Whatever Happened To... Bubbles The Chimp?

Still, airless late summer nights lend themselves to thoughts, and late night thoughts are often the ones that you shouldn't dwell upon. for instance, a passing thought on this silent and nearly stifling summer evening is "whatever happened to Bubbles The Chimp"? He was there, and then he was not. The silence surrounding the transition certainly belies what is likely a terrifying truth -- from a cancer reasearch center he came, and perhaps to a cancer research center he was dispatched.

Whatever the fate of Bubbles (and it is all merely conjecture), it is certainly no less horrifying or heartbreaking than the fate of Nim Chimpsky. No need to get into a lengthy diatribe on the ethics of animal research, and merely let that account speak for itself.


Photo by Herbert Terrace

Amy Winehouse :: Fabulous, tragic, and HILARIOUS

Oh, Amy... Watching this, it's better if you close your eyes and imagine Helena Bonham Carter in Sweeney Todd; it's magical, I tell you, magical!

"Oh, no, she's dead..."
"This isn't even a pop quiz anymore, it's an intervention, Amy!"

Impressive, and not even lipsynching! Also, in a fight? Bitch will take you down. (And then maybe/likely fall over herself.)

Dakin and the Rats of NIMH

Recently, while enjoying a bbq in the back yard with friends, we had an uninvited guest. A very large and not appropriately shy rat. Having lived in Seattle and Honolulu, which likely both rival New York City in terms of frequent rat sightings, it wasn’t nearly as traumatic as it would have been in comparatively rat free Kansas. Nor was it nearly as traumatic as the rats that took up residence in our storage room (or who tried to eat through our floors) in Hawaii. Also, on a scale of rat trauma, it fell significantly below the time that we had the rats fighting and chewing in the walls above the bed in Seattle years ago. No, this was pretty mild, and, at most, prompted me to jump up and close the door to the back porch. No biggie.

A few days later. I was taking laundry to the basement laundry room, and I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Oh yes, it was my rat friend, skirting along the rock retaining wall that borders my backyard and the neighbors above -- in broad daylight. This seemed like rather ballsy behaviour , and I went over to the wall to take a look; and also with the intent to give him a good scare and say “you’re not welcome here! and tell your friends!” What I discovered gave me a little scare instead.

When I approached the wall, the rat darted into a hole in the rocks, turned around, peered out, looked back at me, and disappeared. Into a burrow. In the wall. I stepped back and took a long look at the wall, and discovered that it was full of holes. Holes that led into what was likely a lengthy network of tunnels that in turn led to the Rats of NIMH. The Rats of NIMH that fear neither man nor daylight and had taken up residence in my backyard, a mere twenty or so feet from my house.

Upon discovery, I ran into the house and called a friend, leaving a voicemail that said simply “I have a horrible question for you that I already know the answer to... Rats live in colonies, yes?” I then sat down on the couch aware of the fact that I had likely fifty or more rats living in my backyard, and, more importantly, what am I going to do about it?

Having been a vegetarian for thirteen or so years (but no longer), I have qualms about killing things. I leave spiders alone (and sleep with one eye open), have never set a mouse trap (hoping that maybe they’ll just leave on their own), and have been known to escort cockroaches the size of my thumb outside in a covered wine glass. While I’m also unable to kill flies, I have, however, been known to poison and spray the swarms of ants that invaded our cottage in Hawaii, all the while telling them that really, you brought this on yourselves. Poisoning something soft and brown, however crawling with pestilence, on the other hand, is just beyond my capacities. I’m in an ethical quandary, you see. The rats and I likely cannot coexist for more than a finite period of time, and something must be done, but I just don’t want to be the one that does it. Neither do I want to phone the landlord and say “hey, there’s some killing to be done”, and what if one of the neighborhood cats gets into the poison? Or catches a poisoned rat and dies? I just couldn’t live with myself. No, better to do nothing and avoid the consequences.

So we wait. The rats becoming larger (they could go one on one with the cats) and more emboldened; why just today I saw one the size of a yorkshire terrier dragging a ham back into the burrow! I’m left to ask: “Is my reluctance to act based on a childhood filled with animated films of rodents railing against the totalitarian machine (The Secret of NIMH, as well as favorite Watership Down), or is it a general soft heartedness that has left me ill equipped to deal with the modern world? Don’t get me wrong, I doubt that I would have lasted a week on a farm once I learned where the delicious steak really comes from, but somehow this is different. It feels as though there’s a decision to be made, and that I’m just forestalling the inevitable and tragic conflagration to come.

In the meantime, I’m left wincing at the rustle of leaves, turning and expecting a hundred beady blood red eyes prepared to settle an age old score.

above, the burrow

From the Archives: ::(We Really Like) Daytrotter.com::

Sometimes, a lot of the time, and to be honest, most of the time, there are things that we like at Duck & Cover that we, for whatever reason, never get around to talking about. There are countless bands that we love love love, like Lennie and his mouse, but, instead of loving them lifeless, we do something worse. We fail to mention them; and it's not that we have illusions about having some great influence, but little bands need all of the love and support that they can find, especially the really good ones.

Fortunately for everyone there are many, many other sites on the internet that do take the time to promote music that they love, and give it to the world instead of keeping it in their pocket as if it were some magical talisman. At Duck & Cover, we like to consider ourselves Enthusiasts, and not critics. Musical criticism is mostly all bosh, frankly, and I'd rather talk about something that I really love than deconstruct something that I don't think is all that great. Besides, what if I'm wrong? (It happens often.)

One such site that we have enjoyed for the past year plus is Daytrotter. Daytrotter is the internet home of Futureappletree Studio 1 in Rock Island, Illinois, and they exemplify how the internet can be such an exciting and vital place for music. You see, at Daytrotter, they invite artists into the studio to record a special session, and then they distribute the tracks as free downloads. The novelty of this, to me, is two-fold. First, people like free music, but free music that an artist had to pay to record is not so great for the artist -- it's something of a losing proposition, aside from esoteric "exposure". Secondly, the sets are typically 3-4 songs in length, and are the perfect format to get to know a band's sound. I can't begin to tell how many stunning bands that I've gotten to know via Daytrotter's format, and the most exciting thing is that it's top quality one off live material, so it automatically appeals to the collector/completist in me. (There's also always the excitement of checking back in after a month away from the site, and finding a handful of favorite artists just waiting to be downloaded.)

