Believe it or not. Now I know it’s time for me to move on to the next life.
My research led me to this sentence in a turntable review. Too good not to pass on:
“I forgot how one focuses when listening to a record rather than a 102 song play list. You end up reading the record jacket and actually listening.”
My buddy Steve has disappeared. Gone silent. I think I know how to get him back . . .
Today is National Dog Biscuit day.
I am not sure how the rest of the country is reacting, but my three canines have taken the news lying down. After all, it is sunny, and our pups are older, so, unless there is a reason to get up–like someone giving them a biscuit–that is what they prefer (to the left are Jazzmine’s and Pavlov’s heads, while the white fluff behind them is our white Shepherd, Mahi).
Anyway, dogs rule, so in honor of them and Walter Kendall’s Fives (beef, vegatable, cheese, charcoal, and ginger), the brand our childhood dog Babe got, here are Bowie and Ronson et al, with what I think is my favorite songus, canus.
On February 15, 2007, some high school friends started the Phil Collins Day celebration, to explore together the meaning and complexities of love. Or so they say.
Each February 15th since they’ve had a themed event involving Phil and something. This year they (and you, too, if you want) are meeting in Rockaway for a Viking funeral. Bring stuff that’s getting you down, put it in the boat and watch it sail out to see on fire! Or something like that. Who knows?
And remember the only good Phil Collins song.
I posted this one last year. I think it may have come out last year, which would have made it contemporaneous. Then.
This year it is history, but the gods honest truth is that on this Christmas morning this song once again sums up for me my feelings about life and holiday and family and fucking friends and family dying of cancer and thankfully sometimes miraculously surviving, in what seems to me an incredibly catchy and lucid and honest way.
Your mileage may vary, but for me Tracy Thorn nails it, and makes me grieve with joy. What could be more generous and wiser than that?
Plus the boots are Christmasy.
A point they are deliriously using to show how screwed up Putin’s system is. I like to listen to music people went to jail for on Christmas.
Keep kicking Putin, Pussy Riot! And a happy new year!