“What are you views on Palestine/Israel? Do you know who Chick Corea is? What countries border Iran? Do you know any Shi'a Muslims? What do you think of the clarinet? Who is Molaana Jalaledin Mohammad Balkhi? Can you pronounce my name correctly? What do you think about women with hardcore ink? Have you ever been to a rally? Who is your favorite member of DITC? What do you know about invisible disabilities? What are your thee favorite Bowie albums? Have you ever dated queer women? Or men? What do you think of “true love”? What’s the last book you read? Major chords or minor? Curly or straight? Name three ingredients in a Tabouleh salad? Are you into vinyl (all kinds)? What are your views on abortion? How often do you clean your bathroom? Dettol or baking soda? What the last gift you made someone? What rhymes with spit?”
“It might be cool to be colorblind because everything would look like an old movie.”
“Obama is a stronger candidate. Look at the pictures in paper. He is walking outside without an umbrella. McCain is lazy. He is just walking indoors.”
Dear Ms. Yakult:
Thanks for your response. Electronic mail is much, much faster than those little cards I have been sending you for the last few years. And thank you for letting me take that survey. (That pop-up gopher game was fun!)
Anyway, I was prepared—no, EXCITED!—to wire your organization a generous contribution, but when I arrived at the bank this morning, I discovered that my account had been “compromised.” Apparently, someone at the bank who never had any business touching my money in the first place lent it to someone with no money of their own who promised to give my bank even more money that nobody ever really had. This process, surprisingly, made everyone involved nervous, so they closed down the banks—and “firms,” which are sort of like your company, I think?—and went out for Cinnabons, which I have to pay for. Nobody knows where my money is.
I look forward to selling my furniture and appliances on the street. Once I’ve done that, I will put all the cash in a little plastic bag and send it to the address on the Yakult bottle that I have been using as a lunchbox.
PO Box 879645384685
A chunk of my record collection is now for sale at Good Records on East 5th street, a shop I endorse no matter how many Fall twelve-inches they take off my hands. Another clump of my records made their way into the bins of the Academy Records Annex on North 6th Street in Brooklyn. More pieces will trickle into Good over the next month. Happy hunting.
Not like anything’s changed.
It’s not complicated. On some dumbass gossip blog, there is a picture of Lindsay Lohan’s boobs accompanied by a gratuitous (possibly not a category that exists in the context of gossip blogs, but anyway) snarky-ass comment about what Lindsay’s vagina looks like. You know what Lindsay Lohan’s shaved vagina looks like? At least in that widely circulated photo? Her shaved vagina looks like a goddamn vagina. Calm yourself down, HAVER OF ALL BALL SACS.
I have nothing against the web being cheap and vulgar and booby, and the last thing I want is another crop of policemen—even if they turn out to be robots with supercool horizontal red LED eyeslots—but I have a big problem with plain old hating and plain old stupidity and the general assault on generosity. But, then, I’m old.
The draw is the live BBC Peel Session version. It may lack polish (or Hannett) but is harder and clearer than any other version. Proves again—notebooks out, newbies—that the band wasn't such a bummer, really.
Do Ian's lyrics always sound like he's already dead? No! And Bernie's guitar solo is so perky, still.
Couldn't be less obscure. No points here for digging. Makes my blood retard and crystallize. So noisy, so beautiful. If I ever saw a band this good on stage, I would eat several hats and wire money to twelve senators. (The craziest bit? Last two minutes.)
“You guys said if we went to Shoney’s and I took off my shoes and scarf and ate three ketchups you would give me an Internet. Bullcrap. THIS is just a phone hooked up to a lightbox. It is NOT a MAGIC phone. It’s not even a television. I just called my mom and what did I see? The same goddamn slide of you corncobs staring at me. So I pushed the button on the side and got a picture of the Grand Canyon. THE GRAND CANYON, which is not where we live. This is NOT an Internet, it is a goddamn VIEW-MASTER. I am going to tell everyone that Main Ingredient are phoney baloneys and I'm giving this jimjam to my nephew. Tomorrow, I am stepping out with New Birth AND The Nite-Liters. They may even be the same band, but what do I know? I CAN’T CHECK ON THE INTERNET NOW, CAN I?”