12.31.2002 | Got To Do It
>> First off: Happy New Year, everyone.
2002 in one word: "Yikes." I'd say that encompasses all the surprises -- welcome (like falling in love) and unwelcome (like losing friends) -- that I came across; my deep-seated fears about both the direction of the world and of my own life; and my utter shock that the year is already over. Time flies when you spend an entire year constantly running out of it.
What will 2003 bring? In fifteen days, I'll be on my way to England for four months. By the end of the year, I'll be on the path to my post-collegiate career (only three semesters left, after all). I'll have to make the hardest choices of my life thus far. I'm making one of them right now: for the time being, I'm dismantling this site in its current form.
This is principally a question of ability: my housing in London doesn't have in-room Internet access, and I'll be living a fair distance from the computer labs on campus. Keeping up the illusion of a regularly-maintained blog just doesn't hold any appeal if I'd be forcing myself to write within specific windows of time. I also won't have access to all my programs, files, etc., so I wouldn't be able to do much site upkeep beyond posts to the blog.
It's also more than just practical. As any fool could guess by the quasi-apocalyptic pronouncements I've been making for the past several months, the idea of documenting my every little brain-fart and existential crisis is losing a lot of its charm. I'm still in love with the Web, and I certainly don't think I'm giving up writing for it, or even writing about myself on it, but the way I've been playing the game hasn't been satisfying me and so obviously I shouldn't play that way. It's that simple.
The site is not going to go entirely dark. I'm still working out exactly what I intend to put up here -- the infrastructure will be in place by the time I leave for London -- but there may be a journal of some kind; there may be a place for photographs (taken with my new digicam, merry Christmas to me); et cetera et cetera. But this weird half-formed All About Chris web-entity is going to be taken down for a while. I definitely need to spend less time writing about myself and more time thinking and doing.
Old habits are hard to break (cliched but true), and I may end up regretting this in a month's time and doing my best to revitalize this project as it currently stands. But don't hold your breath. I really, really need to learn to just put a period on things and move on, so that's what I'm going to try to do.
I cannot say enough about the amazing people I've come across through weblogging -- Simon, Caroline, Stuart, and Bart to name a scant few . I'll see several of you soon.
Thank you for reading, and have a spectacular 2003. Try not to get nuked. Feel free to pop your head in here from time to time to see what's going on, as I will continue to use this space as a playground for any ideas I have re: writing, music, personal exposition, etc. etc. Any number of those ideas could bear fruit; I'm just not going to commit to anything concrete. Keep your expectations low and you might be surprised.
Thanks again; it's been fun.
-Chris Conroy
2002 in one word: "Yikes." I'd say that encompasses all the surprises -- welcome (like falling in love) and unwelcome (like losing friends) -- that I came across; my deep-seated fears about both the direction of the world and of my own life; and my utter shock that the year is already over. Time flies when you spend an entire year constantly running out of it.
What will 2003 bring? In fifteen days, I'll be on my way to England for four months. By the end of the year, I'll be on the path to my post-collegiate career (only three semesters left, after all). I'll have to make the hardest choices of my life thus far. I'm making one of them right now: for the time being, I'm dismantling this site in its current form.
This is principally a question of ability: my housing in London doesn't have in-room Internet access, and I'll be living a fair distance from the computer labs on campus. Keeping up the illusion of a regularly-maintained blog just doesn't hold any appeal if I'd be forcing myself to write within specific windows of time. I also won't have access to all my programs, files, etc., so I wouldn't be able to do much site upkeep beyond posts to the blog.
It's also more than just practical. As any fool could guess by the quasi-apocalyptic pronouncements I've been making for the past several months, the idea of documenting my every little brain-fart and existential crisis is losing a lot of its charm. I'm still in love with the Web, and I certainly don't think I'm giving up writing for it, or even writing about myself on it, but the way I've been playing the game hasn't been satisfying me and so obviously I shouldn't play that way. It's that simple.
The site is not going to go entirely dark. I'm still working out exactly what I intend to put up here -- the infrastructure will be in place by the time I leave for London -- but there may be a journal of some kind; there may be a place for photographs (taken with my new digicam, merry Christmas to me); et cetera et cetera. But this weird half-formed All About Chris web-entity is going to be taken down for a while. I definitely need to spend less time writing about myself and more time thinking and doing.
Old habits are hard to break (cliched but true), and I may end up regretting this in a month's time and doing my best to revitalize this project as it currently stands. But don't hold your breath. I really, really need to learn to just put a period on things and move on, so that's what I'm going to try to do.
I cannot say enough about the amazing people I've come across through weblogging -- Simon, Caroline, Stuart, and Bart to name a scant few . I'll see several of you soon.
Thank you for reading, and have a spectacular 2003. Try not to get nuked. Feel free to pop your head in here from time to time to see what's going on, as I will continue to use this space as a playground for any ideas I have re: writing, music, personal exposition, etc. etc. Any number of those ideas could bear fruit; I'm just not going to commit to anything concrete. Keep your expectations low and you might be surprised.
Thanks again; it's been fun.
-Chris Conroy
12.25.2002 | 2002: Music Gets The Best Of Me
>> It's Christmas, a time in which we are showered with things that we do not need. Now, after two weeks of unnerving silence, it's time to give you one more: my Best Of 2002 Music post.
"Best Of" is misleading. These lists are nothing but my favorite music of 2002 -- when it comes right down to it, "quality" as an abstract aesthetic ideal really doesn't enter into the equation except in the ways that my (mis)perception of it influences what I like and what I don't. So, I'm not going to pretend that these are The Albums That Will Live Forever or anything like that. This is, plain and simple, just what I liked listening to from this year. Maybe you'll feel the same.
First, let's take a moment to mention the albums that I wish I'd had a chance to hear in full: Ash - FREE ALL ANGELS; Missy Elliott - UNDER CONSTRUCTION; Fischerspooner - #1; Sinead O'Connor - SEAN NOS NUA; Royskopp - MELODY A.M.; Sigur Ros - ( ). I was just given Peter Gabriel's UP for Christmas, and it certainly tops the list of Things I Wish I'd Had The Time For. If I spend a good amount of time with any of these albums before the end of 2002, I'll re-edit the post. But as it stands, they're missed opportunities all.
