"The notes are familiar to my ears. Vaguely."
(Eastern Standard Time last weekend backing Monty Neysmith of Simaryp.)
It's been so long since I've done one of these. Hello, it's nice to see your junk mail folder again.
I was gonna rant here about The Strategist's celebrity shopping feature and how transparent and stupid it is. Like, "Hey, Famous Person, pick a few products the plebes can identify with, so we can get those sweet rev share dollars, and even sweeter metrics to show potential advertisers. We promise we'll link to the thing you're promoting right now." But it's too early to start drinking.
Instead, a transparently fucked up dream fueled by caffeine and a ska reunion.
Backstory: 30 years ago, my boyfriend-at-the-time started a ska record label. That label is somehow still going, and he is celebrating this milestone with several shows around the country this year. The DC one was this past weekend. It was also Eastern Standard Time's record release party.
I insisted on driving him to the airport at 4am Sunday. Which meant I was slamming coffee at 3:45am after two whole hours of sleep. When I got back home I passed out. Thanks to the coffee, my brain was still wide awake. A few scenes from the subsequent dream:
I'm back in Evanston or Chicago, and instead of being wracked with anxiety about meeting the tour van, I'm stressed out because I am late to tennis class. Plus I can't find my racket, or my socks, or my underwear. I later find the socks and underpants in a ball under my tennis skirt.
I am unfamiliar with my surroundings, and decide I need to break into someone's house to take a shortcut. Like, the tennis courts can't be that far from the back door of this house. It's one of those big houses that backs down a hill. I descend flight after flight of stairs, and at the bottom there is a small herd of happy golden retrievers excited to see me. It turns out this house belongs to Emma, the woman who used to run the dogwalking service that took my dog to the beach in San Francisco. She isn't angry that I broke in. I keep going, trying to find the tennis courts.
Then I'm in an office with an open floor plan. I can see the courts through a window. They are volleyball courts, so people are lobbing every shot because the nets are so high. I can't get to the court because one of the office workers has accosted me. She wants my editorial help. They work for a video streaming service and are designing a tile for users to click on to see all the depressing movies. She figures I'm just the right person to come up with 10 synonyms for "sad." As I'm looking for a pair of reading glasses, I'm attacked by a pack of kittens, one of whom gets his claws stuck in the calluses on my feet and freaks out.
Then I'm on a boat, maybe on the Chicago River, looking for another shortcut. There are sloping hills covered with saxophones and trumpets and trombones, because there is a ska music festival happening on the other side of the hills and this is the outdoor dressing room. I look down, and see members of a band I don't like, fully suited up, frolicking in a river that is probably full of raw sewage.
And finally, I walk into a restaurant where people I know are finishing dinner. My vegetarian friend offers vegetarian me some chicken, and I scarf it down. This same friend, who hates reggae in real life, is rocking out to whatever Bob Marley song is playing on the speakers. I give her shit for enjoying it, and she is angry and confused. Then I wake up.
Dime store analysis: My priorities have shifted from ska shows to tennis lessons. I can sometimes get away with breaking the law but I still can't say no to people who ask me for help. I'm a hypocrite who needs a pedicure. And I still hold grudges against bands from the '90s.
Accurate, more or less.
Links
Chuck (record label guy mentioned above) passes out sampler CDs as promos with orders, etc. Track #22 on the latest one is Flying My Friends (Bandcamp) by The Loving Paupers. Even with that 1980s UB40-sounding synthesizer drum machine business, I am obsessed with it. And now have their 2019 album Lines (YouTube) on repeat. Tracks 2 and 3 kill me in the best possible way. If there is another ska/reggae/adjacent band this good playing today, I dare (beg) you to send me a link.
A bird in Texas fell in love with a tennis ball, and Redirected Copulation is my new band name. (Texas Monthly)
My parents are dead: What now? seems to be a one-stop resource for all the various kinds of support you need when that happens. I hope somewhere in there they have "DON'T CANCEL THE CELL PHONE YET," because you're gonna need it for 2FA. (Dead Parents What Now)
The air pollution in NY (and possibly DC) last week was so much worse than it ever got in SF. (NYT)
In case you haven't seen Patton Oswalt's commencement address a couple weeks ago. (YouTube)
And in case you haven't seen the viral thread about T**mp's latest crimes. I want this person to write all the news for me. (Twitter)
What the art world doesn't want you to know about Yayoi Kusama. (Hyperallergic)
For Dilla fans. You probably already know this story, but this way of telling it is pretty cool. (Pudding)
Rusty Foster's takedown of Tim Apple's PDF Goggles Pro. "But the computer is still there, so close to your face that you’re the only one who can’t see it. The computer doesn’t disappear. You disappear." (Substack)
Me in a donated ball gown. Svetlana's wearing it now. (Instagram)
Most popular sex position in every state. (Onion)