A THOUSAND WORDS
Yeah, yeah, it's too late to stop things now that they've started, but to shut up is to give up, especially now that there are acknowledgements the war isn't going as smoothly as everyone assumed. So in that light.

[from a lot of people, but I saw it at Looka! first]

PROTEST RECORDS
I've read a few commentator-types who I thought might know better wondering why there aren't more protest songs out there. As if the fact that mainstream rockers haven't come out in favor of one side or the other is a sign that obviously songwriters are now somehow spineless, unaware and stupid (compared to the glorious good ole '60s, when you could go down to any open mike and see the Fugs do a couple of tunes before Bob Dylan went up in front of Phil Ochs before Joan Baez in front of whothehellever, and it was a constant Molotov of inspiration for all who heard their pearls of wisdom, and it made them go lay down their floral laurels in front of those hordes of thuggee cops and solve all the world's problems, yep, you missed it, well tough shit little 'un).

Well, two reasons off the top why that's a crock.

One, there were as many crappy songwriters then as there are now. It's just that history has already forgotten most of them. The grass-chewing hippie grinding away on his guitar with some 88-verse opus is a comedic cliche for the ages by now.

And moving forward from today, who's gonna remember Bucky Schmoe's thrilling 18-minute a capella version of "You're A Dick, Cheney (Please Date Me, Please)" in ten years? (Answer: Not even Bucky Schmoe. And you know what? That's alright. Even Ochs was a hack, and the Fugs, for all their sense of humor and literary clout, couldn't write a decent singalong at gunpoint. So you can assume there were probably unknowns who didn't know what they were talking about.)

Two, and way more importantly, people are still writing protest songs. And just like 35 years ago, many of them are actually pretty good. Go check out an open mic near you, and barring that, check out Thurston Moore (yes, from Sonic Youth)'s pet project, Protest Records.

It's got a few dozen songs for download (and more all the time), and a few stencils if you're into making public wall art (their stencil section is kind of thin right now; go make some better stuff and send it in. The whole site seems pretty interactive).

The songs aren't all diatribes by sanctimonious goofs with acoustic guitars, although there is some of that. I'm still going through the songs, but I can recommend the ones by The Cucumbers, MC Frontalot and Jim O'Rourke & Glenn Kotche's Pictures of Adolf. Oh, and of course both of Cat Power's entries. Damn, she's good.

But go, listen, share, and if there's something you like, please, please share it with the class.

[Edited in a feeble attempt at clarification. Link from my pal Kimya]

LATE LONG ISLAND GIG NOTICE
Thanks to Dave from Four95, I'm playing a gig tonight at the Short Porch, this new place in Seaford that I have no idea what it's going to be like.

I go on about 9:30, and there's an open mike going on afterward, and I'll buy a drink for the first few people who come on out and mention this entry. I'll be the shavenheaded guy all jittery from ODing on caffeine.

I just finished burning some mix CDs for a CD swap I got way too emotionally involved in. I have some songs to write tomorrow if I can stay awake at work.

Nitey nite.

THAT'S HOW TO APOLOGIZE, DARLIN'
An update: The apology the Dixie Chicks' Natalie Maines should have made, from the Specious Report.

[de Looka]

OSCAR POSTMORTEM
Everyone's going to kvetch about Michael Moore not knowing his rightful place (which would be where, exactly? Behind a bent-over Bill O'Reilly?) and giving the Oscars a bad name, but that's a big steaming load of hooey. He is what he is, and his Oscar gave him 45 seconds to say what he wanted. He could have done a lot worse. Imagine the piece of TV Nation-style theater he could have put together, and count your blessings that he stuck to a simple short script, and all that happened was a cheering vs. booing contest throughout the auditorium.

And with that in mind, Adrien Brody's speech was great. He said most of the same things Moore said, but because he's not a lightning rod for criticism (yet), and because he had just snogged Halle Berry (because he could!) and then shouted down the orchestra (you'll never see that again), he got the warm ovation that Moore was never going to get. (Mike's a grownup, he can handle the abuse.)

