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|Wednesday, April 4th, 2007|
|Friday, March 9th, 2007|
|Holly Golightly at Mercury Lounge
I'm proud of myself: I managed to spend the evening at Mercury Lounge and still got the rather long book that was due today, of which I still had a fair amount left to do, handed in on time.
I could have shown up later, but the room was sold out and I wanted to be front and center, and occasionally have a chance to sit down. Mercury is open space except for some benches along the walls.
The first band, Kid Casanova, wasn't too great, basic lackluster three-chord rock, but their drummer was fantastic, and fun to watch.
The second, the Ettes, I liked a lot. They were totally loud and riff-based, like the Sonics with the sensibility of Suicide. Couldn't sit still while they were playing.
Instead of her usual band, Holly Golightly was playing in a duo with a one-man band fellow who calls himself Lawyer Dave. He is a tall, skinny, kind of morose-looking guy from San Antonio who plays guitar, mostly bottleneck in open E tuning, and a drum kit operated entirely by foot pedals. He wore a three-piece suit, but he took his shoes and socks off to play the drums. First he played a set of his own, He did a great version of Motorhead's heavy metal classic "Ace of Spades" recast as a Delta blues; it worked really well.
His set with Holly, who looked fantastic in a tight black midi-length dress, was somewhat folky, in the mode of her CD with Dan Melchior. There were some boogie-ish numbers, though, and some familiar songs of hers like "Won't Go Out" and "I Let My Daddy Do That." At first Dave was a little too loud and it was hard to hear her voice, which is the main attraction: her guitar playing is competent but nothing fancy, but she has one of the great voices in contemporary rock, in a raw, sloppy way like, say, Dylan or Shane McGowan, the opposite of American Idol
bombasticism. She doesn't move a lot on stage, and she often gives a little curtsey motion in response to applause.
The sound guy eventually got the balance a little better. Lawyer Dave is good, but his sound is somewhat limited. And while he does a lot more with his drum pedals than one might expect, he isn't really a drummer like the thundering Bruce Brand (Holly's longtime drummer and sometime boyfriend). So the whole set was on the whole a bit mellower than I would have liked, though there was a kind of raw Harry Smith quality to a lot of it that worked well.
And, of course, the people at the front of the stage, including myself, actually engaged in conversation with the performers:
Dave: Man, I don't know how you folks stand this cold. [It was one of the coldest nights of a cold winter.]
Me: We're not happy about it either.
Holly [looking right at me]: Well, you don't look unhappy.
Me: We're happy now that you're here.
She gave me a big, goofy smile and one of those little curtsies.
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ !!!!!!!!!!!!
|Wednesday, March 7th, 2007|
|Truly She Is None Other
Oh my God! I decided to check out Holly Golightly's website, and discovered she's playing tomorrow night (Thurs.) at Mercury Lounge, just a few blocks from my house. And they still have tickets on Ticketweb! Once I read about it, I was sure it'd be sold out. She's also playing at Maxwell's in Hoboken in a couple weeks. Against my better judgment (I have a book due Friday), I went ahead and got a ticket. Get 'em while you can! She's the greatest.
|Tuesday, March 6th, 2007|
|She's Gotta Have It
WARNING: SPOILERS OF SORTS
I went to see Black Snake Moan
yesterday afternoon. It is actually a pretty silly movie, but the leads are two of my favorite actors, and they made it worthwhile.
Rae (Christina Ricci) is the town tramp somewhere is a South that seems to be frozen in the 1960s except that there's crack and most everybody white and black gets along fine. Somehow or other the mysterious spells that come over her and make her crave the first male appendage in the vicinity have been held at bay while she's with her boyfriend (Justin Timberlake), who also suffers from spells--in his case, severe panic attacks. But Justin is shipping out with the Army (presumably to Iraq, though it's not specified. The minute he's gone, Christina's off getting it on with the local crack dealer, who she seems to have a running thing with.
Later, when Rae has gotten totally wasted at the local bar, Justin's no-good best friend picks her up and figures he's got a sure score. But Rae drunkenly ridicules him, so he beats her up and tosses her out on the road in the middle of the woods...
