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Over in the Music Room, I posted some additional thoughts on Neil Young's blaring and beautiful Living With War.
People like Samir Husni are teaching it in J-school (U Mississippi): "[Rolling Stone] is one of the few magazines that stayed true to its original mission and audience from the beginning. Wenner was able to maintain the original flavor and keep the passengers on board while bringing in new ones. RS is unique. There is nothing like it on the same scale." Except for all of those other magazines with unclad celebrities on the cover.
Innocent children, scary music, a sense of overwhelming dread . . . and a sky full of reanimated zombies descending from balloons. What more could you ask of cinema?
I've come to the conclusion that birthdays really aren't a whole lotta fun. I mean what's to like? You're another year older, fatter, dumber; in short, whatever detriment is plaguing you at the time is magnified by yet another año.
Living in the Northeast this kind of specialized melancholia is compounded by the climate, which around my March birthday is very much like what I imagine standing on the deck of the Titanic when it hit the berg must have been like: cold, wet, dark. This year my birthday was particularly charming being the day I found out Buck Owens had died…
A demonstration of the art of manualism. The well known winter holiday tune "Sleigh Ride" by Leroy Anderson is played simply by squeezing air through the hands.
Unless it's produced according to the Reinheitsgebot of 1516, your beer may contain betaglucanase, ammonia caramel, rhoiso-alpha acids, sulphur dioxide, protease, amyloglucosidase, or propylene glycol alginate. Yum!
Elma G. Farnsworth, wife of electronic TV's inventor Philo T. Farnsworth, is dead at 98. She has been called the "mother of television" because of her technical drawings of the early Farnsworth experiments, which are now ensconced in the Smithsonian.
Business Week lauds 12 modern products that so perfectly encapsulated new manufacturing techniques or materials that they remain classics years later. It's a strange list.
Many of the commuters around me have the white plastic implants shoved into their innocent ears. All sorts of sounds come slithering out as we hold onto stainless steel. The F train sings a different song.
Unless I count the Magnavox boombox, which lived permanently within my old television stand, I've never owned a portable music device of any kind. I don't like putting things in my ears or on my head, so I've never owned a pair of headphones. I also find that the sounds around me are often very interesting. The sound of the woman shouting at her ex–lover is as powerful,…