The decline of western civilization
So, I have just survived the running of a gauntlet with which we are all no doubt familiar- the annual visiting of the 'rents. Similar to the running of the bulls, these occasions can be both fun and exhilirating, exhausting and painful. See, I made the mistake of assuming that I could maintain my squeaky clean image during the day with them while also continuing to party like a rock star every night after they went back to the hotel in time for their 9pm lights out. Best laid plans and all that. Instead, it went a little something like this:
DAY 1, FRIDAYMeet the folks after work, get them checked into the hotel, take Dad to Ameoba for some CD shopping (or, as he calls it, Mecca- music stores in Alabama must really really suck). Then a nice dinner at Firecracker. They love that I'm driving them everywhere, and the restaurant I choose for dinner gets rave reviews from both of them. I am the best daughter in the world. I should write a book on this and then go on Oprah and answer questions from lesser daughters on how to show their visiting parents a good time.
After taking them home I retire to my abode and get a good night's sleep.
Official bedtime: 10:30pm.
DAY 2, SATURDAY
Wake up bright and early. A few friends and I are going to take the folks to Hog Island for some oysters. They will be impressed by how charming and fun, yet mature and together my friends and I seem. My skill with an oyster shucker will serve as a metaphor for how deftly I handle all the obstacles that life throws my way.
We leave exactly on time and arrive at Hog Island only to be told that they are booked all weekend. Not to be deterred by a simple, "no," we manage to finagle both table and grill by confirming that yes, we are indeed the Nakamoto family. Parents are so far suitably impressed.
The day goes flawlessly. Only, I end up resembling this girl due to the fact that I forgot to bring sunblock.
Saturday night is the birthday celebration for a couple of friends. After dropping off the parents at the hotel at around 8:30pm I decide to stop by for a couple of beers. You know, just to say happy birthday. It would be rude not to. I decide to drink vodka tonics instead of beer. Less fattening.
When the bar closes I invite everyone back to my place for a nightcap.
Official bedtime: 3am. Oops.
DAY 3, SUNDAYNo worries. Pick the folks up at 9am, as scheduled. A little sleepy, a little hungover, but a Red Bull and a large coffee on the way to the Carnivale Parade set me back on track. It's a beautiful day for wandering around the Mission.
After we tire of the parade we return to the scene of last night's debauchery, Medjool, because I figure the rooftop will be a beautiful place to have lunch on a nice day. I'm right about that. It's gorgeous, and there are plenty of tables available. Medjool is still a hidden gem, although I predict it will be the hipster Zeitgeist once word gets out. I down a mimosa, just a taste of the hair of the dog to set things right.
Now it's time to head to Golden Gate Park, where I'm spinning with the Wildlife Crew. I'm a tad bit nervous cause my parents have never seen me spin before, and I'm not sure what they'll make of it. But we get there and the meadow is small and bathed in sunlight. People are hanging out and having a great time, and everyone is super sweet to my parents and makes them feel right at home. After rockin out to my set the folks take off to go back to the hotel and let me "spend time with my friends."
Spending time with my friends at the park inevitably leads to spending time with my friends at their afterparty. Damn
debauchery stick.
Official bedtime: 4:30 am. Oh. shit.
DAY 4, MONDAY
I feel like crap. Maintaining today is going to be a huge task. Not sure if I'm up for it. Meet the parents at 8:30 am to go to the Berkeley Rose Garden. Are you kidding me? Roses suck. The thorny little bastards are laughing at me. Sunlight sucks. I'm even more sunburned due to spending another day outside yesterday and everything hurts. When we go to lunch and the waitress asks me if I want a refill on my soda, I almost start crying. Why do I do this to myself?
I suggest that we go see a movie. Brilliant idea! I'm surprised at my own resourcefulness. I'm still entertaining them and being a good host, but if I curl up into my hoodie and hide I can manage to get a couple hours sleep in a darkened room without them being any the wiser. They want to see Star Wars, which is even better because 1) I've already seen it and 2) it's long as hell. Ahhhh, blissful sleep from opening scroll shot all the way to "Nooooooooooooooo!"