...which happen to be right by the farm where Lazarus (Samuel Jackson), a good-hearted sometime bluesman who's having his own relationship problems, lives. He happens upon the unconscious. scantily clad Rae unconscious in the road and takes her back and nurses her back to health. (There's a poorly explained bit where she has a chronic cough and then a high fever.) She raves, screams, offers to get it on with him (he declines), and then after a few days more or less snaps out of it. That's when she discovers Sam has chained her to the radiator. it makes a bit of sense at first, since she's been running around delirious and he's had to leave the house now and then, but now he announces that he "aims to cure her of her wicked ways." The ins and outs of this are more complicated than I have the energy to explain, but they involve:
•Christina humping a local teenager who's stopped by while Sam's gone
•Sam singing the title song, which no one seems to notice is basically a song about his penis, to Christina during a thunderstorm as she clings to his thigh. She's gradually gotten to like him after initial furious resistance to the whole idea.
•Sam confessing his problems in his recently busted-up marriage (he too gets a little wacky at times and confuses Christina with his ex-wife
•Sam getting friendly with the rather dykey-looking S. Epatha Merkerson (Law and Order
•Christina beating up on her mom because she let Christina's father or stepfather or whoever abuse her when she was a kid, leading to Christina's spells of nymphomania
•Christina giving Sam new confidence in his music, which he had more or less given up, prompting him to perform at a triumphant return gig (Sam of course peppers his blues with his trademark m.f-word) while Christina swills and shakes it up.
But despite the growing warmth, comfort and mutual support between them--she even lets him sit next to her while she takes a bath--Sam and Christina never get it on. You see, Justin's panic attacks cause him to be booted out of the Army (why this never came up in basic training is a good question), and he returns unexpectedly to town. He can't find Christina, and when he finds out she's shacked (literally) up with Sam, he bursts in with a gun, waving it about angrily at Sam and then at Christina. Sam clams him down, and then, with the help of the kindly preacher, Sam and Christina are united in holy wedlock while Sam, Epatha, and Christina's recent teenage paramour all watch.
So it's kind of a cop-out in a lot of ways. With anyone but these two to liven it up, it would have been a lot less of a film. Christina wears little clothing throughout most of the movie, making it pretty easy on the eyes. Sam comes across credible enough as a bluesman, and even appears to play some of his own guitar licks (many of which are in open tuning, so they require minimal fingerwork--which is genuine enough for the time and place).
The filmmakers want to have it both ways: to emphasize the healing power of the blues, but to make Lazarus a gentle soul. Actually he kind of fluctuates between forceful and shy. But if Christina is his muse, what is he going to do when she takes off. Though there have been gentle bluesmen--Mississippi John Hurt springs to mind--most of the bluesmen that Sam emulates, e.g. Muddy Waters, who he also covers--while being genial enough a lot of the time, have been the sort to take their pleasure where they find it when it comes to whiskey and women, and let the devil take the hindmost.
If I were writing the ending: Sam gets discovered by an A&R guy from a small blues label and records a few CDs. They sell moderately well in the States, but he becomes a cult figure in Europe and Japan. He gets it on with Epatha because he can and with Christina, who has dumped Justin after the jealous, abusive tendencies he's already shown by waving a gun in her face have gotten more pronounced. After she's dumped, Epatha gets to know Christina's mom, who's obviously soured on the male of the species after her own long abusive relationship, and they move in together. Sam and Christina move to a small town in France. Periodically, he goes on tour and meets up with lots of hot groupies from many nations. Christina stays home with their kids and humps half the town while he's gone, but it's France, so no one thinks it's the least bit odd.
|Monday, February 12th, 2007|
As I sat down on the bench in the subway station and opened up the New York Post,
hoping for more dirt on the “Astro-Nut” story, I cautiously eyed the man who was standing near me. “Hey, baby girl,” he said to a woman sitting near me. “Hey, white girl, I like the coat,” he said to another passerby. He was clearly in that happy and obnoxious state of intoxication where he thought the world was fascinated by his every word.
He babbled on and on. The woman he was directly in front of mostly ignored him, laughing nervously every now and then.
Then he turned his attention to another woman listening to her iPod a few seats away. “Get out of my face!” she shouted at him. Naturally, this had no effect. He reached out his hand to touch her cheek. She smacked it away and shouted “Out of my face!” even louder.
Immediately, without thinking, I sprang up. “Get away from her!” A couple other large guys moved toward us. The guy had already been begging me with his mindless, seemingly cheerful but actually aggressive babble, but now he’d crossed the line.
