Thursday, February 27, 2003

Got Some More Truly Important Remedies for Mild Depression (or "mil-dep"):

1. Stick a cordless phone antenna in your eye. (Hey, it's better than a sharp stick.)

2. For once, be the person other people are jealous of: For example, make a bunch of yummy buttery popcorn and then walk around your apartment complex with the bowl, saying really loud, "I am just loving this hot buttered popcorn."

3. Every time you look in the mirror, say, "I am pretty fantastic, oh yes I am, and if I had been born in 1880, I would be 123 by now."

4. Pretend you have a magic star hanging over your head, shining like a beacon into the void. Try to pick up radio signals with it. If you hear something good, do your little dance. You know the one.

5. Write yourself a love letter (including your phone number) and mail it to yourself. When you receive the letter, call yourself up. If you get voice mail, leave a message. Keep leaving messages until you hear back. And if you never hear back, well, I guess it's pretty obvious you're dealing with a game-player.

6. Play a fun trick on your friends by inviting them over for a John Lennon Seance, with a fake medium and everything. But when the medium starts to do the channeling thing, make sure the channeler has a really bad fake Liverpool accent. That way they'll know it was just a trick.

7. Make a grilled cheese sandwich, and then, to get out your aggressions, chop it into a hundred tiny pieces and burn it on toothpicks, calling it vile names and insulting its family. You don't have to eat it.

8. Make a decision that you are going to be the person who invents a viable word that rhymes with orange, and figure out a way to integrate it into the English language.

So anyway I tried to take part in the "Virtual March on Washington" yesterday but I tolly couldn't get through. All the phone circuits were jammed. It was rad. The newspaper headlines today suggested that Bush is getting a little bit desperate and feeling a tad less blusterous (as winnie the pooh says).

So remember in "Young Frankenstein," the old lady named Frau Blucher? (whinny!) Well I was just looking up "blusterous" (which apparently isn't a word-word) and my eye fell upon this tasty morsel:

blucher / blooch'er blook'-/ [Gebhard Von Bl�cher (1742-1819) Prussian field marshal] n shoe in which the tongue and toe are made of one piece of leather, with the upper lapping over the tongue.

How dirty can a dictionary definition possibly be?

And is it just me, or is the definition for apple kinda hot, too?:

apple round fleshy edible fruit of any of a genus of the rose family.


I Sing the Body Electric:

Still all bummed out and shit, but not in a horrible way. I'm looking for other people's remedies for mild depression. Stuff like "Gym + Coffee." Or "Altoids + Guitar." "Jonathan Richman + Housecleaning." You get the gist. Right now I'm going to try "Steve Martin records + Housecleaning."

Is anybody else loving Mister Rogers today like I am? I am loving him. I think he may be one of the most incredible people of the world.

If we had to send a sample capsule of the Earth's glories to another planet, I'm afraid I would have to send Mr. Rogers.

Guitar is a bit of a tonic to the ragged soul. Last night i learned "Say It Ain't So." Have you ever really listened to the lyrics? I never did until I had to do a story on Weezer, and then I figured out that the song is about alcoholism. Specifically, about having an alcoholic father (and stepfather). I think that's why the kids absolutely lose their shit whenever Weezer plays this song, singing so loud you can't hear Rivers if you're down on the floor. Alcoholism is the secret epidemic that almost everyone knows about in a bad, family way. Supposedly nobody in my family/extended family is alcoholic, but I just don't buy it. A bunch of weird Irish artsy/literate types? Gimme a break. We've got melancholy programmed into our DNA.

But then, I think there's a lot of secrets in my family tree.

Right then, time to turn on and be not alone, or something.



Wednesday, February 26, 2003

California Stars:

Hi Kid. I forgot that the day we got baked and listened to records, me and Jim started a List of Keen Insights about the music we were hearing, with the intention of reading it over when we weren't high and seeing if it was totally retarded. Sadly, the list ended up being a little short, but here it is:

1. "Let the Good Times Roll" is really quite a dark song. [Ed's note: I used "quite" to sound like I wasn't baked]

2. The guitar on "The Air That I Breathe" is quite Mick Ronsony.

3. "California Stars" is like a quilt, that has red in it--but it's a sexy quilt.