I'm a little better off afterwards thanks to the forty winks I just got, but now it's time to decide on a restaurant. Nothing seems to be open cause it's a holiday or something, and my mind is still processing information at about 1/4 its normal speed- not that normal speed is all that hot either, mind you. Somehow we end up at Esperpento. Esperpento? What the hell is wrong with me? Did I mention that's it's my mother's birthday dinner? The food sucks. I suck. I can't even make conversation. Everytime they look at me I think, say something say anything say something. Finally I come up with, "am I supposed to be saying something?" Brilliant.
Luckily, they are fairly understanding. They know that the sunburn prevented me from getting a good night's rest. And they tell me how much they liked my friends and how they feel much better about me living all the way out here now that they know that I have nice people looking after me. At this I giggle, maybe a little maniacally. My parents glance at each other. Time to go.
Now it's over. They've gone, and even though I already miss them it's nice to know that I have another year before I have to do it again. I take some consolation in the fact that next year I will be one year older, and no doubt one year wiser. I mean, hell, I'm turning 30 this year. I'll be much more mature after I turn 30, right? Right?
Shhh! Be vewy vewy qwiet...
If you haven't already heard of the
Wildlife Crew, these are the folks hopping around the playa as Bunnycamp come Burning Man time. And let me tell you, those waskely wabbits make the rest of Burning Man seem tame in comparison. Seriously, you'll be walking along the playa, minding your own business and trying to stay out of trouble, and then "Hey, what's this? Oh, look, it's a cute little bunny..." and then BAM! Little bunny Foo Foo bops you over the head with the debauchery stick. Lil bastards get me every time.
Well if you want to catch some Wildlife right here in the city, grab your safari hat and come out to Golden Gate Park this Sunday, where the crew will be throwing down BBQ and beats for the enjoyment of all. I'll be spinning at a time to be determined by when I get my ass down there, apparently (gotta love these guys, so soft and pliable! Just like real bunnies!).
Details here.
Binging and purging with Palahniuk
Anyone who's ever read or seen
Fight Club knows that Chuck Palahniuk doesn't write pretty stories. Well constructed, yes. Fascinating? Maybe, in the same way that a freak show or car accident is fascinating. But pretty? Hell no.
The last time I read a Palahniuk novel was when a friend recommended
Choke. Now, I have a thing about novels- unless they are just badly written, I will read them to the end, no matter how uncomfortable they make me. This novel more than any other I've read demonstrates that fact. It was not that any particular scene or passage in the novel was the most disturbing thing I had ever read (that distinction goes to the torture scene in
Wind Up Bird Chronicle- messed up stuff), but rather that the novel as a whole just makes you feel so, well, icky.
The main character isn't even noble enough to be despicable. Reading about his life just makes you kind of sad that these people exist, and a little peeved at Palahniuk for capturing your attention so fully that you have to spend that much of your life with this guy. In fact, I'm not sure why my friend recommended the novel- he has since admitted that he felt the same way about it. Thanks, guy!
When I heard about his new collection of short stories,
Haunted, it was in the context of the reaction the book has received at readings throughout the country. Folks have passed out in 2 cities, aspirated on their own vomit in others. These stories are widely publicized to be one of the most disgusting, stomach- turning collections of literature ever produced. I decided that this time- I wasn't going to fall for it. Long a fan of good horror fiction, I've never liked books or films which aim to find life only through shock value. Like bad sex, they tend to just make you feel kind of dirty and unfulfilled afterwards.
But the book has filled me with a sort of fascination with Chuck Palahniuk. Who the hell does this guy think he is? So when I came across
this radio interview, billed as being so offensive that it couldn't be aired in it's entirety on the radio, I thought 'ok, I'll bite.' I downloaded the MP3 with the expectation of being fully disgusted by everything this man had to say.
And I
was a bit unsettled from the first moment I heard his voice. He has this sort of geeky tone that is distinctly unpleasant. Or maybe I just so expected it to be unpleasant that it would have sounded that way to me no matter what. But the more I listened the more intrigued I became, not because he was offensive, but because there were so many really amazing insights contained in this interview. Everything from general thoughts on the creative process of fiction writing to the connection between politics and horror, and how the genre of horror has changed and adapted to fit a more secular society.