(Quick side note: I'm sorry I didn't take the time to make this a multimedia extravaganza with album covers, MP3s, attractive formatting, etc. I'll make it up to you somehow.)
But now: let's get to it. Starting from the bottom, this is every new album I heard (and had a chance to appreciate) in 2002:
(37) Elvis Costello & The Imposters - CRUEL SMILE
A handful of good b-sides and a good live performance of "Almost Blue." Otherwise, I'm saddened to admit that it's crap.
(36) The Vines - HIGHLY EVOLVED
Some bands should exist for only two minutes and six seconds. The Vines are one of those bands, and "Get Free" is that block of time. However, Craig Nicholls did say in a ROLLING STONE interview that he wants his gravestone to be a giant statue of shirtless Dave Gahan with the inscription SLEEP WELL, MY DARK ANGEL, so perhaps The Vines should also have existed long enough to give that interview.
(35) N.E.R.D. - IN SEARCH OF...
"Lap Dance" + "Rock Star" = gold. Rest of album = why bother?
(34) Phantom Planet - THE GUEST
Utterly ignorable, really, but I do like "Anthem."
(33) Eminem - THE EMINEM SHOW
To put it simply (and wussily), I just don't like listening to this much obnoxious ranting at one time. And I'm sorry, "Cleanin' Out My Closet" sucks. But taken in small doses, there's no denying just how FUCKING GREAT he can be.
(32) Justin Timberlake - JUSTIFIED
If I was to be really honest, it should, perhaps, place higher. But almost every track has one element -- generally a lyric -- which infuriates me. He came much, much closer to brilliance than anyone might've reasonably expected, though...
(31) Golden Boy with Miss Kittin - OR
"Rippin Kittin" = A FUCKING PLUS. The rest of the album is just passable, sadly.
(30) Armstrong, Craig - AS IF TO NOTHING
Gorgeous, but lacking in ooomph. For lack of a better term. Exceptions: "Wake Up In New York" and "Stay (Faraway, So Close!)"
(29) Badly Drawn Boy - HAVE YOU FED THE FISH?
Sometimes irritating, sometimes fantastic. I just can't seem to make up my mind.
(28) Waits, Tom - ALICE
You can rarely go wrong with Waits, but in comparison to BLOOD MONEY, it's honestly sort of boring. If you favor his more sweet-but-twisted material as opposed to the "grawr-rawr midgets PING PLONK" material (to paraphrase Tanya Headon), then this is for you.
(27) Waits, Tom - BLOOD MONEY
I like that it's less of a sonically unified piece than ALICE; I also like that it has the devastatingly gorgeous "Another Man's Vine."
(26) Elbow - ASLEEP IN THE BACK
Fact: The rest of the album does not stand up to "Newborn." Fact: This is not surprising, since that would be largely impossible. Seeing that climactic howl in concert was actually one of my greatest musical moments of 2002; the first time in a long time I've had a live band that I knew nothing about smack me in the face with something surprising and great.
(25) 2 Many DJs - AS HEARD ON RADIO SOULWAX PT. 2
More mix album than bootleg extravaganza, which is everyone's loss, but it's still the only big-name DJ mix album you'll ever catch me listening to.
(24) Tori Amos - SCARLET'S WALK
I still can't recall the melody lines of at least fifty percent of the songs on this, which is more than a little maddening. And I'll be damned if I can hear the "storyline" that Amos claims is at work. But when it works (and sometimes, it does), it's the closest we've come to a great Tori album since FROM THE CHOIRGIRL HOTEL.
(23) Pulp - WE LOVE LIFE
For some reason, it never really got its hooks in me like their other albums. But song-by-song, it stands up to them. Dunno how to make sense of that, really.
(22) Chemical Brothers - COME WITH US
Ignored (by me) on its initial release, and rediscovered later. "The State We're In" sort of mops the floor with about half of DAYBREAKER; the album meanders through most of its last half but redeems itself utterly with "The Test" -- the second-best mock-epic in the history of time. So suck it, Alexander Pope!
(21) Marianne Faithfull - KISSIN TIME
Someone explain to me why Blur had to come along and dick up a perfectly nice album. Kudos to Billy Corgan for not singing on any of the tracks he produced, and double kudos for producing some good songs.
(20) Beth Orton - DAYBREAKER
A wee bit monotone, but also a wee bit excellent.
(19) Moby - 18
It's not as bad as a lot of people say it is. It also isn't as good as it should be. But it did make me come back again and again; there's life in the old man yet.
(18) Pet Shop Boys - RELEASE
So some of the songs are a little weak (Uhhh, "The Samurai In Autumn?" Nice backing track, boys, but, uhhhh...), but some of them are "Home And Dry" -- my favorite song of 2002 -- and "The Night I Fell In Love," which could've taken MTV by storm if they'd had the balls to make a video. I also love "I Get Along," though probably because I have crackpot theories about it...
(17) Beck - SEA CHANGE
Having never had my heart stomped on and mangled, I'm sure I can't *really* appreciate this except by proxy. That said, it's still a damn pretty batch of songs. (Though demerits for the alternate-cover scheme, which had anal-retentive fucks like me searching for months for their favorite out-of-print image. I don't know who I hate more, Beck or myself.)
(16) Idlewild - THE REMOTE PART
Maddeningly inconsistent but frequently magnificent. You'd better have heard "American English" by now, and if you have, then you must wonder why we have Matchbox 20 and other such pap when we could have this.
(15) Weezer - MALADROIT
Another grower -- it's the worst of the Weez's albums but crappy Cuomo still beats down the rest of the rock world. And "Dope Nose":Weezer::"Rock 'N' Roll All Night":Kiss. Bonus points for the Wordless Chorus Of The Decade!
(14) Queens Of The Stone Age - SONGS FOR THE DEAF
You know, I'm not even sure that I've listened to this all the way through in one sitting. It's just too much rock for a man such as I, who is easily overcome by throbbing, tumescent riffs such as these. And the radio-station skits only bother me when I'm making a mix-tape.
