I can't make mix CDs, and I'm sorry if I have ever told you more than once that my CD/DVD drive died in some way in the fall of 2005.
Today is one of those days I really want to [make one], or at least rip some of my CDs to make a playlist to hear while I work on revisions and fix parts of the space in which I live.
What I can't include so far:
. Nada Surf: Happy Kid
. Jane's Addiction: Jane Says (Live)
. The Preshure Point: August and a Last Goodbye
. Deftones: Good Morning Beautiful
. Brand New: I Will Play My Game Beneath the Spin Light
. something from Birth of the Cool
. something by Explosions in the Sky
. something by Mandy Moore, not consecutive with the She & Him
. something by She & Him, not consecutive with the Mandy Moore
It has to have "Happy Kid," and I don't have that on my iPod, so the whole project is ruined.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
057
...because Louise Glück uses the phrase "a hot fifteen year old" in the first poem I open in my reading of Meadowlands this morning.
I wanted to say hello, and that I love that poem.
In "The Rescue" by Alison Stine, the frail girl volunteers, or maybe she's not frail, but that's what I see in the poem; she wants to participate, or does she, but she changes her mind but it's too late. And the rest of the class sees that.
Alison Stine tells it better, but anyway, I love that poem, too. I must have read it first in the New England Review, but you can read it on Verse Daily: http://www.versedaily.org/2009/therescue.shtml.
If you wonder why I miss Ohio, look at this picture: http://www.alisonstine.com
No, I did not spend time in pictures like that in my Ohio. I don't know if I could for so long, but aren't all fetishes like that?
I can't tell if the HTML code is all fucked up on purpose, but aren't I one to think that's cool either way?
I wanted to say hello, and that I love that poem.
In "The Rescue" by Alison Stine, the frail girl volunteers, or maybe she's not frail, but that's what I see in the poem; she wants to participate, or does she, but she changes her mind but it's too late. And the rest of the class sees that.
Alison Stine tells it better, but anyway, I love that poem, too. I must have read it first in the New England Review, but you can read it on Verse Daily: http://www.versedaily.org/2009/therescue.shtml.
If you wonder why I miss Ohio, look at this picture: http://www.alisonstine.com
No, I did not spend time in pictures like that in my Ohio. I don't know if I could for so long, but aren't all fetishes like that?
I can't tell if the HTML code is all fucked up on purpose, but aren't I one to think that's cool either way?
Saturday, December 13, 2008
056
16, Sweet
Some dude in Los Angeles has to look nice occasionally, and I pick me. I hope I'm not the only 23-year-old man in this town who wishes we dressed seriously at the office. I have a job that often includes physical labor, but I care about my appearance and have good taste, so I iron my clothes, and I look nice. I have a desk, therefore, I refuse to look like shit.
I meant to buy a suit today. I have been trying for weeks and striking out because of taste and budget. But I had time to kill before meeting a friend during their break from work, so I walked around Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, near his office, for about 20 minutes.
The area continues to feel soul-crushing, and as I told him before he returned to the office, spending more than a few minutes in that area eviscerates all will in me to do anything fun, relaxing, or creative for rest of the day. Except I said, "I fuckin' hate Melrose. I think I'm just going home instead."
But I didn't know for sure if I wanted to completely bail on my own plans for the afternoon, so I went to Beverly Hills to make sure the place still existed, where I did not stop. So I thought about going to dinner and a drink at one of my favorite little bars in a not-repulsive part of Hollywood, but I didn't do that, either. Because I am an idiot.
I drove around Los Angeles like I was 16 in suburban-rural Ohio, considering all the possibilities of how I wanted to spend my evening. Annoying parking, overpriced, not in the mood, too late...I can always be creative with excuses. At least I still have a plan. I won't wear my several-hundred-dollar purchase with the frequency of a black t-shirt, but I also don't use my Swiffer every day, either; you just need them.
Not that shopping for clothes is often very successful. H&M: Why don't you have white, spread-collar, slim fit dress shirts in size medium? I understand that you don't have online shopping available in North America, and that's fine, but is this not a useful item to sell to medium-sized men in Los Angeles, California? Did I buy the only one you made several months ago? I don't like being punished for liking such a reasonably-priced staple.
