.)  I’ll leave you guys with any important or interesting impressions that I encounter along the way, and hit the highlights.

Well, I’m ready.  Let’s go.

The Letter A

A-Trak: I was introduced to the music of A Trak at liberation dance party, at DC9.  It’s a bitchin’ party that happens every Friday night and lately I’ve been too lazy to get to it.  That said, I downloaded two versions of the song “Say Whoa” because I didn’t know which one was the one I heard at the club.  Turns out the two versions aren’t that different.  It’s your standard bass filled thumper, with repetitive lyrics and sort of a slow, grooving beat.  Eh.  Could take it or leave it.

Abandoned Pools:  Apparently, these are the guys that did the Clone High theme song.  Fuckin’ love that show.  Shame it got cancelled.  It was way too smart for mTV, something that I wish could be said about me.  It was all the satire I could handle at the tender age of 14.  Song’s cool.  Witty lyrics.

And then it’s the first mashup on my iTunes! ABX/ The Hood Internet present Bonde Do Roll Out – Ludacris vs. Bonde Do Role.  First of many mashups that are gonna be on here.  I love em.  For most people, the novelty wears off after 15 or 20 listenings, but not for me.  I could listen to mash ups forever.  I think it’s so goddam creative, and it’s something that conceivably, I could pull off.  No luck yet, but I’ll keep trying.

The Abyssinian Baptist Church Sanctuary Choir – Glory Glory Hallelujah, from Ken Burn’s the Civil War. I’ve noticed so far that most of my songs are one offs.  Just one hit from an artist and then it’s on to the next guy. I feel like I should look deeper into each artist.  Then again, it’s the fourth song.  I have a feeling there I’ll be delving pretty deep into some artists in the coming days.

And now I come to my first album, by the Academy of Ancient Music, performing Vivaldi’s Gloria and Dixit Dominus, both of which are in the key of D.  Since this one will last a while, I’ll leave off here.  Vivaldi’s choral works are always so energetic, matched usually by the energy of his strings.  The Gloria is always good, but the real gem for me is on the second disc, De Torrente, the VIII (that is, 8th) piece in the Dixit Dominus.  Fantastic fantastic fantastic aria for the alto voice.

As I listen to Vivaldi and tire of writing, I feel I should let you know what I intend to happen in this series – I’ll list the highlights, not a track by track listing.  I promise I’ll list the embarrassing stuff I’ve got on here.  Maybe we’ll discuss how ones taste in music defines them.  More likely, I’ll be defending my love of Vanilla Ice.  But, surely, reading this is better than doing the work you are no doubt avoiding.

Things that annoy me

Because I want to start writing again, I’m gonna head right back into my wheel house. Whining. I know, it’s probably not that much fun to read, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to write than researching and defending a position, or bothering to get myself informed about anything. This way all I have to do is pontificate, something I really believe I was put on this earth to do. So without further ado I present this in no way exhaustive list of things that annoy me.

THINGS THAT ANNOY ME

1. People using mathematical constructions in conversation or sentences, especially if not done so cleverly. “Tim+Booze=Hangover” That was clever when it was done the first few thousand times, probably some time in the early 50s, shortly after the discovery of irony, sarcasm and oral sex. Now it’s just become endemic and asinine.  However, the more elaborate the construction, the more tolerable it becomes. I’d give an example but I’m tired.  Let’s all assume that I’m witty enough to handle this.  I was gonna take the square root of something, take a derivative, all that shit that I don’t really understand, but it was gonna be great.

2. Farmville.  Does it really need mentioning? That pink cow can go fuck itself.  Let me get back to my stalking, please and thank you.

3.  Word shortening.  Adorbs.  Presh.  Fave.  I mean, really, what do you have to say that is so important that you don’t have the time to place the final syllable on the word?  WTF.  Which brings me to number 4.

4. Ridiculous and superfluous abbreviations. LOL, ROFL, ROFLMAO, ROFLMAOOSIPAL POTUS, SCOTUS, CIC, NPP, SYTYCD* Give Me A Fucking Break (GMAFB)

5.  People actually saying “lol” in human conversation.  I don’t even like using it when gchatting someone, I use the old fashioned “haha” or, if I’m being cheeky the “heh” variant.  There is a special place in hell for people who say “lol” out loud, which I guess would be “lolol.”    They are forced to talk to a double of themselves for all eternity.

