2013
5:02PM
View comments
I guess it’s kind of nice here.
2013
View comments
New Yorkers! Come hear a singular world premiere at Make Music New York — using the Manhattan Bridge.
2013
12:31PM
View comments
Song of the Day: Van Dyke Parks - The Attic. This is about a young man stumbling upon his father’s war chest. His word play is phenomenal, the production is second to none, and he adds little effects like the actual sound of opening the attic hatch and quoting straight form letters he finds inside. Brilliant song.
I was there upon
a four poster there.
Mind touseled
I came to bear
some thoughts from the past
amid a dash of influenza.
And then I came to see in baggage
the memories of truncated souvenirs.
The war years.
High moon I said
high moon lighted
high moon eye
to my moon.
Far beyond the blue mist
enveloped lawn
the blanketed night comes on.
The champagne is dead and gone.
The forest around sensitive sound forest primeval.
Through the panes cloud buttermilk
war remains and twisted cross
war refrains lunatic so
high moon I said
high moon lighted
high moon eye
to my moon.
Your age will most probably
carry away the letters enveloped in carrion.
Vague unpleasantries of the war.
May your son’s progenitorship
of the state haphazardly help him to carry on.
God send your son safe home to you.
High Moon.
You’re eye
to my moon.
(via dude-will-doo)
2013
8:21AM
View comments
I don’t even understand how bored I am.
2013
View comments
Seems like the twitter bird has evolved from a blue jay (not a particularly sweet bird) to a blue canary. Right on.
Join us at @tmbg if you are in to that kind of thing.
Blue canary in the outlet by the lightswitch who watches over me…
2013
3:40PM
View comments
1. I went to a Cold Stone creamery for the first time and attempted to order some kind of ice cream sundae. I wanted to take it to go, but they gave it to me in a porcelain bowl so I stayed inside to eat it, about halfway through complaining and pointing out a plastic container they could have put it in for me. (In my actual existence I still have never been to a Cold Stone but am contemplating going now as there appears to be one two stores down from the coffee house where I’m typing this.)
2. I wanted to make eggs, so I looked in the refrigerator and saw both liquid egg whites from some brand or another as well as real whole eggs. I thought “fuck it” and went for the whole eggs. Somehow, I cooked them on a toaster. Then I woke up.
"Thirteen years is a pretty long time. Long enough to make a man, according to Jewish tradition. Long enough, I’ll declare here, for the sake of argument, to get a gauge on a planet’s cultural climate and start making grand proclamations about subjective issues. Like this: Kanye West is the most important artist, in any art form, any genre, of the 21st Century."
—
Kanye West is the Most Important Artist of the 21st Century | Complex (via weirddeals)
NB the critic goes on to say:
In the early part of the last century, just about a hundred years ago, actually, Pablo Picasso (along with Georges Braque, but I like Picasso better) pioneered a style of painting called Cubism that, umm, became very important to art history. (I always feel dumb talking about art because I don’t know a huge amount about it. I do like looking at art, but I dropped out of the one art history class I took in college.
…but maybe, putting aside for a moment that [I hope] the lead quotation and headline are pseudo-serious in the their claim, someone with just this paucity of prior historical and art knowledge is the only sort of person who can claim the dominance of an individual artist in the current century?
(via weirddeals)
"If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, all of us. Proof of that is that there are about three candidates for the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays. But what is important is Hamlet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, not who wrote them, but that somebody did. The artist is of no importance. Only what he creates is important, since there is nothing new to be said. Shakespeare, Balzac, Homer have all written about the same things, and if they had lived one thousand or two thousand years longer, the publishers wouldn’t have needed anyone since."
— William Faulkner (via theparisreview)