Of course he just wouldn’t get the message, and kept trying to move toward the iPod woman. And he started to get angry. I put myself directly in front of him so he couldn’t get near her. He started to focus his attention on me. “Go somewhere else,” I said firmly, but this just produced an angry stare from him. I repeated it. He tried to push past me, and I blocked him. He tried to shove, and I shoved back. Another, bigger man near me pushed him down.
When he got up he was even angrier. He reached in his pocket, and it occurred to me that he might have a knife. I found that I really didn’t care. All that came out of his pockets was a bunch of crumpled-up used tissues, though.
Despite our having been put in the position of antagonists, I found myself feeling sorry for him when the other guy pushed him to the ground. He was more looking for attention than malicious. He really didn’t seem to get the situation, and seemed to be surprised at the vehemence of our response. Of course, he was still
trying to go after the iPod woman, and we kept trying to head him off.
The train pulled into the station as an MTA person, an older woman in a red blazer, showed up, talking into a walkie-talkie. “See, now the cops are on the way, so you better get going,” I said to the man. I really just wished he’s go somewhere until whatever he was on wore off. He took no heed.
“No, let him stay, then he’ll get arrested,” the MTA woman said. Everyone got on the train, and I could see a cop arriving.
On the train the woman thanked me, as she talked in Spanish about how obnoxious the “hombre de la calle” was with some other Spanish-speaking people.
The whole thing made me more sad than angry. Someone said the guy had done the same sort of thing before. Maybe he’ll get arrested, maybe he won’t (all the other people involved got on the train), but whether he is or not, he’ll just get out and pull more of the same sort of stunt.
You can’t really forbid people to talk to strangers. The only thing I can think of is a sort of compulsory etiquette school, similar to anger management classes or the traffic school you have to go to where they show you films of mutilated babies. Obnoxious street-person school—an idea whose time has come.
Also perhaps he’ll learn not to bug me before I’ve had a cup of coffee.
|Thursday, February 8th, 2007|
The Society for Ethnomusicology has come out againt the use of music as torture:http://webdb.iu.edu/sem/scripts/aboutus/aboutsem/positionstatements/position_statement_torture.cfm
I am certainly in favor of this, though I think they're merely scratching the surface. A true ban on music as torture would have to include any spinning whatsoever of Coldplay in a public place.
I can't help thinking of the first and still, to my mind, the best (fictional) use of music as torture ever, in Billy Wilder's One Two Three,
where East German secret police torment a captive Horst Buchholz with endless playings of Brian Hyland's "Itsy-Bitsy, Teeny-Weeny, Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini."
|Thursday, December 28th, 2006|
|Expression of the day
Courtesy of yesterday's Times
of London crosswordcupboard love:
(British & Australian) love that you give in order to get something from someone. I suspected all along it was just cupboard love, and what she really liked about him was his car. —idioms.thefreedictionary.com
"Pretended love to the cook, or any other person, for the sake of a meal. My guts cry cupboard; i.e. I am hungry." —from The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue,
originally by Francis Grose.
See also http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/cupboard_love
|Tuesday, December 26th, 2006|
|R.I.P. James Brown
I’m not sure exactly when I first heard a James Brown record on the radio, or when I became aware of his name. I would have had to be fairly young. The three competing soul music stations in Washington, DC played his music a lot. I know I heard “Out of Sight” and the soon-to-follow “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” when they came out in 1965, and it would have been not to long after that that my tomboyish neighbor Nancy Kicherer, who had a lot of good soul albums, lent me her copy of Live at the Apollo,
which I listened to many times. And not too long after that, I saw his incredible performance with the Famous Flames in that essential sampling of mid-sixties pop music The T.A.M.I. Show.
It was more than just his music that made James Brown fascinating. His endless fount of egotism was a big part of it—who else names a dance after himself? Among the geeky teenage boys at my prep school, rumors flew, such as that he’d had a secret sex change operation; that he fined his band members if they made one mistake. With his gravity-defying pompadour, his outrageous dance moves (sliding across the stage balanced on one foot, for example) he seemed not just larger than life, but a being of another, superior species.
