white as a cotton cloud, silence, sea, and sky innocent as the child, always asking why i can take you there, i can show you I can take you there, i'll be there gently catching you as you fall hearing you when you call, smiling as we climb ... smiling, crocodiling?

Recommendation of the day: The Chameleons, October 6 at the Middle East. Borne out of Manchester in the early 80's, the Chameleons produced three wonderful albums of intricate guitar pop with moody gothic overtones, climaxing with a brilliant but final e.p. in 1987 after the death of their manager. They reunited with the turn of the millenium, playing concerts celebrating their previous glory as well as showcasing several albums worth of new material. I saw them in San Francisco two years ago, nervous as always at the prospect of seeing a beloved band's "reunion tour" ruin their previous highs (I think the only band I've seen avoid this trap was Bauhaus). However, they are still fantastic songwriters with a powerful live act. Check it out.

As a direct consequence of my rampant mp3ing last weekend, I spent last night reshelving the 200 or so CDs that I had pulled out. During this process, I had the TV chattering away in the background. The new Fox series Fastlane came on, and being curious I sat down to check it out.

Big mistake. Is it worth watching a show when you've noticed five goofs in the first 30 seconds? Acting: terrible. Plot: old and cliched. Casting the idiot jock boyfriend from Can't Hardly Wait as the lead badass undercover cop was probably not such a great idea. Bill Bellamy doesn't do much to give it street cred either. Perhaps to make up for its glaring lack of content, the show included a soundtrack featuring Depeche Mode and Folk Implosion. Didn't help.

gimme danger, little stranger, and i'll give you a piece
gimme danger, little stranger, and i'll heal your disease
there's nothing in my dreams, just some ugly memories
kiss me like the ocean breeze

Been feeling silly and nostalgic lately, hence the last two posts. I spent most of my weekend ripping mp3's from my CD collection. I've got about 10 GB (130 hours) of them on my laptop now, which is saying something since it only has a 20 GB hard drive. So I guess the hours spent converting Camouflage, Tones On Tail, and the Manic Street Preachers got to me, enough to get me quoting Ferris Bueller's Day Off and New Order's "World In Motion", I suppose.

Back to my recent reading, I finished Please Kill Me a few weeks ago. Very interesting book. I was pleased that it began with the real roots of punk, in the Velvet Underground and The Stooges, rather than trying to sell us on how The Ramones or the Sex Pistols invented the whole thing. What did I learn from this book? Well, let's see ... (1) according the American viewpoint, not only were the Sex Pistols a bunch of drunken morons, Malcolm McClaren essentially stole punk from the NY underground, (2) depending on the evening, Iggy Pop was a brilliant performer or a binging incoherent junkie, and (3) Dee Dee Ramone had perhaps the most self-destructive taste in women ever. Being an oral history, the book can claim to be effectively unbiased as it presents a number of conflicting viewpoints. Of course, editing and juxtaposition can easily skew sentiment, but the challenge to the reader is to piece together what really happened from these scattered recollections. Particularly interesting to me was the bitterness of the NY crowd towards the commercialization of punk by the British. The sentiment portrayed in the book is that punk originated in the U.S. and was coopted by the London scene through Malcolm McClaren (who managed the New York Dolls in the mid-70's). The degree of truth in this claim is up for debate (interestingly, Punk magazine was started in NYC in the four years before the British punk explosion in 1976-77).

The book encouraged me to check out Television, who I'm listening to at the moment ... very cool. At the same time, it didn't endear me at all to Jim Carroll, Patti Smith, or Debbie Harry, who I wasn't too keen on to begin with. It also confirmed that Lou Reed was/is the scene's biggest asshole, but I knew that already and it doesn't change my appreciation of the Velvet Underground. If nothing else, the book contains hundreds of amusing anecdotes concerning the drunken and drugged antics of musicians from 1967-1980. Anyone interested in laughing, or better yet wonderful independent music during that period, should definitely check it out.

I watched Piñero last night, about the late Puerto Rican poet and playwright Miguel Piñero. Pretty good movie (at the very least it showcased the beautiful Benjamin Bratt); definitely had some good poetry readings. It's constructed in a very chaotic manner, perhaps reflecting the chaotic life of the man, a successful artist while at the same time a petty criminal and heroin addict. This morning I was scanning my bookshelves for a new novel to read on the train (I just finished Please Kill Me, an excellent oral history of punk rock, focusing on its roots in the New York underground from 1967 to 1980 ... more on that soon). My eyes came across Jack Kerouac's Desolation Angels, which I've attempted before but never completed. Inspired by the stream-of-consciousness style of Piñero, I pulled it out and headed off to catch the T.

Once at the T stop at Harvard Ave., I pulled out the book to begin reading and out falls a photograph I had been using as a bookmark while previously reading the book. It's of me wearing a green army parka with a fur hood and my first Chelsea jersey, standing in front of my old apartment building on Howe St. in Oakland. I've got my army backpack on so I probably had just come back from Berkeley. All these memories come rushing back, of putting on the jersey to meet up with Michael to go watch football at a pub, of going to classes at Berkeley wearing that backpack, of setting up my first Playstation in that apartment. Even the Adidas shoes I was wearing got me remembering things.

Then on the train, someone near me was wearing the same aftershave that Veronica's stepdad wears, and I started thinking about spending a week with Veronica's family in Iowa after I passed my qualifying exam ... lazy days concluded by Alan and I polishing off a few bottles of wine over dinner.

i've never felt so good, i've never felt so strong
nothing can stop us now

Friday's Le Tigre show at the Roxy wasn't quite the mesmerizing frenzy that the previous night's Liars show was, but it was a good performance nonetheless. Worlds better than when I saw them play at Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco in 2000, where they looked totally incompetent. I loved their first album, but it's worn off a bit for me since I first heard it. Or maybe the whole electro-dance-punk thing is wearing a bit thin for me. Who knows. There was a group of transsexuals protesting Le Tigre's supposed support of anti-transsexual legislation, or lobbying, or something. Very strange, because everything I know about Kathleen Hanna leads me to believe she is outspokenly pro-trans. Probably a vitriolic response to an innocuous comment. I just don't understand these reactionary politics. In Kathleen Hanna's book that probably makes me the enemy. Whatever.

every brother is a star, every sister is a star

kick out the jams, motherfuckers

New York was drizzly, but Veronica and I hoofed it about and saw quite a bit. Did some shopping in Soho, went up the Empire State Building, had a fantastic dinner at a Mexican place in the Village, had a nice lunch at Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown (thanks to Clement and Julie), saw the thought-provoking, now-empty World Trade Center, and cruised around Harlem because I couldn't find a "comfortable" place to park while Veronica popped into Lane Bryant (that part wasn't planned). We hit Providence on the way back Sunday to see Rob and Roo's new place, which is really fab. Monday was a lazy day around the house, watching the beantown rain fall.

Last night i had a dream about you ... in this dream, I'm dancing right beside you. And it looked like everyone was having fun, the kind of feeling i waited so long for. Don't stop, come a little closer. As we jam, the rhythm gets stronger. There's nothing wrong with just a little little fun ... we were dancing all night long.

The time is right to put my arms around you. You feel it right, you wrap arms around too. But suddenly i feel the shining sun, before i know it this dream is all gone. Oh, i don't know what to do about this dream and you ... i wish this dream comes true.