And one of these years, Martin Scorsese is going to make some well-timed serious picture, like Schindler's List was for Spielberg, and the Academy is going to give him eight Oscars that one year and then never listen to him again. Like they're doing with Spielberg. Steven's done until he gets the Thalberg in 2017.

But the hardest part of the evening was just having to come to terms with the fact that now we're gonna have to start calling him "Academy Award Winner Eminem." And the cat shall lie down with the dog, and the bully shall cry wolf, and Mitsou was right about the world being a funny place, ho ho.


Update: Digby, for the second time this week. A stellar rant.

[Michael Moore's] words spoke for a good number of Americans and they have a right to have their furious, righteous anger heard just as much as the furious right wing Dittoheads have a right to have oh...50 to 60 hours per week devoted to non-stop liberal-hating vitriol broadcast all over the country. For more than 10 years they have owned the AM dial, developed their very own news network and run hundreds of newspapers within which anti-Clinton diatribes were delivered with a viciousness and relentlessness that Michael Moore can only dream of emulating...

SING ME SOMETHING BRAVE FROM YOUR MOUTH
I'll be the first (or at least the third) to admit I'm a bit of a contrarian sometimes. I'll take whatever road you're not. I'm a soup guy in a land of salad freaks. I'm the turd in the punch bowl. Sometimes.

But it works out. See, I've been told by a few people to pick up the Dixie Chicks' latest CD, Home, it being a decent pop-bluegrass record. Hmm, I've been thinking. Pop and bluegrass. Two great tastes, but do they taste great together?

So I've been putting it off for a few months, because really, who needs discipline? Anyway, all the foofaraw about them coming out against Bush and the war and being banned by country stations happened, and I thought to myself, "Self, if country music is a music of rebellion, and everyone in Nashville tries, often in vain, to portray themselves as some kind of free-thinkin' whocareswhatyouthink hellraiser, then why in the world is Natalie Maines of all people being crucified and vilified and all kinds-a-other-ified for having an opinion and saying it?"

So (I'll skip the McCarthyist part of this rant for the moment) I went to the Virgin Megastore and bought the thing so Soundscan would track it, and I brought it home, and you know what?

It really is good.

It's so odd to hear quote mainstream unquote country singers who sound like they really like country, and not like they would have been just as happy had things gone the other way and they wound up in a bustier singing over a Trent Reznor groove or something (I'm staring directly at you, Shania). Yes, the thing is sonically polished to within an inch of its little life, but there is a real passion to the Chicks and how they lean into their harmonies. They love this stuff, and that comes through.

I'd recommend this record even without the whole flap about what she said about Bush and Texas. No one deserves the hatred Natalie Maines is getting for voicing her opinion. But the record is strong (even the one Stevie Nicks wrote is kinda sweet).

Regardless, I wouldn't be surprised if the blacklist happens for real with them and they wind up on Steve Earle's label, making way better music even than this for their 50,000 or so remaining fans. That's what happens when you get off the fence, I guess.

LAST NIGHT'S MEETUP

I went to the Metafiter / 9622 Meetup last night, still fuzzy with memories of the glorious drunken craziness of the last time and stoked for a repeat of the same. (Hey, I don't get out as often as I used to.) So I went, and everyone was truly witty and cool, and I had a ball, but everyone turned into a pumpkin about 11:30, just when I was starting to get a little drunk. So we all dispersed, and I found myself heading off to Zuni's of all places, where I had a couple more and wrote a very sad song about two hookers having an argument. It all worked out. No, really.

Yes, the party ended early, but it was nice to see a few people I only get to see about every other month, and who are rather cool.

I took pictures, but I wasn't the only one.

- Riffola did.
- Adampsyche did.
- Vidiot did.

I'll update this entry as I find out about more pics and stories.

MY STATUE HAS A FIRST NAME
Okay. I know that you, O beautiful world to whom I'm addressing this screed, have been waiting with breath bated for my Oscar picks. Well, here they are. I would have posted them sooner if previous engagements hadn't required me to, you know, go live my life a little bit. I do that sometimes. Ahem.

