Tag Archives: Miscellaneous

SHORT SUMMER SABBATICAL

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Been sorta M.I.A. lately, and I don’t mean some lame Elastica groupie who can’t dance wearin’ a “Golden Girls” outfit that blogger types jerk off to. Apologies for that (the not-posting, I mean — M.I.A. fans can continue to suck at the tit of mediocrity). No explanations forthcoming. Trust me, you don’t wanna know. But more stuff is on the way soon, I promise. I was thinking that, in light of the Tony Conrad review below, I may restart my long-abandoned goal of publishing the Tony Conrad Project (as it is colloquially known on teh interweb) on this here blog, in chapters. But I dunno. We’ll see. I am a lazy man. Aside from, like, booking shows, djing secret Comets on Fire shows and weird parties with swimming pools inside apartments, running around Midtown buying stuff for my friend who makes guitar straps, fulfilling orders, avoiding any mention of the name “Kaz Ishii,” buying groceries, collecting obsolete computers and peripherals, and reading. In the meantime, take a gander at Tony’s very fantastic and fun-filled new site.

SHIT FROM AN OLD NOTEBOOK

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Found this small red memopad recently on my desk. Here’s what I wrote on it, all from January 2003:

– Get on your bad motor scooter and ride.
– Jesus Fucking Christ!
– “Amor” tattooed on a man’s hand.
– White Izod socks, head down.
– My brother’s name is Daniel and my name is Jackie and my father only drinks Jack Daniel’s.
– Good thing he doesn’t drink Old Crow, then.
– Chinese New Year’s Party for M.’s birthday, January 11 (Actual b’day is the 13th) Year of the Horse.
– Carlos! Carlos! Chaos!
– The special love I had for you, my baby blue. The special love you had for me, my dixie dear. Driving around Chicago – 1996 Honda Civic, Black. Radio tuned to 97.1 FM, Badfinger is playing. End argument, burst into Badfinger song.
– Everything is a trigger; stimuli for the memory.
– Machinery, the human body, video games.
– Their prostitutes are not like our prostitutes.
– Is this just one girl?
– Yes, she has a, headset. She’s like Madonna.
– I like that you can’t kill the parachuting dude.
– 12-9 is the MTA code for someone who has fallen under the train.
– Crazy Homie5. La rana.
– You wear a tube top in winter?
– Thanks for showing up to our first practice!
– Julie Mehreiu, Matthew Ritchie – MOMA QNS.
– Internet Ebonics.
– The black man still walks the land. Kiss my shit. Don’t think I don’t know who you are!
– Written on a fireplug on 23rd Street: Neck Face. In white-out.
– If I ever have a cat, its name will be Mei-Mei.
– She pulls on his cheek; subway conversation. His hair looks like a wig.
– Get ’em dead. He don’t care what it mean.
– Who is it?
– This is the police, open up.
– Who is it?
– This is the police, downstairs. Open up.
– Feeling like manic fatigue.
– Toto IV ‘Africa’ represent.
– Hittin’ the flask, early?
– Now this wasn’t permitted by the last band –
– Yeah.
– But is it me or are trustafarians invading the free psych scene?
– Hey man –
– I mean not people like you h2ijw or me.
– You’re talking about friends of mine, man.
– No, I don’t mean the last band. I mean kids with like five hundred dollar bongos and shit.
– General Rag Company Incorporated.
– He was like phoning it in.
– Phoning what in?
– His laptop.
– Like a dial-up?
– No I mean like –
– Dial-up, heh.
– What?
– If I wanted to hear dopey post-rock noodling, I wouldn’t have left Chicago.
– I, for some reason, inexplicably hate Pittsburgh.
– If I wanted to hear dopey post-rock noodling, I’d be friends with Ian Williams.
– Oakland, too.