So if you are at all interested in how fiction happens, or even how art in general happens, I recommend getting this guy's perspective. I ended up even liking Palahniuk a little after hearing the interview. Not sure if I like him enough to read the book, but who knows. Maybe I'll check it out. But definitely not on a full stomach.
link to interview via
boingboing
I <3 Husky Boys
Sorry, couldn't resist an opportunity to post more puppy pics.
Here's some vid from the CFDC fashion show, with an intro by The Specialist himself:
Well if you didn't make it to Stefanie's CDFC annual fashion show
here's a little something we like to call "bringing it"
If you only want to get off a little, here is the low-bandwidth
teaser version:
http://www.200paul.com/TurnOffTeaser.html
If you have a change of undies available and a broadband connection
check this out:
http://www.200paul.com/PantyPeeler.html
P@blo
PS I think you need quicktime or real player to see this.
PSS Husky For life!!! - which BTW when you are as husky as me, may
not be too long.
Movie snooze
Ang Lee directs
Gay Cowboys Eating Pudding:
Please let there be a bowl of pudding in
this film. Pleeeeeeeease.
link via
Defamer
Oh dear lord:
Two Star Wars fans are in a critical condition in hospital after apparently trying to make light sabres by filling fluorescent light tubes with petrol. link
They go on to say, "A videotape was found nearby by police called to the scene on Sunday." We've secured
the footage.
Ok, that's not the actual tape. But you needed to see that again anyway. Trust me.
Jess the Ruler of Noodles
In my research for the last post I found that I have my own manga character on
this site. Ok, well, me and everyone else who shares my name. But I think you'll agree that this one is maybe a little bit more suited to me than other Jesses out there. In fact, I think I've found my spirit manga. Her name is
Jess the Ruler of Noodles.
Best not to ask what that squirrel is handing her. Or why she looks so happy.
Graffiti the Ghost in the Machine
Good gottdam it's a beautiful day in San Francisco. So why am I inside? Well, mostly cause my people burn on contact with the sun. Really, it's not pretty. But also because there's so much stuff going on in world news today, and I can't bear the thought of people not knowing that:
COMPUTERS CURE DEATH, simultaneously inspiring hundreds of sci fi horror movie plots:
DEATH could become a thing of the past by the mid-21st century as computer technology becomes sophisticated enough for the contents of a brain to be "downloaded" on to a supercomputer, according to a leading British futurologist. link
Futurologist? Is that seriously a job? If so, sign me up. I predict that man eating and evil natured robots will spell the end for humankind as we know it in the year 2063. Our only hope will be a young girl named
Yoshimi. She's a blackbelt in karate. Now pay me.
Oh, and I'm so gonna get me some
manga hair.
Speaking of virtual heroines, anyone who played Tomb Raider back in the day remembers that Lara Croft's boobs got larger and larger with each sequel. Well, evidently she started to complain to Eidos about back pain, cause they finally
granted her a breast reduction. That's what they say, anyway. My theory is that they finally got so big they just exploded.
Oh, and last but not least, check out these photos from the
Neckface exhibit in Lon-d-d-don. link via
Cool Hunting.
Fashion and Forties
Sorry for the lag in posting. It's been really hard for me to get back in the swing of things this week. I did have a lovely weekend though.
First off, on Friday I went to see Revenge of the Sith. Believe the hype. It's good. Some folks might like it more than others, and there are still some obvious flaws, but anyone who says it was complete crap is just hating for the sake of hating.
It
is dark- very dark. This movie is the story of the creation of one of the greatest movie villians of our generation, and IMHO it rises to the challenge. I was fully entertained the whole time. Keep an eye out for the obvious Bush administration parallels that will probably sail right over the heads of the red staters who see the film. You can read Kevin Smith's review
here, but beware spoilers.
