Surprise in this weeks Mad Man

"Art, in advertising? Why would anyone do that after Warhol?"

Pretentious artist actually is:

....

90's and Ode to Sheffiled

or It's no secret  that I love the 90's music. 

The 90's were a strange time of post-punk,  raw fucking in your face feminism and ironic idleness. I mean, there was the first Bush, then the Clinton.  There was the invention of the internet. There was Al Gore. There were a couple of important wars. There was the boy band phase. There was plaid.

There was a lot  of shit going down in the 90's. A lot of important shit, and that's an understatement. However, at the same time, there was a feeling that there was  absolutely nothing going on. There was a certain ignorant complacency that was happening.

I recently finished the book, "Love is a Mix Tape" by Rob Sheffield, who shares the same love of the 90's that I do. Difference, is he lived through it in his 20's. The 90's were for him what the late 2000's and 2010's are for  to me. The book was hip and rhetorically awkward at times, but I have a feeling that Sheffield, who was being brutally honest is kinda hip and awkward. It was also heartbreaking. It followed the time he met his wife, Renee, to the years after she died, in his arms. All through the lens of (mostly) late 80's to the late 90's via mix tapes.


"I get sentimental over the music of the ’90s. Deplorable, really. But I love it all. As far as I’m concerned the ’90s was the best era for music ever, even the stuff that I loathed at the time, even the stuff that gave me stomach cramps." 


Sheffiled is not trying to be Klosterman. Sheffield admits to liking bad music, (terrible music, pop music! Avril Sk8r Boi!) but he does so with such a fierce, honest intensity it's hard to judge him. He's just a guy who writes who loves music who wanted to share a story articulated  through music.  He does so,  shares a tragic story and highlights 90's music.  (full review:Here) It's worth a read, if nothing else. 


Then, it hit me! There is  a REAL reason I am in love with the 90's. I can look back on that music and place it in time. The music was raw, imperfect. It sometimes said something, it sometimes said nothing at all. Sometimes it had screaming angry woman upset about the glass ceiling. Sometimes they just sang about being a stupid,  heartbroken girl.  Sometimes they just sang because they could.   I can do something with that era that I can't do with music now.   I can feel the years that have aged a song. I can see it's wrinkles, it's imperfections. I can hear the voice getting old & the awkward, outdated technological imperfections.  You can't do that with music today. It's impossible to contextualize and place a song in a time period while you are living  in the time period itself.  Cultural contextualization is impossible. You don't have enough time to provide the distance to do so. That doesn't make the music I hear now better, or worse, I just can't hear the time. I can't  hear it's modernity. That is a tragic loss to my ears. Maybe in 2020, I will look back and listen to MGMT and do what I do now with the 90's. 


So I thank Sheffield.


Here are some 90's favorites:


youtube.com/v/dQHstA0cZDw?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0">

Pavement--Range Life





The Folk Implosion - Free To Go

Le Tigre- Deceptacon




And just because this song was written in '99. And because this song is a ride, just wait for the cheerleading chorus.





Smog- Bloodflow

Parte 3

Read Part 1
Read Part 2

 Or Kansas, Slap! 

The last two days of the trip were shocking; comparable to the time when you either a)put your finger under a stapler or b) stuck yourself in a light Socket. Nothing life threatening, too overwhelming, just a small piercing pain, an electric shock that  lingers. It only lingers long enough to be annoying, but not long enough to cause permeant damage. This metaphor is equated to the state, Kansas.

Prior: Wyoming had beautiful rolling hills of sagebrush, Montana still had pine trees and Colorado had the Rockies. But, Kansas, Kansas was literally nothing. This nothing was not beautiful. Kansas was the bitch at who stood at back of the room arms folded, lips pierced, legs tightly crossed judging you as you walked through the room. She makes an audible scoff at your choice of showing too-much-skin.