(13) Wilco - YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT
I love it dearly. I just don't listen to it that much. Otherwise, maybe it'd make the Top Ten; as it stands, "Heavy Metal Drummer" alone is enough to qualify it way above the masses. The rest of the album doesn't disappoint either; I'm just rarely in the mood for it.
(12) Interpol - TURN ON THE BRIGHT LIGHTS
If they knew they were being topped by Kylie, they'd probably hang themselves (sound familiar?), but they shouldn't worry: they made the year's second-best New York rock disc in the Year of New York Rock.
(11) Kylie Minogue - FEVER
At the last second, I allowed this album to vault up the chart five or six slots. Because God damn it is THE BOMB. And that's not the homo-juices talkin'; this is the year's best pure-pop record.
(10) Doves - THE LAST BROADCAST
Earlier in the year, this would've been a shoo-in for the Top Five. Again, "Friday's Dust" and "Satellites" hold it back, but the killer songs on this ("There Goes The Fear," "Caught By The River") can't be touched by any other rock band of their stature.
(9) Elvis Costello - WHEN I WAS CRUEL
By all rights, with songs like "45," "Alibi," and "When I Was Cruel No. 2" under its belt, it should place much higher. But stinkers like "15 Petals" keep it at the bottom of the Top 10. It's still some seriously hot shit, though...
(8) The Streets - ORIGINAL PIRATE MATERIAL
I described this to Erin as "a UK garage album narrated entirely by the guy from Blur's 'Parklife'." Which doesn't even halfway get you there, but go figure. "Turn The Page" IS the best mock-epic in the history of time. Keep suckin' it, Alexander Pope! (And y'know, not to be petty, but I swear I was like the fifth person in America to buy this album -- I got it in June, muthafuckahs. But I'm losing my edge... to the kids... etc. etc.)
(7) Underworld - A HUNDRED DAYS OFF
Both a grower and a shower (tee-hee); I was instantly hooked by "Two Months Off" and "Dinosaur Adventure 3D" and soon found myself falling for "Mo Move," "Trim," and "Luetin," too. Not the disappointment I'd initially thought it to be.
(6) Yeah Yeah Yeahs - YEAH YEAH YEAHS E.P.
OK, so it's sort of 2001, but I bought the 2002 reissue and I'll pull a SPIN magazine on you. Nobody else kicked this much ass in five songs this year... give me the full-length, please. Now.
(5) Red Hot Chili Peppers - BY THE WAY
Alongside ORIGINAL PIRATE MATERIAL, this is the soundtrack of my summer. Such things always place high on the nostalgia-meter, but thankfully this is a pretty fuckin' great album, too.
(4) David Bowie - HEATHEN
Y'know, it's just a really good record. Not much else to say about it, except that I really love to listen to it. Should I need to make a case for Bowie at this point?
(3) Coldplay - A RUSH OF BLOOD TO THE HEAD
I'm a little surprised that this placed so high myself, but then I listen to "The Scientist" and "Clocks" and stop questioning it. Officially my Favorite New Band; I knew they had it in 'em.
(2) Felix Da Housecat - KITTENZ AND THEE GLITZ
The American release qualifies for this list by a hair, and it's a good thing too, because it's fuckin' great. Hollywood be damned: Miss Kittin gave the greatest line readings of 2002.
(1) Andrew WK - I GET WET
No regrets. To put it simply, no other album released this year made me so happy to be listening to music. I'm done arguing in its favor; if you were going to love it, you probably do already. If you weren't, then your life is a little duller.
And in the interest of historical accuracy: my five favorite catalogue albums purchased this year. Retro!
Oh yeah, and I guess I'll explain myself re: the whole no-posting thing. Let's not shit each other, though: that's not my first priority in life...
"Best Of" is misleading. These lists are nothing but my favorite music of 2002 -- when it comes right down to it, "quality" as an abstract aesthetic ideal really doesn't enter into the equation except in the ways that my (mis)perception of it influences what I like and what I don't. So, I'm not going to pretend that these are The Albums That Will Live Forever or anything like that. This is, plain and simple, just what I liked listening to from this year. Maybe you'll feel the same.
First, let's take a moment to mention the albums that I wish I'd had a chance to hear in full: Ash - FREE ALL ANGELS; Missy Elliott - UNDER CONSTRUCTION; Fischerspooner - #1; Sinead O'Connor - SEAN NOS NUA; Royskopp - MELODY A.M.; Sigur Ros - ( ). I was just given Peter Gabriel's UP for Christmas, and it certainly tops the list of Things I Wish I'd Had The Time For. If I spend a good amount of time with any of these albums before the end of 2002, I'll re-edit the post. But as it stands, they're missed opportunities all.
(Quick side note: I'm sorry I didn't take the time to make this a multimedia extravaganza with album covers, MP3s, attractive formatting, etc. I'll make it up to you somehow.)
But now: let's get to it. Starting from the bottom, this is every new album I heard (and had a chance to appreciate) in 2002:
(37) Elvis Costello & The Imposters - CRUEL SMILE
A handful of good b-sides and a good live performance of "Almost Blue." Otherwise, I'm saddened to admit that it's crap.
(36) The Vines - HIGHLY EVOLVED
Some bands should exist for only two minutes and six seconds. The Vines are one of those bands, and "Get Free" is that block of time. However, Craig Nicholls did say in a ROLLING STONE interview that he wants his gravestone to be a giant statue of shirtless Dave Gahan with the inscription SLEEP WELL, MY DARK ANGEL, so perhaps The Vines should also have existed long enough to give that interview.
(35) N.E.R.D. - IN SEARCH OF...
"Lap Dance" + "Rock Star" = gold. Rest of album = why bother?
(34) Phantom Planet - THE GUEST
Utterly ignorable, really, but I do like "Anthem."
(33) Eminem - THE EMINEM SHOW
To put it simply (and wussily), I just don't like listening to this much obnoxious ranting at one time. And I'm sorry, "Cleanin' Out My Closet" sucks. But taken in small doses, there's no denying just how FUCKING GREAT he can be.
(32) Justin Timberlake - JUSTIFIED
If I was to be really honest, it should, perhaps, place higher. But almost every track has one element -- generally a lyric -- which infuriates me. He came much, much closer to brilliance than anyone might've reasonably expected, though...
