Monday, December 29, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
We've been bad at updating this thing...
I blame it on finals, holidays and pre-European departure anxieties. But I can't wait to see you guys for Winter Break! Bye for now...
Friday, November 14, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
So I was writing an email to Migs about this, and realized it couldn't not show this to you. It's long, excuse me. But fucked up. Enjoy:
So. After class on Thursday we were told we'd be going to the London immigration museum as part of this London: City of Nations course. We take the tube over to Brick Lane, the old indian/hipster neighborhood. We go down this side street that you could only read about in Dickens-- paint peeling off doors and walls, windows boarded up, a few crackheads sleeping in the street. (I'm sure they were crackheads because they actually had the white-lined lips a la that Dave Chapelle sketch, and were jittery as fuck.) We get to the address of the museum, and it's unmarked, except for a piece of cardboard inscribed with the vague entreaty "Please Ring." My program director rings the doorbell, and waits for a few seconds. Silence. More silence. All of a sudden, I hear one lock click open, then another. But the doorkeeper can't figure out the third lock. So, we listen in anxious anticipation, awaiting this person's probable failure to open a door. An Indian woman finally pokes her head out the tiny crack shes made for herself in the door. "Who are you?" "With University of Chicago, sorry we're early for the first time."
"Yes. You are early. You are going to have to wait across the street."
"What? why across the street?"
"Sir, please tell your group to wait across the street."
So we gather on the other side of the street and stand there impatiently. Finally, a different English lady comes out and gathers us round. "Good afternoon, everyone, I'm the chair of the immigration museum. That means I'm the boss. I'm also the chair of the volunteers, because this museum is run entirely by volunteers of all different colors and religions. We have christians, hindi, buddhists, muslims, and a token pagan and jew." She waits to let it sink in. A chuckle here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Overall, not knowing how to deal with this. "As you've probably guessed by now, London is a city made up of people of many different ages." it's around here that I said fuck it and started to zone out, thinking more about the beers I had had only an hour before. (oh yes, I forgot to mention there was a one hour break between class and the museum, so my friends and I went to a pub to adequately prepare.)
We finally begin to make our way into the museum, again waiting for the Indian lady to unsuccessfully open this door. After a good wait, she got it open again, and we all proceeded in. Very slowly. For you see, they want you to sign the guest book. Fair enough. But on the way this causes a massive bottleneck. I was left at the back of the group with my TA. She was fidgeting impatiently, "what the hell's the holdup?" Another kid (douchebag kid A), explains "they're MAKING us sign the guestbook." The tour leader, who gave us the previous speech, materializes beside him instantly, and yells accusingly (I think that's a word...) "Is there ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT?" "No, maam, just explaining to her, that's all."
"Well, this wouldn't take so long if Americans taught their children to use fountain pens." [Ugh. Seriously.]
As we enter the "museum", we walk into a large atrium-like room, with a disintegrating ark at the other side. Apparently the building used to be a synagogue in the mid-Victorian years until World War II-ish. The walls were a pale yellow (that looked as if they were painted to resemble that.), as the paint on the Ark and bimma were actually chipping off. Right as I walk in, there's a suitcase lined with mirrors. On one side of the bottom of the suitcase are a bunch of words written backwards. I, in my drunken state, decide to best myself and figure out what it says without looking in the mirrors. I get "Everyone is an immigrant--" All of a sudden, this little elven man, with slumped posture and his left eye open more than his right, grabs my shoulder. "Sir, why don't you stand back?" No, thanks, I'm fine here, I respond. "No, sir, stand back." I'm fine, I say. There's no traffic behind me, as I kept up the rear. He pulls me back (literally pulls me) so I can see the writing in the mirror). "Everyone is an immigrat. We are all descended from immigrants, all you have to do is STAND BACK," he recites to me, emphasizing stand back, looking back, expecting some weird sense of gratification. Not one yard away is a wall with the phrase "Listen to the building" graffitied on it in many different languages. I stand back, finally, and say "Listen to the building?" The man, still at my side. "Yes, LISTEN to the building" and waves his arm in a grandiose motion above, settling on a suitcase. I look where he's pointing and walk over there. I'm alone now, and am just standing around, admiring the old hebrew symbols and stuff. My friend comes by and we start talking about how creepy this is. The same elven man comes behind me. "Hey guys, what're you talking about? Have you seen this yet? You should really pay attention. After all, we opened specially for you. NINE YEAR OLDS made this for you. Look at this." It was a suitcase filled with real potatoes, scrawled in red paint to explain the irish immigration in the 1840s.
