There are certain expanses that make writing seem impossible, time periods that cling to one's soul like a noose around a creative neck, and literally choke the inspiration away. The past few days have been one of those periods, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Life is good, friends are getting married, tsfat's finest imports are stewing Stateside, and the facetious vacation spirit is manufacturing jokes at a completely stunning rate. So just what is to blame for being stagnant?
well, first, a sense that i don't belong here. evy called me from israel at 2am eastern hemisphere time on new year's to say that her tour bus was approaching tsfat (note: for those of you who don't know--and who saw the matrix--tsfat is my proverbial 'girl in the red dress.' its very enunciation cripples my reasoning abilities, and a future visit's prospect makes me....wait....wait....yeah, there it is: wet my pants). That got me thinking that maybe briarwood, for all its quaint residentiality and obtuse motor vehicle operators, is not my ultimate fate. adding to my uneasiness was the presence of yakir and avi shimon christopherson, two holy land denizens moonlighting as inspirational american presences. how can i, what with my ibook g4 and propensity for languages, excuse not taking a long vacation sunbathing and writing on a rooftop in tsfat if these two knesset consiglieri can find time to condescend to these parts?
This blog, in short, was made possible only by robin and dave's wedding (note 2: robin and dave are adorable, in the way that easy bake ovens and world peace are adorable. note 2a: jewish weddings are propelled by the drums. every other instrument is purely ornamental, save for the lyricist and maybe--maybe--the bassist. the drums control everything: dancing intensity, speed, hora cohesiveness, rate of drunkenness, etc.). Sitting in the light of two ikea lamps in a subdrunk haze just a few hours later, i can messily remember feeling like anything is possible if two hippies whose relationship spawned in jerusalem's bohemian enclaves can tie the knot at a swank country club in westchester county. for that, and for the hundreds of dollars worth of booze i consumed tonight, i am thankful and prematurely hung over.
and now, courtesy of that hang over, a few random thoughts:
1. some guy i met at columbia said that radiohead and muse are qualitatively comparable bands. is he fucking kidding?
2. i love music as much as anybody, but someone has pull the carpet out from under reggaeton. hasn't anyone realized that the entire genre consists of one infinitely long song, cut up into syncopated 3-minute sub-songs? Wikipedia asserts that, "Reggaeton blends Jamaican music influences of reggae and dancehall with those of Latin America, such as bomba and plena, as well as that of hip hop. The music is also combined with rapping (generally) in Spanish."
Well, wikipedia, I have news for you: in actuality, reggaeton is a brilliant ruse operated by anti-glacier activists intent on distracting people from some of the world's hottest places--jamaica, latin america, and puerto rico, to name a few--so that the latter don't complain about the unbearable heat while those activists perpetuate global warming.
3. speaking of global warming, i don't think we're giving this phenomenon enough recognition (and no, for those who are wondering: an al gore feature film does not count as enough recognition. i don't care what, exactly, you're trying to recognize, but al gore will chronically fall short of getting you enough). It was 69 degrees in new york this saturday. 69 DEGREES!! ON JANUARY 6TH!! what would happen if it started snowing in the summertime? we'd all be crying foul about "global cooling" or writing our representatives on the hill to decry our compromised environment.
4. radiohead and muse? go suck a dick.
5. my roommates and i just bought a 50" tv for the living room. i'm going to regret that as soon as i realize that it's socially unacceptable to watch pornography on a 50 inch screen while there are people in the house.
6. the music industry is retarded. i'm not going to expound or elaborate, but take it from someone who spends all week navigating the music bureaucracy: when the clergy of yesteryear first composed gregorian chant, they weren't intending to generate the A&R department at geffen records. think i'm wrong? call geffen records and ask for mos def. see how far YOU get. i masturbated twice before i realized that "geffen" is hebrew for, "mos def would rather wipe his ass with chlamydia than talk to you."
7. what's with baseball salaries? i know athletes are grossly overpaid, and that i'll never understand it anyway, but this off-season makes me feel like i'm on crazy pills (zoolander, anyone?). mediocre players are signing deals worth way more than $100 million, and not-even-superstars are getting close to $150 million. which gets me to thinking: i'm seriously wasting my time blogging.
8. when i ask for scotch at a wedding, i don't want dewer's or cutty sark, and i especially don't want a glib bartender to try to convince me that all whisky is really just scotch with a different name. all of those scenarios are both disrespectful and deflating. every wedding, bar mitzvah, sweet 16, circumcision, lawsuit, NASCAR event, and make-out session should come standard with at least one bottle of sufficiently awesome single-malt scotch. call me ron burgundy, but there's nothing i like more than kicking back in my aquajet 3000 with my standard meal of steak, eggs, and yogurt, and, of course, a glass of scotch.
Stay subpar, dewer's bottling company,
DJ dominican dance hall