(31) Golden Boy with Miss Kittin - OR
"Rippin Kittin" = A FUCKING PLUS. The rest of the album is just passable, sadly.
(30) Armstrong, Craig - AS IF TO NOTHING
Gorgeous, but lacking in ooomph. For lack of a better term. Exceptions: "Wake Up In New York" and "Stay (Faraway, So Close!)"
(29) Badly Drawn Boy - HAVE YOU FED THE FISH?
Sometimes irritating, sometimes fantastic. I just can't seem to make up my mind.
(28) Waits, Tom - ALICE
You can rarely go wrong with Waits, but in comparison to BLOOD MONEY, it's honestly sort of boring. If you favor his more sweet-but-twisted material as opposed to the "grawr-rawr midgets PING PLONK" material (to paraphrase Tanya Headon), then this is for you.
(27) Waits, Tom - BLOOD MONEY
I like that it's less of a sonically unified piece than ALICE; I also like that it has the devastatingly gorgeous "Another Man's Vine."
(26) Elbow - ASLEEP IN THE BACK
Fact: The rest of the album does not stand up to "Newborn." Fact: This is not surprising, since that would be largely impossible. Seeing that climactic howl in concert was actually one of my greatest musical moments of 2002; the first time in a long time I've had a live band that I knew nothing about smack me in the face with something surprising and great.
(25) 2 Many DJs - AS HEARD ON RADIO SOULWAX PT. 2
More mix album than bootleg extravaganza, which is everyone's loss, but it's still the only big-name DJ mix album you'll ever catch me listening to.
(24) Tori Amos - SCARLET'S WALK
I still can't recall the melody lines of at least fifty percent of the songs on this, which is more than a little maddening. And I'll be damned if I can hear the "storyline" that Amos claims is at work. But when it works (and sometimes, it does), it's the closest we've come to a great Tori album since FROM THE CHOIRGIRL HOTEL.
(23) Pulp - WE LOVE LIFE
For some reason, it never really got its hooks in me like their other albums. But song-by-song, it stands up to them. Dunno how to make sense of that, really.
(22) Chemical Brothers - COME WITH US
Ignored (by me) on its initial release, and rediscovered later. "The State We're In" sort of mops the floor with about half of DAYBREAKER; the album meanders through most of its last half but redeems itself utterly with "The Test" -- the second-best mock-epic in the history of time. So suck it, Alexander Pope!
(21) Marianne Faithfull - KISSIN TIME
Someone explain to me why Blur had to come along and dick up a perfectly nice album. Kudos to Billy Corgan for not singing on any of the tracks he produced, and double kudos for producing some good songs.
(20) Beth Orton - DAYBREAKER
A wee bit monotone, but also a wee bit excellent.
(19) Moby - 18
It's not as bad as a lot of people say it is. It also isn't as good as it should be. But it did make me come back again and again; there's life in the old man yet.
(18) Pet Shop Boys - RELEASE
So some of the songs are a little weak (Uhhh, "The Samurai In Autumn?" Nice backing track, boys, but, uhhhh...), but some of them are "Home And Dry" -- my favorite song of 2002 -- and "The Night I Fell In Love," which could've taken MTV by storm if they'd had the balls to make a video. I also love "I Get Along," though probably because I have crackpot theories about it...
(17) Beck - SEA CHANGE
Having never had my heart stomped on and mangled, I'm sure I can't *really* appreciate this except by proxy. That said, it's still a damn pretty batch of songs. (Though demerits for the alternate-cover scheme, which had anal-retentive fucks like me searching for months for their favorite out-of-print image. I don't know who I hate more, Beck or myself.)
(16) Idlewild - THE REMOTE PART
Maddeningly inconsistent but frequently magnificent. You'd better have heard "American English" by now, and if you have, then you must wonder why we have Matchbox 20 and other such pap when we could have this.
(15) Weezer - MALADROIT
Another grower -- it's the worst of the Weez's albums but crappy Cuomo still beats down the rest of the rock world. And "Dope Nose":Weezer::"Rock 'N' Roll All Night":Kiss. Bonus points for the Wordless Chorus Of The Decade!
(14) Queens Of The Stone Age - SONGS FOR THE DEAF
You know, I'm not even sure that I've listened to this all the way through in one sitting. It's just too much rock for a man such as I, who is easily overcome by throbbing, tumescent riffs such as these. And the radio-station skits only bother me when I'm making a mix-tape.
(13) Wilco - YANKEE HOTEL FOXTROT
I love it dearly. I just don't listen to it that much. Otherwise, maybe it'd make the Top Ten; as it stands, "Heavy Metal Drummer" alone is enough to qualify it way above the masses. The rest of the album doesn't disappoint either; I'm just rarely in the mood for it.
(12) Interpol - TURN ON THE BRIGHT LIGHTS
If they knew they were being topped by Kylie, they'd probably hang themselves (sound familiar?), but they shouldn't worry: they made the year's second-best New York rock disc in the Year of New York Rock.
(11) Kylie Minogue - FEVER
At the last second, I allowed this album to vault up the chart five or six slots. Because God damn it is THE BOMB. And that's not the homo-juices talkin'; this is the year's best pure-pop record.
(10) Doves - THE LAST BROADCAST
Earlier in the year, this would've been a shoo-in for the Top Five. Again, "Friday's Dust" and "Satellites" hold it back, but the killer songs on this ("There Goes The Fear," "Caught By The River") can't be touched by any other rock band of their stature.
(9) Elvis Costello - WHEN I WAS CRUEL
By all rights, with songs like "45," "Alibi," and "When I Was Cruel No. 2" under its belt, it should place much higher. But stinkers like "15 Petals" keep it at the bottom of the Top 10. It's still some seriously hot shit, though...
(8) The Streets - ORIGINAL PIRATE MATERIAL
I described this to Erin as "a UK garage album narrated entirely by the guy from Blur's 'Parklife'." Which doesn't even halfway get you there, but go figure. "Turn The Page" IS the best mock-epic in the history of time. Keep suckin' it, Alexander Pope! (And y'know, not to be petty, but I swear I was like the fifth person in America to buy this album -- I got it in June, muthafuckahs. But I'm losing my edge... to the kids... etc. etc.)
