The Things That Captured Me Today
I remember it was around this time last year, when I was still married, I hadn't called it off yet. I was lying on the couch, surfing channels, when I still had a television and cable. My thumb stopped suddenly on MuchMusic, the Canadian version of MTV. I saw a shoe, an eye that didn't match the other, a screaming face, tousled hair, a new sound.
The Strokes.
Lying prone, once the beat attached onto my spinal cord, my body went perpendicular. Automatic. The last time I got that close to the screen was the first time I watched Thelma and Louise and discovered Brad Pitt.
There was something about the Strokes that resonated in me. It wasn't necessarily what they were saying, so much as how they were saying it. I'm convinced now that young Casablanca is at least partially responsible for the demise of my marriage. Room on Fire was the anthem of my freedom.
It was the distortion. The beat was driving, though totally cohesive in collective sound. The build's reward was so sweet. It was total boy angst. It was played to death.
Sometimes I play it and it sends me back to a place, a place I can still smell. I can still feel the walls around me. I'm so glad I'm not there anymore, but I'm glad it was part of my past.
I went to NYC a couple of times and each time I really didn't like it. The city itself is interesting, but I derive my impression of a place more by the interactions with its inhabitants, rather than the impersonal visits to buildings, exhibits or kiosks. Truthfully, I didn't like the money divide. Too vast a canyon between rich and poor. AND I didn't appreciate being charged $12 for a shot of vodka. What I do support is the rock that has come out of NYC in the last while. It did spawn Interpol.
This is a band that makes me feel completely different each time I play it. It always makes me feel like a different organism. Something that swoops, swoons, dives, falls or rises in catapult fashion. Something my body doesn't do, or can't do, but my mind takes me there anyway.
The song that, without fail, propels me to joyfully dance, and this is usually relegated only for home, as I haven't heard it outside of my house and those times when I sneak it in at work, is the last track of the The Faint's Wet From Birth album. Birth. Jesus. I can't contain myself. It is singularly the best dancing by myself song of all time.
The song that makes me feel beautiful is Blonde Redhead's Elephant Woman. It's so cinematic. At once it's dark. Night time. I'm wandering Parisian streets. A secret rendez-vous is imminent. I'm wearing a fitted trenchcoat. I have on no underwear. I carry Gauloise cigarettes in my clutch. I'm running with heels on cobblestone, breathy and breathless. It reeks of espionage. I'm so happy it hurts. It is a cool spring night that gets released in ardent, deep, fleshy kisses.
This is the song of love/lust.
This was outside my window today.
Strange and wonderful, I feel like I'm in love.
The Strokes.
Lying prone, once the beat attached onto my spinal cord, my body went perpendicular. Automatic. The last time I got that close to the screen was the first time I watched Thelma and Louise and discovered Brad Pitt.
There was something about the Strokes that resonated in me. It wasn't necessarily what they were saying, so much as how they were saying it. I'm convinced now that young Casablanca is at least partially responsible for the demise of my marriage. Room on Fire was the anthem of my freedom.
It was the distortion. The beat was driving, though totally cohesive in collective sound. The build's reward was so sweet. It was total boy angst. It was played to death.
Sometimes I play it and it sends me back to a place, a place I can still smell. I can still feel the walls around me. I'm so glad I'm not there anymore, but I'm glad it was part of my past.
I went to NYC a couple of times and each time I really didn't like it. The city itself is interesting, but I derive my impression of a place more by the interactions with its inhabitants, rather than the impersonal visits to buildings, exhibits or kiosks. Truthfully, I didn't like the money divide. Too vast a canyon between rich and poor. AND I didn't appreciate being charged $12 for a shot of vodka. What I do support is the rock that has come out of NYC in the last while. It did spawn Interpol.
This is a band that makes me feel completely different each time I play it. It always makes me feel like a different organism. Something that swoops, swoons, dives, falls or rises in catapult fashion. Something my body doesn't do, or can't do, but my mind takes me there anyway.
The song that, without fail, propels me to joyfully dance, and this is usually relegated only for home, as I haven't heard it outside of my house and those times when I sneak it in at work, is the last track of the The Faint's Wet From Birth album. Birth. Jesus. I can't contain myself. It is singularly the best dancing by myself song of all time.
The song that makes me feel beautiful is Blonde Redhead's Elephant Woman. It's so cinematic. At once it's dark. Night time. I'm wandering Parisian streets. A secret rendez-vous is imminent. I'm wearing a fitted trenchcoat. I have on no underwear. I carry Gauloise cigarettes in my clutch. I'm running with heels on cobblestone, breathy and breathless. It reeks of espionage. I'm so happy it hurts. It is a cool spring night that gets released in ardent, deep, fleshy kisses.
This is the song of love/lust.
This was outside my window today.
Strange and wonderful, I feel like I'm in love.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
6:39 p.m.
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