I've tried (with reasonable success) to avoid seeing any of the movies nominated. I'm of the firm opinion that since the actual Academy voters don't pay attention to the movies they're seeing even when they go in the first place, and the whole Oscar thing is a multilevel ain't-we-great hypefest of biblical proportions even in non-war years, there's really no point in actually blowing the time and the dough sitting in the dark watching these things when you could be out drinking heavily by yourself and reading gossip rags. So I've revealed my secret to successful predicting of the Oscars. (The word Oscar is trademarked, and I am using it without permission in this missive. My defiance is your inspiration.)

Anyway. Let's start in a random place. Oh, how about Best Actor? Everyone thinks Jack Nicholson is poised to win his 914th Oscar (to stay within 25 of Meryl Streep, but more on her in a minute) for breaking character and playing an old horndog in About Schmidt. Well, maybe, but Daniel Day Lewis gets my vote for working the moustachio to spectacular effect in Gangs of New York. Really, though, I don't care who gets it (Even the new guy, whassisname, the dashing guy with the big nose? Him. But more on big noses later too. I so started this in the wrong category.), as long as it doesn't go to Nick Cage. The little freak's artistic peak was in Raising Arizona, and he looks like Sarah Jessica Parker with her head shaved. And I don't mean that in a good way.

Best Supporting Actor. Hm. Ed Harris should have won the Oscar for Pollock a few years back, although if they gave it to him, then Salma Hayek would have to win this year for Frida, and she won't, so never mind. It was nice that Paul Newman got a hi-how ya doing from the Academy again, but he won't win neither. It's gonna go to one of the no-name dudes, thus breaking the hearts of a million farkers who will be pulling (and pulling, and pulling, no pictures of that, you're welcome) for Chris Walken to win Big Boy #2. (Also, I think it's a shame that Gollem from Lord of the Rings didn't get at least a nomination. As the only nominated movie I saw last year, it wasn't all that hot, but Gollem was fantastic. Really.)

Nicole Kidman is so going to win Best Actress. Not because of her big fake nose, and not because she's been good enough, for long enough now, that she deserves some kind of Academy recognition. No, it's two big fingers to Tom Cruise for becoming ever more of a whackjob and not bringing in the asses-in-seats revenue he used to. Also, everyone loves her. Or at least two-thirds of the voices in my head do, anyway. Sure, Julianne Moore deserves it, but she won't win, in either category she's up for. Too bad for Julianne Moore. She'll have to be good in five more movies next year, I guess.

Best Supporting Actress? Anyone but Catherine Zeta-Jones, please. I don't care how good she was in Chicago, the fact that Bebe Neuwirth wasn't in that role, for whatever Hollywood Political Catherine-had-better-connections bullshit reason, is a crime against modern culture. Besides, it's going to Streep. Academy bluehairs vote for Meryl Streep every damned year like she's the Strom Thurmond of acting or something. She's been nominated every year since The Segregationist in 1954. (Look it up.) So um, sorry, Kathy Bates. At least you have Six Feet Under (which I'll be missing on Sunday night, thank you very much) to keep you warm.

Best Director is going to Scorsese. Not because he was the best director this year (even if he was), and not because he's long overdue to win something (which he is), but the though of giving it to Polanski bugs some of the more touchy anti-pedophiliacs in the Academy. You can see everyone squirming just talking about it of the puff-piece shows on E! and elsewhere. I don't care either way about Polanski anymore (if his victim has forgiven him and moved on, then so can I), but it would be funny to watch everyone clench their bony asses in anticipation of him actually delivering an acceptance speech from his French estate.

And Best Picture? Well, the best movie I saw last year was definitely Kung Pow! Enter The Fist, which I recommend without reservation to everyone (I recently made a visitor friend of mine watch it, and she was only in New York City for the weekend. I love converting people to this movie. I could quote it for months. I think I have, actually), but since it's not nominated, and since I've dismissed Chicago as a cynical Hollywood megabudget retread even by cynical Hollywood megabudget standards, I'll have to go with Gangs of New York. The more Scorsese we see on Sunday night, the happier I'll be on Monday morning.