(7) Underworld - A HUNDRED DAYS OFF
Both a grower and a shower (tee-hee); I was instantly hooked by "Two Months Off" and "Dinosaur Adventure 3D" and soon found myself falling for "Mo Move," "Trim," and "Luetin," too. Not the disappointment I'd initially thought it to be.
(6) Yeah Yeah Yeahs - YEAH YEAH YEAHS E.P.
OK, so it's sort of 2001, but I bought the 2002 reissue and I'll pull a SPIN magazine on you. Nobody else kicked this much ass in five songs this year... give me the full-length, please. Now.
(5) Red Hot Chili Peppers - BY THE WAY
Alongside ORIGINAL PIRATE MATERIAL, this is the soundtrack of my summer. Such things always place high on the nostalgia-meter, but thankfully this is a pretty fuckin' great album, too.
(4) David Bowie - HEATHEN
Y'know, it's just a really good record. Not much else to say about it, except that I really love to listen to it. Should I need to make a case for Bowie at this point?
(3) Coldplay - A RUSH OF BLOOD TO THE HEAD
I'm a little surprised that this placed so high myself, but then I listen to "The Scientist" and "Clocks" and stop questioning it. Officially my Favorite New Band; I knew they had it in 'em.
(2) Felix Da Housecat - KITTENZ AND THEE GLITZ
The American release qualifies for this list by a hair, and it's a good thing too, because it's fuckin' great. Hollywood be damned: Miss Kittin gave the greatest line readings of 2002.
(1) Andrew WK - I GET WET
No regrets. To put it simply, no other album released this year made me so happy to be listening to music. I'm done arguing in its favor; if you were going to love it, you probably do already. If you weren't, then your life is a little duller.
And in the interest of historical accuracy: my five favorite catalogue albums purchased this year. Retro!
- Prince - SIGN O' THE TIMES
- Elvis Costello & The Attractions - ALL THIS USELESS BEAUTY
- David Bowie - LOW
- Oasis - DEFINITELY MAYBE
- Sinead O'Connor - THE LION AND THE COBRA
Oh yeah, and I guess I'll explain myself re: the whole no-posting thing. Let's not shit each other, though: that's not my first priority in life...
12.11.2002 | And I'm Like, Yeah, Whatever
>> New MP3s for you. Use them wisely. And yes, they are there because I have a paper to avoid writing. Don't look at me like that. Just... don't. YOU THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME? HA!
12.10.2002 | Outta Sight... He's Alright
>> The progress of this morning so far:
- Missed my first class (BritLitII). Probably shouldn't've.
- Bought U2's The Best Of 1990-2000 DVD at Tower for only $14.99. Unlike the CD version, it promises to be overpoweringly great. Can't wait until I get home tonight (though I do still have a five-page BritLit paper to write, that was kind of due today...)
- Speaking of papers, I did finish and turn in my Modern British Drama paper. So it's a day late, oh well. I wrote it, for the record, on the intersection between monologue and religious examination in David Hare's Racing Demon and Via Dolorosa. All you non-English majors can just smile and nod as you read that bit.
- I think I just walked right by Jenny Piston on Waverly Place on my way to this computer lab. That was shitty of me if it was her... and I think I passed Christina on University Place a few minutes earlier. I really need to stop wearing headphones everywhere.
- This entry was soundtracked by Marianne Faithfull's "Kissin Time" on the iPod, which, ironically, is my least favorite song on that album. But all is well, because "Suffragette City" just started up as I kept typing this item.
12.09.2002 | Real Real Raw
>> OK, I'm kind of in academic-emergency mode, so I shouldn't be blogging. But I can't not say something about The Rawhide Kid. Marvel Comics is, apparently, resurrecting this crappy old Western character and making him their first gay title character. Which, you know, theoretically could be exciting. BUT they're playing it as a complete and utter camp-fest of the "Oh, isn't his costume pretty" variety. Infuriating. As Jack so mellifluously put it, "They might as well call him Buttfuck Jr." This sucks. Man, you take your eyes off Marvel for one fuckin' second and look what they pull...
My favorite quote from the article, by the way, is this:
My favorite quote from the article, by the way, is this:
Brian Reinert, Marvel's public relations officer, said that Marvel has always been "interested in tapping into stories that are relevant today." He expects the reactions to this comic to vary.For starters, there's absolutely nothing "relevant" about how they're handling this character. And second... THE RAWHIDE KID IS NOBODY'S "BELOVED CHARACTER." HE'S A PIECE-OF-SHIT THIRD-STRINGER THAT NOBODY'S WRITTEN A STORY ABOUT IN TWENTY YEARS. I laugh, indeed, I laugh.
Although many readers will accept the new sexuality of the Marvel hero, Reinert expects possible negative responses from people who don't accept homosexuality and readers who do not want to see a change in their beloved character.
12.08.2002 | Crab Attaaaaaack!
>> So, this afternoon's film shoot with the incomparable Jen turned out quite lovely. I was not called upon to do anything more demanding than stroll around the Lower East Side looking at puppies and other such fascinating objects; an altogether excellent way in which to spend a gorgeous New York quasi-winter Sunday. On the way back to the dorm we had delicious red-bean ice cream from the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory and came face to face with THE BIGGEST FUCKING SCARY CRABS IN THE WORLD in a shopfront window aquarium on what I think was Mulberry Street. Muthafucka was like three feet across! Jen and I were quite sure that, should these things learn to breathe oxygen, they will become the dominant form of life on this planet. We almost stopped to buy, kill, and eat one just so we could sleep well, knowing that at least one of them wouldn't be coming after us at a later date.
After that we both ended up at Erin's graduation party, where we dined on Chinese food and bullshitted about the music industry, as we are wont to do when Erin's many bitches (I count myself in that number) congregate. Then I visited Josh in the editing labs, very briefly. And now I'm sitting in my dorm with a snowball's chance in hell of starting my paper in time to turn it in tomorrow morning. Wheeeeeee.
