Heaven and earth in ashes burning.
I’ve written elsewhere that I love rage monsters. Which means you could doll me up in white and call me a glad man watching the new Godzilla trailer. I’m on the über side of relieved to see Gareth Edwards is firmly pursuing a traditional vision of the greatest kaiju of them all.
Not all men are able to decipher the signs of the times. The radioactive incarnation of Nipponese Weltschmerz is upon us, and, in its wake, I expect Fukushima will finally achieve cultural landfall this side of the Pacific slightly ahead of its literal arrival. In other news, expect the price of canned Pacific tuna to keep on rising along with the ticket prices to monster mashes like this film.
Godzilla isn’t going anywhere. He’s gonna make us all pay.
The text on my phone says her friend told her two men were stabbed last night on 124 Street and 103 Avenue. I look online. There’s a photograph of a couple of barneys parked in front of the building. Where her friend used to live. Where she used to live, too. Where I paid rent for two years myself.
The whole neighbourhood is dirt cheap for obvious reasons, but, man there are other obvious reasons I’m glad I don’t live in that ghetto anymore.
Currently reading Sheila Heti’s Ticknor.
Two if by land for which I am very enthusiastic: 1) Sheila Heti, 2) 1999-2004 The Late Late Show’s “A Re-Creation Of A Press Photo.”
So Tom Scocca’s fine-grained article up on Gawker comfortably encapsulates much of what I currently find myself thinking about today’s media, civics, national government, arts, and what I’ve seen practiced across a broad variety of personal relationships and many friendships.
A Gawker article.
Except maybe I do not find myself agreeing with the very last line of the article. Otherwise, no objections, Mr. Scocca, or hardly.
Favourite albums of the year.
One less than ten because everyone rounds up or down or counts by ten.
Shock me / don’t shock me with your deviant behaviour.
I’m not gonna stand around and argue these albums are the best of the year. The year’s not even sober. Although nearly. Cheap joke there. Everybody laugh. Remember sipping lemonade and pinchbeck rum in the backyard of the friend of our friend? Plastic lawn chairs and speaking polite and comfortable until night becomes morning. Sometimes what’s best is shaped by the moment. What I will say is these albums accompanied me on several adventures, a couple of different provinces, some severely late nights or early mornings, and have still held up on serious listens a week later or a month later or today.
More or less listed from favourite to less favourite.
There were a couple of different releases this year with which I was disappointed. All the sadfaces. Not least of those releases, of Montreal’s new album once again forgot to be better than their 2005 heart’s entrancer The Sunlandic Twins. How many years must I follow of Montreal through the wilderness before they return to the promised land of pop which made them so desirable? Arcade Fire should take note.
Nine Inch Nails
Flourish // Perish
The Bones Of What You Believe
Blue Chips 2
Loud City Song
My Name Is My Name
So passes the glory of this world. The king is dead. Long live the king.
Fishes have such soft bones. / Our mouths alone might melt their spines. / Fish have such dull eyes, / a spoonful hardly looks surprised.
But anywhere from ten feet in / to sea and our large bones begin / buckling amid the world they breathe, / those little fishes, with such ease.
Antipater, John Modred. “Fishes have such soft bones.” Evil And Worse Evil, London: Chatto & Windus, 1946. Pp. 1172-1173.