Let's Get It On (Marvin Gaye cover)

This is a mostly shitty one-off I did to check how well my iPhone's camera could do audio, but just for funsies here it is.

Don't Think Twice It's All Right (Bob Dylan cover)

I've been practicing lately exclusively in D-A-D-F#-D-D tuning; the idea is that by restricting myself to an unfamiliar tuning, I will be forced to change my own perspective and find new ways of voicing chords and moving melodies around the neck. On this particular video, I have a capo on the second fret--making this the key of E--mainly to make that Richie Havens thumb wrap fingering of the F#7 on that second fret a little easier on myself. Anyway, there're admittedly a lot of mistakes in this video, but it is what it is and you get the idea blah blah blah...

I hate myself...

...and by "I hate myself," I mean I hate people who use their blogs to disseminate vapid pictures of pretty celebrities looking all vain and shit posing for the camera but God DAMN, Meryl Streep is super-mega, make you want to blow your brains out hot in Manhattan. That is all.

Watching this just opened up the wellspring of every tear I ever cried as a child. If you've got six minutes and a box of tissues at hand, you'll enjoy this.

Thom Yorke's DJ set at the TKOL RMX 1234567 release party:

I have infinite, forever love for Thom Yorke. Just look at that little wild man beast out.

I think I'm in love...

This girl is amazingly talented. She should be on SNL or something.

I'm a doucher

I realize that posting this makes me a huge doucher, but I can't resist. This "achievement" needs to be recorded for posterity: I just hit a mother-fucking thousand facebook "friends".

Katherine Larson :: Love at Thirty-Two Degrees

I

Today I dissected a squid,

the late acacia tossing its pollen

across the black of the lab bench.

In a few months the maples

will be bleeding. That was the thing:

there was no blood

only textures of gills creased like satin,

suction cups as planets in rows. Be careful

not to cut your finger, he says. But I’m thinking

of fingertips on my lover’s neck

last June. Amazing, hearts.

This brachial heart. After class,

I stole one from the formaldehyde

& watched it bloom in my bathroom sink

between cubes of ice.

II

Last night I threw my lab coat in the fire

& drove all night through the Arizona desert

with a thermos full of silver tequila.

It was the last of what we bought

on our way back from Guadalajara—

desert wind in the mouth, your mother’s

beat-up Honda, agaves

twisting up from the soil

like the limbs of cephalopods.

Outside of Tucson, saguaros so lovely

considering the cold, & the fact that you

weren’t there to warm me.

Suddenly drunk I was shouting that I wanted to see the stars

as my ancestors used to see them—

to see the godawful blue as Aurvandil’s frostbitten toe.

III

Then, there is the astronomer’s wife

ascending stairs to her bed.

The astronomer gazes out,

one eye at a time,

to a sky that expands

even as it falls apart

like a paper boat dissolving in bilge.

Furious, fuming stars.

When his migraine builds &

lodges its dark anchor behind

the eyes, he fastens the wooden buttons

of his jacket, & walks

outside with a flashlight

to keep company with the barn owl

who stares back at him with eyes

that are no greater or less than

a spiral galaxy.

The snow outside

is white & quiet

as a woman’s slip

against cracked floorboards.

So he walks to the house

inflamed by moonlight, & slips

into the bed with his wife

her hair & arms all

in disarray

like fish confused by waves.

IV

Science—

beyond pheromones, hormones, aesthetics of bone,

every time I make love for love’s sake alone,

I betray you.