My way of treating myself in this life, of relieving stress, of indulging my whims is rather pedestrian on the surface. I read; I write; I listen to music. It's the substance of these hobbies that provides spice.
A 120-minute chunk of Saturday afternoon was spent at the Centre, AKA "where the Wal Mart is". First I had to buy the Norton Antivirus 2008 so my computer wouldn't catch bird flu and explode (I've had that happen before, to my much-missed laptop), then I departed for Borders, a frequent sanctuary. I made a tidy haul, although I have made much tidier in the past and hope to in the future.
Only two magazines for me in one trip is pretty meager--I often purchase upwards of five or six. The selection for the week ending January 6th was lackluster. No Spin, no XXL, but many copies of the recent issues of Harp and Paste. I did learn something new, though, from a man nearby scanning the racks with a friend. An average of 12 new magazines debut per week in America. By the time a year has elapsed from conception, an average of 1 are still printing. His source was a "friend in New York". Hey, beats Wikipedia. Still.
For me to drop the requisite 10 bucks on a Brit mag like Mojo takes some potent bait. Not even Wire measures up much these days. Throw in the atrocious cover subject--Amy Winehouse--and it's pretty obvious that this worm came wrapped around tiger shrimp.
It's the "best of" year-end issue, which means their top 5 albums looks like everyone else's in the music media: In Rainbows, Neon Bible, Magic, Favourite Worst Nightmare and Sound of Silver. (Well, four of them anyway; only the English really truly give a shit about Arctic Monkeys, like they're a last surviving male heir.)
Did the Arcade Fire album increase sales for the John Kennedy Toole novel? No? Well, off to the cellar with it, then.
Okay, so why in hell's name did I buy this bound-to-gag issue? The answer is contained within a section spread across several pages, "The Best Thing I've Heard All Year", wherein Mojo-anointed luminaries give brief blurb in boost to the music that made them giddy. It's an amusing insight into whom the English press finds "relevant" to their readership--Arctic Monkeys, Kings of Leon, James Taylor, Johnny effing Marr, the somehow-alive Shaun Ryder, Kim Gordon. Wait...the Kim Gordon, Sonic Youth-er supreme, the greatest woman on Earth not named Virginia? Mojo actually cares what this visionary artist thinks? Set my phaser to stunned. Seriously, Polly Jean Harvey couldn't be reached in time?
"Can I say Thurston's record? No? Okay, I also really loved Charalambides' Likeness." Aw, I love me some Kim G.
As for SI, well...nice pictures. Couple good articles, proving that they can do in-depth writing far better than ESPN Magazine anyday. I wish they'd get rid of Peter King, though, so readers can be spared his hack-style of writing and he can marry Brett Favre without hearing protests of "conflict of interest".
The two books pictured are Notorious C.O.P. by Derrick Parker and Love is a Mixtape by Rob Sheffield. I was able to finish both over the weekend, a testament to both my speed-reading abilities and the easily-digestible styles of both authors.
Parker's tome is a fascinating look at the career of the former detective who spearheaded the NYPD's so-called "Hip Hop Police", keeping tabs on the sordid past and present of numerous rap stars. The bulk of the text examines the infamous trio of murders that stain the genre to this day: Tupac Shakur in 1996, Notorious B.I.G. in 1997, and Jam Master Jay in 2002. His prose is unglamorous even as he's describing the gaudy, greedy world of the hip hop superstar, much less the impoverished boroughs ravaged by crack cocaine in the 1980s. Using inside info and instinct, he confidently offers the names of triggermen in the Tupac and JMJ cases.
Love is a Mixtape is one I had to be sold on by Internet reviews. (Yeah, those actually work sometimes.) It's been out for months, and I originally wrote it off as some barely-necessary extension of Sheffield's Rolling Stone column. Turns out, it's a cleverly-constructed, heart-rending true story of love found, reveled in, and suddenly lost. The love shared between two people, for each other and for music, is the raison d'etre for this book. I knew the sad twist already even without spoiler-free reviews (I won't ruin it for you here), but in this thoughtful context, it now seems less unfortunate than actually unfair. Sheffield's writing vibrates on the page even when its dealing with the emotional dregs and lees of life.
(That said, I still haven't entirely forgiven dude for that review in Details where he gave Washing Machine a 4 out of 10. That had him on my Top 5 Shithead Critics list for a few years. I think he dropped off the very same year I renamed it the Brent DiCrescenzo Award for Outstanding Ineptitude in the Field of Music Journalism.)
Would it be me if I didn't buy something Peanuts?
Unbelievable; I bought the Peanuts Christmas Uno set a month ago after sleeping on the Great Pumpkin set. What do you know, Borders brought them back out, and I snatched one up.
Yes, I collect Snoopy items, but I am not so tight-assed about the whole thing that I worry about having every little thing I buy remain in its original packaging. If I buy Peanuts Uno, or Monopoly, or Hungry Hungry Hippos, I'm damn sure gonna open it up and have fun. What joy would I feel taking my Uno case and sticking it behind a glass case?
Best card? I'm partial to the Skip and 3 cards, especially the googly eyes on the latter.
Throw in the Redskins forgetting to control their own destiny (worst...cliche...ever) against the Seahawks, and this was a class weekend.
Peanuts Snoopy hip hop police Mojo Rob Sheffield Hagerstown
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