Artists who have participated in the Daytrotter sessions include, but are certainly not limited to: Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, Vampire Weekend, My Brightest Diamond, Dappled Cities, Quasi, Death Cab For Cutie, Thao Nguyen, Dirty Projectors, Sunset Rubdown, Six Parts Seven, Shearwater, Okkervil River, Low, Fleet Foxes... so, so many bands all deserving of your adoration! See the complete list here, and happy downloading. Hopefully you'll see some old friends and discover some new favorites in the process!

Oh! And before I forget! The accompanying illustrations by Johnnie Cluney make it all the more better!

From the Archives: ::WEB COMICS ROUNDUP:: the final word

Oh Noes! Here it is the last day of April, and "Internet Comics Month" failed to deliver the grandeur promised all those many days ago. In fact, it could be said to have ground to a screeching halt through a near willful lack of followthrough from one half of Duck & Cover. In my defense, if you were able to view our drafts folder, you would see that there are many, many writeups of many, many comic artists that were begun, walked away from, and never returned to. Good intentions, road to hell, broken promises, typical, etc.

So. This is going to have to serve as a bit of a roundup, and for that, I do apologize. Each and everyone of these artists has something very cool to offer, and deserve much more attention than what they're about to receive.

::Cat And Girl::
Much as the title implies, it is about a cat and a girl. It is an "experimental meta narrative". It is also awesome. Cat and Girl had won my heart with Dorothy Gambrell's character's delightful cynicism, long before I discovered the first reference to Robert Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns. Cat and Girl ably navigates the circumstances and quandaries that your typical self aware quasi hipster encounters in their day to day life with a dry and cutting wit that also hits uncomfortably close to home. But in a fun way, like Stuff White People Like -- but before the book deal, and before they officially (circled if not) jumped the shark with that Oscar Parties entry on Oscar Day. (Boo!) Also, look for Bad Decision Dinosaur, who pops up to advocate bad decisions. (Duh! Napoleon so never should have listened to him!)

Gambrell's Girl is possessed by the horror and ennui that so many of us encounter when confronted by the reality of Life In America. Sad? Buy more. Angry? Buy more. Happy? Buy more! Disturbed by the albatross that is the Iraq "war"? BUY MORE. Also, hit up the all you can eat buffet before those food prices limit us to two plates per visit!


(not the best illustrative example of the above, but an inside joke at D&C)

::Marlys Magazine::
This is not so much a "web comic", but it is the internet home of Lynda Barry and the characters that populate her fantastic Ernie Pook comic strips, and you should absolutely make the time for a visit. For those familair with Lynda Barry and the divine Ernie Pook series that was routinely found in the back of "alternative newspapers" in the late '90s (and now, too... I think?) you know that Barry writes from an unhappily nostalgic place. Barry's comics center on growing up poor and other, with her main characters covered in freckles, with outrageous hair, unattractive glasses, and seem generally isolated in their sometimes claustrophobic lives. There is a busily austere beauty to Barry's work, and I have always greatly enjoyed reading everything that she has done (and am one of the few people that I know who purchased and own a copy of her 1999 novel Cruddy), and her collection of 100 Demons can never fail to break your heart or cause you to cringe in recognition of your own failings. For we are Lynda Barry, and Lynda Barry is we.




:: Laura Park::
Laura Park is an artist residing in Chicago, who, while not publishing a web comic per se, does have a webernet home for her comics and art. I'm not sure what to say about Laura Park, other than that I am absolutely crazy about her work. Her draftsmanship is impeccable, and, while her work tends towards and autobiographical bent, I feel that her work has more of a graphic novel feel than a comic feel. Of course, a graphic novel is indeed a comic, and I know nothing about these things, but those are my thoughts. Also, look for the occasional cameo from Duck & Cover favorite Julia Wertz of the Fart Party. (It was through Wertz' work that I had the good fortune to discover Ms. Park.) Laura Park loves great music, cooking, and has a cat and a pet pigeon -- named Nixon. A pigeon! Take the time to read every single on of her comics, and you can love her as well. Laura Park also deserves a much more extensive write up than this. Perhaps sometime in the future?

From the Archives: Sigur Ros :: Two Videos From Some Time Ago

Stumbling through some old cds long in storage, I stumbled across a Sigur Ros 2 disc set that, according to my itunes is ( ) Untitled #1. One of these two discs was a dvd of video work -- two taken from the band's dreamy first release Aegetis Byrjun, and the third from the just then released ( ). The first two songs, "Svefn-G-Englar" and "Vidrar Vel Til Loftarasa" are stunning and heartbreaking, and the videos capture the spirit of the music (and Sigur Ros) very well. The third, a video by Floria Sigismondi (whom you may recall from the Marilyn Manson video for "Beautiful People") for the song "Untitled #1 (Vaka)" is very pretty as well, but a bit more bleak and conceptual. I mean, it's nice, but it won't break your heart, and it's not nearly as visually arresting, so what's the point, y'know? (Which makes me feel like a horrible person and a bad critic, because I really do like this video, just not nearly as much as the other two. Mainly this is because, though I may pretend to be edgy, at heart I'm a terrible sap who loves to be emotionally manipulated by any sort of media. Books, music, film, visual art, email, voicemail, whatever; I am putty in your hands.)

I'm not going to go into any detail with the following videos, and am instead just going to encourage you to watch them. If you have seen them, it was likely a very long time ago (like me!), so you should watch them again. If you don't shed a few stray tears, you've only your black cinder of a soul to blame. Please note, however, that Sigur Ros is best listened to on headphones, and loud. (It puts you in the moment, you see.)

From the Archives: Daft Punk :: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger

Somehow winter still has her claws in the Pacific Northwest. It's almost May, and we're forecast snow this coming weekend. Snow! (I'll spare you my usual tirade about what physically impossible acts may be performed on this particular part of the country, my own little corner of hell.) In any event, we were teased by 80 degrees over the past weekend, only to be thrust back into the 50s and below (with rain!) immediately after.

Needless to say, it has not been happy times. I am on day three of a nonstop Neko Case marathon, and, while it is indeed comforting, Neko tends to be a little, dare we say, dark? Sometimes you just need to take pause and make your own sunshine, or perhaps be steered to some on YouTube, as is certainly the case here. (Even though I firmly believe that YouTube is leading to the complete downfall of Western Civilization, and exposing the ugly underbelly of the American experience, I can sometimes forgive it. Times like this.)