"SAD."
"PAIN."
"FRIENDS ARE DIED."
"These nine year olds made this to help YOU understand immigration, and you're running around covorting all cynical about this place. Well, I'll have you know that the New York Times reviewed this place. They said it was GRAND! So you should appreciate it."
After he left us in palpable frustration, the original tour leader (the London is full of many different aged people lady) who proceeded to list to us the major immigration movements to London for the past three hundred years. For 20 minutes. She told us wonderful things, such as, did you know that the Huguenots who emigrated from France in the 18th century were not the first people to migrate because they were being persecuted for religious beliefs? I, for one, had no idea.
Then, we're taken downstairs. Which is a pure-concrete room. There are two tables, one with a tiny tv on it that says "Yiddish folk tale/Jews."She gathers us around and puts a tape in. These same 9 year olds made a video about a folk tale, in which a jewish guy who was getting yelled at--cut to: shot of five nine year olds screaming "jew! jew! jew!"--anyway, by the end of this we're all cracking up. The lady is fuming. "I don't understand why you're all laughing. You must not know how terrible it is to be called jew. To be persecuted, that is." Our TA explained to her that we were educated, reasonable people, and that many of us were jews. And that it was cute. Not that we were laughing at Jews. On the other bare table was a suitcase with a bunch of luggage tags on it, explaining the jewish immigration from russia.
"Russia has not much money left and they don't like me."
"Russians want to kill me."
Next, across a pipe of some sort, hitting my head on the concrete ceiling in the process, we're taken into another room, this one with a pile of crushed porcelain urinals in one corner of the room. [I wish I was embellishing that part. But yes. Truth.] There are a bunch of suitcases with pictures of little kids dressed in somalian garb, somehow explaining somalian immigration. The elven man approaches me, "Have you listened to the phones?" he points three or four phones on another suitcase. I pick it up and listen to a nine year old indian accent talking about somalia. I walk back, trying to leave, but the chairperson is blocking the door. So I make myself look busy. As this happens, she tries to convince my TA to fill out an "identity form". No thanks, she says, I'm a grad student. The chairperson is offended at this. "Excuse me," she says, "I went to grad school. I find you people terribly patronizing."
I'm sorry, my TA says, for whatever I did, but I feel really uncomfortable right now.
"Well, you don't need to be so terribly patronizing about everything. Little nine year olds made this exhibit for you, and we opened up just for you. The New York Times and the London Times loved us. Show some appreciation."
I'm sorry, my TA says, I didn't mean to be patronizing.
"Yes, well, you shouldn't take out your frustration on people who disagreed with you on a stupid war." [Seriously.]
Now my TA starts to cry in frustration and confusion and from being attacked.
After talking with her for another few minutes about not getting yelled at and how terrible this place was, we walked up stairs. There, the door was locked and pack of the kids in our program were trying very hard to figure out just how to unlock the unmoveable front door. The elven man, philip, walks to the door and menacingly shows them the key, before unlocking the door.
"Good day. Spread the word."
I hope I've done my part.
Sartre had obviously never been to 19 Princelet Street.
So. After class on Thursday we were told we'd be going to the London immigration museum as part of this London: City of Nations course. We take the tube over to Brick Lane, the old indian/hipster neighborhood. We go down this side street that you could only read about in Dickens-- paint peeling off doors and walls, windows boarded up, a few crackheads sleeping in the street. (I'm sure they were crackheads because they actually had the white-lined lips a la that Dave Chapelle sketch, and were jittery as fuck.) We get to the address of the museum, and it's unmarked, except for a piece of cardboard inscribed with the vague entreaty "Please Ring." My program director rings the doorbell, and waits for a few seconds. Silence. More silence. All of a sudden, I hear one lock click open, then another. But the doorkeeper can't figure out the third lock. So, we listen in anxious anticipation, awaiting this person's probable failure to open a door. An Indian woman finally pokes her head out the tiny crack shes made for herself in the door. "Who are you?" "With University of Chicago, sorry we're early for the first time."