When I said that thing about the quilt, this is how high Jim was---he goes, "Yes! I know exactly what you mean!"

Oh, Lord.

Also, I discovered yet another song to add to my ever-expanding list of pop songs using jingle bells: "Pretty In Pink" by the Psychedelic Furs. So that brings the list to... let's see. Five?

1. "Kiss Me On the Bus"

2. "I Wanna be Your Dog"

3. "Pretty In Pink"

4. That one song on "Pet Sounds"

5. ???

I'm telling you man, jingle bells are gonna be the next big thing. There must be a Weezer song with them. There's just gotta be. Do you know what I mean?

I've been thinking a lot about Rivers and Weezer lately. I keep thinking I'm seeing him everywhere, because he lives in my neighborhood. It's so sad.




Tuesday, February 25, 2003

Lords of the Dance:

Do you ever get depressed? Sure you do. I know you do. Sometimes I get blue, too. Like today. I was blue, and I thought, I will take my hair down from this clip thing and shake it, and then eat two Altoids. If I eat two Altoids at the same time, I know I'll feel better. I know it'll feel like a new beginning.

It's goofy how little shit can trigger feelings.

There's lots of little remedies for mild depression. Playing guitar is a time-consuming but sure-fire remedy. Cleaning and doing laundry is huge. Coffee is a miracle. The gym. Coffee and the gym is so powerful it can trigger a manic upswing, so look out. Those manic upswings always drop you hard.

What I have learned last night and today is that when I'm in a crap mood I end up having a much better time going out. Like last night: Went with Axel to Spaceland. We were split up for much of the time, because people always think he's my goddamn boyfriend, and I get no play. So I was alone and feeling shitty and it rocked.

more later.


Monday, February 24, 2003

Tell Me Something Good:

The weather is ass today and I am recovering slowly from a life-changing weekend with my buddy Jim. For this reason I can't write much today.

Something changed on Saturday afternoon when we were at our friend C's house. We smoked some pot and played three-way DJ in his cavernous living room.

Real psychedelics make music sound better than in really is. This is why I am skeptical of electronica and jam-band shit.

Pot is different. Now, bear in mind, I hate pot in general and am opposed to the "pot lifestyle." The only way I can do it is with the specific purpose of listening to music with a friend. Something about pot is much more honest than those other drugs. It doesn't make music sound better than it really is: It makes it sound more like itself, whatever that may be.

You hear a song you've heard forever and you suddenly understand that you were hearing it wrong forever. The surprise is, the revelation remains even after the drug wears off. For example: The first song was the Cars' "Let the Good Times Roll." I never liked that song until yesterday. First off, we were blown by how T. Rex it is. (I knew "The Dangerous Type" was T. Rexy, but didn't realize it went beyond that.)

So we were all lounging around; I was standing up, and then I felt kind of sad. "Shit--this song is kind of dark, isn't it?" I said. Jim was like, wow, yeah. It's dark.

I suppose that insight is obvious enough to any serious Cars fan, but to me, the more casual Cars-lover, it was a surprise. I never listened to that song before.

It was fun to sit with C. and sing really ridiculous lyrics and laugh at them: "When this kiss is over it will start again/it will not be any different, it will be exactly the same." Or, "He thinks I just became famous and that's what messed me up."

The best parts were when Jim played the Waterboys song that goes, "That was the river, this is the sea...."

Jim is beautiful because he sits back, closes his eyes, and opens every pore to the song, no matter what it is, and he gleans from it whatever good there is.

That's how he lives, too.

So, listen up. I know, the Grammys and all, but I'm sorry, I forgot to watch. It's fun forgetting important shit. Like the time I forgot armed robbery was illegal. :)

I should watch shit like the Grammys and sometimes I get into that kind of entertainment. But right now, blame it on the ions, something like the grammys would make me want to shoot myself and all my neighbors. The Grammys are so far removed from what music actually is, it's kind of like watching Martians trying to put on an Earthling-style TV cooking show. (Can't you just picture them, folding up weird fake wannabe pot stickers and making fake goo-goo eyes when they eat?) It's got its own internal logic but it has no relation to the actual thing. (And yes, I did once see a Martian cooking show, when I was in the future.)