Back story? Dunno. Two french boys, "Jay" and "KIng Julian" made an absolutely hands down amazing video for Daft Punk's "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" (as a response to a similar video by two girls), and then put it on the interwebs. This is about as much homework as you can expect from a blog. I mean, I'm not sure if you noticed or not, but the internet's not really big on fact checking. Anyway, enjoy.

F

From the Archives: Fruit Mystery :: What Did Happen At The Zoo??

In the Edward Albee play Zoo Story, something has happened at the zoo. We learn this because a man (Jerry) has approached another man on a park bench (Peter) and told him as much. (Among other things -- other very personal and inappropriate things-- and, by and large, it is far from any conversation that we've had or would care to have on a park bench.) In any event, something, something awful, happened at the zoo, and we never learn just what that thing was.

In the flash game Fruit Mystery (developed by Australian Brett Graham) something has also happened at the zoo. However, this time, we have been made privy to just what that something was -- someone has fed the animals, and there have been dire consequences. However, sometimes, as is certainly the case with Fruit Mystery, answers spawn more questions. Of course now, our thinking has shifted from "What happened at the zoo?" to "What really happened at the zoo, if anything at all?' This glimpse of a half truth, or exaggerated truth, or complete falsehood is far, far more vexing than than the implied and ominous "something" that Albee had goaded us with.

Without giving too much away, we revisit Brett's trip to the zoo and are able to feed the animals from a selection of fruits, vegetables, and corn chips at the bottom of the page. This seldom ends well, and the game is paused. Why? So that we can read and learn. Again, it's best not to give too much away, and really just urge you to play the game immediately and repeatedly. Be sure to navigate the rest of Brett's site, as more questions are posed than are answered in many, many ways.

PLAY FRUIT MYSTERY **NOW**!

From the Archives: The Fart Party

Before leaving Honolulu I found myself spending a lot of time drinking away the sad and surfing the internet (much, um, much like now, in Seattle, but I, uh, wear pants instead of shorts[?]), and I happened to stumble across The Fart Party, an autobiographical comic written and drawn by Julia Wertz. The Fart Party manages to come across as both remarkably vulgar and deeply touching. (I'm reminded of the later work of R. Crumb, but I know next to nothing about comic art, and I did just see a retrospective, so likely I'm just full of it.) Wertz presents comics that are either fully fleshed out and beautifully minimal or quick stylized stick figure vignettes, that, while "easy" succeed due to her impeccable sense of framing and narrative. (To clarify, that means that they are not "easy" at all, and are just as enjoyable as her more "formal" work.)

When I first discovered the Fart Party, I literally read through the entire site in one sitting, absolutely unable to get enough, and deeply saddened when I was done. Wertz, as portrayed in her comics, is the type of person that you can imagine becoming fast friends with. An accomplished drinker with a highly developed sense of pathos, as well as a delightfully self deprecating sense of humor, an (apparent) unabashed fondness for poo, a filthy mouth, and, above all, a good heart. All of this combines in The Fart Party to create a wonderful, hilarious, and readable comic. What am I talking about? It's just fucking hilarious. Go buy the book from Amazon (now!) and read it every day at fartparty.org (even though it's apparently only updated "thrice weekly", but you should still check in. Just in case.)

Of the comics below, I can immediately relate to both of them; especially drunk email (seriously -- breathalyzer; how hard could that be?), drunk dialing your mother (shockingly this has never happened -- on accident. [cringe]), and reflecting on major life changes and the manner that it relates to who you are as a person. See, you can laugh and your heart can break a little, and sometimes at the same time.

From the Archives: Bea Arthur and Rock Hudson sing about Teh Drugz

Sometimes the internet is a horrible place, like when YouTube comments reveal the true base nature of humanity, or a site can't be navigated to simply change the billing address on a credit card (Bank Of America?!?!?). Other times the internet is a wonderful time machine, a veritable cabinet of curiosities; and today is certainly one of those days.

Via a commenter on Gawker, this gem was happened across. Rock Hudson and Bea Arthur singing a catchy little song together lamenting the times "when 'smoke' was Luckies, and 'high' was gin" on "The Beatrice Arthur Special" on CBS, from January of 1980

Easily the gayest thing posted since those Gay Unicorns. And Hey! This is a song too! Just like those unicorns! And it's a catchy one that will be stuck in your head for days! Months even! I think I want this as a ringtone! How do I make one of those!

In any event, enjoy a beautiful campy moment from the history of American television, and marvel that Rock Hudson can manage an irony free reference to "Amyl Nitrate".

From the Archives: The Exquisite Agony of Antony & The Johnsons

It may be the chill that has crept into the air as of late, or perhaps that coupled with the surprisingly clear weather in the South Sound for the past week or so, but something is drawing me, nay, pulling me to the embrace of Antony and the Johnsons. Which record? Oh, all of them. I have a particular affinity for "Cripple and the Starfish", the second track off Antony's 2000 release; a song that, like the popular "Fistful of Love" from 2005's near flawless I Am a Bird Now, romanticizes, begs for, domestic violence.

I am happy, so please hit me; I am very, very happy, please hurt me

Such is the way with Antony and the Johnsons; pain and memory (though what is memory, if not, so often, pain?), sweet nostalgia, plaintive cries for love, of love, for violence, of violence. It's heartbreaking, and breathtaking, and uplifting and inspiring' all of this delivered by Antony's deep yet reedy vibratto laid over piano driven, distinctly non pop music. Think a less wry, less coy, less prideful Rufus Wainwright, and you're very close.

In fact, Wainwright made a guest appearance on I Am a Bird Now, along with many others, including Lou Reed, Devendra Banhart, and Boy George. Antony is also no stranger to the guest spot, having made appearances on Coco Rosie's debatable second record (Noah's Ark), singing on the stunning and lamentably spelled "Beautiful Boyz". Most notably and recently, Antony has appeared with Bjork as the voice of "The Conscience" on "My Juvenile", off her recent release Volta. (This is the introduction to a more mainstream American audience, though the Brits had the good sense to award him the prestigious annual Mercury Prize in 2005 for I Am a Bird Now.)

There's something warm and wonderful in Antony and The Johnsons that works as well on a chilly night spent in by yourself as on a perfect spring evening, windows open to a warm breeze, prostrate on the couch with a cocktail in hand. It does lend itself to heartbreak, but it's just so stunning and dynamic that it can't really inspire anything but a sense of wonder. Go ahead, pick up a record, any record, and give it a go. (Assuming that it's an Antony and The Johnsons record, I mean, it wouldn't work with, say Spiceworld; well, it would, but not the same.)