"Yes. You are early. You are going to have to wait across the street."
"What? why across the street?"
"Sir, please tell your group to wait across the street."
So we gather on the other side of the street and stand there impatiently. Finally, a different English lady comes out and gathers us round. "Good afternoon, everyone, I'm the chair of the immigration museum. That means I'm the boss. I'm also the chair of the volunteers, because this museum is run entirely by volunteers of all different colors and religions. We have christians, hindi, buddhists, muslims, and a token pagan and jew." She waits to let it sink in. A chuckle here, an uncomfortable laugh there. Overall, not knowing how to deal with this. "As you've probably guessed by now, London is a city made up of people of many different ages." it's around here that I said fuck it and started to zone out, thinking more about the beers I had had only an hour before. (oh yes, I forgot to mention there was a one hour break between class and the museum, so my friends and I went to a pub to adequately prepare.)
We finally begin to make our way into the museum, again waiting for the Indian lady to unsuccessfully open this door. After a good wait, she got it open again, and we all proceeded in. Very slowly. For you see, they want you to sign the guest book. Fair enough. But on the way this causes a massive bottleneck. I was left at the back of the group with my TA. She was fidgeting impatiently, "what the hell's the holdup?" Another kid (douchebag kid A), explains "they're MAKING us sign the guestbook." The tour leader, who gave us the previous speech, materializes beside him instantly, and yells accusingly (I think that's a word...) "Is there ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT?" "No, maam, just explaining to her, that's all."
"Well, this wouldn't take so long if Americans taught their children to use fountain pens." [Ugh. Seriously.]
As we enter the "museum", we walk into a large atrium-like room, with a disintegrating ark at the other side. Apparently the building used to be a synagogue in the mid-Victorian years until World War II-ish. The walls were a pale yellow (that looked as if they were painted to resemble that.), as the paint on the Ark and bimma were actually chipping off. Right as I walk in, there's a suitcase lined with mirrors. On one side of the bottom of the suitcase are a bunch of words written backwards. I, in my drunken state, decide to best myself and figure out what it says without looking in the mirrors. I get "Everyone is an immigrant--" All of a sudden, this little elven man, with slumped posture and his left eye open more than his right, grabs my shoulder. "Sir, why don't you stand back?" No, thanks, I'm fine here, I respond. "No, sir, stand back." I'm fine, I say. There's no traffic behind me, as I kept up the rear. He pulls me back (literally pulls me) so I can see the writing in the mirror). "Everyone is an immigrat. We are all descended from immigrants, all you have to do is STAND BACK," he recites to me, emphasizing stand back, looking back, expecting some weird sense of gratification. Not one yard away is a wall with the phrase "Listen to the building" graffitied on it in many different languages. I stand back, finally, and say "Listen to the building?" The man, still at my side. "Yes, LISTEN to the building" and waves his arm in a grandiose motion above, settling on a suitcase. I look where he's pointing and walk over there. I'm alone now, and am just standing around, admiring the old hebrew symbols and stuff. My friend comes by and we start talking about how creepy this is. The same elven man comes behind me. "Hey guys, what're you talking about? Have you seen this yet? You should really pay attention. After all, we opened specially for you. NINE YEAR OLDS made this for you. Look at this." It was a suitcase filled with real potatoes, scrawled in red paint to explain the irish immigration in the 1840s.
"SAD."
"PAIN."
"FRIENDS ARE DIED."
"These nine year olds made this to help YOU understand immigration, and you're running around covorting all cynical about this place. Well, I'll have you know that the New York Times reviewed this place. They said it was GRAND! So you should appreciate it."
After he left us in palpable frustration, the original tour leader (the London is full of many different aged people lady) who proceeded to list to us the major immigration movements to London for the past three hundred years. For 20 minutes. She told us wonderful things, such as, did you know that the Huguenots who emigrated from France in the 18th century were not the first people to migrate because they were being persecuted for religious beliefs? I, for one, had no idea.