Anyway, so instead of the grammys, last night I listened to real LPs on my brand-new shitty/awesome suitcase record player. It is so hot and sexy, I told Ken I want to go on a date with it. (Take it to a restaurant and sit it across from me, play all my favorite records.) Anyway, I listened to Every Mother's Son ("Come on down to my boat baby..." the naughtiest pop hit since "Shake rattle and Roll"); Paul Revere and the Raiders; Cameo; The Move (proto-ELO); Rufus ("Tell me something good..."); and my new flavor of the week, The Kings, from 1980, produced by Bob Ezrin. They are the most partyingest rock band I've heard in a while, with a great song called "Partyitis." Of course, "Switchin To Glide" was their big hit but they have a couple other OK songs.

Listening to records on Saturday with Jim and C., I kind of realized something that I can't put into words. This is the best way i know how to communicate with music, or to talk about it: Just to play it in the right moment, and let it speak for itself. Jim and I decided we were going to crash the intellectual rock critics' confab at the Experience Music Project this year, where all the Greil-abe's (um, like a wannabe?) and Christgeeks get together and speak in sign language about post-music---we're just going to get onstage and play records.

Haw haw. Actually I haven't been to the conference and a couple good friends of mine like it. I just can't stomach the thought of a bunch of people talking about ideas about music when they should be getting drunk and dancing and making out and playing guitar instead. And talking about music. That's how I'd prefer to commune with the mystery, anyway.



Friday, February 21, 2003

Hi, Famous Monsters of Filmland:

What's up? Jim is here, my ex-mentor, and he's going to say something to you now. I don't know what about.

Here's Jim: I know what you all want to know: what does kate;s physical blogspace look like? well, i don't want to give it all away, but there's framed butterflies all over the place and a huge bong and melted vinyl ash trays and pens and pencils and, mostly, crayons. instead of stereo speakers, she[;s got marshall stacks and she sits atop one as she blogs.. weirdest thing is, she sits about eight feet away from the screen, feet up, keyboard akimbo.

we went to visit my first journalism hero yesterday: forrest j. ackerman, founder, editor, publisher of "famous monsters of filmland." totally fucking thrilling. we saw bela lugosi's cape from dracula and boris karloff's ring from the mummy and the brontosaurus that chased the guyup the tree in king kong. we had our pictures taken with forry, and he patted kate on the but. he's 86 and still kicking. here's kate for a more colorful entry:

Hello again. That was Jim. He wanted to see how the whole "blogging" "thing" happens.

I'm happy because today we're going to buy a portable turntable for me so I can finally listen to the records I've been collecting for three years: Cameo's "Word Up," "Xanadu," the Hello People's "Bricks," and my most recent acquisition (courtesy Ken B.), Nick Lowe's "Pure Pop for Now People."


Also last night I finally met J. Go, who is sooo sweet.

word up.

peace out, yo.


and jim!

Thursday, February 20, 2003

Hi You Fly Ass Bitches:

I deleted the anti-war speech because it was too long.

I mean, it served its purpose and then it started to just be really long.

So anyway, we all know how bad KROQ sux and all, but I have to say, they are better now than they've been in four years at least. Not only do they play the White Stripes, the Strokes, the Flaming Lips, Beck, Johnny Cash (weird but whatever), and the Donnas, but the number-one most requested song for the past three weeks has been a burned copy of an import not yet available in the states---and it is the best song in the whole wide world. THIS is how they used to do it back in the old school. Just play whatever, if it was good, no matter what. Appropriately, the song is called "My United States of Whatever," and it's a goofy joke song, but also just a great real song, about this kid whose favorite word is "whatever."

As joke-like songs go, this one has a much longer shelf life than "Because I Got High." I guar-own-teee.

I think it's about time someone wrote a song about the word whatever.