From the Archives: The Dirty Three :: Whatever You Love, You Are

Sometimes it’s not enough to survive winter. Sometimes you want winter to cut you just so that you can enjoy the warmth of your own blood, however fleeting the pleasure. Sometimes you want to traverse dark roads bundled in shadow and avoiding the eyes of passing strangers. Sometimes you wish to visit a place inside yourself that is far less civilized, a place that, though you’ve been many times before, still requires a map to locate.

This map can take many forms, and has, for centuries, done so for many people. Some wish to find these roads through drink or pills or violence; others, the more sane, the more austere prefer music. Not anything will do of course, it must be, preferably non vocal, with no real importance placed on the composition’s simplicity or complication. it must, however, possess a certain quality that is impossible to define or explain until it is experienced.

The Dirty Three certainly has such quality, and can be retained for use as such a map, and easily so. Personally, I would choose 2000’s impeccable Whatever You Love, You Are, an album whose presence in my life I owe solely to Jamie. When I first moved to Seattle in the fall of the same year, a friend bought me tickets to Shannon Wright with the Dirty Three opening. Having just moved to a new city, and not really knowing anyone, of course I would rather stay home and mope. Little did I know what a mistake I was making. A year later I had the chance to see Nick Cave at the Paramount Theater with Warren Ellis in the supporting band, and had a pretty decent idea of the size of my mistake.

On Whatever You Love, You Are, The Dirty Three are the musical equivalent of a good cry. The music is dark and brooding, yet fraught with a beauty as delicate as the finest filigree. Emotions reel with Warren Ellis’ violin, while Jim White’s percussion makes want to open your chest to let the pressure off of your rotten heart; Mick Turner’s guitar makes you roll on the floor, tearing at your hair. it is cathartic and exquisite; it is bliss.

As the final strains of "Lullabye For Christie" fades from your speakers you shake your head and return to reality. You’ve travelled your dark roads and come back unscathed, though likely a little changed; behind your eyes lurks a new wisdom . However, isn’t that the allure of travel?

From the Archives: Califone :: Roomsound

Winter in the Northwest comes upon you hard and fast. Fall’s flirtation is brushed aside, and with the fervor of an angry drunk Winter barrels into the room. One moment you shed your coat after a trek uphill, stopping to rest and wiping sweat from your brow, the next a gale wind is driving you back inside, back to comfort.

Suddenly your light jacket is no longer sufficient armament against winter’s chill, and you must arm yourself with tweeds and a scarf, and where did you put your gloves? You take comfort in soups (Matzoh ball! Lentil and chard!), a good wine, the company of good friends, and of course, proper music. The music of winter does not fight off the chill, it does not transport you to days of sunshine and garden parties. The music of winter embraces the cold and the darkness, but nonetheless comforts you with it’s own ambient warmth.

Today the winter wind is blowing hard, the waters of Seattle’s Puget Sound are an angry gunmetal; passing boats rock up and down, fighting the race of the waves to the shore. I am bundled in a grey pullover, and there is matzoh ball soup heating on the stove. I have chosen Califone’s remarkable 2001 release, Roomsound, as my toddy for the afternoon. It was on an afternoon like this, in 2001 that I first heard this record, in an apartment not 10 blocks away, with a view of the cold, cold city pressing against my windows, not at all unlike today.

Six years later, the record is just as wonderful, just as warm. I may have changed and grown by leaps and bounds, lived and gained countless new insights into myself and my life, yet Califone is much the same. The sounds are layered upon layers, the heart is Americana, but the soul is something darker and more complex (yet what could be darker than Americana?). Califone happens in the spaces between the percussion, a busy layered sound coupled with near monotone vocals that inhabit the music as another instrument. Combined it is both comforting and disconcerting, like a song by Nick Cave or the Dirty Three. (The shared reliance on atmosphere, on the unspoken yet implied threat of violence, the music’s energy barely kept in check by the musicians, straining to be released and allowed to run free, teeth bared.)

I am seated at the table by the windows, matzoh ball soup at my side, and Roomsound on my headphones. It is 4pm, the sun is disappearing behind the Olympic mountains, behind the cloud cover, as though it too is retiring from this viciously cold afternoon. The ferries cross the sound, a strong wind blows. and the lights of the city slowly wink on. There is a feeling settling over me that feels feels suspiciously like contentment.

Califone :: Roomsound

Highly recommended

From the Archives: Electrelane

As per Electrelane's website, and following the genius of 2007's No Shouts No Calls, Electrelane is calling it quits for the time being, or, rather, "the foreseeable future". Well, we all know what that means. That means no more Electrelane, forever.

Why is it that good bands call it quits all the time, yet Aerosmith, The Rolling Stones*, and The Eagles will always be around? Help me out here, 'cause I need to know.

*Not to discount amazing records such as Sticky Fingers, Beggar's Banquet, Exile On Main Street and Let it Bleed, but, c'mon people, when was the last time they put out something like that? Seriously. It's like going to see Flock of Seagulls on tour. Play "I Ran", and let me get on with my evening.

If you don't have/haven't heard No Shouts No Calls, buy it now! And if you had a chance to catch the band opening for The Arcade Fire last summer, count yourself among the fortunate.

From the Archives: My Baby Don't Mess Around...

It's entirely possible that "Hey Ya!" by Outkast is one of the best dance songs ever (evah!), if not one of the best songs ever written by humans. Granted, it's likely that this may be doing some sort of disservice to other worthy contenders, but... right now... at this moment... well, "Hey Ya!" just made one of it's rare appearances on shuffle, and it's impossible for me not to jump up in my empty apartment and scream "Brilliant!"

Which I am doing right now, on the internets.

There was a time when I feared that I would grow tired of "Hey Ya!". It was 2003, I had gotten my first iPod a year before, and was more than happy to have the genius (again, brilliant!) double opus of Speakerboxx/The Love Below as a constant player in the car, on the bus, walking through the city... But then, well, it was everywhere. Over Christmas we listened to it ("Hey Ya!") repeatedly while myself and my friend Angela snorted No-Doz with a Nordy's gift card (christ, don't ask!) and danced in her apartment, then later at a bar that I shouldn't have been at, making out with people that I shouldn't have been, then again at a New Year's party, where we listened to it twice, at full volume while a friend of a friend drunkenly tried to sing karaoke all by herself (sad!). (Later too, or perhaps earlier, I made out with two girls that New Year's that no one knew, so you see, this is a song for making out, as well as dancing!)