Then, we're taken downstairs. Which is a pure-concrete room. There are two tables, one with a tiny tv on it that says "Yiddish folk tale/Jews."She gathers us around and puts a tape in. These same 9 year olds made a video about a folk tale, in which a jewish guy who was getting yelled at--cut to: shot of five nine year olds screaming "jew! jew! jew!"--anyway, by the end of this we're all cracking up. The lady is fuming. "I don't understand why you're all laughing. You must not know how terrible it is to be called jew. To be persecuted, that is." Our TA explained to her that we were educated, reasonable people, and that many of us were jews. And that it was cute. Not that we were laughing at Jews. On the other bare table was a suitcase with a bunch of luggage tags on it, explaining the jewish immigration from russia.
"Russia has not much money left and they don't like me."
"Russians want to kill me."
Next, across a pipe of some sort, hitting my head on the concrete ceiling in the process, we're taken into another room, this one with a pile of crushed porcelain urinals in one corner of the room. [I wish I was embellishing that part. But yes. Truth.] There are a bunch of suitcases with pictures of little kids dressed in somalian garb, somehow explaining somalian immigration. The elven man approaches me, "Have you listened to the phones?" he points three or four phones on another suitcase. I pick it up and listen to a nine year old indian accent talking about somalia. I walk back, trying to leave, but the chairperson is blocking the door. So I make myself look busy. As this happens, she tries to convince my TA to fill out an "identity form". No thanks, she says, I'm a grad student. The chairperson is offended at this. "Excuse me," she says, "I went to grad school. I find you people terribly patronizing."
I'm sorry, my TA says, for whatever I did, but I feel really uncomfortable right now.
"Well, you don't need to be so terribly patronizing about everything. Little nine year olds made this exhibit for you, and we opened up just for you. The New York Times and the London Times loved us. Show some appreciation."
I'm sorry, my TA says, I didn't mean to be patronizing.
"Yes, well, you shouldn't take out your frustration on people who disagreed with you on a stupid war." [Seriously.]
Now my TA starts to cry in frustration and confusion and from being attacked.
After talking with her for another few minutes about not getting yelled at and how terrible this place was, we walked up stairs. There, the door was locked and pack of the kids in our program were trying very hard to figure out just how to unlock the unmoveable front door. The elven man, philip, walks to the door and menacingly shows them the key, before unlocking the door.
"Good day. Spread the word."
I hope I've done my part.
Sartre had obviously never been to 19 Princelet Street.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Been feeling kind of blue lately...
...And when that happens, I like to watch clips from Dali's "Destino."
Enjoy.
Enjoy.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
collage
francisca pageo is one of my favorite collage artists i've discovered on the internet. her minimalism is really effective and inspiring to me. you can check out more of her work and an interview by her at the notpaper blog.
i was also interviewed at this blog. you can check that baby over here.
and so long, los angeles. i never really liked you anyway.
tomorrow i move north.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Stumbled upon some great art...
Browsing LACMA the other day, I stumbled upon "Phantom Sightings: Art after the Chicano Movement."
This one artist really struck a chord with me. Her name's Shizu Saldamando--she's half Hispanic, half Japanese, and you can see the racial ambiguity of her subjects in her art. The website's pictures don't really do the paintings any justice, but still check it out.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
New obsession
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I've been doing a lot of reading on this guy, Yue Minjun. All his paintings are self-portraits, and I think the pieces really speak for themselves. Check him out...I'm pretty hooked.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Since Saturday I've been smoking like a choo choo train and have been walking alone about as comfortably as a bear walking into cabin during an NRA meeting. These metaphors seem apt.
It's such a weird feeling. I can't really describe it, the violation I feel (which is not really a big violation, as violations go). I don't know how to write it down. I try, but all I can come up with are absurd similes that have no relevance.
This seems like an LJ. Sorry. I don't like posting on my lj. You guys are the only people I'd want to read it, anyway, except those who aren't on the blog in our group, and maybe vivian hecht.
It's such a weird feeling. I can't really describe it, the violation I feel (which is not really a big violation, as violations go). I don't know how to write it down. I try, but all I can come up with are absurd similes that have no relevance.
This seems like an LJ. Sorry. I don't like posting on my lj. You guys are the only people I'd want to read it, anyway, except those who aren't on the blog in our group, and maybe vivian hecht.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Why is poundcake always frozen?