Now. Steve Martin will do a great job, and I'm only saying that because everyone gripes about the host every year, regardless of whether he or she was any good or not. Piss off. Steve Martin is perfect to host this show, and he will rock it just like he did last time. I predict anti-war statements will outnumber pro-war statements by a narrow margin, and Renee Zellweger will wear something that makes her look even skinnier than she already is.

Oh, one more. If Bowling For Columbine doesn't win Best Documentary, then the picks are rigged. Oh, right. They are rigged. Never mind. Ha, ha!

So, can I crash your party Sunday night, then?

MAY IT BE NEITHER NASTY NOR BRUTISH, JUST SHORT
And we’re off. The bombs are in the air, the planes are taking off, I’ve broken down and am watching CNN again after months of avoiding the endless pointless speculation and self-cannibalistic punditry that fills the news channels between megacrises. Anything I say matters little. You either approve of what’s going down or you don’t. I'm not going to change your mind, am I?

That said. I’ve been reading stories of Iraqi soldiers trying for weeks to surrender, and now it seems the American forces can accept them as POW’s at least. My only hope (and what I suspect will happen) is that this war is going to be short, the shorter the better. The fewer people in Baghdad die, the less destruction needs to be wrought on the city, the better off all of us will be.

Of course, if Digby is right, and the multibillion dollar reconstruction contracts are all in place with Halliburton, et al. already, then the best plan for those who are actually making the decisions would be to blow Baghdad to smithereens, resistance or not, civilians be damned. I'm just saying that would make the power elite happiest.

But I'm hoping with all my little heart that we just take their flag and get the hell out of there with as few dead (especially civilian dead) as possible.

GREASIN' FOR PEACE
To add another voice to the chorus of United for Peace and MoveOn, and to offset the hawkpunditry of a whole howling raft of others, my most excellent new pal jpoulos has set up a directory of weblogs that are against the war at

Peaceblogs.org

There may be other sites like this, but there can't ever really be enough of them. Especially now.

DEFICIENT/GREAT ART
This weekend I had a visitor from out of town, so we went to the Guggenheim to see Matthew Barney's Cremaster cycle. While impressive in its scope, and never was a concept taken higher than this one was, it still came off to me as huge concept piece of a guy who can't stop thinking about his own genitals.

I know, self-obsession has been the driving force behind much of the great art humanity has come up with so far. But I haven't seen that much Respecting of the Cock since the last time I watched Magnolia, or maybe Raw Is War.

Of course Cremaster's a popular exhibit. Why not? It's got everything: the highest of all concepts (the creation of a sexual male) with a lot of esoteric and reasonably intricate pieces in every medium you can imagine, serial killers and magicians, Rockettes and Bond girls, blood and Vaseline oozing from everywhere, big machines and tits and lots of shiny white displays. It took at least a decade to put this cycle together, and the effort and talent level really shows. I just wish I got it.

True, I didn't watch all nine hours of the 5-movie cycle (I stayed from the last half of the first movie through the end of the second, though they were playing concurrently on screens all over the place). And many of (especially) the sculpted pieces were amazingly evocative and cohered to the greater whole. This was no scattershot show, which is all by itself an accomplishment. (I think about how my writing has changed in the last decade. Yeesh.)

I just got this vision of Matthew Barney being this petulant man-child whose masturbatory indulgences are being catered to by an awful lot of powerful artworldistas. (Admittedly, I'm jealous as much as anything. I apparently need to spend a lot more time contemplating my own dick if I'm going to be considered any kind of a decent artist, medium be damned.)