A few years after I moved to New York, a bunch of college friends and I went to see Brown at the Apollo Theatre on the edge of Harlem. The bouncy funk of “Hot Pants” was ubiquitous, pumping out of street radios as I drove my cab around the city. To this day, I’d have to say that that Apollo show was one of the best live concerts I’ve ever seen and heard. I don’t think my friends and I were the only white people in the audience, but there were few others. Despite the occasional hostility I’d encountered on the streets of Harlem, there was none that night; the atmosphere was friendly. I can’t help but think this was a reflection of Brown’s personality, too: the man who sang “I’m Black and I’m Proud” and “Soul Power” was proud of who he was, and willing to accept anyone else for who they were, too.
It took a while for the Godfather of Soul to actually appear onstage. If you have an appointment with royalty, you don’t simply stroll into the throne room from the street; there are many antechambers you must pass through. First on the bill, believe it or not, was a black-and-white Three Stooges movie, where Moe and friends take a rocket ship to Venus and encounter three babes in halter tops (I believe this was Have Rocket, Will Travel.
) Then there was a decent set by Bloodstone. Then the J.B’s did a few instrumental numbers, followed by a song featuring Bobby Byrd, the J.B.s’ organist and Brown’s lifelong foil. Byrd was a great performer, but somehow he could never reach the heights that JB could, and he knew it. His courageous acceptance of his No. 2 position spoke volumes about the hierarchical nature of masculine relationships.
And then at last: “the star of our show…the Godfather of Soul…the amazing Mr. Please Please Please…Soul Brother No.1 [etc.]: Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaames Brown!!!”
When I think back on Brown’s set, the comparison that always comes to mind is Pierre Boulez conducting the New York Philharmonic. Every move--the way the trumpeters swung their instruments out from their sides when they weren’t playing, the hissing of the hi-hat, the two guitarists’ interplay of fast rhythmic chinking with a simple little popping riff, Maceo Parker’s occasional screaming sax solos, the arm-swirling dance the bouncer at either side of the stage made—seemed totally under Brown’s control. Verily every drop of sweat seemed choreographed. It was a precision machine that allowed the Godfather the freedom to go wild, even as he maintained tight control over it.
That Apollo show was so fantastic I was hesitant to see him ever again. I bought many albums and 45s and explored his vast library, hits and obscurities both, from the earliest hits, which were really before my time, to his increasingly odd funk stretch-outs. But when I was living in Málaga, Spain in 1986 and I heard that JB was playing at the Plaza de Toros for about $3 as part of a city-sponsored series of concerts, I couldn’t resist going to hear him. I knew it would never live up to the Apollo show. For one thing, the Apollo is a rather small and thus very intimate space. I managed to get fairly close to the stage, but it was still a large arena, and while the band was solid, they were no match for that slick seventies unit. And of course he had to do his current hit, “Living in America.” But it still rocked.
Shortly after that, Brown went off for a stretch in prison. I tried to see him one more time, at the Lone Star in downtown New York, but the show was sold out. I went down anyway, in a vain attempt to get a last-minute ticket, and came close to being admitted, but was just a little
too far back in line. I did get a close-up glimpse of him as he walked in the stage door, though: a huge head with a face made up of graceful, dark brown curves. He wasn’t that tall, but he still seemed larger than life.
|Friday, December 8th, 2006|
|To a small creature
Dear little mouse,*
Yes, I'm kind of annoyed that you gnawed at some of my food, so I had to throw it away.
And yes, it's irritating that you chewed holes in the towel I left bunched up on the kitchen floor to catch the drips in case it started to rain heavily while I was out and the hole in the roof started to leak again.
But it was considerate of you to crawl into the trashcan to die. Of course, that probably wasn't your plan. You probably jumped in without realizing that you couldn't climb out again. Those sheer plastic walls don't have any toeholds. I guess you died of thirst after you were trapped there. Nevertheless, I appreciate you not dying between the walls or something.
Rest in peace, little guy.
*And yes, it's definitely a mouse, not a rat.
|Monday, December 4th, 2006|
Took the Chinatown bus to DC and back. The trip there was OK, but the trip back...
I left at 11pm on a Friday night. When I looked at the driver, a young Chinese man who seemed to have minimal English skills, I thought: Is this the same maniac I rode with last spring? The one who was so reckless--tailgating cars at high speed, as he simultaneously played around with his iPod, talked on his cell phone, and tried to adjust a loose window shade? So reckless that after he'd nearly gotten creamed a couple times by trucks he was passing on the right, a young woman passenger ran up to the front of the bus and sobbed, "Could you please go slower?!" (All she got was "OK" in return and no change in driving habits.)
