De Facto Dating

Being single is a bit of a wash, if you're not the dating type. Say, for example, you meet somebody at a party who is interesting to you, and seems to be interested in you as well. Naturally, you want to do is get to know them better. You have no idea, from your initial reaction, whether or not they want to get you into bed or whatever, but you'd like to hang out beyond the party. You exchange numbers or emails, because that's the only way you're ever going to get in contact again beyond the confines of this party.
So there you are, person not interested in dating, and you've scored somebody's number. This is the rub: you can't not go on a date with this person. Oh, you'll say that you just want to hang out, have a beer, or some coffee, maybe go to a movie, maybe walk around Jamaica Pond. These are things that people do for fun, you tell yourself. But they're not things people do for fun with strangers. They're things that people do on dates with strangers. You're dating. There's nothing you can do to help it, except never try to contact anybody of your own free will again.
Well, maybe there is a way around it. You could do some seriously mundane things, just to get some chatting done. Like, nobody's going to mistake going and getting groceries for a date. Or, like, doing bike maintenance. Or perhaps shopping for new socks. You know? I think the next time I meet somebody interesting, I'm going to see if they want to go sock shopping with me. That oughta clear up their motives nice and quick.

Latiflearned.com - In case you haven't figured this out, I am Latif Learned. Go listen to my tunes! Purchase my album!

Rock Star Soccer Matches

A long time ago, back when Oasis and Blur were still competing for who could be the lamest, the two bands had a soccer match. Blur won, of course, but it was Oasis who went on to be the lamest. In fact, after that point, Blur started to release their best material. At any rate, it got me thinking: what other bands would have some awesome matches, based on their names? I got my friend Alex in on it, and here's what we came up with (thus far):

(From Alex)
Cat Power versus Cat Stevens ( she'd get distracted and wander off the field )
Bright eyes v. the Flaming Lips ( bring your sunglasses )
the Microphones v. the Sounds ( a cooperative match )
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs v. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah ( loud game, very emphatic fans )
Chavez v. Gonzales ( not to be confused with a family fued )
Postal Service v. the Lettermen ( at halftime, covering that song by the Marvelettes )
Spoon v. Cake ( don't think too hard about this one )
Calexico v. Califone ( mostly because I always mix up their names )
The Gin Blossoms v. the Wallflowers ( for gardening fans stuck in the '90s )
The Faces v. the Shins ( the same league as Bright Eyes, Flaming Lips )
Grandaddy v. the Strokes ( A life-or-death game, ha ha )
The Pixies' Frank Black versus Jack White, while Jack Black referees.
The Cars v. the Streets, and the winner plays Pavement.

(From Donald)
Jurassic 5 vs. Dinosaur Jr. (no contest)
Portishead vs. Radiohead (Helmet does security)
The Sixths vs. The Six Parts Seven
Of Montreal vs. Boards of Canada
The Magnetic Fields vs. Iron Maiden (that's bound to be good)
Arab Strap vs. the Sex Pistols (gross!)
The Jayhawks vs. the Black Crowes
Soul Coughing vs. Soul Asylum
Happy Apple vs. Blind Melon vs. Lemon Jelly (A three-way)
King Crimson vs. Ultra Orange
Modern Skirts vs. My Morning Jacket (I have this problem all the time)
The Super Furry Animals vs. Tortoise
The Black Keys vs. The White Stripes (that's a good match)
Air vs. Earth, Wind and Fire (Hot Hot Heat gets to ref)
...and you know who always wins when it's the Deers vs. The Cars.

Send me yours. I'll post them as/if/when/whatever I get them.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

I went to see Jamie Lidell last night. What they say about him is true. It's all true. It's a beautiful thing to see him play. It brought me joy. Then I walked home from Alston, which was also good, if slightly less joyous than the vocal-gasmic Jamie Lidell. There were pop tarts involved. As Elvis Costello says, talking about music is like dancing about architecture, so I'll just leave it at that. Go see him if he's in your town. Try to stand close enough that he can sweat on you.
I realized recently that when I saw Royksopp back in October, they were wearing identical outfits to what Kraftwerk wears in their 1977 video The Robots. I wished I'd noticed at the time, but it's still pretty fantastic to know. I love electronic things. Also worth noting is that Royksopp's video for Remind Me looks an awful lot like the video for Kraftwerk's video The Robots.