6.  Usually, when I call someone, I actually want it to go to voicemail, so I can leave a message and not have to talk to them.  When they pick up, I get a little nervous.  There’s a way to send other people to voicemail, shouldn’t there be a way that I can just send myself there? You know, cut out the middle man.

7.  Neat freaks/germaphobes who make me feel like some kind of diseased cesspool because I don’t compulsively wash my hands every 3 minutes, or because Yes,  I am going to eat that.

8. Listing Things.

9.   People that feel a sense of personal pride when they use the word “an” before words that start with the letter “H.”  That is ridiculous.  I’m sorry, this is not England.  We pronounce the god damn thing, and saying something like “an huge imbecile” only makes one sound like a buffoon.

10.  Grammar.  Yes, we all get that little sense of pride when we spot grammatical errors in the speech or writing of others, but there’s gotta be more to life than deciding when to use a colon or a semicolon or who and whom.  And I’ll put however god damn many commas I want in a given sentence, you overeducated, hubris swollen, impotent, repressed tool.

11.  Not being able to remember the other really funny things I was going to add to this list.

*Laugh Out Loud, Rolling On Floor Laughing, Rolling On Floor Laughing My Ass Off, Rolling On Floor Laughing My Ass Off Oh Shit I Peed A Little, President Of The United States, Supreme Court Of The United States, Commander In Chief, Nobel Peace Prize, So You Think You Can Dance

Part three in an at least three part series of open letters, Dear Georgetown Cuddler

Dear Georgetown Cuddler,

Or would it be Dear THE Georgetown Cuddler, or quite possibly, Cuddlers.  You have been quite the busy little guy over this past year.  I say this past year because that’s when you entered my consciousness, but it’s possible you’ve been around cuddling forever. Maybe you’re kind of like the Dread Pirate Roberts of creepsters, passing down  the mantle once you get old and enfeebled  to a younger, much more spry creepster, more capable of sneaking into unlocked Georgetown apartments and row houses.  For the uninitiated, lemme ’splain.  Or rather, let me let the good folks over at Georgetown University ’splain:

Dear Members of the Georgetown University Community,

Please be advised that on Sunday, August 30, 2009 at approximately 6:30 a.m., an unidentified male entered a student’s residence in the 1200 Block of 33rd Street, NW, and lay down on the couch with her. The complainant was startled awake, at which time she told the suspect to leave, which he subsequently did.

And this is by no means the first occurrence.  At least six reported cases in the last calendar year alone.  So that’s this guys deal.  He doesn’t steal.  He doesn’t assault.  He doesn’t watch TV like John Travolta  in that one scene from Get Shorty.  He doesn’t eat your last Babybell soft cheese or drink the last beer.  He cuddles.

Some of you who know me may be familiar with my love of Arlo Guthrie (Hold on, this will eventually turn in to a sequitur).  On his self titled album, he has a track known as the “Pause of Mr. Clause.” The song itself is a two minute nothing, tucked away on the last track of the B side, a fun christmas song about how Santa is a pacifist (long hair and beard) and a communist (red suit) and a dope fiend (sneaks into your house at night, smokes something from a pipe). What makes the track amazing is the 7 minute discussion of the FBI that precedes the song, during which Arlo talks about (among other things) how everyone says, “Well, my life might stink, but look at that guy, I’m better off than him,” and then proceeds to talk about the last guy.  The guy with no one to point to.  (See it, now?)  I think we may have found the last guy.

So, Georgetown Cuddler, or Cuddler for short, what’s up?  Obviously, you’re lonely, we get that.  A bit eccentric.  But, why do you need to literally steal human contact?  I guess my question is how did you get this way.  At what point does one decide that they need a cuddle so bad that they’re willing to commit a felony (or is it a misdemeanor?) for the touch of another human being? Why is it so hard for you to get close to people? (Chronic halitosis, schizophrenia … libertarian?)

I know I’m asking you a lot of questions, and I don’t want to seem accusatory or judgmental.  As a fairly tactile dude, I know how great a good cuddle can feel.  I get that.  I’m with you.  I know.  But, I think I’ve got a solution for you.  A way for you to connect with other people, and maybe start focusing your attention on women who might be a little more receptive.