Yes, it certainly looked like him. And his aggressive driving habits were just the same. I drifted off to sleep for a while....
Bright lights. Oh, good, we're making a rest stop.
No. What are those red and blue flashing lights?
A voice from outside: "Sir, may I see your license and registration?"
He handed them over. "Sir, we clocked you on the radar going 83 in a 60-mile-per-hour zone." A long pause, while the state trooper wrote up his ticket.
"Where you heading?"
Dead air in response.
"Uh, where you headed to?'
"Where are you going?"
"Go New York."
After the driver got a ticket for several hundred dollars and four points on his license, we moved on. And it was at that point I realized I would need a bathroom soon. Often there's a rest stop--but not always. I should've ducked off into the woods while we were stopped.
Oh well, I hate the smelly, rocking restrooms on buses, but in an emergency...I staggered to the back of the bus in darkness....
Locked! With no one in it! The bastards!
As we passed the various celebrity rest areas on the Jersey Turnpike, I kept hoping...but no. Finally a sign for the Lincoln Tunnel told me we were nearing the city. The bus was scheduled to stop first at Penn Station and then in Chinatown. The latter stop is walking distance from my house, but at 3:30am was I really going to walk? And could I wait that long? No, a pit stop in Penn Station and then the A, C, or E to the F was the obvious choice.
Slightly hunched over in pain, I staggered into Penn Station. Lots of people waiting for trains to Long Island, sprawled in weary clumps after a night on the town. I followed the erratic restroom signs...to a "ticketed passengers only" waiting area...that was closed. Was directed up the stairs and to the right...to another one that was closed. Or was it. The grate was almost all the way down, held up a foot or two from the floor by one of those ubiquitous yellow signs that warn of a wet floor. I could hear someone cleaning inside. I grabbed the bottom of the grate, pushed it up, and walked in. A gormless janitor was washing the sinks.
"I just got off a bus from DC with no bathroom, so I don't wanna hear any shit!" He gave me a clueless grin.
I was so relieved I wasn't even bothered by the man playing slow, deliberate, arrhythmic conga drum on the subway car home. Do your thing, bro.
|Friday, November 17th, 2006|
|"There's a beverage involved here..."
BEVERAGE REPORT: Cocaine
No, of course I don't mean the drug--for one thing, it's a solid. No, I mean the Red Bull–exploiting energy drink in the bright red can. I'd read about it--or, more accurately, about the outcry over it--and I also spent a lot of time recently copy editing a story about Red Bull for [great metropolitan daily's magazine supplement]. I don't dislike Red Bull, and occasionally drink it, but I can't say I'm a great fan of it either. So I was interested to try an alternative when I spotted it in a local deli, since for better or worse I am a caffeine addict.
Cocaine is redder in color than Red Bull, which is sort of a pale amber. The overall taste is similar and slightly sweeter, but Cocaine has a powerful aftertaste, which mainly consists of two elements: sucralose (an artificial sweetener), plus something that can only be capsaicin (the ingredient in peppers that makes them sting). Yes, it's like Tabasco soda! That would be good, but I hate the [after]taste of artificial sweeteners, not to mention that there are other problems associated with them.
Just why the makers of Cocaine felt they had to put an artificial sweetener in when there's also real sugar (dextrose) is beyond me. But it's too bad, because if it didn't have that cloying tang, it would be pretty good. It's got more vitamins than Red Bull, too, as well as taurine (RB's "secret" ingredient), and that peppery sting makes it ideal for quaffing between brewskis (which is probably the idea). Still, in the never-ending quest for stimulation, I will probably drink it again...
|Wednesday, November 1st, 2006|
|The sincerest form of flattery
A couple of the young women who work at my local café were discussing what to be for Halloween, and apparently Amanda, a quietly attractive 19-year-old aspiring writer, wanted to dress as me
, with her friend dressing as another regular. I don't think this is actually going to happen, but God, would I love to see it. I'll even lend her some of my clothes.
|Saturday, August 19th, 2006|
Went to opening weekind of Snakes on a Plane
at AMC25 with rosefox
, and a bunch of other folks. Let me just say that if this is the sort of movie you think you might like, you will probably like it a lot.
|Tuesday, August 1st, 2006|
For the last several weeks I have been about as busy as I've ever been in my life--back-to-back freelance projects, with a magazine gig during the day some days, plus taking care of a lot of odds and ends and tiresome bits of business. I've also found myself, some of the time, remarkably unwilling to talk to people--not in any way resentful or angry or disliking anyone, far from it, simply deeply desiring keeping my own counsel and feeling like having to say anything is somewhat of a burden. This is rather unusual for me. I'm sure it will pass.