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confluence

I'm eating a peanut butter and jelly burrito, reading a biography of Django Reinhardt, when I have a strange epihpany about the music to which I'm listening. I've got Nelson Cavaquinho's "Mulher Sem Alma" queued up in the iTunes, and I realize that it sounds an awful lot like Blonde Redhead's "Pink Love," off of Misery is a Butterfly. Same chords. Similar melody. The same motion. At the time, it seemed so reasonable, but in retrospect, it was probably a coincidence. But my whole epiphany hinges on the possibility that it wasn't... That would be perfect.

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UPDATE: Heh, I wrote Misery is a Butterful, instead of Butterfly. I don't believe in the spell-checker, and sometimes it bites me in the arse. But in a good way. Good arse biting.

Euripides Eumendides

Also, the crazy guy who died from all the running, his name wasn't Marathon, it was Philippides. They named the city of Philadelphia after him. True story. Except for the Philadelphia part, which I made up.

You can't really plan to drink on a Saturday afternoon. I mean, it is possible to plan it, but you kind of have to question why you'd be making those kinds of degenerate plans in advance. If you're going to be a degenerate, it's best to let the degeneration happen naturally. Like, say your plan was to make gnocchi and watch a baseball game. Then you're like, "Well, I could have some wine, that would spice up this otherwise Zen experience." Because you don't always want Zen on a Saturday afternoon. Then you're like, "well, since I drank half of that bottle of wine, I'd better drink half of another." And all of a sudden, you've become drunk on a Saturday afternoon. It's a magical thing, but like all magical things, it's best to let them find you than to seek them out yourself.
Here's to drunken Saturday afternoons, and sober Saturday nights.

I keep writing songs that prominently feature articles of clothing. Red shirts. Socks. Et-cetera. I made a silent promise to myself (that is being aired here for the first time on the internet! Amazing!) that I wouldn't write any more songs about girls if I could help it. I feel like 25 out of 40-or-so songs being focused on the babes is a bit too high of a ratio. So I'm cutting myself off. My subconscious, in retaliation, makes lyrics about clothing items and crossing streets. All metaphorical and shit. I mean, what is this, poetry or something? I'm trying to write a fuckin' song here! Come on, subconscious, do your stuff! I need vivid imagery! Catchy hooks! Irony (but not too much irony, lest I cross the hipster threshold and end up in Alanis Morrisette-Land.). My several-person fandom requires it!
Here's to my subconscious/song-writing ego: id, the internet salutes you.

And tonight, I go to see Lair of the Minotaur.

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Marathon Died for your Sins

I was biking around Boston yesterday, and I ran into the marathon. Now, the marathon wasn't a big surprise to me, because a friend of my roomate's who is running the marathon was staying at my place this weekend. I crossed over the river of runners a couple of times in my random perusal of Boston, which I'm wont to do on my days off. Peruse Boston. Not cross runners. You shouldn't cross a river of runners if you can avoid it. This is something I learned yesterday.
It occured to me, wading through the sea of sweaty bodies, that people run the marathon in celebration of the guy named Marathon, who ran from one town to the next in Greece like four billion years ago. Twenty-six or so miles he ran to deliver some important message from one Greek to another. Then he died of exhaustion. So we're celebrating the death of Marathon by trying our best to imitate his untimely demise. You kind of have to wonder who came up with that idea...
And then there's Jesus. The only thing I have to say about that is: what would evil robot Jesus do?.

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PS: When I say I ran into the marathon, don't get the impression that I did any running. Because I didn't. Sometimes I run. Monday wasn't one of those times.