***

The day began with fresh baked pastries from Briana's cousin and a cup of black coffee before the family went to Sunday Church and we took off. We then loaded the car, put the bikes on the rack, (a skill now perfected) and watched Denver's sprawls fade into the distance. We drove.

And drove. And drove some more. And more. There were fields so flat it looked as if the earth might drop off-1700's Conquaestor style. Except, if you drove to the end, you would just fall flat into the first, or second level of Dante's idea hell. In Kansas, everyone's a sinner. It don't matta what you been doin' or how how hard you been prayin'.


We were reminded of Jesus every 30 miles or so. Jesus, was, of course, blue eyed, creamy skinned, with long, straight brown hair. Jesus was American. Fucking American.

Let me explain. In Kansas, there are large, overbearing billboards with sayings such as, "Jesus is Real", "Trust in Jesus. I Trust in You", "Adoption Not Abortion", "St. Mathews Catholic Service, 10am Sunday, Exit----" "You Can be Saved! The End is Near" and "Jesus Loves YOU!"  They were very bright and very aggressive. People pay for this. Let me rephrase.  Someone pays to tell drivers on I-35 that Jesus is the only thing that is going to save them.  This billboard positioning is an economic means-to-an end. Supply and demand, baby. And it is all about the supply. Kansas has plenty o' giving. Just, not before marriage.

While Briana was napping, I heard, "This American Life" on the radio, since it was  Sunday. Ira Glass eased my confusion. I thought, "Maybe Jesus or God exists, somewhere between the sunflowers, oil drilling and blue eyed idolization."

We ended up in Wichita. The heat and humidity so overwhelming it slapped the air out of us. The heat is now my  abrasive lover. Slap!  Again Heat!  Slap! More! Slap! It's 4 o'clock!

You could hear the slapping echoing throughout the endless fields every time I stepped out of the car. Slap! More heat. Slap!

Jesus probably didn't approve.

We ate dinner at some restaurant where they had happy hour mimosas and was decorated in a "plane" theme. We watched Man Men in  hotel room. My head was laden with confusion, hot air and Jesus's suave economical side.

I don't even remember falling asleep that night. But I have a strong feeling I prayed.

Nostalgia with a Modern August Twist

or  Sudden Downpour Rain: 101 Degrees and 96% Humidity

and the first rain I felt in 5 weeks.

View S. Congress

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Spokane, Wa. I like the random assortment of things,
 with the mute, matching hues. 

Mad Men Anecdote

or What Happened in the Full Theater 

When Lane Pryce Made a Texan/American (arguably) Dick Joke.

I'm not from Texas. But, I was in a theater surrounded by a bunch of friendly Mad Men (Live Under a Rock? Here's "Mad Men) loving hipster Texans when Lane Pryce made a cowboy steak dick joke.

Just follow my logic:

+

MEAT

=

+

(Big American Penis)

is EQUAL TO

British Interpretations of the Texan American Masculine male.

(seriously folks, it took me forever to find this picture.FOREVER thanks: thepassersbypost )

The entire theater erupted in an echoing laughter, and it was fucking beautiful. 

 Moments like these,  friends, remind me of why I moved here.  Lane making a dick joke from Texas (it was a dick joke!!) while in Texas.  It was seriously the top 3 moments of my time here thus far. Also I don't want to talk about how I found the American Penis. It was both hilarious and frightening. 

Parte 2.

There is nothing like listening to The Mountain Goats, "All Hail West Texas" while driving in through West Texas.The flat lands become a blur  through the window and the pavement radiates waves of heat, making the greenery and vanishing road look like a mild acid trip.  The unknown never looked so strange and appealing as we progressed 80 miles full speed ahead, a/c blasting, cooling the sun's hot rays' through the window. I hear,  "The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton" while driving past Denton, TX. I see the a strange shaped water  tower  with a  painted Texas state flag, the lone star glistening under the hot, red summer sun with the 6 letters, painted in a curvy black faux cursive.
 D -E-N-T-O-N resonates and reverberates between my car and the road, in- sync with the music. Oversized trucks whiz pass, passengers peer down from above, stunting my in speed and, what it feels like, my growth and comfort.

