Ron Artest's lecture notes.


it all happened so fast: blurred blackness, Paul McCartney crooning about christmas over slinky synths, the moon shuffling its feet, lusting for booklights in small towns, One Hundred Years of Solitude single-handedly raising the literacy rate in my car and trying to convert the harmonic murmurs of three students into transmolecularization--or so Sun Ra said. in any case, the road was cut by silence, loud intents and timelessness.
then, there it was: a city sewn to gray skies and wide-eyed memories.

in Austin, people walk their dogs not out of security or status but out of love. there are bass recitals for youngfolk where 2.5 of the people are studying how Rachmaninoff coulda bent a note or two this way. another order of beings and fish tacos that should be nominated for Cabinet positions. rainy mornings come with Hollywood sets. pull your shoes up, Black. where dudes wear their jeans like Bun B raps (tight, dude, tight ) and ladies wear their Kafka shirts like the 80's were an academic department (without umph, folks).

mtvdos:
I caught 0.3 seconds of a sloppy-haired indyrock
ramshackle event thrown together by Vice. the unorthodox people should have stood on stage and watched the band walk around the venue--it was that gully.
I saw 2.1111 hours of TV on the Radio and The Yawn. like a third-string Franz Ferdinand they flung both hips and hair in hopes to get the masses moving--and they did (my two feet included). but what got me was why would you confuse the already confused-looking crowd with abstract films when you are playing dance music with an ittie bittie IQ? sociology students are writing dissertations on this as we speak.
I caught .0000000 seconds of Ellen Allien at Plush. there should be a school holiday for German DJ's.


to the Pistons/Pacers: War is Over if you Want It.
to TV on the Radio: buy plastic watches and play longer, bitches.
to girls who lose their asses on the dance floor: side glances are not in the dictionary.



if you can, catch Ta-Nehisi Coates' excellent piece on Jin in The New York Times. it's hot like Fat Albert surfing on a duck lip in a bathtub.


on a somber note, Rebecca Westcott, RIP. far from knowing her personally, I did enjoy her paintings. I first saw this girl's work in Anthem long time ago. she was future.


and remember, bagpipe solos are holy.