PPS: People die often running marathons. The circle of life keeps.. um... being... circular.

UPDATE: I stand corrected. Tim tells me otherwise about the story of the Marathon. Maybe I'm strung out on endorphins. It could be, except that I've never taken any endorphins. But who's to say that matters?

failure to thrive

I recently heard a phrase that's stuck with me: failure to thrive. A friend had a kitten that was new to their house, and she said "it had failure to thrive, so it died. " "What does that mean?" queried I. Apparently sometimes animals in new surroundings just lose the knack of surviving, the will to live, and they just die. They fade away.
Humans can have it, too. The deaths of elderly people who simply pass on for no medical reason are often attributed to "failure to thrive." And human babies, even if they're well-fed, and kept at the perfect temperature, etc., often die if they're not held. Failure to thrive. It's an incredible phrase that keeps circling around my head like a semantic vulture, looking for some vague notion on which to scavenge.
And then I got to thinking: why is it that babies typically die when they're not held? And when is the point where you can stop being touched regularly, and you won't die? And what happens to adults who aren't regularly held/touched? Clearly, it has dire somatic repercussions. Which gets me to thinking about my girl-free 2006. Maybe I'm setting myself up for some actual medical problem with my policy. Lord knows I don't need more medical problems. So cuddling is in. But only platonically. Because Plato was gay, so it was okay for him to cuddle with girls without leading them on.

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blech

I was real excited about getting my last paycheck, until i realized that it's all going to taxes. Damn! I'm torn between my knowledge that taxes, when rightly applied, go to good services that shouldn't be free market-based (like fire departments and police, for instance), and my desire not to give a gigantic hunk of money to the government that I don't particularly support once a year. I mean, what, like a quarter of my taxes are probably going to support a war in which I've never placed any support? But it's not as though you heard it here first, so I'll just drop it. Squarepusher is the only music that gets me through angst like this. I require angular, brainy jazz-house music.
I went to New York City and back on Wednesday, to visit my brother/friend/ex-roomie/whatever. I spent the day helping him move from one apartment to another, which, though mundane-sounding, was actually a real boon in that it was a departure from my regular routine (the one that gives me the money that makes me pay the taxes). The Fung-Wah bus ride home was uneventful, except for when we got to Boston. The bus driver thought it would be a great idea to give us a tour of the entirety of Cambridge and North Boston before going to the bus station. We crossed the bridge between Cambridge and Boston three times, on three different bridges, before he finally committed to taking us to South Station. I have to admit, I wasn't impressed. But it's the Fung-Wah, right? The price is right. They give you a quarter when you get on the bus and say to drop the quarter in a box in the front of the bus if everything was satisfying, and to use it to call them if it wasn't. Well, I did my part and kept the quarter. It brought the ticket price down to $14.75. A bargain! I feel compensated enough that I don't have to call.
I didn't say it was going to be a fascinating post.

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A comment for a comment

It's worth here noting that Ean Frick, who wrote the Dig article about the gentrification of the Alston area that got the bee in my bonnet a while back, has posted a comment on my post to "set the record straight." Thanks, Ean for discovering my blog in your onanistic googling, and for thinking that my words are worth the reply. I'm sure that when it comes right down to it, we have a lot more in common than not. Except you're in the Dig, and I'm in the fucking blog-o-sphere.
(There are a couple of new words in the modern lexicon that really kick my ass: "metrosexual" and "blogosphere." It's unfortunate that these words made it to the popular press, and appear to be sticking, because they're perverse plays on pre-existing words that have little semantic value to attach to their incredibly weak aesthetic (aural?) qualities. I say we stop using them. How's about "well-dressed" and "the internet"? Hmm? Would that really be worse?
First the "blogosphere" then the big blue/green sphere.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

Post-Script: One word that should maybe enter the lexicon, however, is "crustfunders." Once again thank you to Ean Frick.

