Saturday, August 25, 2007


When I think about next week I draw in a sharp breath involuntarily because I have so many things to do and mull over and fret about and throw myself towards, and in fact I should be doing one of them here in my office but instead I've pulled my legs up onto my chair highly unergonomically and am swilling black coffee and wishing there were some way to listen to R. Kelly here at my job. Mais n'est pas possible, and so I will just recommend the new highlight of the internet
This here blog.
Before I met Layla I read a guest column she wrote for Maximumrocknroll that took a strong stance on retaking feminism from the craft revolution ie emos who knit skull-and-crossbones scarves for their boyfriends in bands and it was like she'd read my mind, which she has continued to do over the course of the MRR columns she's posted on this blog. I mean shit, I too love X and Anne Briggs and Koro and hate on farmer's market-politics and khaki wearers on a daily basis. She writes in this amazing voice, breathless and obsessive, that makes her writing sound like a favorite remembered maybe half-drunk conversation. Sorry if this is creepy, L., but whatever, you should read these.

Friday, August 10, 2007

friday 9:42am

Here are three things said to or about me at work this week:
1. "Ella tiene cojones."
2. "That was a whirlwind job."
3. "Will you clean my apartment?"
Here are the movies I can remember seeing in the last few weeks but not writing about in a whirl of heavy cart-pushing, mojito-drinking and focused reading of Muriel Spark novels:

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning d. Karel Reisz, which has a fantastic carnival scene until you remember that honestly, anyone who can't pull off a carnival scene should probably not direct a motion picture; Albert Finney seethes with the kind of jovial rage those kitchen-sink dudes opt to portray; the book was better.

This Is England d. Shane Meadows. As my punk crush Layla would say, totes bogues, except for the use of the Toots and the Maytals song "54-36" and I think this fall's the time to retrieve my Docs from my parents' house.

Bob le Flambeur d. Jean-Pierre Melville. Bob is my favorite character in cinema. Look at him there in his tux (he was the first to imitate les Americains), attending to his gambling with the delighted raptness of a fingerpainting child.

Masculin Feminin: 15 faits precis d. Jean-Luc Godard. My friend who saw this with me believes that JLG sometimes doesn't always know precisely what he's doing, that he knows moments and scenes mean or stand for something but hasn't fit them precisely together, hasn't worked them through in the way I imagine he has--I picture a chart on which you could link scenes and themes and lines, all under perfect control. I think I'm right, but I found the notion of loose ends in a Godard movie to have a certain really lovely optimism.
Classes Tous Risques d. Claude Sautet. Pretty second-tier if enjoyable French noir.
It rains it rains; I came to work too late, at 8am. I have felt little urge to blog since I wrote last but I have moved to a pink building with a garden, have cut my hair. I want a burned cd of that Ghostface album that the white guys I know jock hard, a used lp copy of X-Los Angeles, and a shiny new Studio One Roots.

I want to go home.