Still wet from Vadar's afterbirth, we decided to go and check out the
Wildlife crew's new monthly held every third Friday at Club 222. I like this little bar- they have a friendly staff and good soju mojitos. Maybe it's because I'm getting older, but I really prefer nights like this nowadays- hanging with some good friends in a small bar and just talking about stuff and acting stupid. You know, like doing your best Kyung Rok impression.
So... Jess. Baby. Break it down for me... what about this new guy you told me about? I want details... (Much love to Rok, who always remembers that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Or something like that.)
Saturday night we hit up the Cloud Factory Fashion show. Husky Bwoys ruled the evening. I've always appreciated a man with a little meat on his bones, and these fellas delivered the goods, working that runway like Tyra Banks on steroids. Big ups, guys! Pun most definitely intended. I'll post pics as soon as Stef sends them to me.
Sunday the lady Tamo hosted a little impromptu trunk show at her pad, which provided a great excuse to grill out on the sidewalk in some rare SF sun with a 40 oz. Hot dogs and fashion go so well together, don't you think? The show featured Tamo's Greengirl hoods,
ViaJay wear, and Kyra, who is going to hook me up with my very own HELL JESS belt buckle.
Check out her stuff, it's wikkid.
After a fun filled weekend like that it's really hard to come back to work.
But things like
the Ding Dong song definitely help to smooth the transition. Gotta love those Europeans. They are an endless source of entertainment.
Gobot!
Can't post much today- gotta keep working so that I can get off early to um, go, um, ok screw it I'm going to see Star Wars.
Anyway, just had to drop a quick note to remind everyone that Cloud Factory is having their annual fashion show tomorrow featuring the design brilliance of our own little babushka
Stefbot. These are not your mama's stuffy ass fashion shows- that is unless your mama is a robot ballerina. Cloud Factory always puts on an incredibly fun spectacle of light, sound, and color. And their models eat. And drink, if my past experience participating in these shows is any indicaton.
Check it out- or taste my wrath!! Too much? Yeah, I was just trying it on.
Anyhow, maybe Stefbot will tell you a bit more, unless she's still sewing her fingers to the bone like a 5 year old in an Indonesian Nike Factory. Go little Bot! Sew like the wind!
photo via
iceplant gallery
Until next time: no one cares that you're a DJ. Well, except
this guy, apparently.
Making nice
Ok, I know I've been hard on you for the past couple of days. Headless chickens and 2 ton catfish? What's this? Where's the love? I know. We deserve a break from the dark side.
So here's a gallery of images that would melt the heart of even the most jaded scenester:
Here's a baby pygmie goat! Hey there little guy!
This is a bushbaby! Whaaaa?
Hey! Behind Kimmel, is that? Yes it is! It's the cutest DJ in the world!
via
catchdubs(don't hate- it's a healthy obsession, ok?)
Missouri: more redneck than your hometown
I was not going to post this because I was afraid it would give everyone nightmares. I haven't slept very well myself since I read it. I sent it to the people who needed to see it and then tried to erase the images from my mind.
But then our man in the field, Jeffro, who has just returned from Missouri, reported that the phenomenon is more widespread than we had initially feared. In fact, one of his best friends was even wearing a T-shirt endorsing the activity. I give you: Noodling.
Kansas City Howard Ramsey remembers the day he waded into the Salt River in northeastern Missouri, swam into a hole in the bank and caught a big catfish with his bare hands. link
If you've never seen a catfish, let me break it down for you. A catfish is a bottom- dwelling ill-tempered son of a bitch. Think of him as an underwater badger, but, you know, without the cocaine. Rows of tiny and very sharp teeth can clamp down on a man's arm and rip the skin off like peeling a banana (I told you this wouldn't be pleasant). They can also grow to enormous sizes. There are legends of divers seeing channel cats as big as twin engine airplanes. And they're not even that tasty, although my Mom's fried catfish could make a grown man cry. What I really want to know is what they do with these disgusting SOBs after they catch them. A free "Noodlers do it in the mud" beer coozie for anyone who can find out.