Cuddles, it’s time you got on craigslist or THE craigslist, depending on your age.  I know it might be scary to put yourself out there on the big wide internets, especially for the first time. So, being the great guy that I am, I’ve decided to help you out.  All you’ve gotta do is copy the following ad, put it on craigslist and  - Voila! – legitimate cuddling.  Don’t change a word though, because I’ve done my best to make it as non-threatening as possible, something I think you may have had some trouble with in the past.  OK, here goes.

Hey Baby, Let’s Cuddle

Do you ever find yourself pining for someone to hold you? Someone to listen to you breathe and stand over your bed and stare at you while you sleep? Well, look no more.  Something-something white male seeks twenty-something female for cuddling.   Prefer little spoon, but can be big spoon if it’s a deal-breaker.  I don’t really want to do anything else.  I mean that.  No dates, no movies, no talking, just some good old fashioned, no strings cuddling.  I operate mostly in the Georgetown area.  All interested women should leave their doors unlocked at night, that way I’ll know to just go ahead and let myself in.  NO DUDES!

• cats are OK – purrr
• dogs are OK – wooof
• Location: Georgetown
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

So there you have it, Cuddles.  And trust me, that would by no means be anywhere near the weirdest thing ever put on craigslist.  Not by a long shot.

Keep on Truckin’,

- Timmy

P.S – I saw some dudes in Free Hugs t-shirts hanging outside of some bars on M St.  If you need a quick fix, they may be a good place to start.  Just make sure you tell ‘em “No Homo” right before you move in for the kill.

Say it ain’t so, Michael don’t go

I don’t know how to feel about the death of Michael Jackson.  He was a fantastic musician, an incredible dancer and a touchstone of the music of my childhood.  Everything that came after him bore his mark, either through emulation or avoidance.  Choreography was changed for ever, as was pop music.  But, then there’s the other half of Michael Jackson.  The weirdness.  The accusations of pedophilia, the financial insolvency, the strange names for his children, the plastic surgeries, the reclusiveness.  As a young man, I feel like Jackson was the ultimate, the pinnacle of all that was fantastic and great about music – energy, a slight bit of edginess, a positive message, and a virtuosic instrument.  As an older man, he became the nadir, the poster child for fallen stardom and the weirdness associated with fame.

So when I heard about his death, first the wild rumors and internet frenzy, then the more substantiated reports, I didn’t know how to feel.  At once, I mourned the passing of  one of the greatest singers ever, while at the same time, felt a sense of… what was it? Relief? Release? I get uncomfortable when other people do awkward things, and so Michael, as the older version of himself, was a constant source of anxiety for me.  Not that I would always be thinking about it, but when I heard about him dangling an infant from a balcony or another accusation, I would get a tightness in my stomach, like I was waiting for something terrible to happen.  Maybe what I’m saying is that I’m happy that Michael will stop being disparaged, which is not to say I haven’t made an MJ joke or laughed at characterizations of him in the media.  It’s just that maybe now that those jokes won’t be funny for the next several weeks or months, it also means that I won’t feel the twinge of guilt that I would get for laughing at a man who was obviously troubled.

My feelings about Jackson exist on two levels.  Jackson the musician will be greatly missed.  His voice and his music will leave an impression on me and music for decades to come.  Jackson as a man, Jackson as an enigma, will be much more difficult for me to pin down exactly how I feel.  Obviously troubled, maybe I’m happy that he is free from the torturous journey that his life post fame became.

Not to sound insensitive, but I’m also a little bit skeptical.  The last time pop music had a king die, it led to a whole culture of deniers of his death and impersonators.  I’m wondering how long until there is a whole culture of MJ impersonators, at various stages of plastic surgery.  How many sightings of MJ at gas stations and at Neverland?  How long till the internet rumor mill has definitive proof that MJ’s death is a hoax?  Or, how long exactly, will Michael be allowed to rest before his memory is dragged up and mined for its last bits of entertainment value to a culture he spent his life providing spectacle for?  So, internet, do me a favor, and leave the poor guy alone.  Allow him the rest in death that he was denied in life.

Funemployment

There’s a word that’s been flittering about the zeitgeist these days.  It’s the phrase du jour among twenty somethings that are stepping out into the world without a net.  We are without work, but not without hope.  We recognize the abysmal state of the economy, and instead of being defeated, we apply a positive bit of spin.  Funemployment.  What a great word.

