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Sunday, 13 May 2007 |
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I remember a sunny Berkeley afternoon some thirty-plus years ago.
Sitting in the living room at Ashby House
(first house on the right, heading downhill, after Claremont Ave.;
it's still there, but not as nice:
they added the ugly addition and removed all the leaded glass windows),
listening to Radioactivity, the new Kraftwerk album with my hippie friend, Russell.
Drinking beer, smoking dope and Camel cigarets,
as was the order of of the day every day at Ashby House.
Antenna came on the stereo.
Halfway through the song, Russell started shouting:
"That IS NOT music! I don't know what it is, but it IS NOT MUSIC!"
I'm not sure what he meant. It's my favorite Kraftwerk song.
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Thursday, 20 September 2007 |
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If six-year-olds can sound as good as q-bert and z-trip (always tooted as the "turntablist" equivalents of jimi hendrix), then ... well, you know ... a lot of them, djs, not six-year-olds, are ... uh ... good businessmen and promoters, i guess.
If I woke up in the morning and had to look in the mirror and say,"Knox, you are a DJ!," I would put a bullet through my head.
If you are a DJ, and you are reading this, it is not too late for you. You may be addicted to the easy money and easier women, and you may not ever, ever have the discipline required to make real art, but you can escape the soul-killing shame of pretending to possess some skills, knowledge, or talent, beyond sucking ass for bookings, and buying other peoples' records to play. Write me: there is a solution.
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Tuesday, 21 November 2006 |
My mother cried
When president Kennedy died
She said it was the communists
But we knew better
We were born
Born in the fifties
Born, born in the fifties
—The Police, "Born in the Fifties"
Jackie Kennedy
cradles her husband after bullets shot by snipers on the grassy knoll
blew half his head off. This act of war against the United States, of high treason, changed the
course of American history. The assassination, and the failure of our
country's leaders to bring the killers to justice was, and remains, the
central fact, the darkness at the core of our American Republic.
I was in eighth grade when John Kennedy was killed. I remember
standing in the cafeteria with the whole student body as a teacher told
us that John Kennedy was dead in Dallas. I will never forget
that day, the shock, the sadness: who among us of my generation will? We loved John Kennedy and
the great promise of America, for all Americans, not
just the few, that he embodied. If you were not there, you cannot
really know how exciting it was—the killers killed so much more than a
man that day.
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Sunday, 10 December 2006 |
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Wednesday, 03 January 2007 |
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Marie, swathed in Edenic garb.
From the Associated Press:
FERNDALE, Mich. - A Detroit man, Ronald A. Dotson, with a history of smashing store windows to grab female mannequins has been accused of indulging his fetish again.
And from Salon.com, a front page story on the third of January:
Big breasts for dummies:
Mannequins with giant bazooms are busting out
in shop windows from coast to coast. More than just garment racks, they
are a mirror of current beauty and fashion.
"... but these mannequins with their
massive chests crossed the line from a little harmless obsession with
appearance to a society run amok.
I grabbed my husband's hand and jerked him to a stop in front of the
store. 'Look at that!' I demanded. He was already looking ..."
I
do not believe in coincidences. That these two stories appeared on the
same day is just one more auspicious portent of the shape of things to
come now that the Democrats have taken control of both houses of
Congress.
Joking.
That was a joke.
You may read my insights into Ronald's unfortunate compulsion, coupled with a culture of enablers, on the flip-flop.
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