"Hey Ya!" was everywhere, yet somehow it never grew old, I never tired of the hooks and the lyrical twists and turns ("I don't to meet your daddy/ Just want you in my caddy/don't want to meet your momma/just want to make you comma"). The subject matter of "Hey Ya!" is, ironically, not so much the stuff of great dance songs (aside from the invitation to "shake it like a polaroid picture"), as it's the tale of love gone wrong; a love that has staled, and neither party is ready to let go, unwilling to let the relationship take it's course. We've all been there, and "Hey Ya!" has it's poignant moments when Andre 3000 implores "why, oh why are we so in denial/when we know we're not happy here." But then, we don't want to hear him, we just want to dance.

"Hey Ya!" is the party that you never want to end. Song ends, hit repeat, and dance to this shit all night. With friends, with strangers, alone in front of floor to ceiling windows writing what very well may be a lame blog entry. Just listen, dance, enjoy, repeat.

ice cold, bitches.

Oh, and the official word from Polaroid is that you really shouldn't shake their photos for a faster development time; just FYI.

From the Archives: New Release Roundup :: In Haiku!

All right, 2007 has been a great year for new releases, and I have to admit that we have been remarkably remiss by covering barely 1/8th of them. For the record (the not so timely record) we heard, enjoyed, and had big opinions about The Shins, St. Vincent, Spoon, Okkervil River, the National, New Pornographers, Electrelane.... A veritable laundry list of what I have come to think of as my generation's adult contemporary. We just never got around to sharing those opinions; and, to be fair, there has been SO MUCH new music that we barely got around to thinking that the new Okkervil River was one of the best things ever before we had to take some time to wonder who St Vincent reminded us of.

In any event, my iTunes has been flooded lately with an influx of new music, so much that I can barely take time to give it all the attention that it needs... and writing a full review? No thanks, and especially not five or more. So as a compromise, I have composed the following Haiku poems for some of the more exciting and notable releases of the past few weeks. (There's also an older one thrown in that it would be almost criminal not to mention. I'll go ahead and throw their name out there, because they are hands down no shit goddamn good: Vampire Weekend! Vampire Weekend! Vampire Weekend!)

Without further ado, Haiku:

iron & wine/ the shepherd's dog hushed whispers big sound does it seem bearded to you? the south is rising
beirut/ the flying club cup poland to paris life is still a cabaret edith would be proud
les savy fav/ let's stay friends art rock whatever that is i do like your e. t. purse mr harrington
jens lekman/ night falls over kortedala stephin merrit but more gay yet not really so lush morrissey pop
dirty projectors/ rise above (reinvention of the black flag classic) a sexy concept happiness transcends aggro a little much dischord
vampire weekend/ vampire wekend e.p. a happy fusion of sounds too many to site you must buy it now
radiohead/ in rainbows not ok comput er or kid a but thank god not amnesiac

From the Archives: Music For Packing and Leaving

Tonight, well, last night if we’re to be totally honest, I was to start packing. As has been expressed in a previous post, I am in the middle of Tremendous Life Change. I am moving as much as I can afford of my current life in Hawaii back to what could be said to be my old life, but is really my new life, in Seattle.

Yesterday, I turned thirty two. Thirty was spent in the middle of a hectic move to Hawaii, a move that was even more hectic because I allowed my then partner to shoulder all of the responsibility in getting us here. Sure, I helped, but not as much as I could or should have. Part of it was that I was resistant to change, and, even at the cusp of thirty, acting the part of a spoiled child. This time is different. This time I only have myself to answer to (because who wants to be in a relationship with a spoiled child? Exactly.), and must handle things differently.

Jamie suggested that I take some time out of the packing to do a post about Music for Packing, which, really, truth be told, is Music For Leaving. Because I am. I am leaving; I am leaving my partner of more than four years (who, in the spirit of our new found honesty left me), I am leaving friends, I am leaving an established career; I am choosing not to live my life for other people.

We could be clever. We could bluster about how we moved neighborhoods in Seattle in a Darvocet and Percocet haze to Les Savy Fav serenading us with “We’ve Got Boxes”. We could laugh when we remember the move from Kansas to Seattle, marking the miles with Modest Mouse and “A Life Of Arctic Sounds”, because, don’t you know, five hundred miles is a long way to go inside a car? (And don’t you know, we got there, and we pined away the nights with “Busby Berkely Dreams” by the Magnetic Fields.) But let’s not. Let’s share a beer and continue to be honest. Lets talk about “Late Night Maudlin Street” by Morrissey.

This song, oh, this song. This song, off Morrissey’s first solo effort Viva Hate, all the way back in 1988 is the song that for years has eulogized our passing from one physical space to the next. There has not been a move in recent memory that has not entailed sitting in the middle of the floor with a beer and Morrissey’s sad, sad lament about changing house drifting through speakers. I am moving house, a half life disappears today... It captures the ache and promise of new beginnings so perfectly. It is the ache of lost love, of a life that you’ve left behind; it was, is, and will always be, to me, perfect.

The rain pours down at the back of the Nu’uanu valley, where I currently live -- teasing me with the promise of a dark and potentially lonely winter in the Northwest. I’m drinking a beer, sitting at my computer, and listening to “Late Night Maudlin Street”, over and over, so many times that it’s embarrassing. It is, however, like a friend’s arm around your shoulder, fingers pressed into your bicep, and promising that everything really will be okay.

Oh, truly I do love you...


Apologies, but, yet again, there is not a DRM free track or "Late Night Maudlin Street" to accompany this post. Look it up though, purchase it ala carte from iTunes... You will not be disappointed.