On a happy note, however, I've finished compiling my three-disc 2002: CURATED BY CHRIS CONROY CDs, so I'll probably be posting the tracklist / commentary for 'em sometime in the near future, when I get a spare moment -- in other words, don't hold your breath.
Oh, and speaking of 2002 -- Born. Eat. Shag. Die.
After that we both ended up at Erin's graduation party, where we dined on Chinese food and bullshitted about the music industry, as we are wont to do when Erin's many bitches (I count myself in that number) congregate. Then I visited Josh in the editing labs, very briefly. And now I'm sitting in my dorm with a snowball's chance in hell of starting my paper in time to turn it in tomorrow morning. Wheeeeeee.
On a happy note, however, I've finished compiling my three-disc 2002: CURATED BY CHRIS CONROY CDs, so I'll probably be posting the tracklist / commentary for 'em sometime in the near future, when I get a spare moment -- in other words, don't hold your breath.
Oh, and speaking of 2002 -- Born. Eat. Shag. Die.
12.07.2002 | Primal Scream
>> Sometimes there's just not a font big enough to type "FUCK" in.
As usual, nothing in my life is going right and/or giving me pleasure. I have three final papers due next week -- two ten-pagers, one of them a fairly involved research paper, and the other a five-page paper on works I have little familiarity with. The first ten-pager is due Monday, the five-pager on Tuesday, and the research paper on Friday.
However, I can't start in on them tonight, because I'll be out until God knows when with my brother (who's visiting town) and sister, apparently bar-hopping around Midtown. Not one of my favorite past-times. Tomorrow is booked solid as well, with a film shoot for Jen and another party at Erin's. So if that ten-page paper is getting done, it's sometime between the hours of 11PM and 9AM. Then I go to class and work and don't get home until 6PM, at which point the five-page paper needs to be done, as well as a sizeable stack of reading. On Tuesday I have class until 3:15, then I have to see a friend from out of town for a couple of hours, then I need to do a pile of work for my Thursday classes which have been bumped forward to Wednesday because NYU is retarded. I spend all of Wednesday in class. Then I get Thursday to do all the research for, and all the writing of, my final ten-page paper, which is due Friday morning before I go to work. For the last time. After that, I'm sort of free -- though I do have two final exams in the following week which I'm unprepared for.
During none of this time will I be able to see Josh, since he's living in the editing labs at Tisch. During none of this time will I be able to start packing, or getting my Christmas shopping done, even though I have no money to speak of. During this time I will have to finish my London paperwork, including a physical exam which I still haven't scheduled.
I don't. Do well. With pressure.
As usual, nothing in my life is going right and/or giving me pleasure. I have three final papers due next week -- two ten-pagers, one of them a fairly involved research paper, and the other a five-page paper on works I have little familiarity with. The first ten-pager is due Monday, the five-pager on Tuesday, and the research paper on Friday.
However, I can't start in on them tonight, because I'll be out until God knows when with my brother (who's visiting town) and sister, apparently bar-hopping around Midtown. Not one of my favorite past-times. Tomorrow is booked solid as well, with a film shoot for Jen and another party at Erin's. So if that ten-page paper is getting done, it's sometime between the hours of 11PM and 9AM. Then I go to class and work and don't get home until 6PM, at which point the five-page paper needs to be done, as well as a sizeable stack of reading. On Tuesday I have class until 3:15, then I have to see a friend from out of town for a couple of hours, then I need to do a pile of work for my Thursday classes which have been bumped forward to Wednesday because NYU is retarded. I spend all of Wednesday in class. Then I get Thursday to do all the research for, and all the writing of, my final ten-page paper, which is due Friday morning before I go to work. For the last time. After that, I'm sort of free -- though I do have two final exams in the following week which I'm unprepared for.
During none of this time will I be able to see Josh, since he's living in the editing labs at Tisch. During none of this time will I be able to start packing, or getting my Christmas shopping done, even though I have no money to speak of. During this time I will have to finish my London paperwork, including a physical exam which I still haven't scheduled.
I don't. Do well. With pressure.
12.04.2002 | London Calling
>> I realized the other night that I hadn't made this completely explicit on the blog yet -- I've been so used to telling people on an individual basis that I never made a confirmed statement here, just sideways references. Anyway: I'm studying abroad in London for the spring semester, starting Jan. 15th, until mid-May. I guess I should be happy, right?
In truth, I'm aggravated more than anything else. I do want to study abroad; it's a ridiculously great opportunity, and London's a fantastic city. I'm looking forward to meeting all the great Eurobloggers I've been introduced to through this blog, and buying all kinds of British music I'd normally have to shell out for on import (shocking how that reaches a level of importance nearly equal to that of meeting new friends, isn't it?). But the whole process of getting there is daunting and irritating.
For starters, it has required paperwork. Lots of paperwork. With deadlines. Lots of deadlines. I don't play well with deadlines. Like a fucking idiot, I've been putting everything off until the last second before it's due, and then I give myself an ulcer hoping that the various offices will accept it and that this didn't just derail my chances and etc. etc. For example, my housing-cancellation form -- which is either due this Friday, or last Friday. I don't know, and it's scaring the shit out of me, because I didn't even think about it until the other day. If I fuck up something stupid and clerical, my parents will *never* forgive me. Hell, I won't forgive myself. But at the same time the little nagging voice -- the one that tells me to just sit on my ass, because it's easier than standing up -- sort of wants me to dick up.
After all, my life in NYC at the moment is pretty comfortable (in some ways). This semester has been a stress-bitch from Hell, but at its core there's a lot of good: Interesting (if slightly too demanding) classes, a fabulous apartment, and a good, strong relationship with a guy I'm in love with. By going to London, I take radically different (and less satisfying) courses, lose my apartment, and at the very least delay the progress of my relationship by a minimum of four months -- possibly up to eight, depending on whether I decide to spend the summer in Florida or New York.
I have promised myself one thing if I go to London: I will write. My classes are light-ish and my schedule is compressed into three days, giving me the majority of the week to myself, and I don't really plan to take an internship there (unlike this semester, where I was devoting 18 hours a week to my internship at MCT and it absolutely destroyed me schedule-wise). I have promised myself that I will spend those four months writing and writing and polishing and polishing and writing some more; and if I don't come back from the U.K. with some kind of meaningful piece of work under my belt, I'm giving up the dream for good and officially throwing myself into a publishing or music-business career. There's no point in trying to dick around after college with a professional writing career if I've never proven to myself that I can write, now is there?