But, before I can write about this, I need to take you back a few days. Two days. Here, I learned what nothing was. Nothing is Wyoming. Nothing, I discovered, is absolutely beautiful.

The day started off with hella coffee and the thinest bacon I've ever experienced in a hotel lobby. My bikes failed to fit on my bike rack and Briana and I spent an hour yelling, "Penis Penis Penis" in an effort to try and fit the bikes on their rack.  Penis was us trying to defy the male constructs we felt had designed the bike rack. It took us an hour before we figured it out, it was already 85 degrees in Billings. It was hot standing on the black pavement lifting bikes.  We had a long day ahead of us, ending in Denver.

Once on the road, it then progressed with more Sinclair as we ventured to Wyoming. Once here, around 9:30 am, we hear something on the radio, "Scientist believe that there were once furry life forms, much like people on the moon. If this is true, why is evolution still an argument? Clearly  this means that evolution can be disproved."  I am in another world. A world where people believe that furry people existed. On the moon.  A world that is backwards. A world that is still in the border of America. I world that votes for the same President I do. I am baffled. I realize America has a plethora of demographics and I don't understand how one government can cohesively meet all their needs. Here, I realize, at the core, I am conservative, in theory. I am ok with this.  Then, later, we hear both a commercial for male vasectomies and a commercial for a male lubricant. We then discover that male's chafe their genitals, because  they wear jeans, because they are cowboys, and thus, need lube to make walking more comfortable as their sweaty balls rub against their legs. How Masculine.

Another world.

Wyoming is filled with nothing but rolling hills and sagebrush. The trees become far and few in-between. Often times, there are natural occurring rock formations, that look like the scenery from Jurassic Park. Sometimes, on these rocks we see a lonely tree struggling to survive with tangled roots. There are vast distances with nothing. I mean, just open, barren land. It is fucking beautiful. It is rural society at it's backward finest. Wyoming is wonderful to see. It is pristine and the landscape appears to be timeless. I picture it looking like this 200 years ago. I think about the way cities age vs. the way natural landscapes age. I realize the differences in the idea of time. (i.e- Geological time vs. human time)

Soon we reach Colorado. It is much like Wyoming. We drive. Finally we reach Denver. Denver is astounding. Not only do I pass through my first toll bridge-- and become confused-- I see endless sprawls of suburbia. I find this appalling. With so much space to expand and a thriving economy for most of the 90's, Denver's subdivisions of housing developments boomed and thus, you see areas that stretch for a mile or so of the exact same house, over and over again. I already can tell I don't feel at ease with Denver. However, the Rockies, well, the Rockies are a sight to be seen. They tower above the flat landscape, so high the clouds flirt with them by gently touching their soft edges to the tips of their  pointy, young outlines.  Here, the Earth touches the sky and the sky flirts and touches the Earth. I  realize these are the last mountains I will see for several months.  I savor my last glimpses of  towering nature and its provable size and power.

If you want to know about where I stayed that night, please ask. I cannot write about it effectively on the public sphere. We stayed with my friends  family and because I don't want to put them out there on the endless abyss of cyberspace I won't. Just know it was the most American thing I experienced. If Wyoming's untouched nature, backwards logic and masculine identities were not enough America, this family took to a whole new level.

We ate a delicious home cooked meal, found out the jack rabbits are Colorado's squirrels (and SO CUTE!).

That night, I  fell asleep, realizing half our trip was over. I shoved aside any lingering regrets I had about leaving as I fell asleep in a 12 year old's bed, decorated completely,  in pink and brown "Roxy" decor with a lingering smell of cheap bath & body work's peach body spray.

2, 342 Millas. 4 Días. Parte 1.