Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

music

Self Control

by

I imagine that most people, including myself on occasion, have a reflex to tell them to stop eating something before they’ve had to much, other than a gag reflex. Maybe you sense that you’ve been through a serving size. Maybe your taste-buds are feeling worn out. Maybe you just don’t want any more.

There are many foods that I have eaten too much of. I am a fan of ice cream. I eat sushi with delight. My love for scappels knows no bounds. However, at some point, I can stop eating all of these foods. However, I cannot conjure any of these reactions when it comes to popcorn. You could literally strap a feed bag of popcorn around my neck, and I would probably continue to eat it until my stomach could not contain any more.

Plain, lightly salted, heavily buttered or carmelled, I don’t know what it is, really. I can eat it at movies even after having a full dinner. At home, I occasionally eat it in lieu of dinner. When my coworkers (not realizing the inherent danger of such a purchase) goaded me into buying a bag as big as my entire torso to snack from at work, I finished it in under 48-hours.

Is this just an indication of larger impulse-control issues? Or, is popcorn my dietary kryptonite, the one food that evades all of my defenses? Do you have a food like this, or does this revelation just confirm that I am a total mutant?

Tangible

by

Over at SongFight they have two particular side skirmishes that have been piquing my interest.

One is the Album a Day movement, where you do your best to write and record a 20-Minute EP in a single 24 hour period. Lots of SongFighters have joined the fray; the results i’ve heard have been mixed, with a lot of silly songs, but a a few keepers. I am sorely tempted to try it.

The second, starting on Friday, is Marathon Songs – where all the participants will write one song per day for sixteen days. The thought of recording and posting a song for sixteen straight days makes my head quiver and long to explode – this is, afterall, my year off from Blogathon. Still, i am intriqued by the thought of forcing out a product consistently for two weeks, especially as lately i am alternately convinced my songwriter gland has atrophied and afraid that i will never be able to record all of the dozen dozen songs i’ve got floating around.

That’s the crux of it, really. I have so many songs floating, and i am torn between forging onward into the unknown and holding back to work what i have into perfection. Hopefully the decision will be made easier by the shiny new guitar winging its way to me from Kansas City as we speak, but in the meantime i am warming up for either or both of the SF challenges, with my final decision on whether i participate or not coming on Friday.

So, yeah, basically what i’m trying to say is: here’s some shitty poetry.

I am thinking where am i
Georgia O'Keefe flowers keeping watch
Over my drip drop on the museum floor

I am soaking wet in Washington
Sixth and Pennsylvania
With four dollars in my pocket

     Lost here in the city
     I recognize each building
     That i have seen on teevee
     Could i be as real as these streets?

I was walking in New York City
Skirting the hole
Where buildings used to be

I was circling Central Park
Where teevee stars walk
But i don't know where i am really

     And lost then in the city
     Rabi seated across from me
     Could i be as real as those streets?
     As real as the buildings i once looked down from upon
     Now gone?

I am wondering who am i
Walking to your house
Wondering if i know where i begin
So many ends i've got figured out, but
The means to acheive is what i'm always missing

Dry now in Washington i know i'm as real as the streets
And that white house where all the dignitaries meet
As real as Georgia O'Keefe's
Lewdest flowers, hung for all the world to see

RE: You Rock

by

I expect Saturday mornings to be loud in the apartment. It’s a day off, a day to wake up early with too much energy, a day of errands and industriousness. Upstairs they are vacuuming, here we are learning harmony, and there is a wonderful rock coming from downstairs. So wonderful, in fact, that i was sure that i recognized it.

Opening the door to our stairwell i discovered that Zoe, our downstairs neighbor, was playing my traditional airplane-landing accompaniment, PJ Harvey’s “Kamikaze.” This from the same neighbor who was blasting Madonna the day we moved in, and whose best friend is an abnormally pretty drag-queen named Dave, who occasionally chats with me in the hall.

Basically, she is the best downstairs neighbor ever. To show my appreciation, I left the following note, written on leftover coochie-snorcher-pink paper from the Vagina Monologues in red sharpie, taped to her door:

From: Upstairs

RE: You Rock

I noticed you were playing my favorite PJ record. I have everything PJ has recorded; feel free to borrow some. -Peter

ps: It’s nice to have neighbors with good taste!

Dead Soldiers and Spears. Live Music.

by

First off, a big round of applause to Scott Andrew for what sounds like a terrific gig opening for Josh Kellley. Photos here. ::sigh:: I wish i could get out to see more awesome shows like this. ::double sigh:: I wish i was playing awesome shows like this.

Soon. Soon. First, Copy, Right? blogs excellent cover tunes from a range of artists, along with intelligent commentary. With sidebar links to SongFight and a referral from Largehearted, how could it be anything but good?

Speaking of stealing links from the good denizens of my own sidebar: The Go Fish exposes a must-read story about Tami Silicio, a cargo-worker with Maytag Aircraft who snapped a photo of flag-draped coffins being returned to the United States. The Seattle Times published her photo, and she was subsequently fired. The fact that the single picture of these coffins had to be obtained in such a fashion, and the fact that it got its photographer (and husband David Landry) fired are both absolutely beyond comprehension. Please become informed about the facts of this story, but also try to be cognizant of what they represent in the bigger picture. Perhaps Tami had no right to take the picture and deserved to be fired, but the fact remains that American journalists should not be prevented from photographing casualties, let alone in a tasteful and respectful fashion. Photographs are a powerful facet of journalistic storytelling, and the story of America’s war cannot be complete without them.

On a brighter note, i had forgotten that GoFish’s Nicole was a fellow American Idol addict. Further AI fixes can be had from an editorial lamenting the manipulations of this season as well as an overwrought Washington post recap. My aforementioned monster American Idol post still to come!

Oh, hell, let’s just stick with the music theme. I can’t believe that Melly convinced me to watch what i thought the worst music video of all time, but then realized is standard fare for the current MTV Generation. Witness as Britney… oh, hell, don’t witness it. It was terrible. Britney dies in what was originally scripted as a suicide, but now appears to be an accidental drowning by stupidity. This after her and her boyfriend yell at each other a lot while throwing and kicking things. Also, for a second consecutive single, Britney pretends she has singing range. Ten bonus points to the reader who finds me a Britney drinking game that involves shots every time they use Pro-Tools to correct her pitch or intonation. Hmm… maybe that’s why she drowned…

Okay, okay, something about a respectable muscian now. Beck? Do we still respect him? Well, in any case, his website is presenting a special ten-year retrospective slash making of his debut disc, Mellow Gold. You have to give up some personal information to access the feature, but it sounds lovely. In an alarming spate of cultural convergeance: link via both GloNo & MeFi.

Yikes, i think that’s plenty for now, and i have a karaoke hangover to finish sleeping off.