I drank some "in vitro" (a.k.a "Enviga") about an hour ago and I think it might be burning a hole in my stomach right now. I tried to counteract it with some really amazing Sara Lee poundcake, but I'm not sure it's working.
In other news, I have no other news. The weeks are drolling along until this quarter ends--I was just compelled to update and express my condolences to Babriel after his unfortunate Saturday night :(
Feel better Gabey Baby, especially since HBO is playing Flight of the Conchords re-runs again!
In other news, I have no other news. The weeks are drolling along until this quarter ends--I was just compelled to update and express my condolences to Babriel after his unfortunate Saturday night :(
Feel better Gabey Baby, especially since HBO is playing Flight of the Conchords re-runs again!
Saturday, May 17, 2008
My face hurts
After an extraordinarily strange friday night, I had an extremely awful saturday. I got mugged. I recommend you all avoid this. It is not a very good way to spend one's night.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
happy mother's day
that's my mother with some weird unknown child. although it could be here sister. i don't know. it's scary because it might as well be me in that photo.
send major hugs to your mothers, babe and chung. i like them both a lot.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
So I just finished my detective fiction parody story, which is my midterm for my detective fiction class, entitled "The Misadventures of Barnaby P Thunder: The Case of the Broken Egghead." I'd love for you guys to read it, and tell me your thoughts. I don't want to post it directly, as my teacher could google search and end up here. Would you like it? I love it, my pretty little creation.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
humber humbert
well, here is my foot. unwashed, wounded and with a gaping vagina hanging out on the left.
Monday, April 28, 2008
UCSB Column...
It didn't really turn out the way I wanted it to, with the illustration and my editor making me excessive inches to the story, but at least Michelle's band gets a shout-out. Read it.
And, sorry Gabe, I didn't see Islands - midterm tomorrow. Boo.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I found the most amazing music today. It's classical. Context:
Today in Tolkien class we were talking about Tolkien's creation myth. In Genesis, God creates by speaking. Fiat. In Tolkien's myth, the Ainulindalë, God creates through music. He raises his hand and a heavenly chorus begins, and the little sub-deities that he created see the vision of the Earth and then create it from the Big God (Ilùvatar)'s vision. My prof then said, these are the kinds of things I think would have influenced Tolkien.
1. Beethoven's 9th. Does anything really need to be said about it?
2. This:
Honestly, it's so good. It also resembles Hatikva a lot. But its amazing and grandiose and beautiful. Check it out.
So, today after class I downloaded a lot of classical music. After my last class of the week today at 4:30, I couldn't nap so I decided to drink. So I drank a lot of rum and beer (which is not K for P) and listened to Beethoven's 9th and wrote. It was SO GREAT. DO it.
Also, i hope you went to see Islands at UCLA tonight Lina.
Today in Tolkien class we were talking about Tolkien's creation myth. In Genesis, God creates by speaking. Fiat. In Tolkien's myth, the Ainulindalë, God creates through music. He raises his hand and a heavenly chorus begins, and the little sub-deities that he created see the vision of the Earth and then create it from the Big God (Ilùvatar)'s vision. My prof then said, these are the kinds of things I think would have influenced Tolkien.
1. Beethoven's 9th. Does anything really need to be said about it?
2. This:
Honestly, it's so good. It also resembles Hatikva a lot. But its amazing and grandiose and beautiful. Check it out.
So, today after class I downloaded a lot of classical music. After my last class of the week today at 4:30, I couldn't nap so I decided to drink. So I drank a lot of rum and beer (which is not K for P) and listened to Beethoven's 9th and wrote. It was SO GREAT. DO it.
Also, i hope you went to see Islands at UCLA tonight Lina.
Monday, April 21, 2008
packed weekend
This was quite the weekend. On Thursday I saw Destroyer. Dan Bejar has the most ridiculous hair I've ever seen ever. It was a fun show. They played stuff mostly off of Trouble in Dreams which, in my opinion, is not a great album. What made it only a good show instead of a great show was the atmosphere. It was in a venue called Logan Square Auditorium, which used to be a ballroom. The walls are painted pink and there are all these chandeliers everywhere. While this atmosphere is great for someone like Jens Lekman (who fit in perfectly), I think Destroyer would be better suited to a dank, dark, smokey room. It was fun. They played Rubies, which was amazing. Amazing doesn't begin to describe it. Also, the band showed an incredible cohesion, something I never would've expected because you never hear anything about anyone other than Bejar. They were all laughing and joking around and having a great time. It was fun.
