Dear Oliver Stone:

NO.

Hugs,

Everybody.

Why I will never live in the Pacific Northwest.

from http://www.flickr.com/photos/fergie/23750784/ via tuliphead

Straight, no cheaters.

I found my six-disc set of Miles Davis and John Coltrane and ripped the first three discs today. I hadn't been listening to much jazz in the last three months and now I've dived back into it. This is exactly the kind of jazz I love.

When I listen to this music it does the same thing as the classical music I grew up with; it completely sucks me in. I don't want to do anything but listen and follow the melodic line, the rhythm, everything, as closely as possible. I find myself smiling at little musical jokes and getting shivers when something unexpected happens.

Music geeks my age or younger are all about post-rock music. If they're enthusing about an innovative artist, chances are it's Four Middle Class Kids Making Somewhat Dissonant Noises to a Pop Beat. There are probably at least two electric guitars involved, and if they don't exactly make rock and roll music, that's their background. If they do a cover song, it's likely to be a post-Beatles pop number.

And then I put on a CD like this and think: The most sophisticated and subtle music America produced is here. It's from the late fifties and early sixties. And it was made by largely uneducated people from poor families, most of them from a mistreated and disadvantaged ethnic group, working under tremendous commercial pressure. The music these people made still feels new today. And there's more innovation and exploration in one of these songs than a hundred faux naive indie pop albums can muster.

I still like pop music. I can't be one of those "Well now that I've heard jazz I can't be bothered with pop music" elitists. But the armies of college kids with guitars and Pavement CDs have some catching up to do.

POLE.

Because I am an irrelevant flâneur with pretensions to importance I have posted a poll about the FUTURE of my GOD DAMNED HANGOUT in the appropriate place: diedrich.

Entry

Context-free observation from the day's events. Anecdote, possibly related in some way to observation. Depressive rumination on personal neuroses, social troubles, and alienation. Attempt to synthesize observation, anecdote, and depressive rumination. Joke.

Closing statement that indicates self-pity, self-consciousness, and ironic detachment pretty skilfully.

[decent amateur snapshot]

The Theory of the Leisure Suit Class

Living in Newport Beach has always been strange, and has always been getting stranger. Satire fails us, as daily life teems with situations and images that are so outrageously perfect, they seem to have been dreamed up by a particularly unsubtle socialist film maker to hammer in some point. Welcome to Michael Moore's Real World Newport Beach. Some recent examples:

• Driving past one of the local high-class night clubs, I see that among the stretch Hummer limos and AMG Mercedes, someone has backed out his $250,000 Lamborghini and is revving and clutch-popping hopelessly, trying to get his thoroughbred Italian supercar to go into first gear. I stop and watch as our hero wrestles with his prancing bull. Finally he achieves traction and hurtles out onto the boulevard in a cloud of tire smoke.
  
  
• At a street corner, a cop is handcuffing a middle-aged Mexican man whose bicycle lies on the ground next to him. Behind them, another middle-aged Mexican man is holding up a sign that says INDULGE YOURSELF LUXURY APTS with an arrow on it, and waving the sign at passing cars.
  
  
• At the local shopping mall, it is Tuesday at 3 pm, and the place is full of young marrieds without employment buying everything that glitters. One thirtyish man in a $2000 suit, sculpted hair and spray-on tan, is saying loudly into his cellphone "Yes. It has to be on a yacht, that's where we're making the sale. The presentation is on a yacht, and I don't know the dress code yet, but you are going to be there."
  
  
• At Target. A small, nervous man dressed in a $200 Aloha shirt, cargo shorts, and a very shiny pair of Timberland hiking boots is gazing at a barbecue that is eight feet long and costs as much as a used car. His wife comes up behind him and says "Do the utensils match?" and he says "Of course! OF COURSE!"

My mom is sick. It's just some digestive bug but when someone is 76 it makes me nervous, plus she never gets these. There's something about the illness or weakness of parents that's still very psychologically undermining even in adulthood; it shouldn't happen.