At first I thought it was this White Stripes B-side I heard one time about a kid whose girlfriend dumps him at the bowling alley for another guy, so he smashes the pinball machine. But that's a whole other story.

I can't find any streaming version of the song on the web to link to, so maybe sometime you can just suck it up and turn to 106.7. I promise, it's a cute fun rock n' roll song.

It's by Liam Lynch, who did Sifl and Oly, the most awesomest show MTV ever had (and which they were super-retarded about, playing it at random times and then dumping it, I think). Oh well, I have a feeling L.L Whatever J. is going to have the last laugh!

My boy Jim Walsh is coming to stay for a couple days so i prolly won't be able to blog, which I'm sure will just ruin your weekend. Haw. Haw. This blog has been lame for a little while. Fuck it, I'm sorry, but I'm saving my genius for something amazing. I mean, besides the secret weather machine.

Oh yeah, BTW, Supergrass was cool Saturday night but I was feeling so punk, as my mother would say (she goes way back to the old school) that I had to leave in the middle. they were super tired too as it was their third show in a row. Gaz's voice was shot and you could tell they'd been partying like proper rock stars, not married pussy ass English poppas. Happy to report that Gaz has gone back to being totally hot. Thank God. There's some things you need to rely upon, year after year. Chocolate Neccos, Coca Cola, night-blooming jasmine, and Gaz Coomb's hotness.

love n rockets,


Tuesday, February 18, 2003

All Right, Already!

People! Can we get it together? Do I have to give you the business yet again?

If I've told you once I've told you I don't know how many times, the shorts go on under the pants; the shoes over the socks. And, for god's sake, it's pantyhose under the skirt.

I mean, I'm really trying not to be a bitch, but you make it hard sometimes.

Just think of it like a pie: soft inside, crunchy outside. If it's crunchy, put it on last.

So I'm back, sort of, from the mines.

The big news for today is I'm really starting to get "Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground" on guitar. It's a perfect song for someone at my level, because it's got rad dumb power chords, but then it's also got these delicate, mildly challenging plucky bits in the middle ("hammer on/hammer off," as Axel says). Like I said, crunchy outside, chewy inside.

Just like a man.

Women are the opposite.

Soft outside, crunchy inside.

I'm sorta bummed about that long political speech here on my blog because it's caused a barrier to the whole crying comments thing going on down below, which is way fresh and "happening."


If you write a happyface in the comments, it makes a little yellow happyface automatically.

Just a tip, yo.

I'm drinking a much needed beer right about now.

Valentine's day turned out pretty pretty for me. My goddess Emmanuelle dropped by unannounced to give me flowers! It was so moving it got all teary and happy. Then I got a couple heartfelt emails and phone calls from good friends and it was all good. That night I stayed up all night with Emmanuelle and our friend Ken, listening to music and talking. Ken and I bonded over George Michael's "Listen Without Prejudice."

He's the best, and "Listen Without Prejudice" is brilliant.

Yikes. Whatever "it" is, I'm out of it.

Got to get back in it.

sparkle motion,


Monday, February 17, 2003

get yer blog on

terribly depressed about this crazy war thing and moved by the people of the world. tonight four old people stood outside mother of good council church with "no war" signs, just some old people who wanted to do something. it wasn't even rush hour.

i need to cry and wanted to write about it all, but i've got a lap full of fluffy puppy now and that's much more important. i can't stop kissing him on his soft little skull with the baby dandelion fur.

pray for peace. i gotta crash.



Saturday, February 15, 2003

Invincible Winners:

The protest today in Hollywood was rad. Really diverse and pretty mainstream, I thought. I mean, the sketchy/scuzzy factor was much, much lower than at the Sunset Junction Street Fair, for example. My favorite moment of the day was when we passed Graumann's Chinese Theater. They have actors there dressed up like famous icons, and you can get your picture taken with them. Well, it turned out that both Superman and Marilyn were for peace, and they were posing with people's "No War" signs. Superman had a quiet dignity and real pathos, because his suit was a little dingy and baggy, and his black hair dye was growing out.

I love Hollywood.

There were some actors there but I was mostly excited to see Jon Brion, alone as he always seems to be. I also saw Eric from Hole but that wasn't such a big deal.