Now, to my knowledge (which, granted, is limited), only three good things have ever come out of Missouri: Jeffro, Greg, and Budweiser. Apparently, none of these three will tolerate the drinking of bad beer:
Hopkins, 41, is suing American Eagle Distributing Co., saying the company wrongly fired him for drinking Coors in a bar two years ago. link
My god... hasn't the poor man suffered enough? He drank a Coors for Christ's sake. *shudder*
May 17: Mike the Headless Chicken Day
For once, I'm speechless. So let's just take a moment of silence to remember a fearless soul and an ambassador for his species:
Mike the Headless Chicken.
This is the story about Mike the chicken. Mike, of course, was not your ordinary chicken. No, not ordinary at all. You see, Mike was a headless chicken. If you want to be really specific, Mike was actually a headless Wyandotte rooster. link
If, like me, you can't make it to Fruita, CO for the Mike the Headless Chicken Day festivities, feel free to join me in a bucket of original recipe in his honor.
Is you dad a deala cause you dope to me
One of the beautiful things about my job is that I work in front of a computer all day. That might sound like its own version of hell to many people, but aside from the occasional
neo-nazi spam zombie attack, and people who send emails to support IN ALL CAPS BECAUSE THEY THINK IT WILL MAKE US ANSWER THEM MORE QUICKLY, I like it just fine. I can come in pretty much dressed how I please, sit down in front of a huge window with a view of downtown, put on my headphones, and tune out the world. Well, at least any parts of the world that don't come in through my inbox.
And when not busy instructing people to uninstall/reinstall, I have unlimited access to the wealth of information and opinion that exists on web sites all over the world. My addiction started innocently enough- Colin posted a link on comecorrect to
Music for Robots, a well-written and now very well known MP3 blog for mostly indie music. From there I started to discover other MP3 blogs, and BANG I was hooked.
We've discussed on GTG recently how music blogs helped introduce the world to MIA and Diplo long before her CD was even released. This is by no means an isolated incident of these bloggers being waaay ahead of the game. These sites are gold. It's like having a personal shopper for music. The authors have excellent taste and a wealth of musical knowledge- they usually write a whole entry introducing the clip and providing background on the artist, genre, sometimes even their own associations to the song. They also support the artist by posting information on how to buy the album and by helping to promote shows locally.
In addition to Music for Robots, here are some of my favorites. Hope you enjoy them as much as I do:
The Suburbs are Killing Us A very eclectic mix of music from all over the world. Reggae, electro, hip hop, jazz- no matter what your taste you will find something here that you like. Or, at the very least, you will learn something about what's going on in the world of music.
moebius rex This site is worth checking out as much for the photos of urban art as for the music. The focus is mostly on electronic music, with a lot of cool remixes featured.
Boom Selection Both individual clips and whole sets are available for download here.
Fat Planet KC included the link to this site in her last post, but I just had to post it again. A great source for interesting music from around the world of all genres.
This is but a small sampling of what there is out there, and each of the above sites has a list of links to other sites that are equally cool.
Here are some additional sites that are not blogs per se, but do have great archives of live sets for download:
Endclub dot com The official site of The End in London. Archives from 7 years of hosting some of the hottest DJs in the world.
Annie Nightengale's show on BBC Radio 1 Both interviews and archived live sets. Annie Nightengale is a true veteran of the breaks scene in the UK.
Mastermix.org "RARE MIXES MASTERMIXES REMIXES BOOTLEGS AND PIRATE RADIO FROM THE MID 80s" Thanks to Colin for the link.
Desperately seeking Owen
I am not a star fucker. Not to say that I wouldn't break off a little piece for
my boy Johnny were he to come pokin around (can I get an amen, ladies?), but aside from the occasional scan of
Defamer or flip through
People in the grocery store line, I don't follow the celeb scene with very much enthusiasm.
So I was a bit taken aback when last night I had a star studded extravaganza of a dream. It was the lamest movie you'll never see. Several celebs made cameo appearances, but I really need to have a talk with whatever part of my brain acts as casting director for these feature presentations. To start with, cast in the role of my best friends were Joss Stone and Kate Hudson. A girl could do worse, I realize. I mean,
I'm not even gonna touch on the nightmare that would've involved a friendship with Paris Hilton.(No worries about offending dear Paris, by the way. She doesn't read this blog. In fact, she can't read at all. Yep,
not even a menu in a restaurant. It would be sad, really, if she weren't such a cum drenched gutter slag.)