From the Archives: Explosions In The Sky :: All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone

Dakin is in the middle of planning a trans-pacific move, from the blue water and flawless days of Hawaii to the cloud cover and drizzle of Seattle. Moving is always a difficult task, even if your move only takes you across town. When you cross oceans and time zones, a certain melancholy can take hold as you say "fare thee well" to a handful of new friends, while (in this case) falling back into the open arms of those that you had previously left behind. There is always an intrinsic feeling of being cheated that is imparted by the people you must doff your proverbial hat to, always accusations of some sort of abandonment... and why do they never understand that this is not an easy task? Perhaps things are different with each parting, as you leave your family in the midwest and follow dreams to the nw, then follow bigger (yet simpler) dreams to an island in a sea of blue, then, yet again, you chase even bigger dreams (is such a thing possible?) back to the fog and chill of the pine forests. In short, each goodbye becomes more bittersweet... For too long, you may have been the one who was left, and promised that someday you would be The One Who Leaves, only to discover that this is no easier. In short, he has taken a moment from the planning and goodbyes to pen this review...


Life has got me down, and that's why I've chosen to listen to Explosions In The Sky All Of A Sudden I miss Everyone (remixes). EIS is like the warmest bath, the rattiest sweater, the coziest fire. SIE allows you to revel in warmth and comfort and push the world aside, if only for a moment.

The album art features a man adrift with a light held aloft scanning a flooded once civilized landscape; alone and searching he is a symbol of isolation in a post apocalyptic world. He is obviously the survivor of something dreadful -- Katrina anyone? -- and yes, you believe that he does indeed miss everyone. He misses everyone because his world has come apart at the seams, everyone's world has, and he has, again, found himself adrift with the detritus pushed forth by this calamity.

The music of EIS could be said to embody this sense of loss, of heartache, of the great distances that we all traverse, in so many ways. EIS is instrumental beauty, all of the crash and crescendo of Godspeed You Black Emperor with none of the pretense or conceit.

Fall is approaching, and summer passes, melting all of the hope and promise that summer invariably brings into the muted colours and dried husks that fall leaves scattered across the sidewalks and beneath the trees. In light of such, EITS All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone, and the companion disc of remixes is just the tonic that will guide you through all of life's sudden or premeditated changes.

Recommended? Goodness, yes. For whom? For anyone who feels

From the Archives:Arcade Fire :: Live 05.27.07 :: Portland, OR

THE ARCADE FIRE
27.05.2007 Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall

The show opens with the fall of the house lights; the audience cheers and then becomes slightly restless as monitors flicker around the stage; grainy footage of a television evangelist, a hefty southern woman in sequins, paces breathlessly and decries “people pleasers” as “butt kissers” repeating over and over again that “we have no more time, no more time” and tells women to “take off those high heels”. She rushes back and forth whipping her crowd into a hallelujah frenzy, and then fades into static.

The band arrives, and it is immediately apparent that we are in church, and they are the evangelists. They immediately, with no banter, and no introductions, slam into “No Cars Go”; the audience, surging forward as Win invites “There’s plenty of room here at the front, come on down!” Security wrestles with the crowd, and manages to push them back, but not before a few people manage to make it to the space between the front row and the stage. There is a teenage boy held back by security, just to the right of us (we are third row); he has thrown himself against the security guard, just to get those few inches closer. He is punching the air , shaking his head, screaming “I love you Win, you’re beautiful!”; he is in ecstacy. He is the perfect portrait of a pentecostal worshipper, possessed by the spirit, lost in the bliss of his god.

The evangelical theme pervades the evening, with the monitors showing distorted black and white video feeds of the band playing, switching from angle to angle, looking not at all unlike a televised revival from the fifties or sixties. A pipe organ hangs from the beams, while the scrim is a colored projection of the Neon Bible itself. Regine Chassagne plays the perfect Tammy Faye to Win Butler’s Jim Bakker. She flounces, she pouts, she engages the audience, drawing us closer, gesturing to us to sing along, cupping her hands to her mouth on “Neighborhood #1(Tunnels)”, miming the chorus. The rest of the band are the gospel choir, singing along, shouting, making it clear to us that they may be creating something tonight, in this room, but they are experiencing it just as intensely as we.

They play all of the favorites, tightly, flawlessly; rushing around, changing instruments, their energy boundless, their enthusiasm contagious. Regine dances and preens her way coquettishly through “Haiti”, her be sequined Madonna gloves catching and reflecting the light as she dances tirelessly. After “Neon Bible”, they cover “Distortions” by Clinic, and, by the end of the song, the crowd is nearly silent. Someone shouts out and is shushed by someone elsewhere in the auditorium.“I picture you in coffin’s, my baby in a coffin/ i love it when you blink your eyes... I want to know no secrets here....free of distortions.”

Towards the end of the evening, Win thanks the crowd for coming, and segues into “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)”, taking full advantage of the stage lighting, pulsing vertical bars of bright white light into the crowd. The crowd moves as a whole, fists punching the air, feet in constant motion, it seems that it may not be possible to be moved more than this moment... And then the band is jamming, slamming a crescendo onto the end of the song, and slowly, slowly, it becomes “Rebellion (Lies)”. The crowd pushes forward, again, fists in the air , punctuating the chorus of “Lies! Lies” and then Win Butler stepped off the stage.

He stumbled through the front, standing on whatever would support him; the crowd rushed to meet him, some briefly overpowering security. Win stepped over chairs, and climbed onto the back of an empty seat directly in front of us, standing not five inches away, continuing to sing, while we danced and punched the air, enraptured. He turned and headed back to the area in front of the stage where he was engulfed by fans who instead of overtaking him, supported him, helped him onto the back of a chair. Surrounded, he continued to sing, taking a camera pointed at him and turning it back on it’s owner, snapping off photos, singing into someone’s outreached cellular phone, surrounded by love, by bliss.

The atmosphere, by the end of the night, is that of pure ecstasy. My hands hurt from clapping, my throat aches from singing along, shouting, my arms ache from throwing them in the air, my feet from jumping, my legs from dancing. There was not a moment this night that we were still. I look from side to side, watching the crowd move, all of us held in place by our assigned seats. Here and there I see someone standing, arms folded, and all I can think is “How?”

editor's note: the photo above is from the prior night's show at the Sasquatch Music Fest, as we declined to take a camera into the Portland show (stupid!).

Arcade Fire/PDX, OR 5.27.07 "Distortions"


Arcade Fire/PDX, OR 5.27.07 "Rebellion (Lies)"

from the Archives: Elvis Perkins :: Ash Wednesday

Months ago, I received a phone call from my friend Laura, and she said "Oh my god!" (or, rather, as Laura is more apt to say "OMG!") "have you heard Elvis Perkins?!!" There followed a debate about Elvis' parentage, and his paternal lineage as relates to his father, the actor Anthony Perkins; most often connected with not only his role in Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" but his identity as a gay man (who died of AIDS in 1992)-- a fact that led me to (ignorantly) proclaim "nuh'uh!" This led to an over the telephone search of wikipedia ("no, no, cross reference THIS!"), which revealed that Mr. Perkins' father was indeed Anthony Perkins, and his mother was the photographer Berry Berenson, who was a passenger on one of the flights flown into the World Trade Center September 11, 2001.

