Nick runs around screaming and howling unless we sit together a certain way in this chair. It’s really nice, I love it, but it’s not all I want to do with my life. I kind of want to go read on the couch but that would be me making a choice to hear screaming. He’s so content right now. He loves being wedged between me and the chair’s arm. Sometimes I worry our kisses will get toothy and I really will eat his nose. Would you judge? If you’d tasted it you’d never judge. You’d nev ev. The entire time he sits here his eyes are slits. It’s like I have a real cat, not a deluxe-nosed terror. Do you worry that’s he’s too silken and if you pet him your skin will slide off your frame? I know. I know. Believe me, it will. But you’ll just silk it back on in the opposite direction. Just don’t look in his eyeslits because you’ll lose all direction and sink into a forever spiral of candynosed ethereal kissbliss. I saw him in the mirror doing his whiskers. Hours of pomading with a photo of William Powell in paw. Other days it is Cary Grant, once Little Richard. The thing is: the whiskers always look the same. But do not tell him that, nor send him this link please. SILKEN MEATNOSE TO THE MAXIMUM
1. Lou wears "denim, black leather and flip-up eyeglasses of his own design."
2. Mr. Reed depicts the story’s abject lust and loathing with some of his most disturbing lyrics, like “I beg you to degrade me/Is there waste that I could eat?” and “To be dead to have no feeling/To be dry and spermless like a girl.”
3. “It’s a vehicle for a certain kind of problem men have with women — a particular kind of a woman,” Mr. Reed said. “The music is trying to give you that feeling of being upset or angry, wherever she takes you. You’re up, you’re down; now it’s gone. Is there a man amongst us who has not run into something like that?”
Mr. Hetfield chuckled knowingly.
4. Lou introduced Hetfield to Antony’s music.
5. After an assistant brought out a set of dental floss picks, Mr. Reed cleaned between his teeth and yet again extolled the album’s sound (“Our guitars match as if they were hatched in the same hospital”), then abruptly stood up and made his way to an adjacent room. Picking up the conversation Mr. Ulrich started to detail the musicians’ excitement further, but before he reached his point Mr. Reed returned and shook his arms and legs in a little dance, shimmying his way back to his seat.
"The best work in dark fantasy and horror fiction these days is being published by small presses, haunted literary boutiques established (mostly) in out-of-the-way places… .Mr. Ryman is probably known best for his darkly beautiful 1992 novel, “Was,” which is both riff and meditation on “The Wizard of Oz.” But he has been a constant presence in fantasy and science fiction too, winning World Fantasy, Arthur C. Clarke and British Science Fiction awards. “Paradise Tales,” showing off Mr. Ryman’s broad range, sweeps the reader from Mars to Cambodia, from Kosovo to the decade after tomorrow." —NYT review of three new small press collections, including Small Beer’s new Geoff Ryman book!
"Talking about genre overlap or mixing, the vocal styling on the Four Tops’ ”Reach Out I’ll Be There”— [sings] “When you feel lost and about to give up/ ‘Cause your life just ain’t good enough … Look over your shoulder”— he was doing Bob Dylan. Because, at that time, “Like a Rolling Stone” was a big hit. And it was on the airwaves alongside everybody else that was happening at the time. It was a really beautiful thing. Culture is a living thing. It has to be allowed to be exposed to things without it being an accident.” —Tom Waits, Pitchfork interview
I saw the Mekons Tuesday night at SPACE doing songs and Peka Kucha: each presenter, in this case each band member, gives a talk accompanying 20 slides being projected for 20 seconds each. Some talks were informative, some were beautiful, some were ridic, nearly all were funny. We got a tour of Brixton and we got to learn about paintings of gargantuan squared off pigs. Halfway through the presentations there were songs, then more songs at the end.
That was an acoustic show, then last night I saw them electrified at Lincoln Hall. Both are super nice spaces. The shows were awesome. They are maybe my fave live band. Nick Cave/Bad Zeedz too? Who am I forgetting? Your mom’s choir.
Since Dave and I lived in different cities and would not see each other for months, my mind keeps on functioning in a day to day way very like it did when he was alive. I spent so much time waiting and saving up. Refining and curating what I’d want us to do together. To watch and listen to. And particularly, bands and books. Of course I wanted him to read a million things, but I’d choose carefully, because it is a lot to ask of someone, “read this book, please, out of all the others you want to read and all the others everyone else is asking you to read.” Last birthday, I gave him Troll, Ten Little Indians, Parable of the Sower, and the movie Resolved. Birthday before that, Bettye Lavette and Grinderman CDs. I was always in my head working out the next birthday. These were carefully chosen gifts for myself, really, the things about which I most wanted to have conversations with him.
Where I was all about making a big deal of his birthday, he was more into just sending me stuff whenever. Like the Bonnie Jo Campbell book that arrived in my mail after he read with her. A stunning Michigan writer with whom I am now slightly obsessed.
One of the main things I really really really wanted us to do together was see the Mekons. I’ve been seeing them since the mid-1990s, and I played them for him, but I wanted to be able to talk about the live show with him, and I wanted him to have the feeling of seeing them that I can’t describe. Being a leftist who was in a disciplined group you thought was the answer, and the pain of leaving that, is not a thing that people make art about much, but I always find those feelings welling up when I hear them. Their exuberance in this collaboration that lasts decades and is clearly a constant fun, argumentative, thinking, living process is so deeply exhilarating, you guys. Mostly, I hear them live and I think that there is something I want to get to. Being part of a creative community/family with history and support seems to make them able to create about the most painful, aching things.
I dunno. Anyway, I wanted Dave there and it made me so sad. I realized how constantly I pretend he’s with me at shows and imagine his reactions, and I always have, for years. This track that just runs in my brain.
Our talks about race and gender and other stuff, the more embarrassing stuff, like personal DREAMS and things, were like all one fantastic 21 year conversation where we were both allowed to grow and revise. Recently I’d emailed him this part of an interview with Sammy Davis, Jr., about all the racist abuse he’d suffered in the military, and I told him the shit I read about SDJr. in Pam Grier’s memoir, how he was really gross to her, like inappropriate, and Liz and Liza were both like “yup, that’s how he is,” and Pam refused to ever see him again but was friends w/his wife for years. So, we talked about SDJr’s mass of contradictions and places where he had power and lacked power. At the end of one of my emails I wrote “rat pack membership for him seemed simultaneously empowering and humiliating. i guess the other important thing to remember is how rabid a fan you are of billy crystal’s impersonations of sammy on snl.” He was mad.
In the same emails we were talking about his fears of going to Siberia. Like so so afraid, because of how seriously terribly antigay it is there. I thought about that so so hard in order to give advice I could feel okay about.
I want more of us figuring out our lives together. I want to see the Mekons with him. I was so sure it would happen at one point and be 100000069% amazing. He’d be able to give me words for the things I feel about them. You know those conversations with really old friends where it’s like accessing another part of yourself? That. That that that that that.
At one point during last night’s show Jon stopped the song and said “that was NOT me, that was not me, that was Lu.” Sally was disgusted, asking “What’s the point of stopping, though? We don’t stop each time YOU play a wrong chord or we’d never make it through a song.” Loved it.