But were my conscious mind in charge, I might have chosen a Parker Posey or Drew Barrymore for the best friend role. Parker cause she's so damn cool, and Drew cause she's so damn sweet. I think the three of us would have an amazing time together. We'd go out on the town, down some cosmos, Drew would flirt with all the cute boys, Parker would talk us into all the hot clubs. It would be awesome.
But ok, so what really disturbed me was that rather than taking full advantage of this stellar opportunity to have a celeb boyfriend for an evening, someone I could really sink my teeth into like an Adrian Brody or a
Joey Santiago, who was cast in the role of my boyfriend? That's right: Owen "
I have a penis on my face" Wilson.
Now, I like Owen for the most part. First of all, he's funny, which is huge in my book. Second, I really like Wes Anderson movies, in which he co-writes and stars. But boyfriend material? Not the first one who comes to mind.
But I know what you're thinking. He's rich, biatch!! And famous, to boot. Yes yes, that's true. In real life. In my dream he was neither. In fact, he was broke. He didn't even have a car. Ok, here's the kicker: his mom drove us on dates. I shit you not. I'm dating a 36 year old man whose mom is driving us on dates. Needless to say, we did not get freaky in this dream, so don't even go there. There are some lines that even dream me will not cross.
So I awoke from this dream in a cold sweat, looked around, said "what the fuck?" and got out of bed. I wasn't going to take a chance on going back to sleep after that. But I really want to know what it was all about. After thinking about it over my morning coffee, I've decided that it must mean something. Owen Wilson does not just pop up in someone's dream for no reason. So I've come to the conclusion that maybe Owen is my soulmate. The whole mom/car thing is really just connected on some level to my desire to have children with Owen and become a soccer mom. So, if the theory of six degrees of separation is true, someone who reads this will know someone who knows someone who knows someone, etc, who can put me in touch with Owen. There's no sense in trying to deny our destiny, O. Call me, baby.
Or, then again, maybe that's just what happens when you fall asleep reading Vanity Fair. Who knows?
Overheard
So, thanks yet again to
boingboing, I've been introduced to the funniest site I've seen in a long time. It's a brilliant idea. How many times a day to you hear snippits of conversation that just make you giggle uncontrollably? And no, I'm not just talking about the voices in your head (although I'm sure they do pull off some doozies sometimes). Well, this site collects those little gems, and compiles them for your enjoyment into a blog called
Overheard in New York. Some of my favorites so far:
Yuppie: I don't think he's working now. All he ever talks about is monkeys and robots.
--Mayrose
Dumb teen: Hey, look at this! It says "Train for jobs in beeyotch."
Smarter teen: Fool! That word is biotech. Why you gotta be ignorant all your life?
--1 train
Woman #1: Ah, look at those beautiful puppies.
Woman #2: Puppies are bullshit
-- Bay Ridge
Kid #1: Paper beats rock. BAM! Your rock is blowed up!
Kid #2: "Bam" doesn't blow up, "bam" makes it spicy. Now I got a SPICY ROCK! You can't defeat that!
--6 Train
Ah, yes. Once again, truth is funnier than fiction.
I do feel that we could hold a candle to NY in terms of ridiculous conversations, though. I mean, c'mon, for a city that only measures 7x7 miles, we have a wonderfully diverse mix of insane homeless folks, radically left activists, uptight yuppies, nudists, and freaky burners.
Let's prove the theory. If you hear (or have heard) any bits of conversations that you think epitomize the beautiful absurdity of life in SF, send them to graffititheghost@yahoo.com. I'll collect any submissions I get and compile them into a future post. Please be sure to let me know where you heard them and from whom.
Or, if you prefer, just catch me out and about. If my mouth is open, chances are good that something stupid will come out of it.
