Now that Apple’s Law of Diminishing Recharges has fatally crippled my iPod, I find myself in severe music want. I excitedly finger through the mail each day, hoping Steve Job’s lawyers have responded to my entry in the class action lawsuit but I have yet to receive any response or satisfaction. Minus the occasional WOXY desktop spin and NPR bumper of Nepalese scream-singing, I’ve heard no new music. I steal the G’s iPod when she’s not looking but every time something like Neutral Milk Hotel comes on, I want to throw it in that little trash on the back step where we put the dog poo. She's a good kid and all, but some of her taste in music is weaker than a homœopathic soup made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had starved to death. (Thanks, Linc)
My old portable CD player skips worse than my heart leaving me the old cassette player/radio. DC radio is obviously shite and it can't pick up WRNR this far from
But I wasn't really aware of how bad things were until my subconscious voiced its indignation the other night. I dreamt I was trying to get into a club to see a show but was barred until I could prove my cred. The bouncer would point to someone on the street and I had to run over and yell out their name. Whatever city this dream took place in was only populated by the cast of CMJ and Paste magazines. The bouncer gave me credit for "the drummer the Old 97's that looks like Teddy Ruxpin," "one of the two girls from Cibo Matto" and I guesses at "a Sleater-Kinney" and got it right. The only person I was able to positively ID was Neko Case but she wouldn't stand still long enough to see her face so I had to tackle her in a parking lot.
Nabob = neither funny like on TV nor smart like it is in books.
When they finally let me in, Shooter Jennings was sitting in the back with a bunch of girls and he said he was disappointed in me. Then I woke up.
This is one of those stories that is too good to make up. But what do it mean?