My most recent internship having just finished I am beginning a two week period between jobs, my weeks of funemployment, where I could do practically anything.  Well, anything that costs less than a grand, and doesn’t require a car.  So, that greatly limits my options.  I’m thinking about doing some travel.  Maybe I’ll try to do some real writing.  Read some great books.  Start an exercise regime.  Lot’s of chances to improve myself.

In all likelihood I’ll end up spending many hours a day sleeping, eating cereal out of gigantic mixing bowls, waiting for my friends to get off work.  Like many people I know, I’m a victim of inertia.  It’s not that I don’t enjoy doing things once I start.  I think it’s interesting that so many physics formulas can be applied to life, and not just the lives of engineers.  I’m sure someone already wrote “The Tau of Physics,” but a Timmy at rest tends to stay at rest.   My attraction to women increases at a rate inversely proportional to the square  of their distance from me.  I’m really familiar with weak attractive forces.

Anyway, as I find myself the cheery sounding but quite dismal “funemployed” I’m worried that I’ll end up doing a whole lot of nothing.  But, that may not be too different from when I was employed.

Dead Beat Blogger

So, it turns out I’ve been lazy.  Really lazy.  Not in terms of my actual life (ok, a little in terms of my actual life) but in terms of this here exercize in narcissism known as blogging.  The thing is, I’ve found another, even lazier way to express myself.  It probably has a higher readership (20 people!) and gets update a lot more often.  I’m talking of course, about twitter.

When twitter entered into the zeitgeist, I scoffed.  Who could be arrogant enough to believe that people would want to know what they’re doing at almost any given moment? I know.  I think it’s shocking that I am that un-selfaware to not realize that twittering is perfect for me. 

As long time readers of this blog may be aware (Hi, Mom) I already discussed twitter at twitter-length.  So, now I think I’m ready to give micro-blogging the sort of macro-blog treatment it deserves. 

Twitter: Why I Dig It

There are tons of reasons to hate twitter.  Inanity, irrelevance, arrogance, narcissism (twice in one post, spelled right on the first try both times! O’Doyle Rules!), cults of personality, and really anything that Ashton Kutcher is a big proponent of I am at least a little bit leery.  Not that I dislike the guy, it’s just that admitting that I do like the guy would cost me what little credibility I have left in the left of mainstream sidestream that I inhabit, halfway between the nerds and the hipsters.  Anyway, tons of reasons to hate twitter.  But all the reasons to hate twitter are basically all the same reasons to hate people. And like people, there are reasons to like them, too.

The reasons I’m talking about are not the usual feel good crap like friendship and comraderie, shared interests or a sense of humor.  Mostly it’s good ole’ schadenfreude and celebrity worship.  For those who don’t know, schadenfreude is a German word (I think really it could only be a German word, no other culture could do it as well) that means joy in the suffering of others.  It’s Freudian, and the one part of Freud that I think makes a little sense.  The best things on the internet right now are Fmylife.com and textsfromlastnight.com, both of which broadcast the foibles and follies of the absurdity of the human condition.  Naturally, hilarity ensues.  Twitter, while not as consistently hilarious, does give you the chance to see pristine, crystalized moments of unhappiness in people that you know, or, the best part, celebrities that you have at one time in your past imagined or seen naked! Hear how some starlet, oh, I don’t know, @KimKardashian is so upset because her second sex tape is about to hit the internet.  Revel in the absolute glee that comes from knowing that @TheDonald is being sued for being a douchebag (Can we sue people for being douchebags? I hope not. I can’t afford it.  HIYO!) You can learn that even though their lives are infinitely better than yours (No, they are.  Fame isn’t that heavy a burden, it pretty much rules most of the time.) even famous people sometimes get so downtrodden and beatdown by the weight of the world that they are left with only one way to express just how sad they are. Famous people can sadface :(, too.

But the absolute Jewel of the Twitter Nile has to be @cwalken, which is apparently now @cristofowalken.  It’s not Christopher Walken.  I thought it was.  Still, if you can do a really good C Walken impression, or just do one in your head, this will be worth your time.

Also, in my continuing attempts to gain validation and self esteem from the internet, I’m now a twittererererer.  @t_t_t_timmy.  Although, if you read this, you probably already knew that.