Mother's day post- 2 days late UPDATE
What can I say? I don't blog on Sundays. Like the lord, I reserve that day for rest. And for going to see sadistic revenge flicks which could, quite frankly, have been just as well viewed on DVD.I've just recently finished reading
Ark Baby, by Liz Jensen, a novel that is built on the premise that every woman in Britain has become simultaneously infertile. Every single one. While people in the rest of the world can carry on reproducing till the cows come home, British woman are SOL.
But just because they're infertile doesn't mean that the maternal instinct has been squelched. A fact to which anyone who's ever witnessed a childless woman with her pets (or a gay man with a chihuahua) can attest, that is one instinct that will not be easily defeated. So, naturally, the ownership of chimpanzees begins to skyrocket. These chimps are dressed up, groomed, and treated exactly like the children they are replacing, and suddenly veterinarians are the new pediatricians.
Everyone knows that the maternal instinct, in all animals, is one of the strongest on earth. So strong, in fact, that it seems to cross the barrier of species, even for an animal that would normally exist as prey for the other. I've come across some pretty interesting examples of this recently.
First, and possibly most striking, from yesterday's news:
a human baby adopted by a dog:
NAIROBI, Kenya (AP) -- A newborn baby abandoned in a Kenyan forest was saved by a stray dog who apparently carried her across a busy road and through a barbed wire fence to a shed where the infant was discovered nestled with a litter of puppies, witnesses said Monday. link
UPDATE: happy ending for both baby and dog-
they are to be adopted.
And in Asia:
Woman breastfeeds tiger cubs:
Three times a day, the Myanmar housewife goes to the Yangon Zoo where she breastfeeds the hungry black-striped, orange-brown cubs rejected by their natural mother. link
Ouch. Couldn't she just get her dog to do it?
And while we're on that, it seems that dogs just may have the strongest maternal instinct in the animal kingdom. They've been known to suckle their most notorious ememies, the
domestic cat, and even to adopt tasty little
chicks. Although in the last case I think that pooch was just trying to fatten the chicken up a bit.
Just goes to show you, love knows no species. Some more examples of this:
A cat and a mouse:
A cat and a hedgehog:
and a man and a horse. Isn't that amazing?
Hellloooo! This is MIA...UPDATE: Diplo interview
Morning Becomes Eclectic with Nic Harcourt has been one of my favorite radio shows since I discovered their online archives about 6 months ago. There is an amazing wealth of footage here, everyone from Alison Kraus to Thievery Corporation, and very recently
MIA. If you've been under a rock and haven't heard of MIA yet, allow me to enlighten you. Maya Arulpragasam is a Sri Lankan who came to London as a refugee. She proceeded to study art and eventually to become the MC phenomenon we now know as MIA. She comes to
The Independent this Friday May 13, but you can check her out now on
Morning Becomes Eclectic.
If you view the clip pay special attention to the DJ playing with MIA. This southern boy's name is
Diplo, and he hails originally from Tupelo, Mississippi but was raised in a bait shop in Florida. Am I the only one who finds that really hot? Yeah? Ok, nevermind.
Anyway, I first heard the buzz surrounding Diplo last year when music blogs started picking up some tracks from his "
Favela On Blast" recording. Diplo collected a lot of this music, called Baile funk, out of the favelas (sort of shanty towns) that dot the hills of Rio when he travelled through Brazil. Baile Funk is like Miami Bass meets Portuguese rap. Unfortunately "Favela on Blast" is hard to find right now, but I tracked down a site that's hosting some clips of the straight dope
here. (via
Boom Selection) Anyway, Diplo was integral in bringing this music back to the States from Brazil, and we all owe him a huge debt of gratitude for it, cause this is some good shit.
You can get a double dose of this hottie on Friday, first at the
MIA show and then later at 1015 Folsom. SF's own Subalicious crew has been kind enough to bring him out to play there along with Andrew Weatherall, Keith Tenniswood and an amazing lineup of local talent.
Check it out.
UPDATE:
Diplo interview on NPR. The interview goes into his relationship with MIA, as well as his obsession with Baile Funk. Turns out he also does an after school music program for inner-city kids in Philly. Damn. Nice one. Thanks to Doctor Otto for the link.