I ran into my sister in law, Marketa, and a couple other people I knew. I think the crowd was about 20,000. Small but big.

I am hoping that the more mainstream groups will take over organizing duties in future from the ANSWER weirdos, because they suck, they're boring and divisive and stinky, they have poor fashion sense and they yell too much. And I just read in the LA Times that one of the main groups in the ANSWER coalition supports Saddam Hussein. Plus, there are way too many Commies up in there. Anyone who likes Communism has never lived under Communism. Anyway, a lot of those protest Commies are completely out of their minds, like right-wing Christians without the money for decent meds.

Fortunately, these types of losers are the minority of the anti-war population.

I had an American flag, because I am a patriot and I think America kicks ass and I don't have time for anti-Americanism.

I don't have time for playa-haters, or hateration of any kind.

I walked to the protest because I live so close to Hollywood and Vine, and afterward I stopped in at the Best Western diner for some dinner. It was packed with protest kids. Jon Brion was there again, at the counter, alone, like me. He went to the jukebox and programmed a somewhat topical set: "What's Goin' On," "Do You Realize?" by the Flaming Lips, "You Dropped A Bomb On Me" by the Gap Band, "It's a Family Affair," "Beast of Burden"... not all of it was exactly precise but it sounded good to me, and I felt happy that someone else there cared at least as much as me about tripping out on music.

While "Do You Realize?" played, he sort of scanned the room to see if anyone was listening, and his lips were mouthing the words to the song. I know that feeling: You put something incredible on and it'll just break your heart of no one's paying attention.

I like the lyrics to that song:

Do you realize

That you have the most beautiful face?

Do you realize

We're floating in space?

Do you realize

That happiness makes you cry?

Do you realize

That everyone you know someday will die?

And instead of saying all of your good-byes

Let them know you realize that life goes fast

It's hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn't go down

It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

(Thanks, jukebox hero, who I could never say hi to.)

I am utterly wiped out, though, and the thought of going to Spaceland to see Supergrass tonight is a bit comical to me. I mean, maybe I should just power through it, just go for it. You never know who might be there, what heartthrob might be waiting to do some damage.

My boy Patrick Park is opening.

Got to go talk to the Voices.



Friday, February 14, 2003


Happy Valentine's Day, and remember, you don't need a sweetie to have a great V.D. All it takes is one good friend and some booze, and you've got a potential Christmas, Fourth of July, Thankgiving, Easter and Valentines Day on your hands. Or something.

Anyway, I want to encourage you to keep writing your comments about crying, if you feel like it.

On the war note, I hear today where Archbishop Roger Mahoney has come out against the war and is asking Catholics to pray for peace.

Trip out, dude.

kisses and puppies,


Wednesday, February 12, 2003

Hey Lip Smackers:

First of all, I am unspeechified, I mean, I am dumbified, by your unspeakably rad comments about crying. PLEASE keep them coming, and don't be afraid to add more even if you already wrote one.

Like, for example, I already mentioned crying at the end of "Barbershop," right? But I also cried last week when I was playing guitar. I was listening to Prince's cover of "One Of Us" ("what if God was one of us?"), and I lost it! I was thinking about the Golden Rule, the family of humanity, and the message of Jesus: love each other. (OK, I was thinking about war, too.) I get terribly sentimental thinking about brotherly love.

I included that song in an article I wrote last week for Valentine's Day, for City Pages. It's about love songs for people who aren't in love. It's not a very good article, but what the hell. I had to write it in one day.

I also wrote another not-very-good article for the L.A. Weekly about amateur songwriters and their valiant efforts to save their own lives and sanity with music.

Here is an article for Valentine's Day by my friend Michaelangelo, a list of 69 years of love songs. I am so happy he included the Flamingoes' "I Only Have Eyes For You," the perfect love song.



Tuesday, February 11, 2003

Hi Cheeseheads:

It's rainy this evening and i just had Chinese food in Studio City with my friend Lydia, the 89-year-old pianist. I like going to dinner with her because she lives in Laurel Canyon, and I always dream that I am going to live there one day. Laurel Canyon is heaven: sweet green air and genuine quiet, in the middle of Hollywood. And so close to the Valley. I love the Valley more all the time, you see, and I'm not certain why.