It didn't help my perspective that I saw the Leonardo Da Vinci exhibit at the Met the day before. It was mostly excerpts from his sketchbooks, with a lot of figures and just a few of his military drawings and geometrical studies for perspective and color. You keep hearing how great he was, how fantastically ahead of his time he was in his research, his engineering knowledge, his experiments with anatomy and light studies, to the point that when evidence of all these things shows up in front of you, it's kind of dumbfounding. Of course he really was that great; what did you expect? Even his grotesque portraits (he had a hobby of drawing fantastically ugly people he saw in the street) have a glow, a life in them, that you just don't see in even the most talented of his pupils or teachers (examples of which are shown for perspective's sake at the beginning and the end of the exhibit).

I'm often convinced I've missed my calling, that I don't have a natural writing talent and I would have been better served had I gone into something else. Shows like the Cremaster cycle don't assuage that at all. I know Barney's understood and loved by more than a few people (like Greg, just for one, who knows his shit and with whom I often even agree). If someone can give me a clue about him being something other than a prodigious talent obsessed with the iconography of his own cock, I'll happily give him another chance. Because the idea that I haven't been obsessed enough with my own bits, and where they came from, and how their creation and existence fits hand-in-glove with the ways of the universe, kind of disturbs me, and not in that art-is-supposed-to-disturb kind of way.

PARDON MY FREEDOM
Whoever thought this replace-French-with-Freedom schtick (who thought this up? Some diner owner in South Carolina? Actually, I wouldn't be surprised) was going to flip the French people le oiseau doesn't know much about advertising, do they. Or maybe they're just a few freedom fries short of a happy meal.

See... well, let me tell you a story.

This gal & I went on this date. I picked her up, and she had her hair done up in this freedom braid, and that always gets me interested right off the top. We went to the park to see this chamber orchestra, and the freedom horn players especially were really soulful on their instruments; there's just a majesty to the freedom horn that really sends me, especially when there's two or three of them played in unison.

Anyway, afterward we went back to the hotel, where I carried her through the freedom doors and into the boudoir, and then we she put on her Freedom Maid outfit and brought out these freedom-style handcuffs, lined with fur and ever-so-slightly padded. It drove me crazy with desire. We freedom-kissed for hour after glorious hour, and we even tried one of those Freedom Ticklers out of the vending machine. (Those things really work! I know - go figure!)

I surprised her the next morning with some freedom pastry and freedom-roast coffee from room service.

RADIO, RIGHT
The radio experience on Monday night was kind of funny, by the way. The station itself was in this paneled room behind a bar, and instead of one host there were two, and they talked over all of my music, but I found them both kind of charming in that why-don't-you-play-a-song-for-your-auntie kind of way. We were supposed to have recorded the show at the station, but I went home with a blank tape (Someone, almost definitely me, pressed Play and not Record on the tape deck), so I'll have to trust that it all went okay. (If you listened, um, thanks. I owe you.)

I got to drink some freezing coffee that was older than I was, and play some songs while sitting in an office chair that had high arms so I had to scooch out of it until my ass gripped the edge tenaciously while I tried to play with as much oomph as I could. That said, and despite being waved at and coached and talked to during when I was actually trying to do my Mister Soulman thang and caress y'all's eardrums in that velvety way you know only I can (look, I was giving it my all, okay? What are you laughing at?), it was really cool, and I certainly liked both of them and I felt welcome and liked back, and I'd probably do it again in a second.

Diane and Betty both have their hearts in the right place, and passion for local music among even college & community DJs is pretty rare, and they're actually putting it out there every week for a half hour. I was happy to have been asked. Far as I know, I killed no one. It was a good night.

Just so you know.

PLAYOFFWARD
Even today, I'm still unsure as to how to feel. I mean, first it was Owen Nolan, and then Glen Wesley. Then today, Phil Housley and Doug Gilmour. Yes, the Leafs are a substantially better team than two weeks ago (I liked Alyn Macauley, but how can you argue with moving him for Nolan?), and now they no real weak spots. They're tougher than anyone now, they have at least two complete A-quality forward lines, the addition of Wesley and Housley brings two more solid experienced defensemen to what wasn't a bad bunch on the blueline to start with, the power play was good before and will only get better, and all the Leafs gave up was McAuley, Brad Boyes and a fistful of low picks.