Of course, while this decision should be empowering, instead it's infuriating -- London is now, in its own little way, another unpleasant obligation. This is my principal problem in life: Anything I have to do, whether it's enjoyable or execrable, is classified in my mind as an annoying obligation that I would rather avoid. And let me tell you, I am a master of avoidance. This entire website -- constructed on days when I should've been reading and nights before massive papers or exams -- is a monument to my academic avoidance.
And then of course I feel guilty for being so blase about an opportunity thousands of students would kill for. Why am I such a spoiled brat?
So. London. I'm going (barring some kind of horrible horrible mistake). My flight is booked. I don't know how I feel about it. And the shit I've talked about in this entry has been haunting my entire semester.
In truth, I'm aggravated more than anything else. I do want to study abroad; it's a ridiculously great opportunity, and London's a fantastic city. I'm looking forward to meeting all the great Eurobloggers I've been introduced to through this blog, and buying all kinds of British music I'd normally have to shell out for on import (shocking how that reaches a level of importance nearly equal to that of meeting new friends, isn't it?). But the whole process of getting there is daunting and irritating.
For starters, it has required paperwork. Lots of paperwork. With deadlines. Lots of deadlines. I don't play well with deadlines. Like a fucking idiot, I've been putting everything off until the last second before it's due, and then I give myself an ulcer hoping that the various offices will accept it and that this didn't just derail my chances and etc. etc. For example, my housing-cancellation form -- which is either due this Friday, or last Friday. I don't know, and it's scaring the shit out of me, because I didn't even think about it until the other day. If I fuck up something stupid and clerical, my parents will *never* forgive me. Hell, I won't forgive myself. But at the same time the little nagging voice -- the one that tells me to just sit on my ass, because it's easier than standing up -- sort of wants me to dick up.
After all, my life in NYC at the moment is pretty comfortable (in some ways). This semester has been a stress-bitch from Hell, but at its core there's a lot of good: Interesting (if slightly too demanding) classes, a fabulous apartment, and a good, strong relationship with a guy I'm in love with. By going to London, I take radically different (and less satisfying) courses, lose my apartment, and at the very least delay the progress of my relationship by a minimum of four months -- possibly up to eight, depending on whether I decide to spend the summer in Florida or New York.
I have promised myself one thing if I go to London: I will write. My classes are light-ish and my schedule is compressed into three days, giving me the majority of the week to myself, and I don't really plan to take an internship there (unlike this semester, where I was devoting 18 hours a week to my internship at MCT and it absolutely destroyed me schedule-wise). I have promised myself that I will spend those four months writing and writing and polishing and polishing and writing some more; and if I don't come back from the U.K. with some kind of meaningful piece of work under my belt, I'm giving up the dream for good and officially throwing myself into a publishing or music-business career. There's no point in trying to dick around after college with a professional writing career if I've never proven to myself that I can write, now is there?
Of course, while this decision should be empowering, instead it's infuriating -- London is now, in its own little way, another unpleasant obligation. This is my principal problem in life: Anything I have to do, whether it's enjoyable or execrable, is classified in my mind as an annoying obligation that I would rather avoid. And let me tell you, I am a master of avoidance. This entire website -- constructed on days when I should've been reading and nights before massive papers or exams -- is a monument to my academic avoidance.
And then of course I feel guilty for being so blase about an opportunity thousands of students would kill for. Why am I such a spoiled brat?
So. London. I'm going (barring some kind of horrible horrible mistake). My flight is booked. I don't know how I feel about it. And the shit I've talked about in this entry has been haunting my entire semester.
12.03.2002 | This Isn't Rock & Roll... This Is... GENOCIDE!
>> Taken from the MTV News headlines:
Sometimes, you have to laugh.
(Mind you, I totally support MTV News' attempts at actually educating the millions of freakin' ridiculously ignorant American youth that the program serves... but sometimes, it's a wee bit patronizing, perhaps? And can one really shovel Saddam in between Bono and Nelly and feel like you haven't marginalized something?)
Anyway. I'll go crawl back into my media-punditry hole now.
Sometimes, you have to laugh.
(Mind you, I totally support MTV News' attempts at actually educating the millions of freakin' ridiculously ignorant American youth that the program serves... but sometimes, it's a wee bit patronizing, perhaps? And can one really shovel Saddam in between Bono and Nelly and feel like you haven't marginalized something?)
Anyway. I'll go crawl back into my media-punditry hole now.
12.02.2002 | Life, Illustrated (There's A Sitcom Title Waiting To Happen...)
>> I love living around the corner from the Tribeca Grand. The walk home from the subway is always better when celebrities are there to provide distraction! This evening, Alan Cumming was spotted looking expectantly out over Sixth Ave. as he stepped back through the revolving door. He was not, sadly, covered in head-to-toe blue body paint, but perhaps he was going back upstairs to apply it.
I know I don't post enough here, and I know you don't want to hear this, but: there's now no reason for me to keep a weblog. You see, this whole thing was always just an extended project in self-exposition. But Jack has managed to sum up my entire existential situation, down to the very core of my being, in one of his StripCreator comics. As a result, this blog is redundant. Behold: The Life Of A Livejournal Owner.
I know I don't post enough here, and I know you don't want to hear this, but: there's now no reason for me to keep a weblog. You see, this whole thing was always just an extended project in self-exposition. But Jack has managed to sum up my entire existential situation, down to the very core of my being, in one of his StripCreator comics. As a result, this blog is redundant. Behold: The Life Of A Livejournal Owner.
12.01.2002 | Father Land
>> When I was a kid, I used to make hasty decisions about my desire to live in various cities based solely on the quality of their comic-book stores. Eleven-year-old Chris decided that Seattle was his spiritual homeland, because there was a really great comic book store upstairs in the Public Market and half an hour before going there I'd had an extremely tasty cookie. Upon reflection, it probably wasn't even that great a store; the Spider-Man MAXIMUM CARNAGE crossover was running at the time, however, and my excitement about it cross-pollinated my impression of the place.