That out of the way, and the almost mythological (in the scope of it's tragedy) tale of his birth and eventual and current life as an orphan ttroubador told, we may focus on the beauty; the dare I say, genius, that is Elvis Perkins. While Mr. Perkins may not do anything exceptionally new or stunningly different, what he does, he does well. What he does breaks hearts, holds the capacity to change lives (oh, if only you listen closely enough!); what he does is create what just may be your new favorite record.

Perkin's voice is a marriage of Jeff Mangum of the Neutral Milk Hotel, and Rufus Wainwright; the music stripped of fuzz and pretention, pure emotion and beauty crying out from the strains of an acoustic guitar, backed by the sparest percussion. I am reminded of Mangum's acoustic record/bootleg "Live At Jittery Joe's", yet the songs are much more accessible and less obtuse; my heart breaks without having to think to myself "yes, but what does it MEAN?" I want to curl up in the refrains, I want to lose myself in these plaintive vocals, I want to cry when he tells me that "It worries me, it worries me, that there's someone on my mind who i don't see/ i close my eyes to disappear, into the fields of stars between my ears." i don't debate that I tend towards the sappy (oh, but don't say saccharine!), and that my heart may break at the drop of a hat, the drop of a shoe, but, conversely, how can your heart not break? How is it possible not to break into a million pieces; how is it not possible unless you've not bothered to listen?

Elvis Perkins is a must listen for those who love the Neutral Milk Hotel, for those who have shuddered along with Rufus Wainwright, for those who have hidden their faces behind hands as Sebadoh forced tears to bloom, bright and wet, at the corners of their eyes. Love him, embrace him; feel, feel, feel.

Elvis Perkins
Ash Wednesday

Highly Recommended

From the Archives: Will Stratton :: What the Night Said

While Jamie is off gallivanting and carousing on a random island (located off the coast of a country that, itself is an island) Dakin blogs on tirelessly from another island (which is, by Dakin’s estimation, much more island like than Jamie’s).

Will Stratton
What the Night Said

Amazing, really, that, within the past six months, Duck & Cover has been cued in to the talents of two amazingly gifted nineteen year old singer songwriters. (Makes us feel a little, well, not dirty – not like that NAMBLAesque Harry Potter with the horse -- and not quite icky, but definitely old.) The first, being, of course, Zac Condon of Beirut (and, apologies for the fact that the promised review of Lon Gisland e.p. never materialized; we’ll get to it eventually), and now the first bit of 2007 brings us Will Stratton and his remarkable debut What the Night Said.

WtNS is a beautiful record that has, thus far, garnered comparisons to Sufjan Stevens and Iron & Wine; comparisons, which, while I can see the similarity, seem to sell Stratton a little short. As human beings, we like to label and compare so that we have a frame of reference, but let’s just let Will Stratton be Will Stratton. (Although, “Night Will Come” seems to lean towards some Harmacy era Sebadoh, but that may just be me.)

This record is remarkably cozy and familiar, and appropriate for any use that you may apply to it. For instance, it has passed the “play it loud while cooking dinner” test, as well as the “play it softly as background” test and the all important “Listen, really listen on Headphones” test. Not only has each test been passed with flying colors, but each listen has resulted in at least two consecutive trips through the record. For those that may not be picking up on the subtext, that means that this record is very good.

Opener “Katydid” immediately catches you and pulls you into the record, and you float on through a sea of lost loves and broken relationships, the music wrapping itself around you like a favorite jacket (or perhaps a well loved quilt). “Sonnet” picks up the tempo a bit, complete with a bouncy arrangement and hand claps. (We do love hand claps around here.) The record settles back down with “Oh Quiet Night”, and continues quietly on with beautiful lyrics about headlights sweeping bedroom walls, crippled skies, and empty kisses. In short, the songs are astonishingly beautiful, accomplished, and lyrical, and almost guaranteed to make their way on to the “Best of 2007” list of anyone who hears this record.


From what I can tell, there are not that many venues through which one may purchase WtNS, aside from iTunes, but when Jamie gets back from afore mentioned gallivanting and cavorting, we’ll see to it that we have a purchase link loaded, as well as a song preview so that you can hear for yourself just how hopelessly amazing and breathlessly beautiful and just stunning this record is. (Also, if you’re in the know, you may say “hey, why no mention of Sufjan’s oboe playing on this record? Don’t you know??” Well, yes, we do, but let’s let Will have his moment in the spotlight, shall we?)


Will Stratton
What the Night Said
Stunning Models on Display


BUY IT TODAY

From the Archives: Lifter Puller :: Fiestas and Fiascos

Fiestas and Fiascos
Lifter Puller
2000 Self Starter Foundation

There once was a band, from Minnetonka, or Minnesota, or, well, actually, they were from Milwaukee... as were, I believe, Laverne and Shirley. They were here, they were now, they were discordant, they were literate, they were, arguably, beyond brilliant. They told stories, and then they were gone. Eventually, they were reborn as the Hold Steady, and, to a good degree, they were very similar. However, we are not here to talk about the Hold Steady. We do, however, love the Hold Steady; one could go so far as to say that we have a big boner for the Hold Steady. Again, however, our feelings for the Hold Steady are not up for discussion. We are here to discuss Lifter Puller, and, more specifically, the brilliant album "Fiestas and Fiascos".

Many years ago, I bought tickets to a show at Brownie's in NYC -- a club that most everyone will remember as being "important". Well, as clubs go, and importance goes, Brownie's closed for reasons that escape me, and, in any event, I bought tickets to the Very Last Show at Brownies in NYC, which was also a reunion of Lifter Puller... and then we didn't go. Tickets were purchased, but, sadly, flights were never booked, and an amazing opportunity was, literally, thrown away. However, this is not about Brownie's, or regret, or missed opportunities. This is about Lifter Puller, Nightclub Dwight, the Guy with the Eyepatch, a bar called the Nice Nice, and the place where they all come together, a record called "Fiestas and Fiascos".