I'm only still unsure because they've never won in my lifetime, and pushing so hard to win now is great and I'm thrilled they're going for it, and I'm behind them all the way and all that silly claptrap, but I'd feel better if there were a few more Stanley Cup rings in the room. I guess the fact that one of the rings in the room is on Ed Belfour should help me sleep tonight. Well, it does. But still. Part of me hopes Belfour breaks his leg or something and they decide to ride Michael Tellqvist to the finals.

Don't listen to me. I'll see the Red Wings in June. Unless something goes wrong. How's that for faith, eh?

OH YEAH, I'LL BE ON THE RADIO TONIGHT
One thing that came from the gig on Saturday night was that I've been booked to play and chat on Diane Corrado's show on WGBB 1240 radio tonight between 8:00 and 8:30 EST. I'm the only guest, so there will be music to punctuate the uncomfortable silences, which they apparently don't much like in radio.

If you don't have a personal vendetta or something against internet radio, you could listen in. I'll have my guitar, so if you want to hear anything specific, I'm taking requests by email today. (They probably have a request line, but I'll be damned if I know what it is.)

AURAL FIXATIONS 2 - SAVED BY MY ENEMIES!
So as I had kindsorta feared going in, I was pretty much the darkest face in the place on Saturday night, which was fine, I guess -- I don't absolutely insist on cultural diversity everywhere I go, I just like to delude myself into thinking that it's possible anywhere -- but the enthusiasm of the drunks and the quality of most of the players made what I feared would be a dreary night into the kind of show befitting the effort and quality of Mike Ferrari's efforts to bring a different shade of culture to Long Island.

Let me fawn over the locals for a paragraph.

Never have I heard the geriatric fried rock of the Defibrillators before, and they smoked. Never have I heard Kathy Fleischmann sound so soulful with her guitar and nothing else. Gawd, she bent notes that stopped the air molecules in the bar. Peter from This Island Earth sounded and looked like he'd been woodshedding in the mountains while sending letterbombs to heads of state. It's a good look; he should go with it. Never has Jones Crusher's brand of jumpy muppet-punk been so well received. Imaginary Bill closed the band part of the evening, and they're I think my favorite LI band of all. For real. They're smart, and a little goofy, and loud and tight in the way I think power pop trios should be. And to see Chris Peters, at 2-something in the morning, unpack his theremin and run through a perfectly eerie Somewhere Over The Rainbow to the remaining NASCAR enthusiasts and other drunken knuckleheads was a sight I won't soon forget. Never have I heard the phrase "That was fukkin' beautiful! what the fuck is that thing?" used so many times in one five-minute stretch.

Me, you ask? (No? Well I'll tell you.) I got through my set okay, having enough energy to get over without panting or gasping, which was my fear after having been on my back for a couple of weeks. My fever broke, like, that day, so it really could have gone either way. Fortunately, hockey saved me yet again: there was an Islanders/Devils game in Uniondale just down the street, and when people came in from there, they found out I was from Toronto, and so both teams' fans started in on my Leafs, a team they both hate equally and severely. And once the hecklers started with their "Leafs Suck" chants, I felt much more at home. The whole thing was captured by Bruce Figarsky on LT1TV (it's a cable access show, on which I hope to make an appearance), and when they show the footage on A Station Near You, you can see how I manage to reduce a pile of bloodthirsty drunken suburban rednecks to a teeming, adoring throng of chanting acolytes within the space of a half-dozen songs. (It really happened that way, I ain't romanticizing none at all, babe, I swear!)

I'm so full of myself now, and with good reason!

Anyway. This shall be my formal thanks to everyone who helped make last night happen, especially Ferrari. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy, and that last bit carries no sarcasm whatsofreakingever.

AURAL FIXATIONS
I’ve been mostly asleep for the last week I had a dream a few days ago in which I realized I was going to die from this fever so I found a car and drove it to Toronto so I could get into a hospital and not worry about insurance, but it’s too long to reprint here and too you-gotta-know-my-life to make into a readable short story. But it was the first decent writing I’ve done in over a month, which bodes well for the next little while, which is news that oughta piss somebody off somewhere.