I'm over-exaggerating; I don't really care that much that I decided to skip suit-shopping. It just happens too often, and all I want for Christmas is to start failing at something more impressive. That and about four more of my white shirt from H&M.
If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go read poetry in public like a tool because my Details and Los Angeles magazines never arrived this month. More importantly, I'm craving a veggie burrito.
Count the number of uppity remarks in this entry and win a prize.
Some dude in Los Angeles has to look nice occasionally, and I pick me. I hope I'm not the only 23-year-old man in this town who wishes we dressed seriously at the office. I have a job that often includes physical labor, but I care about my appearance and have good taste, so I iron my clothes, and I look nice. I have a desk, therefore, I refuse to look like shit.
I meant to buy a suit today. I have been trying for weeks and striking out because of taste and budget. But I had time to kill before meeting a friend during their break from work, so I walked around Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, near his office, for about 20 minutes.
The area continues to feel soul-crushing, and as I told him before he returned to the office, spending more than a few minutes in that area eviscerates all will in me to do anything fun, relaxing, or creative for rest of the day. Except I said, "I fuckin' hate Melrose. I think I'm just going home instead."
But I didn't know for sure if I wanted to completely bail on my own plans for the afternoon, so I went to Beverly Hills to make sure the place still existed, where I did not stop. So I thought about going to dinner and a drink at one of my favorite little bars in a not-repulsive part of Hollywood, but I didn't do that, either. Because I am an idiot.
I drove around Los Angeles like I was 16 in suburban-rural Ohio, considering all the possibilities of how I wanted to spend my evening. Annoying parking, overpriced, not in the mood, too late...I can always be creative with excuses. At least I still have a plan. I won't wear my several-hundred-dollar purchase with the frequency of a black t-shirt, but I also don't use my Swiffer every day, either; you just need them.
Not that shopping for clothes is often very successful. H&M: Why don't you have white, spread-collar, slim fit dress shirts in size medium? I understand that you don't have online shopping available in North America, and that's fine, but is this not a useful item to sell to medium-sized men in Los Angeles, California? Did I buy the only one you made several months ago? I don't like being punished for liking such a reasonably-priced staple.
I'm over-exaggerating; I don't really care that much that I decided to skip suit-shopping. It just happens too often, and all I want for Christmas is to start failing at something more impressive. That and about four more of my white shirt from H&M.
If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go read poetry in public like a tool because my Details and Los Angeles magazines never arrived this month. More importantly, I'm craving a veggie burrito.
Count the number of uppity remarks in this entry and win a prize.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
055
From Slate, a very sweet article about the fraternity brother I idolize:
Remembering Paul Newman, the philanthropist
by Dahlia Lithwick.
I have not see his movies.
Remembering Paul Newman, the philanthropist
by Dahlia Lithwick.
I have not see his movies.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
054
Barack Obama owns only one car.
from Newsweek, the magazine to which my family once subscribed for a year. I had forgotten that.
from Newsweek, the magazine to which my family once subscribed for a year. I had forgotten that.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
053
La Brea, the Home Design District of L.A.
When Angelenos or visitors to L.A. think of La Brea Avenue, they typically conjure the Tar Pits ("la brea" means "tar"), vintage shops like Jet Rag, High Voltage Tattoo/L.A. Ink, or the ever-convenient Target at the West Hollywood Gateway.
But what characterizes La Brea, for me, are the design stores, ably competing with the Robertson area but not awash in starfuckers. Diamond Foam and Fabric is Los Angeles Magazine's top fabric-buying experience, and the street also houses ultra-modern Cantoni and the origins of organic furniture at Robert Craymer Green, to name a few.
I have a new favorite, in Algabar. I first visited for the most recent Charlie Bidwell artist's reception, and I went back today in hopes that the work was still hung (it is, and will rotate a little in the coming months).
Algabar, I soon learned, is more than a home furnishings store. When I entered, co-owner Gail Baral greeted me (as did Remy, her fluffy smoke-colored dog). She had just finished making iced tea, and asked if I would like some (yes, I did, thank you).
I remembered the immaculately blended cocktails from Charlie's reception (this coming from someone who prefers imported beer or vodka-rocks), and, well, she made those, too.
Fiona Apple played, a designer-friend visited (coincidentally, I pass his showroom every day at work), and I browsed and conversed like I never have at a Crate & Barrel.