Yesterday my mom told me a great story that made me feel so close to her. Last week she was in Savannah, Georgia, where my dad was getting some award or something. (I think they give out an award for Most Baby Face once a year [um, yeah], and he won!) So anyway, she and my dad and someone were waiting for a bus to the Most Baby Face awards, and it was really cold, so she ran down the street into some seedy little bar, where there were three people, and said to the bartender, can you give me a drink to go? It's so cold! He said, sure, but I'm gonna have to put it in a plastic cup! So he made her the strongest bourbon and soda in Savannah and poured it into a plastic cup, and she ran all the way back to the busstop with the drink. And then everyone drank it.

I love how she used the cold as a total excuse to drink bourbon.

She said her next hobby is going to be single-malt scotch.

Anyway, big fat "ups" to Jim for his lovely comment. And, J. Go: Where can I get Nueske's bacon here? I eat it at my mom's and it's incredible but I don't know where to get it in L.A.

So, by the way, I have to amend the last post. I tied for first place with the lovely and brainy Bonnie in the epic four-hour Trivial Pursuit game, from which I am still not recovered. I slept all day today, literally, and am still completely useless and about to pass out.

It's a lot less depressing to sleep all day when it's raining. It feels like the thing to do.

I watched "Barbershop" last night. I have a crush on Ice Cube now. He is so cute. The movie was pretty good, although I fast forwarded through the comic bits where these two retarded thugs are trying to break into an ATM machine. The scenes in the barbershop are beautifully constructed 10-way conversations on everything from "the difference between a woman with a big ass and a big-ass woman" to "OJ did it." The whole thing is a tribute to the American Mom and Pop, which, as I have said before, is the backbone, the heart and the soul of the American economy. I was so exhausted yesterday that at the end of the movie, I started crying, muttering to my dog about the sacred, endangered institution of the American Mom and Pop.

It feels really good to cry at the end of movies that aren't sad, just because you feel like it. I realized this was OK when my friend told me he started crying during the Spice Girls movie. My editor Joe cries like that all the time, especially at anything girl-power related, he says. He finds girl-power terribly moving. I do too.

In fact, I am so fascinated by what makes people cry that I want to know: what was the last thing that made you cry? Tell me in the comments. You don't have to use your name if you're shy. And you don't have to tell me some personal sad story.

sweet dreams.



Monday, February 10, 2003

Hey You Fat Bludgers!

I just pre-ordered the new Harry Potter on Amazon--they're having a sale where you get it for $17 instead of $30 if you order it in advance. I am so happy. It's going to be like Christmas, come late June, when that package arrives. Apparently the new book is about 60,000 words longer than the last book. In single-spaced typed pages, that's 110 pages longer. The entire book is 510 single-spaced typed pages. That's sizable.

She's getting wordier and wordier. That's OK with me. I just wish she would cut down on the Privet Drive shit at the beginning. Drag, man.

I have a really bad, sad feeling that by the end of the series, Dumbledore will have died or gone off to the secret Wizard Dying Ground.

OK, enough of this Harry Potter shit. I sound like some lame, boring teenage blogger.

Some kind of miracle occurred last night: Not only did I win at Trivial Pursuit, playing against Ken, the world's best T.P. player, but I also won against everybody else--like, five people. This is very strange. There was some kind of magical math at work in the stars last night.

Wait, I still sound like a lame boring teenage blogger.

Fuck. OK, um. Hmm.

Well, Red Clay asked me why I blog. And then last night someone mentioned the whole privacy-exposure-voyeurism issue, the central weirdness of a blog like mine.

You know, I never intended to make this blog so personal. Some people tell me they feel voyeuristic reading it. But, you know, it's only voyeurism if you're spying. And you're not. As personal as this blog may be, it's actually pretty carefully constructed to protect the sacred, the secret, and the private stuff in my life. Not to be a bitch, but I don't share the really good shit, the real dirt.