Not that I’m well yet or anything, but I’m off to play a gig tonight. It’s the 6th anniversary party for Aural Island, Mike Ferrari’s indie promotion and booster agency for local bands in Long Island. (Their site is down right now, though their magazine is well worth the read, and cheap at a million times the price.)

It’s at a place called Mr. Beery’s in Bethpage. Their website seems to feature a lot of fat guys with beards declaring intent to kill a lot of other (slightly more ethnic-looking) fat guys with beards. For a bar, that is. I'm passing no judgement beyond that.

Being neither fat nor bearded, I’m not afraid or anything, but I get the feeling I’ll only fit in with that crowd so much. They did actually seek me out to play, though, which is always nice. And for all the work Mike’s done for indie music in these parts, getting my sick ass out of bed to perform at his (also non-fat, non-bearded, and otherwise not affiliated with the bar) party is rather the least I can do.

I hope I have the strength to get out of there with my hide intact. And if you’re of Arabic descent and you come to the show tonight, come find the shaved-headed skinny guy drinking tea (or, if they have it, Chocolate Bosco) with the guitar – my table will a ‘safe’ table. You have my word.

SOMEDAY MY NAME AND HERS ARE GOING TO BE THE SAME
You've played this game at some point, right? It was way funnier when women routinely took the man's name upon marriage, but the old horse isn't completely whupped just yet. Or at least I hope - I've got two to add to that list.

If Elke Sommer married Brian Setzer of the Stray Cats, she might change her name to Elke Setzer.

But. And here's why I'm bringing this up today.

If Tuesday Weld married the son of double Oscar winner Frederic March, she could be Tuesday March the Second.

That wasn't too much of a stretch, was it? Was it? Is this thing on?

(Which makes this McSweeney's piece the only natural postscript.)

THE SOLIPSISM TANGO
It's astonishing how much out there there is out there. Sometimes I forget, or maybe I've just kind of withdrawn a bit and now the other colors are starting to show themselves, now that I can't see the really bright stuff from where I'm sitting.

There are people who spend their entire lives making crazy sculptures out of pipe cleaners or painting murals on condemned buildings, who collect propaganda posters or street plastic or sandwich recipes or pictures of people in phone booths or dogs in cars or toilets or mailboxes or outlandish old postcards or lots of way crazier stuff that's right there for the scoping or taking, just like the rest of the world oughta be, if you have any yen for it, either online or off.

I just don't know where I fit in all of it. I've been watching a lot of TV the last couple of weeks (being laid up for a week'll do that, and then the 12 hour days trying to get those work hours back, och, and my life isn't so bad, even!). I recently saw Coupling (another BBC production, so shoot me, I didn't feel like changing the channel for a few days, okay?), which is basically Friends with way better writing, for the first time, and it's a good thing tomorrow night's episode is the season finale, because I only have room for one (guilt-free) TV obsession at a time, and Six Feet Under's on tomorrow night, which is as must-see as I get these days.

But none of this has anything to do with the record. I've been in New York for three years, and I have nothing to show for my time here. I have a few hundred pages of novel manuscript, I have something like three hours of pretty good new songs written and in various stages of recordation, and nothing at all of substance to show all of everyone who sent me off on my way with good wishes.

I have a plan, though. It's a good one, it'll require the cooperation of a few people who have come through for me in the past, and it's realistic, at least as far as I can think it through. And at the end of it, and I know this is all that matters, I'll have made a great fucking record. And even if I've spent a little too much time in the Total Perspective Vortex these days, I'm positive I'll be able to hold up my end of the cosmic bargain.

Just try not to call me after 9:00 on Sunday night unless it's really important. If you need me, IM me. I'll be right here.

THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING JOHN MALKOVICH

All is Malkovich, and Malkovich is all. Not a Spike Jonze production.