LINDSTROM

Hello peoples.

There are many reasons why I enjoy electronic music.

It can make me dance (which I never do).
It can make me deeply introspective (which I am anyway...but more so, and to different places).
It can make me feel like a iron, figity robot (which I am as well – gangly bastard).

One of the seemingly lesser reasons I enjoy electronic music is simply how excellent it sounds blaring through my headphones/speakers (both significant monetary investments - thus elevated sonic quality). Music created on electronics blasting out like silver digital rockets through other electronics. Top notch.

One of my favorite electronic records of the past couple years is Lindstrom’s “It’s a Feedelity Affair.”

Shit kicks off so hardcore.
Dance-y and fun. Lush and smoove.

There are certain albums that convince me, despite the obvious counterpoints, that I am cool as fuck. That I can swing down the street like fucking John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and everyone will reel around all slo-mo-like and go, “did you see that fucking guy? Holy crap. Cooler than a Creamsicle in February.”

Albums do it in different ways.

Iggy Pop & The Stooges’ “Fun House” makes me believe I can get any woman on Earth just by walking by. Best fucking rock album of all time.

Captain Beefheart’s “Safe as Milk” makes me think I could live on a algae infested houseboat in New Orleans slapping foot-stompin’ banjo while sipping Jack and Ginger’s for all-god-loving-eternity. That's quite cool...trust me.

But this Lindstrom album creates a different image for me. Walking into a club (which I never do – 5 years in NYC, 26 years in its general proximity and I NEVER went to a club), I command the attention of the entire dance floor.

Think Rusty from National Lampoon’s "Vacation," rolling into the French Disco. In this case the white leather jacket would read "Kadin" on the back. All the ladies swivel their heads.

I raise my hand slowly and a frigid tumbler of lime-spiked Stolichnaya is slid inside. I walk forward and the entire joint reacts to my movements. Ah, well, you get it. Hotness abounds.

Then the battery runs out on my iPod and i realize that I'm holding up the line at CVS when the automated check machine won't scan my shaving cream and floss.

Yea. Reality. Hmm. A bitch.

I also dig on the organic elements that drive this record. It is an electronic record, true, but it also has guitar and bass elements that mirror my own guitar tastes…even my own guitar playing. It ain’t that technically impressive but everything seems to fit in its right place.

Anyway. Here tis’. Enjoy this gemmish-gem.

http://rapidshare.com/files/140581572/Lindstrom.zip.html

if you dig, check out similar hotness in Booka Shade, Trentemoller, Prins Thomas and Pantha Du Prince (posted earlier on this very weblog)

UNEDITED JET LAG

AN ODE TO THE COLOR RED

Red. Oh so...reddish.
The color of a radish, but usually lighter in hue.

A sweaty cheek beckons your arrival with sweet clumps of salt juice.
I dab at them with mine hanker-cloth and wonder why I keep a sweat-covered rag in my pocket. Shocking that women won’t come near me…really.
Packet of tissues next time I go out in heat like this. It really is a sky-high sauna out here.

Red.

Like the center circle of the flag of Japan. Perhaps the ‘center’ modifier was unnecessary back there. There is only one circle on the flag of Japan. Simple. I like.

Like the sun. Granting us orange-y red-like warmliness on a summer’s day such as this. Prompting one to disrobe and frolic, arms agape and flailing, through a field of swaying, multicolored crepe-paper streamers wiggling up toward the blue expanse. The wind-stroked paper makes a crunching sound like that of a cornfield set ablaze by a wandering arsonist.

And the birds…

Oh! The birds!

They won’t stop swooping and squawking in my face. Diving down trying to steal my sandwich. I only have twenty minutes for lunch and really, with the heat and birds…chicken salad inside tomorrow.

The French call it La Rouge. Feminine. Like a woman or particular types of deodorant.

A symbol of love and war and blood and stop signs.

A tomato. A cherry. Cherry Tomatoes.

A red M&M.

Red.

Odorless.

Red.

The color of my old skis. What is someone supposed to do with a pair of old skis anyway? Donate to the less fortunate? Do you know how expensive lift tickets are these days? I’m surprised anyone can get out on the slopes. And forget about lunch at the lodge. Best be packing chicken salad.

Red.

Like the grapes in my chicken salad…which I will omit from the recipe next time. Their sweetness overbears the salt of the chicken and mayonnaise. It’s an art, really, making a good chicken salad. I thought I had it mastered, but once again, just like at the DMV yesterday, I was so desperately wrong. Bastards. 40 minutes I waited. For what?

The DMV’s logo is red.

Red.

Like my heart.
And I assume most other normal, non-alien people’s hearts.
Beating for, on average, 72 years or something until I croak and it stops and turns brown.

SHANGHAI 5

I've just returned from an excellent trip.

I spent 10 days in the world Bugs Bunny discovered when he dug deep into the Earth and popped out the other side bewildered and upside-down.

Fortunately and unlike Bugs, I arrived on my feet. Well, enough so to take some photographs. Here they are. Enjoy them like you would a frosty beverage.

Shanghai Photomiton

CHINA, MY CHINA

comin' home today...

FUZZ ON MY TAIL

PIMPIN' AIN'T EASY

LUNCH?

HOT CHIX FOR LIFE

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080807/ap_on_re_us/ice_cream_killer