I have never been more comfortable in a home furnishings store; I truly felt at home in the black-and-white-themed retreat.
The store features furniture found on buying trips as well as original designs; exotic teas; kettles, trays, mixing and serving instruments; vases, soaps, and scents; and any little piece to help turn your abode into your soothing place.
My most interesting finds included candles and incense from Marriage Frerès (I thought they just made tea!), as well as the Parfum Lucifer series of candles by Damien Bash.
When I winced a little at the Sin candle's $80.00+ price tag, Gail didn't make me feel like the poor 23-year-old I am. Instead, she reminded me that we were all where I am. As you may have heard, Los Angeles is pretty fucked-up. Peaceful living in this city is about finding your balance, stumbling upon pockets of the city that you instantly adore, and I found one today on an impromptu visit to 342 South La Brea.
While the products hail from Morocco, Japan, the Far East, France...all are displayed in a neat American sense of comfort. Gail's buying trips are based on instinct, and she has very, very good taste, whether or not you love greyscale as much as I do.
Algabar recently scored a deal with the new, luxe Montage Hotel on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. Their teas from around the world will be prominently featured. Garal ensures that each has a personal touch: she names them herself, and that's all part of the fun of putting a little effort into your breaktime (hint: use a meat thermometer to make sure the tea is infused at the perfect temperature, which she gladly tells you).
I find it important to remind that I purchased nothing (my id was asleep or something...), but Gail gave me about two hours of her time to talk about the store, tea (I had never met an oenophile of the kind), designing for the self. It's definitely worth at least one visit, and, uniquely, they are open on Sundays.
I'm going back soon, to see more of Charlie's work in its intended size (I will have that someday, too), and I won't be able to leave alone.
Algabar
342 South La Brea Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90036
T: 323.954.9720 . F: 323.954.9721
http://www.algabar.com/ . http://www.algabarstore.com/
__________
Coming eventually:
01. I will review one of the restaurants nearby, probably Ca Brea.
02. a bunch of writing about Los Feliz.
When Angelenos or visitors to L.A. think of La Brea Avenue, they typically conjure the Tar Pits ("la brea" means "tar"), vintage shops like Jet Rag, High Voltage Tattoo/L.A. Ink, or the ever-convenient Target at the West Hollywood Gateway.
But what characterizes La Brea, for me, are the design stores, ably competing with the Robertson area but not awash in starfuckers. Diamond Foam and Fabric is Los Angeles Magazine's top fabric-buying experience, and the street also houses ultra-modern Cantoni and the origins of organic furniture at Robert Craymer Green, to name a few.
I have a new favorite, in Algabar. I first visited for the most recent Charlie Bidwell artist's reception, and I went back today in hopes that the work was still hung (it is, and will rotate a little in the coming months).
Algabar, I soon learned, is more than a home furnishings store. When I entered, co-owner Gail Baral greeted me (as did Remy, her fluffy smoke-colored dog). She had just finished making iced tea, and asked if I would like some (yes, I did, thank you).
I remembered the immaculately blended cocktails from Charlie's reception (this coming from someone who prefers imported beer or vodka-rocks), and, well, she made those, too.
Fiona Apple played, a designer-friend visited (coincidentally, I pass his showroom every day at work), and I browsed and conversed like I never have at a Crate & Barrel.
I have never been more comfortable in a home furnishings store; I truly felt at home in the black-and-white-themed retreat.
The store features furniture found on buying trips as well as original designs; exotic teas; kettles, trays, mixing and serving instruments; vases, soaps, and scents; and any little piece to help turn your abode into your soothing place.
My most interesting finds included candles and incense from Marriage Frerès (I thought they just made tea!), as well as the Parfum Lucifer series of candles by Damien Bash.
When I winced a little at the Sin candle's $80.00+ price tag, Gail didn't make me feel like the poor 23-year-old I am. Instead, she reminded me that we were all where I am. As you may have heard, Los Angeles is pretty fucked-up. Peaceful living in this city is about finding your balance, stumbling upon pockets of the city that you instantly adore, and I found one today on an impromptu visit to 342 South La Brea.
While the products hail from Morocco, Japan, the Far East, France...all are displayed in a neat American sense of comfort. Gail's buying trips are based on instinct, and she has very, very good taste, whether or not you love greyscale as much as I do.