Orange, Connecticut, was another one of those towns throughout my childhood. The home of my paternal grandparents, we'd visit often, and I fell in love with the comic-book store there, too. It always helped that my grandparents would always shower me with money whenever I came to visit, and I could make massive binges. Simple, selfish, almost gruesome things like that gave me a favorable impression of the place. As I grew older, I realized that there was a used-CD store next to the comics shop, and my excitement grew. Double threat!
But as I sat with my sister in a parked car in front of Applebee's, staring out the window towards those stores just up the hill, all I wanted to do was get away.
"I can't stay in the room with him for longer than twenty minutes," I told her. "I just can't. I just can't... do it. I can be civil and quiet for that long, but then I just have to get out of there."
It's the truth. I'd left the family room an hour earlier -- I didn't make a scene, there was no reason I should have; I just chose a moment when I wasn't a part of the conversation and simply wandered out of the house. I crunched the days-old snow on the front lawn under my boots. An old German Shepherd named Fuss lives across the street; his owners make him live outside, and as I came over to pet him, he whimpered from the cold and loneliness. I tried to stay with him as long as I could, bringing over cookies from the doggie-biscuit bag my grandfather keeps for him in the kitchen. As I ran my fingers through his fur, his winter hair fell away and carpeted the freezing asphalt, and when I stood up, I scratched my arm on a bare, blasted tree-branch.
My grandmother died in March, on my father's birthday. Together, my grandparents had been waiting to die in a falling-down house for almost twenty years, neglecting their health and sealing themselves away from the outside world. He treated her "well," all things considered, but he was and always has been a control freak: she was under his thumb, manipulated and jerked around in a thousand little ways that she always consented to. I'd always secretly hoped she'd outlive him and get a little gasp of air, a little taste of freedom, even as she approached her nineties. No such luck.
Now my grandfather is falling apart -- without her he has nothing, and his health is slowly failing. Both of them had always been mentally sound, but now, his already-warped, endlessly stubborn sense of judgement is beginning to suffer from a light dementia. His eyes are clouded by cataracts (eminently treatable -- by my father, no less, if he would simply consent to come to Florida for the surgery). And now, he has a tumor on his neck, a squamous-cell cancer which he refuses to have treated as it becomes more and more uncomfortable by the day. He simply wants to die. And God help me, but the more I think of him, the more I want him to myself.
During the visit, my father and his two brothers (one a well-off, free-spirited businessman; the other, the second coming of my grandfather) hold a summit meeting in the driveway while my grandfather watches football on TV. Last week, my uncle had set up a specific time when he would come over and have my grandfather sign some living-will documents. My grandfather apparently decided he didn't want to do it, and would not let my uncle into the house. At all. The three of them don't know what to do; they haven't known for twenty years. All my life they've been saying that my grandparents shouldn't be alone in this house; one of them would die and the other wouldn't be able to help themselves. Well, now that dire predicition has come true, and there's still been no progress in trying to save my grandfather from himself.
I don't ever want to go back to Connecticut again. But I know it will happen, at least one more time.
Orange, Connecticut, was another one of those towns throughout my childhood. The home of my paternal grandparents, we'd visit often, and I fell in love with the comic-book store there, too. It always helped that my grandparents would always shower me with money whenever I came to visit, and I could make massive binges. Simple, selfish, almost gruesome things like that gave me a favorable impression of the place. As I grew older, I realized that there was a used-CD store next to the comics shop, and my excitement grew. Double threat!
But as I sat with my sister in a parked car in front of Applebee's, staring out the window towards those stores just up the hill, all I wanted to do was get away.
"I can't stay in the room with him for longer than twenty minutes," I told her. "I just can't. I just can't... do it. I can be civil and quiet for that long, but then I just have to get out of there."
It's the truth. I'd left the family room an hour earlier -- I didn't make a scene, there was no reason I should have; I just chose a moment when I wasn't a part of the conversation and simply wandered out of the house. I crunched the days-old snow on the front lawn under my boots. An old German Shepherd named Fuss lives across the street; his owners make him live outside, and as I came over to pet him, he whimpered from the cold and loneliness. I tried to stay with him as long as I could, bringing over cookies from the doggie-biscuit bag my grandfather keeps for him in the kitchen. As I ran my fingers through his fur, his winter hair fell away and carpeted the freezing asphalt, and when I stood up, I scratched my arm on a bare, blasted tree-branch.
My grandmother died in March, on my father's birthday. Together, my grandparents had been waiting to die in a falling-down house for almost twenty years, neglecting their health and sealing themselves away from the outside world. He treated her "well," all things considered, but he was and always has been a control freak: she was under his thumb, manipulated and jerked around in a thousand little ways that she always consented to. I'd always secretly hoped she'd outlive him and get a little gasp of air, a little taste of freedom, even as she approached her nineties. No such luck.
Now my grandfather is falling apart -- without her he has nothing, and his health is slowly failing. Both of them had always been mentally sound, but now, his already-warped, endlessly stubborn sense of judgement is beginning to suffer from a light dementia. His eyes are clouded by cataracts (eminently treatable -- by my father, no less, if he would simply consent to come to Florida for the surgery). And now, he has a tumor on his neck, a squamous-cell cancer which he refuses to have treated as it becomes more and more uncomfortable by the day. He simply wants to die. And God help me, but the more I think of him, the more I want him to myself.
During the visit, my father and his two brothers (one a well-off, free-spirited businessman; the other, the second coming of my grandfather) hold a summit meeting in the driveway while my grandfather watches football on TV. Last week, my uncle had set up a specific time when he would come over and have my grandfather sign some living-will documents. My grandfather apparently decided he didn't want to do it, and would not let my uncle into the house. At all. The three of them don't know what to do; they haven't known for twenty years. All my life they've been saying that my grandparents shouldn't be alone in this house; one of them would die and the other wouldn't be able to help themselves. Well, now that dire predicition has come true, and there's still been no progress in trying to save my grandfather from himself.
I don't ever want to go back to Connecticut again. But I know it will happen, at least one more time.
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