Tonight (4.20) I saw Okkervil River and the New Pornographers. Okkervil River has got to be one of the best live bands I've ever seen. Seriously. Unbelievable stage presence that totally brings new energy and meaning to every song they played. (except Girl In Port, I dont like that song.) They were so unbelievable, in fact, that my friends and I decided to skip out on the New Pornos, as they range snoozers to Terry Schiavo-impersonators in their live performances. We didn't want to have the experience and buzz dulled by a boring AC Newman sans Neko or Dan.
I had coffee earlier today with a girl who I asked out last year when she had a boyfriend. They broke up late last quarter. It wasn't so bad, in fact, she told me to come to a play she's in. Then, however, when we were leaving, she kinda just ran off and said "well, I'll see you...a lot next year." She was late for rehearsal, to be fair. She's also going to be living right above me next year, which may complicate things.
Fette--I hope your show went awesome, and you sufficiently wooed Elf Power.
heart,
babriel.
ps don't ever write a paper after a manischewitz-laden seder. Un-good things ensue.
Tonight (4.20) I saw Okkervil River and the New Pornographers. Okkervil River has got to be one of the best live bands I've ever seen. Seriously. Unbelievable stage presence that totally brings new energy and meaning to every song they played. (except Girl In Port, I dont like that song.) They were so unbelievable, in fact, that my friends and I decided to skip out on the New Pornos, as they range snoozers to Terry Schiavo-impersonators in their live performances. We didn't want to have the experience and buzz dulled by a boring AC Newman sans Neko or Dan.
I had coffee earlier today with a girl who I asked out last year when she had a boyfriend. They broke up late last quarter. It wasn't so bad, in fact, she told me to come to a play she's in. Then, however, when we were leaving, she kinda just ran off and said "well, I'll see you...a lot next year." She was late for rehearsal, to be fair. She's also going to be living right above me next year, which may complicate things.
Fette--I hope your show went awesome, and you sufficiently wooed Elf Power.
heart,
babriel.
ps don't ever write a paper after a manischewitz-laden seder. Un-good things ensue.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
David Herman Dune
Apparently his full name is David Herman Dune. It was a small show, but nonetheless completely wonderful. He dances around on his tippy-toes when he plays, and he even did a solo rendition of "I Wish That I Could See You Soon."
And now for the sweet pics...
Monday, April 14, 2008
For those lonely nights-
The weather has been absolutely gorgeous, and thus I have been too distracted to update the blog. I shall redeem myself later after I take some sweet pics. For now, appreciate this gem of an article.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
slumber party at the buttery mansion
Slumber Party at the Buttery Mansion (our girl band) is playing with Elf Power and Franklin for Short on April 20th in Santa Barbara.
http://www.myspace.com/girlbandsb
also, crew, lets recruit michelle u., jackson, rob and chloe and whoever else. let's get transcontinental and let's mostly post photos. that's my vote, at least. i veto livejournal posts like gabe's. that's for livejournal, babe.
http://www.myspace.com/girlbandsb
also, crew, lets recruit michelle u., jackson, rob and chloe and whoever else. let's get transcontinental and let's mostly post photos. that's my vote, at least. i veto livejournal posts like gabe's. that's for livejournal, babe.
You people are so picky.
FINE. I am now in search of fette-worthy pics to post to this blog. Until then, we have Kimchi in outerspace.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
First post
Apparently, it's really hard to keep in touch with me since my departure from Facebook. Alas, Michelle (fette?) has set up this lovely blog.
My latest obsession is going to random concerts and being pleasantly surprised with the outcome - a kind of forced exposure to music culture if you will. Jens Lekman two weeks ago, Ra Ra Riot last weekend, and Herman Dune next Wednesday.
Unfortunately, I didn't manage to bring my camera along for the past two shows, but I'll salvage this entry by posting some old pictures of Arcade Fire - LCD Soundsystem at the Hollywood Bowl last September. (Hey, at least it's not eye-booger Babycat).
babycat
i thought it would be prudent for the premier posting of the "we are in vitro" blog to feature a photo of babycat.
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