But I'd like to thank everyone who posted on my last entry. Despite my reticence, your comments mean a lot to me, both from my friends and from those I know mostly or entirely from LJ. Really. I mean it.
|Sunday, July 16th, 2006|
|Louise Legault, 1917-2006
I was awakened at 3 A.M. or so today with the news that my mother had passed away. After a few calls I went back to sleep and then got up fairly early. I've spent the rest of the day dealing with stuff. This involved riding out to Greenbelt, MD to the funeral home to ID her body. She looked strange, as if she'd been painted by Graham Ingels. I'd seen her the afternoon and evening of the previous day; she was breathing but I couldn't wake her up. Maybe she knew I was there, maybe not.
I'm OK with her dying; she was 88 years old. I'd talked things over with her, and, while I don't think she wanted to die, and was at least somewhat afraid of it, she was ready for it, and understood that it had to happen soon. I do feel sad and miss her. I also dread dealing with all the stuff I have to deal with around this. The funeral guy was fine, a real classic Southern good ol' boy. And his assistant who gave me a ride back to the Metro turns out to have been a sales rep for Simon & Schuster before he changed careers! (You freelancers who are having trouble...think about it...)
Anyway, in the best of circumstances, I'm not a very organized person, and I'm going to need more organization than ever to sort out all the stuff I need to sort out. My sister, who is a paralegal and has taken a course on trusts and estates, is going to come east and help out.
So those of you who know me, if I'm even more out of it than usual, it's probably because I'm sorting all this stuff out.
In a few hours I'm going to catch the late, late bus back to NYC and work for the day at an ad agency. I could cancel out, but I'd rather not, and I can use the money...besides, I think I need to get out of here for a day or two. I may stay till Wed. or I may come back Tues. I'm not really sure...
|Sunday, July 2nd, 2006|
Well, it looks like I'm going to Readercon after all. Hope to see a lot of you there.
|Saturday, June 17th, 2006|
I am Mrs. Sandra Bullock I am a dying woman who have decided to donate what I have to you. I am 59 years old; 2 years ago I was diagnosed for cancer, immediately after the death of my husband Mr. Philip R. Bullock, who has left me everything he worked for while in America.
I have been touched by God to donate from what I have inherited from my late husband to you for the good work of God, rather than allow my relatives to use my husband's hard earned funds ungodly. Please pray that the good Lord forgive me my sins. I have asked God to forgive me and I believe he has because He is a merciful God. I will be going in for the cancer operation any moment from now.
And here I thought she was married to Jesse James.
|Monday, June 5th, 2006|
|We all suck
I don't have the time and energy to delete and repost my journal, but I support those who are temporarily boycotting LJ over their absurd policy toward breast-feeding icons. (Note how I posted that last entry 15 min. before midnight?) See you in a day.
|Thursday, May 25th, 2006|
|All in a day's work
Fact-checking: All these missed by the copy editor. But I had to verify them.
Zaqarwi, NOT Zaraqwi
Landstuhl, NOT Landshtul [military base in Germany]. Took me a while--I knew it was wrong from my rudimentary knowledge of German, but took me a while to figure out the correct spelling.
hurtle, NOT hurdle ["to move rapidly..."] (knew it was wrong, but had to double check. This job does that to you)
leishmaniasis, NOT leischmaniasis
Roseanne Barr, NOT Rosanne
total time to verify all this: about 10 minutes.
|Monday, May 15th, 2006|
|What getting older is like
Sentence of the day, from hooptyrides.blogspot.com, a hot-rod blog, via BoingBoing; writing about the appropriation of car customizer Von Dutch by the fashion industry:"Everything you love, everything meaningful with depth and history, all passionate authentic experiences will be appropriated, mishandled, watered down, cheapened, repackaged, marketed and sold to the people you hate."