In short, there's simply not much that can be said about "Fiestas and Fiascos", other than the fact that it is sheer and total brilliance. In fact, this may be the anti record review. There's not much to say other than, if you have not heard this record, then you must. If you have heard it, and don't love it, you are personaly deficient. An entire review could be written quoting Craig Finn, and anyone who spent their formative years in the Midwest will especially appreciate his tributes to 3.2 beer, mini-thins, park sex, hard drugs, and dangerous living. (We're from the Midwest, don't question us. We know about these things. Well, maybe not the park sex; that's just dirty... Well... oh, never mind.) There is easily a novel hiding in plain view amongst the lyrics of Fiestas, and it's impossible to describe the exhileration that Finn's literacy can incite. Each song yields something brilliantly quotable that makes you forget everything you just heard; and they manage to do it over and over again. Seriously, this is music that you can get lost in, and still consistently be amazed as the words unfold like a chinese puzzle; forever amazing.

Smokin' Weed and Makin' Money indeed.

Recommended? Only for the cool kids

From the Archives: The Perils of Poultry

this evening, i decided that i would roast a chicken. now, roasting a chicken is something that i've never done, which, after 12-13 years of vegetarianism isn't that far beyond the scope of belief. it always sounds so homey, so french; roast chicken, or i've just put a chicken in the oven to roast. that sort of thing. the weather being somewhat drizzly and damp, and being under some duress at work, i thought that the comfort and distraction was just what i needed.

to begin, i went to the store on the way home to select the chicken. granted, i have no idea whatsoever how much an entire chicken costs, especially at hawaii's inflated prices. (i'm reminded of arrested development, when the mother says "a frozen banana, michael? how much could that cost? ten dollars?") the answer was graciously little, in fact, in the area of a dollar a pound. i thought about all of these things, as well as the evils of the factory farm as i fondled my chosen bird; four pounds of foster farms "young" chicken. i glanced longingly at the fourteen dollar free range chickens, thought back to afore mentioned duress at work, and said a little prayer for my chicken's joyless life among it's legion of doomed siblings.

fast forward a few hours later. in the kitchen, i've lovingly sliced a bed of onions and tossed them in olive oil, laying down a fragrant pyre in the required "small roasting pan." now comes the part where the chicken must be handled, and manipulated into dinner. i remove said chicken from it's little body bag, and proceed to "remove the giblets". when reading those words, i had imagined what it was like the last time that i handled a chicken: remove chicken from bag, give a good shake, and the packaged "giblets" fall to the sink. grimace, transfer to trash, and proceed. not so with foster farms. no, the removal of the innards requires insertion of the hand into the cavity, and then the subsequent scooping of liver, heart, and what i believe to be a gizzard (and possibly some other parts, but i lost count rather quickly) into the sink. then the parts must be transferred to the trash prior to removing the fat, which is also done by hand. all the while, i admit that i was a little squeamish, but i handle such things in the way that one cleans up after a sick child or an errant pet; the entire time i occupy my mind with the mantra "don't think about it, don't think about it" until i've completed the task.

moving on, and with that little bit of unpleasantness behind us, i rinse the cavity, as well as the chicken, season inside with salt and pepper, stuff with quartered lemons, and brush with melted butter. now it is time to truss the legs with... with... kitchen twine, which i do not have. not to fear, i think to myself, wasn't it cook's illustrated who suggested a substitution of dental floss? perhaps, but neither cook's illustrated, nor the barefoot contessa seems to have taken into account the tactical difficulties that one may encounter while trying to tie dental floss around the legs of a greased chicken. it was difficult, it was not at all as graceful as the picture in the cookbook, but it was done, though with some effort and repositioning of lemons in the cavity.

now we come to the impetus for my decision to document my first roast chicken. it is now time to "tuck the wing tips behind the back." again, we are dealing with the same buttered chicken, laying seductively on (her? his?) it's bed of oil tossed onions. in life, the chicken did not pace, contemplatively, with it's hands(?) behind it's back. no, the chicken walks (struts, really) with the wings firmly at the side, unless of course, the impulse strikes for a good stretch, or something alarms it. what occurred next, were my little chicken to have known what it's future held, would surely have inspired alarm. "tuck the wing tips behind the back" is certainly a deceptive way to frame the brutality that was required next. the only thing more alarming than realizing that you must break the wings of the chicken is the realization that you cannot break the wings of the chicken. it is greasy, you are squeamish, and you suddenly want very much to once again be vegetarian. however, again, there is a task at hand. "don't think about it, don't think about it... etc" in the end, it was not necessary to break the wings, and, while, again, not nearly as lovely as the picture, we got into the oven.

i have to admit that i was rather shaken by the sheer violence of such a simple act. in fact, i'm still a little off balance, but i have to say that, after all that, the potatoes were a snap. quarter potatoes, toss in oil, add salt, pepper, thyme, oregano, reassemble on a baking sheet, and off they go, into the oven, and seemingly none the wiser. not at all like the poor chicken, who, violated, crisped and browned quietly on the rack overhead.

A Not So Subtle Metaphor

Growing out of the compost bin...

Here We Go Again

This is not so much a beginning as a continuation. I've started and stopped countless blogs for countless reasons -- Livejournal, Blogger, tumblr, Blogger again -- for varying reasons, but mostly for the reason that I just wasn't into it. This is no exception. Most recently I co-edited a blog called Duck and Cover Music, and, ultimately, I just wasn't that into it. Like every new relationship or endeavor it started promisingly yet faultered when you got into the meat of it. The format no longer fit my goals, my style. It was like a too small wool suit that gapped at the sleeves and the cuffs, scratching and irritating exposed skin.

This is like a new suit; somewhere that I may (hopefully) come to express what I want out of a blog; something that just, you know, fits. I'm sure that it will scratch and tug, but, ultimately, instead of an ill fitted suit, it will be more akin to a new skin that grows with me; though tight at times, it's for the best. So, enjoy my selection of personal narrative, music reviews, mp3s, bits from the web, and, ultimately, assorted ephemera that I acquire along the way. I'll also be migrating over pieces from my work at Duck And Cover that I think are worth giving the archival treatment and a second airing. My "style" tends toward the overly formal and the inconsistent, but I hope to work these things out with time; ultimately my goal is to entertain and practice my writing. I hope that you enjoy what you read, but mainly I hope that I can be bothered to update with some sort of frequency that inspires repeat visits.

If it doesn't work out, hey, there's always next time, right?