Monday, December 05, 2005


Oy! One more assignment and this semester is finally over. I can't wait to start my communication studies again. PimpRV, NappyMop, and I were talking in class when this man -- a part-time student -- approached me and asked if he and I could "get together sometime." Oh yeah, yeah, I dismissed, going right back to talking to my girlfriends, not realizing he already had my number, taken under different pretenses two days ago.

PimpRV mentioned how old he was: "And that receding hairline?"

"Yeah, he's like [NerdQuirk's] even older brother."

Fo sho. Look, I admit I'm especially judgmental because I'm going through a dry spell. Sure, it's been going on for ... before I can even remember and I sabotage promising relationships to dodge potential promise. But I'm young! and maybe a bit asexual. I mean, I find platonic friendships swell. What is the point of showing up at my place when I have no literal need for you? That might sound unconscionably harsh -- and I don't deny that living alone frequently sucks -- but if I'm deriving satisfaction from a renewable source (i.e. myself), why pretend they're someone they'll never be? Why lead them into thinking they are an integral part of making me functional when I am more functional without them? Been there, getting over that. To be so dependent on an idea -- a self-serving one at that, however masochistic -- wasn't healthy for me. I punctured myself with holes to provide an ideal landscape for a two-person play. And although no man is an island, he's no excavated Pompeiian artifact in dire need of a glue gun either. We might be social animals, but it is a conditioned affliction to believe we are not whole until we find our "better half" -- a statistically futile pursuit. It's a paradox: we search for that perfect symbiotic relationship only to realize, too late, that the source of our growth has become a source of dependance.

So let's just be friends. It's all I can hope to offer.


Just got Fannypack's most recent release, See You Next Tuesday. A trio of Brooklynites who sound like an urban M.I.A. with infectiously danceable beats. In indie rock news, Get Set Go are okay, listenable, nothing too special. "Abraham Lincoln smoked crack on the downlow." Typical absurdist lyrics. Another recent album I got was Mercedes Sosa. Beautiful Latin voice. She's 70-years-old and has been tackling an illness, but her voice still doesn't sound fragile nor contains the unintentional frigidity found in the music of her cross-over pop successors.


Ivy - In The Clear (catchy as HELL, the good kind).
Feist - Let It Die (sang for Kings of Convenience, a member of Broken Social Scene).
Roisin Murphy - Ruby Blue
Sufjan Stevens - Illinois
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (it's one-part clown rock, one-part get up and dance).
Pink Martini - Hang On Little Tomato (but if you enjoy covers: Sympathique)

I didn't think I'd enjoy James Blunt because he reminds me too much of a corny artist featured in a Top 10 sappy playlist. But fuck it, he does saccharinity well (odd, considering his intense military background). And for anyone who just wants a relaxant, there's Coralie Clemente. It's French chanson with bossa nova and other jazz-derived influences. There's also PSAPP, Nouvelle Vague, Edan (old-school remixes which explains an appearance by LL Cool J), Isolee (electronic, but accessibly experimental), and lest I forget, Antony and the Johnsons. The lead singer is a fat goth who sings like no one I've heard. He warbles like a swallow and does it so beautifully, floating between a falsetto and a baritone within a bar and octave. He's like Dr. Frankenstein: sewing feminine and masculine elements together as if it's the most natural thing to do. And frankly, he does a damn convincing job. I have so much more music I want to introduce. Anyway, Math Judas has a habit of asking me for recommendations and as a friend, I feel like this is the only way to relieve him of his Iron Maiden monstrosity, save duress. (You know you do, don't deny it!)

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