This is my blog entry text. This is my blog entry text. This is my blog entry text. This is my blog entry text. This is my blog entry text. This is my blog entry text. This is my second paragraph. This is my second paragraph. This is my second paragraph. This is my second paragraph. This is my second paragraph. This is my second paragraph.
This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 1. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2. This is paragraph 2.
Jon Fine nicely spanks David Brooks for "putting on his old man hat."
Honestly, every time somebody says anything along the lines of "all of x music" sounds the same, he or she is expressing his or her stone ignorance about that subject. I don't care whether it was me dissing disco back in the '70s, my red-diaper—baby cohort slagging punk for being "decadent" in the early '80s, or Ken Kessler dismissing classical collectors for wanting to experience multiple interpretations of the same work at HE2007—it's an admission of one's limited experience and lack of interest. Nothing more, nothing…
No, not those guys, the real thing.
"Sure, this box is snug, but I still fit in it," insists Huckleberry.
Easter Island isn't the only place with big heads lying about.
I saw Maria Schneider’s Jazz Orchestra at the Jazz Standard last night, for at least the 12th time in as many years, and they—both she and the band—get more and more dazzling with each visit. As I noted a couple months back, with the release of her latest CD, Sky Blue (available only from ArtistShare.com or MariaSchneider.com), Schneider’s compositions have grown both denser and airier—rich harmonies stacked on brisk, flowing melodies, swaying to rhythms at once buoyant, complex, and danceable. Her ballads are sweet and lovely without oozing into sentimentality. Her upbeat numbers are snappy…
Have astronomers astronomers accidentally nudged the universe closer to its death by observing dark energy?
It doesn't seem fair, somehow. As John Atkinson observed, "I didn't observe it, my part of the universe should still be unaffected."
In August, astronomers discovered an one billion light-year hole in the Universe. Now, Dr. Laura Mersini-Houghton's team of theoretical physicists and cosmologists posits that it is "unmistakable imprint of another universe beyond the edge of our own."
Wait, the absence of anything is evidence of the presence of something? Modern physics seems to exist mainly to make my head hurt.
It's funny, but hard-boiled pulp fiction seems to appeal to the literary mouth-breathers and the most extremely intellectual literati (and I make no claim as to which group I fall into). Even so, I did a double take when I saw that the review of Otto Penzler's new The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps was by John freaking Banville, author of The Sea, Doctor Copernicus, The Newton Letter, and Kepler, a novel."
If the book's half the read Banville's review is, it's a corker.