stealing music like it's my job

Before I begin, a funny story: as I was typing the address to log in here, I accidentally forewent the "b", typing only 'logger.com'. I was taken to a site about commercial logging, as in: lumberjack. Teehee.

So, I've had a rough few days in general. I'm just feeling pretty lonely, and feeling a lot of uncertainty about the upcoming semester, especially after receiving a less-than-desirable grade in French. If I didn't get into Andrew Sarris' film course, I might actually opt to take an elementary Polish class, because honestly, the Rosetta Stone program I have isn't cutting it. Besides, it'd be awesome to be able to read more than children's books.

Yesterday, I went to the Guggenheim. They only have 2 floors open because they're busy insalling new shows on the other floors. One floor has a fairly large private collection, in which there are works by Renior, Picasso, Cezanne, Rousseau, Degas, and Vuillard. I love Vuillard's city scenes.....they make me so incredibly nostalgic for Paris, as pretentious as that sounds. Those works encapsulate for me the height of my romantic notions of Paris-- a fin de siecle wonderland brimming with creativity and decadence. There were some lovely nude Degas stauettes as well...I love the way he captures the body in motion in it's natural form. One of the most striking pieces was Picasso's Moulin de la Galette. Renior has a much more faumous work by the same title, on view at the Musee D'Orsay in Paris. Picasso's work reminds me of both Lautrec's and the Weimar nightlife scenes of George Grosz and Otto Dix. It's a wonderful homage to and appropriation of the faumous work. What's astonishing about Picasso is his sheer breadth...he utilized so many different styes and forms within his lifetime, citing a plethora of references and allusions, from the African 'primitive' in Les Demoiselles D'Avignon to the fractured Freudian psyche in "Nude on a Beach".

The other floor at the Guggenheim had a small Kandinsky gallery. However, that in itself is a misnomer, for the gallery showcased some of Kandinsky's works in addition to similar artists and influences. There were some great Chagalls, but not many Kandinsky's as such. Still, it showcased a lot of his early work, which is less abstract and more like Fauvism. w00t.

Please check out Strike Gently.


I've managed to find sooooo much music on it. Sure, it's illeagal, but I've been ripping albums quite thoroughly. Just today I've added: Amanda Palmer, Mountain Goats, Sigur Ros, Ben Folds, Chromeo (had to do it for Columbia... David Malkovitch is a prof), Blitzen Trapper, She and Him, and Animal Collective. It's pretty damn awesome. I have so much fodder for upcoming radio programs! Finally! My show will cease to be a rehashing on the same Belle and Sebastian, New Order, and Smiths tunes week after week. Lolz. They also have films, so checkitout.

Speaking of film, last night after listening to some Nico, I was inspired to rewatch The Royal Tenenbaums for the first time n awhile. So so fantastic. Wes Anderson really is a modern auteur. However, I haven't seen the Dareeling Limited. I was dissapointed with The Life Aquatic. I felt that with Rshmore and the Royal Tenenbaums, Anderson had managed to craft irreverant, witty, and poignant films that were truly original. They were offbeat yet genuinely heartfelt. The Life Aquatic just seemed too silly too me, really. I think Anderson's gotten a bit full of himself. Additionally, all of his films feature the same quirky everyone-sgot-problems-but-we're-all-okay-in-the-end scenario. Ehh. It's overdone.

So I'm reading Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy which is quite fantastic. So noir and stylized. But sometimes I don't feel like reading about cowboy headhunters, so I decided to start the Satanic Verses, which has been sitting on my bookshelf for awhile now. Sure, I'm about 20 pages in, but it's fantastic so far. Rushdie is a wordsmith....he reminds me a bit of my true beloved, Nabokov. Additionally, a few weeks ago I bought Against Interpretation and Other Essays by Susan Sontag, at my favorite bookstore, Spoonbill and Sugartown in Williamsburg. The essay that bear's the book's title is intriguing. It would have fit perfectly with my Literary Theory class. She addresses the central issue of interpretation: mimesis. I wonder why Brian didn't assign it.

I can't believe I have a week of break left. It's making me morose. However, I'm cool with it. Whereas last year, break stretched on as an interminable nothing because I was purloined in Pittsburgh, this year, I've been busy. Maybe even a bit too busy, as there are certainly people I'd like to have seen more of.

As I'm sitting here, I'm listening to the new Mountain Goats, and I have to say, the track "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" is an absolute knockout. Go yonder, oh ye pilgrims, yonder to last.fm!

I don't care if monday's blue, tuesday's grey, and wednesday too....

I'm just having an awkward night. I crashed at about 9pm, setting my alarm for an hour and only hoping to cat nap. In true form, I heard my alarm, turned it off, and continued sleeping until 2:30. And I woke up sweaty and shivering. I'm plagued by anxious dreams, especially concerning academics. I had an awful semester with my French professor...it was just BAD. So, I had this dream that I'd missed the final exam because I was helping to proctor my friend's. The dream ended when I tearfully confronted my professor with the news, and she told me I was a failure and she was incredibly dissapointe with me, and that I'd tarnished my reputation within the department. Then I woke up in the aforementioned distressed state. What the hell? The semester is OVER. I neer have to encounter her again. I have Philip Usher and Brian next semester, the two best profs in the department. And I already know Brian and have done well in his class and have established a rapport with him. This is good.

So yes, an awkward evening indeed. And because I had a pretty distressed dream, Blood Meridian (although fantastic) is not the sort of thing I feel like reading right now. Maybe I'll read some Bourdain or from the McSweeney's collection (thanks Abbey!). Speaking of books, I was in the Columbia bookstore today (hey, don't judge....it was convenient and I needed to purchase a gift) and it really struck me how god-awful the bookstore is. They've got a horrible selection, are poorly organized, and are connected to the corporate devils known as Barnes and Noble. The only thing they're good for is finding faculty publications, which unfortunately was not what I was buying. But they might have Prof Sharpe's rad new book (which my dad wants to buy, oddly enough). Czech it out: a>

I saw The Wrestler the other day. I still don't know what to make of it. It was certainly a good film, but I don't know if Mickey Rourke is deservant of an Oscar nod, because frankly, he just played himself. It was very well done, however. It began at a low point and managed to sink lower and lower. The end was actually quite a beautiful suicide metaphor, in my opinion. It's the best ambiguous-suicide-ending I've seen since Beau Travail. That'll make little sense unless you've seen it. I assure you, however, that when we watched it in my film class, I bawled my eyes out. And I couldn't listen to that ridiculous "Rhythum of the Night" song for weeks, otherwise I'd get teary. I'm a fucking sap. Hahaha Beau Travail was über homoerotic. Which is really my favorite kind of film anyway, teehehehehe. Denis Lavant is badass. I really want to see the film Mauvais Sangle with a very young Juliette Binoche and Denis Lavant. Unfortunately, it's unavailable on Netflix....but let me say that the trailer involved Bowie and oh-so-many homages to the French New Wave. In other words: EPIC WIN.