for the record

For the record, it's totally doable to drive to New York City from Boston, hang out for the day, and then take a bus back. It's not even that stressful or expensive. It's actually kind of pleasant. I went and was somebody else for a day. Older, more experienced, simply outside of my life. New York City has that effect on people.
For the record, nobody on MySpace or Friendster is actually interested in meeting new friends through the internet. I've done some mild research into the matter (in the form of cold messages to interesting-looking strangers), and nobody seems too interested in meeting in real life. Of course, this is loaded, because maybe it's just me that they don't want to meet.
For the record, it's only stalking if you don't leave them alone once they've stopped showing interest in you. Or if you can't tell that they're never going to show interest in you. That should be like written in stone somewhere on livejournal.com
For the record, there's no difference between sleeping in your clothes and sleeping in pajamas. Unless, of course, your clothes are super-fancy/tight and uncomfortable. In which case pajamas are better. But generally, it's just not worth the effort.
For the record, even though she was/is in the New Pornographers, Neko Case is a whole lot more country when she performs on her own.
For the record, it's time to drink the rest of my tea and go to bed.


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Bird's Eye View

A friend posted some pictures of me/my hands over at bird's eye view. Go and see her lovely photos.
In other news, I hope to sleep through the night tonight. It's my major goal for the day.

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Comment comments. The Meta-Comment

I don't know what the etiquette is in the world at large about leaving comments on blog posts, but maybe it's time for me to throw in my two cents. Maybe I've done this in the past? I can't remember.
Rule 1: Leave your name. If you don't know me, and you're going to comment about my writing, let me know who you are. Often I get anonymous comments, and I can guess who sent it, but usually I have no idea. It's hard to take something seriously (or jokingly, or whatever) if it could have been written by a robot for all I know.
Rule 2: Don't flame strangers. Based on my detailed analysis of the comments left on this blog, if you truly are anonymous (and not some friend of mine too lazy to log in with your own name), what you're writing me usually amounts to a flame. It's just not cool to flame strangers. It's not polite.
(not cool to flame? That's a strange phrase.)
I don't take this thing very seriously or personally, even though it's ostensibly all about me, but what are you people, raised in a barn?
Plus you should all write more comments. If I received a zillion more, the pain of the occcasional flame would dissipate.

Latiflearned.com - Go Listen

I'd Like a Venti Twitching Fetus-Cino with Cinnamon Sprinkles to Go

the lips don't drip
when you're taking a trip.
the thighs don't lie.

ur a dip.



am i?

Lunchtime IM Poetry with Osama

baste baby
oven 350
taste gravy
taste maybe
hehe
so dellishy!
lil'squishy
heh
cook 'till glazy
12:25 PM
makes ya crazy
feelin' hazy
w the taste shiz-azy
shiz-kebob
corn on the cob
eat like a slob
kiss a man named bob
buy a watch fob
bob likes gravy
baby gravy
he served in the navy
was very bravy
with a man-boy lady
thats pretty shady
taste the shady navy man-boy lady gravy
slurp it down
unless its brown
get rid of tha frown
then get outta town

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More Shameless Self-Promotion Than Usual

Okay, so by now, you've noticed that I keep posting links to my music web site at the bottom of every post, but you should really go and visit it now if you haven't recently. I've made it much prettier, added a couple of demo tracks, photos, basically spruced the place up. There's also the permalink to it on the right-hand side of this page, if you lose track of this post. And soon, very soon, you'll be able to buy CDs and possibly (gasp!) merchandise off of that page. But probably not much with the merchandise until I start to play more gigs. By which I mean any gigs.

Here's another reminder that Seasac Records has a bunch of my stuff (b-sides and demos, mostly), in addition to a whole lot of other cool music, all free and downloadable.

I've also joined the unwashed masses over at MySpace with a latiflearned page. But it's cool, because it's color-coordinated with my real web page. Be my friend if you're on MySpace. Lord knows my meager profile could use a few.

Have I said all of this already? Probably. Never hurts to say it again.