I'm hooked. Here's a recent two-part essay on music and electronics:
"Turning the Knob"
"Tweak Me Up Baby"
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I've just recently discovered the blog We Are All Mozart, billed as "A project to create new works and change the perception of the music of our time."
At a get-together the other night, I observed John Atkinson squinting at his cell phone when he received an in-coming call, and parroted Jon Stewart's remark that the amazing thing about the Mark Foley scandal wasn't that there was abuse in the page system, but rather that a 54-year-old could text message.
This cell phone microscope is what John needed—and it's cheap!
Via Gizmodo.
You've got to love an essay that begins, "It is a universally acknowledged truth that a movie studio in possession of a good fortune must be in want of Great Books."
You've really got to love one that continues, "The moguls, especially at MGM, meant to entertain and improve minds—or at least wean them from actual books, which, great or not, kept potential customers at home."
Giddons has a refreshing lack of reverence for acknowledged classics.
I like "Existential Threat," which strikes me as almost as funny as my favorite real existential road sign, which I spotted in an arroyo on I-25 between Albuquerque and Santa Fe: "Gusty Winds may exist."
Indeed, I'm almost sure of it.
Perhaps not brilliant in content, but certainly dazzling in its execution.
Strangers in our office leaning against cubicle walls, spitting into walkie-talkies: "Pedro's coming with a truck. Yeah. We'll need about twenty-five dollies and ten carts. Yeah."
The 9th floor halls of 261 Madison Avenue are lined with red dollies and cardboard boxes. Large, iron dumpsters overflowing with magazines, manilla folders, and 3-ring binders are parked into every corner.
IN New York magazine is moving out. Soon, the floor will belong to only us. For awhile — until we move, and the others come — it will be quieter than usual.
According to Sam Anderson, "To the millions of us flitting around the edges of hipness, he is our Geek Bard, our Troubadork."
Ho, a fine sally—or should I say assay?