"I did something stupid," she said.
Exactly what she did is not important now, but I must disagree: it was out of love and, therefore, not stupid, but honest, brave, and necessary.
Sam Beam sings:
And love is the scene I render
These are not the words to this song.
I mean to say: this is not the entry I planned to post. But things don't always go as planned, and—if you haven't already noticed—I tend to let things twist and turn and skip and jump in whatever fashion they please. Something always comes of it.
And I felt this should be mentioned.
This morning, upon entering Manhattan and climbing into the loud and blurry concrete war, I was surprised to…
And that about says it all.
My personal favorite concerns The Fiery Furnaces. If you read it, I think you’ll see why it’s my favorite.
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In his blog, You Can Go To Jersey Or You Can Go To Hell, Jim Teacher is afraid he's forgotten how to communicate, and, so, decides to sing to the trees and animals.
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I really love this, but of course I do: Sean Langon has created a slide-show documenting past Multi-…
I clench my eyes as though they were fists, and rub small circles into my temple with my knuckles. I wonder if Elizabeth notices. Our mutual workspace is cut in half by a short, beige wall, which stands almost exactly a foot higher than our white desk. If I roll my chair six inches to the right, we will be staring at one another. I hear her while she eats. She eats all day long: salads, sandwiches, carrots, apples, candies—Mike & Ikes, usually. She, on the other hand, is forced to listen to whatever music I have in the office.…
I was at the Virgin Megastore in Union Square again, having just left my heart on the L train, and was now looking for something to come home with me. They have a small "Indie" section now, you know, and that's where I was, peering ever-so-intently at the pretty albums before me. When I felt a presence to my left.
Turning, I was…
And, in case you were wondering, Elizabeth is wearing red. And orange. (Some people call it "salmon.") She gets kind of wild like that, sometimes. With her colors, that is. Wild with her colors.
Often, when Pete and I talk about music—when we try to put into words the ideas we’d like to convey in our own music, or when we hope to communicate those feelings stirred in us by the music of others—we refer to…
I had just clicked play on Paul Duncan’s "Oil in the Fields," a delicate song for this delicate day. Elizabeth seemed to respond immediately to it. If I were searching for a gift to offer Elizabeth, I’d keep this song in mind.
"That’s not a question I can answer, E. I haven't figured it out yet."
"I mean, it’s weird, isn’t it?"
"Hmm-mmm."
"Well, not exactly weird, but it does make you wonder."
"Yup."
I don’t know the whole answer. But I have…
So, at times throughout the day, I relieved my eyes by searching for new music.
In addition to that Paul Duncan song I mentioned earlier, I also discovered this new Belle & Sebastian song over at You Ain't No Picasso.
Appropriate, no?
If it sounds live, that's because it is.…
Joan and I are going to Barcelona from Oct 16-28 and need to figure out how to handle the cat thang. The easiest solution is to find someone we trust to house sit. I don't suppose you'd have any interest would you? There'll be a reasonably good hi-fi, the home theater downstairs, and a well stocked fridge (Mmmm, beer.) Plus DSL internet, of course.
The blog was then only a few days old, and, right away, it occurred to me that house sitting for Wes would be a great opportunity for me (and…
The ride out to Bay Ridge seemed to take forever. Outside, it was still raining. At least, underground, I was dry. In between reading Corey Greenberg’s essay on epiphanies and Wes Phillips’ e-newsletter on ripping LPs, I sent you a text message which you would not receive, writing simply to thank you for making me feel better—as you always do—with the way you listen and the way you think, the way you smile and the way you nod.
I’ll say that Mr. Conduso’s comment really hurt…