Playing my first solo full-band show ever at Sleeping Village, with Justin Vittori, Nnamdi Ogbonnaya, and Alex Heaney, opening for Chris Cohen. The band was so sweet and the audience was so sweet and Chris was so nice to ask me to play.
Remembering the cute, kinda ambitious CSS3-animated website I made for dBpm Records in 2011 (archived on Archive.org).
Sweeping up dried rat turds like hockey pucks in a basement storage space.
Hearing kids singing through the walls of a mosque.
Rebecca Solnit writing about the “tyranny of the quantifiable” in Men Explain Things to Me: how quantifiable are easy to express and deal in, so they get outsize weight, while “slipperier things” get ignored. A first step of lots of world-bettering is naming and describing what we want to value.
Amazing insights about Prince’s recording process from the engineer Susan Rogers’s Red Bull Academy interview:
“He lived on Doritos and cake.”
“16 [hours] would be a fairly short session, but we frequently did 24 hours. That was fairly common. That was how long it took, because he never wanted to come back to a song. If he started it, he wanted to do all the overdubs and mixing as we went, and then print it and then it would be done. […] I’d make his cassette copy. I’d sleep my customary three hours. The phone would ring, I’d pick up the phone and his voice would go, ‘Ready?’ ‘Yeah.’ Then it would go all over again.”
Feeling temporarily soothed by an appeals court’s ruling that Trump’s Twitter bans are unconstitutional.
How Arthur Russell used to steal electricity via extension cord from his friend Alan Ginsberg’s apartment (via Tom Lee’s beautiful liner notes for Love Is Overtaking Me, via Austin Kleon’s newsletter).
Days after it aired, still thinking about Hannah B.’s intense reaction to the art in the Mauritshuis museum.
Eating a Psychedelic Salad from Leona’s (Chicago restaurant chain) for the first time since I was a preteen. (I’ve been chasing their peppery ranch ever since then.)
This Jonas Mekas quote from The Creative Independent: “I never needed a creative practice. I don’t believe in creativity. I just do things. I grew up on a farm where we made things, grew things. You plant the seeds and then they grow. I just keep making things, doing things. It has nothing to do with creativity. I don’t need creativity.”
The degree by which my life improved when I separated my sock and underwear drawers.
How cool it is, still, that Neil Finn is in Fleetwood Mac.
I think we ought to stop conflating recognition of fallibility with lack of conviction. It’s a problem in politics: we think politicians are weak or mealy-mouthed when they qualify their statements. But our political convictions usually depend upon how we understand facts about the world, and it’s totally appropriate to recognize that our understanding of those facts may be wrong. There are mealy-mouthed politicians for sure, but it’s a shame that our vigilance against them squelches the space for humility.
Driving into the Menards lumber yard in a caravan of four fifteen-passenger vans and one box truck; buying all the mulch bags they had in stock; loading them by hand into the vans; dropping them in a nighttime operation into the mud of Union Park.
How the abandoned-looking house in my neighborhood has stacks of empty jars in its windows, but none full of pee.
A coworker’s cigarette ash flying onto my upper lip, and me, thinking it was a warm bug.
Hearing phantom radio chatter from the day’s walkie-talkie use as I fell asleep.
The inescapable feeling of the heat last weekend (~115º index). When you’re comfortable, it’s easy to think you could “think your way out” of discomfort like that (similarly to how a person without depression might wish a person with depression could snap out of it). But it’s amazing how quickly comfort can come to feel impossibly far away.