Algabar recently scored a deal with the new, luxe Montage Hotel on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills. Their teas from around the world will be prominently featured. Garal ensures that each has a personal touch: she names them herself, and that's all part of the fun of putting a little effort into your breaktime (hint: use a meat thermometer to make sure the tea is infused at the perfect temperature, which she gladly tells you).
I find it important to remind that I purchased nothing (my id was asleep or something...), but Gail gave me about two hours of her time to talk about the store, tea (I had never met an oenophile of the kind), designing for the self. It's definitely worth at least one visit, and, uniquely, they are open on Sundays.
I'm going back soon, to see more of Charlie's work in its intended size (I will have that someday, too), and I won't be able to leave alone.
Algabar
342 South La Brea Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90036
T: 323.954.9720 . F: 323.954.9721
http://www.algabar.com/ . http://www.algabarstore.com/
__________
Coming eventually:
01. I will review one of the restaurants nearby, probably Ca Brea.
02. a bunch of writing about Los Feliz.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
052
From MSNBC.com: What the ...? N.C. offers new license plates
This is not offensive. "WTF?" or "What the fuck?", for those of us who can handle occasional lack of censorship, is totally benign in this context. Language can cause emotional harm, yes. But the "fuck" word does not hold much gravity to offend. It carries no awful stigma, particularly as part of "WTF?".
"WTF?" is a phrase to convey confusion, disappointment, indifference, and/or surprise. Not hatred or ignorance. It does not call to action ("Go to hell," "Kiss my ass," "Vote Pro-Life"), nor does the "fuck" word, on its own or as the ending of "What the...", degrade or refer to any ethnic, gender, or racial group who could take offense. It refers to sexual intercourse, and so do most episodes of Friends, Seinfeld, and probably much of NBC's programming in the 1990s.
"What the fuck?" may not be appropriate as part of a wedding vow or a dinnertime conversation with new girlfriend/boyfriend's parents, but it simply does not create harm. Dick Cheney has used "Go fuck yourself" on the Senate floor, and coming from someone I don't list as a role model, I still don't think he violated whatever sanctity the Senate floor is supposed to have. I think Patrick Leahy would rather hear that than be part of the anthrax scare of several years ago. Unless he thought Cheney and he were a perfect pair to replace Walter Mattheau and Jack Lemmon for The Absolutely Fucking Grumpiest Old Men Ever. I'd rent that.
So what's the point of wasting money to change this on North Carolina license plates? Are they going to pay to replace "BBW" on license plates, too? I think god forgives license plates.
The apparently contentious phrase is, perhaps ironically, my typical reaction to such abject silliness. But maybe I'm just mature/immature.
Balls.
This is not offensive. "WTF?" or "What the fuck?", for those of us who can handle occasional lack of censorship, is totally benign in this context. Language can cause emotional harm, yes. But the "fuck" word does not hold much gravity to offend. It carries no awful stigma, particularly as part of "WTF?".
"WTF?" is a phrase to convey confusion, disappointment, indifference, and/or surprise. Not hatred or ignorance. It does not call to action ("Go to hell," "Kiss my ass," "Vote Pro-Life"), nor does the "fuck" word, on its own or as the ending of "What the...", degrade or refer to any ethnic, gender, or racial group who could take offense. It refers to sexual intercourse, and so do most episodes of Friends, Seinfeld, and probably much of NBC's programming in the 1990s.
"What the fuck?" may not be appropriate as part of a wedding vow or a dinnertime conversation with new girlfriend/boyfriend's parents, but it simply does not create harm. Dick Cheney has used "Go fuck yourself" on the Senate floor, and coming from someone I don't list as a role model, I still don't think he violated whatever sanctity the Senate floor is supposed to have. I think Patrick Leahy would rather hear that than be part of the anthrax scare of several years ago. Unless he thought Cheney and he were a perfect pair to replace Walter Mattheau and Jack Lemmon for The Absolutely Fucking Grumpiest Old Men Ever. I'd rent that.
So what's the point of wasting money to change this on North Carolina license plates? Are they going to pay to replace "BBW" on license plates, too? I think god forgives license plates.
The apparently contentious phrase is, perhaps ironically, my typical reaction to such abject silliness. But maybe I'm just mature/immature.
Balls.
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