My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys
Before I start this review, let me tell you where I’m coming from. I started listening to Willie Nelson, along with Cash, Haggard, etc. pretty much as soon as I was born. I had a pair of cowboy boots and a little red cowboy hat and my parents taught me line dances (no, that’s not the thing you do when you’re jockeying for position to get a turn at the zombie powder) and once in a while would even take my brother and I to the honky tonk for family night. I was raised on country music, and I’m proud of it.
Willie and Waylon and the boys kick ass, and if you wanna challenge that, I’ll get drunk on whiskey and fight you dirty with a broken beer bottle. Jess has my back. And lest ye think that Willie is just another red-state good ole’ boy, know that Willie, even in his twilight years, is a huge
pro-biodiesel proponent, (his tour bus runs on it, he works around the country with farmers to promote its use, and he even started his own
biodiesel company), is well-known for his stance on the legalization of marijuana, and is also such a bad-ass progressive democrat that Republican jerkoffs in Texas (his home state) are
refusing to name a highway after him.
Now, here’s the scene: the Dixon May Fair. Dixon is a little farming town just north of Vacaville. They had all the usual fair trappings: carnival rides, funnel cake (we had one of course), Budweiser, cows, goats, lambs, and of course, pigs. We had to search around for the pigs for a while, because there was no way I was gonna leave that fair without seeing some pigs. They were mostly sleeping when we found them, so we just quietly sang to them, “Sleep well, little piggies, for tomorrow you’ll be in the frying pan.” It was lovely. The 4-H kids had tacked posters along the walls with pictures of pigs all sectioned off and labeled with the various
cuts of meat therein. That’s one of the reasons farm kids kick hippie kids’ asses. Hippies go on and on about how much they love animals and shit, but most of them know very little about how the natural world really goes down.
Farm kids actually raise animals from birth, feed them, take care of them, enter them in shows, hopefully win some ribbons, and then sell the animals, literally, by the pound, to the likes of Albertsons to end up on your dinner plate. The kids know this is the intent from the moment they receive that cute baby piglet. That’s a pretty hardcore life lesson for a kid. A lesson that most hippies never learn, and that’s why they’re useless and stupid. But I digress.
So, since I was raised on Willie Nelson and the like, his concert last night was an absolute thrill. It’s always a weird sensation when you hear songs that you know word for word, and you know you’ve known the words for 25 years, but you don’t really remember ever specifically listening to those particular songs. I started getting sentimental, thinking about how this music has been with me since birth, and how I was basically witnessing the last of a dying breed. One of the original Outlaws. Willie just turned 72 years old. 72! Most of his old friends are already gone. These may be his last concerts ever. I was hearing a true living legend. Willie has been touring with the same drummer for 39 years. 39 years! That is a musical epoch, especially considering the transient nature of bands these days.
As a result of my sentimental musings, I was actually moved to tears three times: during “Pancho and Lefty,” which he dedicated to Merle Haggard, “Georgia,” and of course, “Always On My Mind,” which Willie sang just as tenderly as he did two decades ago. The slight tremble in his voice only served to make it that much sweeter.
I know what you’re thinking: “Yeah, so you were listening to a dinosaur…An old man reliving his glory days.” Yes, Willie is old. But here’s the thing. Let’s say all music is a type of car. The electronic music most of us listen to now is kinda like a shiny black Jetta, with cool colored LED panels on the dash, and a full-on sound system. (What, you didn’t know Freddie drove house music?) 60’s psychedelia would be a hand-painted Beetle (old school beetle, not the new plastic things). What I was hearing last night was a classic, clunky, blue Ford truck. A jalopy.
Sure, her paint is faded, the doors are loose on their hinges, and the transmission’s slipping like hell, but she’s taken you safely this far, her engine’s still running strong at 300,000 miles, and you’ve been with her so long at this point that you can’t help but love her. Willie’s voice is slipping away, the Family band is loose and rough, but it’s the Real Deal, and as such, it’s perfection.
“All the Federales say, they could've had him any day. They only let him go so long, out of kindness I suppose.”