Some people imagine I must feel uncomfortable to be so exposed in my blog. The weird thing is, I would actually feel uncomfortable being less exposed. It wouldn't be me. And, like I said, I just don't share the really important stuff. I may sometimes refer to it in funny codes that the right people will hopefully understand, or maybe nobody but the faces in the ceiling will get it. That's OK too.

OK, so enuf of this shit. I stayed up till practically sunrise last night and I have absolutely nothing interesting, charming, or memorable to say. Um, war is bad. Love is good. Eat more bacon. Read "Ask the Dust," even if you've already read it. Don't fear the reaper. That hotel detective was outta sight!



Friday, February 07, 2003

What's up, Frankenhookers:

I'm eating a chocolate cigar. It rocks.

Faith sent me a Valentine's box of candles, candy and other love stuff. I think she feels sorry for me because I'm so incredibly love-broke. (That's like when you have no money, except instead of no money, you have no love.) (The only problem with that is, I also have no money.)

Yummy yummy yummy!

A chocolate cigar is not the healthiest breakfast. But it is the funnest. (Next to bacon, bacon, bacon!)

So I decided to watch TV last night. I never watch TV, which is why I never write anything about "American Idol" or MTV or anything. But I do have a little TV the size of an Altoids box, black and white, and so I watched it for about an hour. I watched the first half of the Michael Jackson thing.

Maybe I missed out by turning it off midway, but I have to say, what an anticlimax. I didn't learn anything lurid that I didn't already know. In fact, the most embarrassing revelation the show had to offer was Michael Jackson's weird obsession with large urns.

I liked a lot of what he said. I loved the part when he takes us to his "Giving Tree," where he writes his songs. (Did you ever read "The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstein? It's a killer.)

I also liked what he had to say about songwriting: Get out of the way of the music. Don't think.

Same with dancing. Thinking is the enemy of dancing.

(That's true of sex, too.)

He also said, If you sit down and say, I'm going to write the greatest song ever, nothing happens. Instead, he said, he was driving on Ventura when he told himself, I want to write a song with a great bass line. Then the next day or so, he got the bass line in his head for Billie Jean.

That is exactly what John from the Chili Peppers said in that post from last spring: You don't go, I'm going to draw the greatest picture ever. You go, I'm going to draw a bird.

It's one of those little lessons of the universe that you either know intuitively or you learn the hard way.

I am so excited for the rain that's coming! I can't wait!

I have a big day of house-cleaning and laundry and stuff ahead of me, so bye for now.



Wednesday, February 05, 2003

hey dood

sooooo tired from two weeks of nonstop work and partying. that's why there's been no blogging lately..

gonna eat pad thai and crash with my dog

c u 2morrow



Monday, February 03, 2003

Hi, Snake Charmers:

Read beautiful Matt's awesome noodling on REO Speedwagon and infidelity songs.

I can't wait till he gets "Heard It From A Friend" figured out on guitar. But, Matt, I'm not so sure I want you to lose the power chords. (But that's just me. I just figured out "One Of Us," the Prince electric guitar version, anyway, using my acoustic. The power chords he plays sound like such survivors on an acoustic. In a good way. Oh well.)



Sunday, February 02, 2003

Greetings, Love Pirates:

Blogger just erased a whole entry about God, Prince, Jesus, Pirates, and guitars, oops... Maybe later I'll rewrite it.


Greetings, Space Pirates!

Too lazy to link to the story, but apparently the RIAA (Retarded Idiots And Asses) are still freakin that the spirit of Napster, like the spirits of punk rock and democracy, will not die. So now they're going to go after individual file-sharers, or shall I call them pirates (they sure couldn't have come up with a sexier name). They sued Verizon to reveal the name of one particularly busy pirate.

It's so funny! I love it. They will never, ever be able to stop file-sharing. The Pandora's box is open. They're so retarded, they don't even understand that people still want to go to the record store and buy records; this is an American pop-cultural sacrament like going to the movies--they just can't afford it. And if the next generation in fact doesn't have any instinct for record stores, the RIAA have themselves and their own greed to blame.