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You make a pretty fine memory; oh.
(“Close to Modern”—French Kicks)
March 2009
16 posts
Sunday Classics: Kyoto Edition
“Kiss Kiss Kiss“—Tadanori Yokoo
Background Reading:
“Perhaps best known for his ’70s album covers for Miles Davis, Santana, the Beatles, etc., Tadanori Yokoo is arguably the most influential Japanese graphic designer of the Twentieth Century.”
More here.
In Which the Sans-Culottes Are Un Peu Less Ridiculous →
telegraph.co.uk
Mr Sarkozy, a man often ridiculed in France for preferring fitness to literature, has frequently expressed his disdain for “La Princesse de Cleves” (The Princess of Cleves), a novel by Madame de La Fayette which was published in 1678 and is taught in most French classrooms.
Now, French readers have adopted the book as a symbol of dissent: as Mr Sarkozy’s popularity falls, sales of the book are rising.
At the Paris book fair this week, publishers reported selling all available copies of the novel, while badges emblazoned with the slogan “I am reading La Princesse de Cleves” were a must-have item that sold out within hours.
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Oh, these casually meditative Sunday nights.
(“Chelsea Hotel”—Leonard Cohen)
“Because here’s something else that’s weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship — be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles — is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It’s the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It’s been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.”
—(From David Foster Wallace’s 2005 commencement address at Kenyon College)
This Recipe Calls for a Little Extra Somethin-Somethin
me: what’s a possible alternative to/replacement for pancetta. specifically, in pancetta-wrapped chicken
Lynann: proscuitto? i don’t know much about meat
me: yah i was hoping for like a non-meaty meat but i can’t wrap chicken in chicken, i guess
Lynann: hmmm.
love?
duck?
turkey?
me: love?
Sunday Classics, Logo Edition
In loving memory of my 1983 all-white Peugeot bicycle, taken too soon from me in the summer of 2006. The endearing clunker, although known among friends as “The Peugeonot”, was in fact deeply spiritual (rather than violently religious). As a toddler, I was pedaled along in its child seat; later, The Peug and I cruised the South End of Boston, eliciting many a stare from envious strangers. Despite the heartbreaking loss, this two-wheeled autobiographical relic rides on eternally in my heart & mind.
(Evolution of Peugeot logo via Neatorama)
“DEAR CAPITAINE:
I think one thing today and another tomorrow. That is really all that’s the matter with me, except a crazy defiance and a lack of proportion.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
I think one thing today and another tomorrow. That is really all that’s the matter with me, except a crazy defiance and a lack of proportion.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
I'm Just a Square in the Social Circle →
acontinuouslean.com
The Stork Club was a famous Manhattan night club founded and operated by Oklahoma native and ex-bootlegger Sherman Billingsley, from 1929-1965.
LEFT: Sherman Billingsley with hand to nose, one of his signals to nearby assistant which means “Not important people” or “Their check is no good.” | RIGHT: Sherman Billingsley with hands interlocked & thumb up, one of his elaborate signals to nearby assistants which means “Get them out & don’t let them in again.”
(via J.Matthew via The New Shelton Wet/Dry via A Continuous Lean)
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Sometimes I look out at the world and it looks back at me, saucer eyed, palms up: I’ve got nothing.
For whatever reason, this song seems perfect for such frozen moments—goddamn saxophone and all.
(Dave Brubeck, “Take Five”)
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Do I Dare/Disturb the Blogosphere? →
imomus.livejournal.com
Obviously I enjoy writing. If I’m not doing it for money, I’m doing it here for free. The kind of activities I’d be doing if I weren’t writing are also, in a sense, writing. I’d be making songs, books, performances which are really nothing more than writing in real time, or acting out bits of writing I’ve done beforehand. It’s not writing I’m getting sick of, but journalism.
Actually, it isn’t even journalism. I think it should be compulsory for aging rock stars to take up journalism, just to get them engaged with the world, keep them learning, wean them off drugs and booze, give them a bit of mental discipline. That or pottery. No, what I worry about is the ratio of experience to writing. It’s rapidly approaching one to one.
A 1:1 ratio of experience to writing means that you’ve become an efficient journalistic machine: nothing you do ever goes to waste. Every single thing you experience gets written about somewhere. It doesn’t have to be experience in the real world; it almost seems like I write, now, about every website I visit too…
Another day, another subject, another thousand words. There’s no time to stop and actually do something. Journalism 1, Life nil.
(by Momus, via the Tomorrow Museum)
