tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49160249094821666612024-03-14T11:19:40.745-07:00Some Reservationswith Avi DavisAvihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01669354925433840132noreply@blogger.comBlogger83125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-79230482850411534952010-04-12T15:17:00.000-07:002010-04-12T15:17:32.310-07:00Moved to Another Sphere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArKxcDQ_Ea6u2wNzgXJfVUOc-SuJ8snqlQ38k7HhgWhk-E7fF6cwfxtJmXieh52nvxWPOP5zSnv_1fq58aMCaPVXG6gJCB12Agui3oZZNcTuv8_GvpQOE4NYEIagAf-VzgLuD8thKJSev/s1600/SolarEclipseDiagram-1654.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArKxcDQ_Ea6u2wNzgXJfVUOc-SuJ8snqlQ38k7HhgWhk-E7fF6cwfxtJmXieh52nvxWPOP5zSnv_1fq58aMCaPVXG6gJCB12Agui3oZZNcTuv8_GvpQOE4NYEIagAf-VzgLuD8thKJSev/s320/SolarEclipseDiagram-1654.gif" /></a></div>Don't expect anything more here.<br />
Go <a href="http://shredsandclippings.blogspot.com/">here</a> instead.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-32763018392157127392010-02-04T17:25:00.000-08:002010-02-04T18:05:18.039-08:00All the Women I Have Ever Loved<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLl1tzEN2gV3TFOf3EgxyHj-XhqYcS2Aqc80yzg2ux4drR_WU1kJrxgqzO6C4Utldne8jFrZGmNOJD0vmoaPOPysaibcNGtdGJJ74ZYdX0zPUKM6wZu7CdBhO5BSW_TtEVW5CcuWapqbaB/s1600-h/renoir+with+red+hat+cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLl1tzEN2gV3TFOf3EgxyHj-XhqYcS2Aqc80yzg2ux4drR_WU1kJrxgqzO6C4Utldne8jFrZGmNOJD0vmoaPOPysaibcNGtdGJJ74ZYdX0zPUKM6wZu7CdBhO5BSW_TtEVW5CcuWapqbaB/s200/renoir+with+red+hat+cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434571853879419586" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHjzmFeYn_b1qCrSQ-HMoqxej0Rv1OA8Onn8mBL-cyQ7uR4CKHGrqxpc421HfLfcBX21OXj4Xmlbxw3bB4X0BYyOrVhyphenhyphenO9EJ5hx2DU19rcUhmFUioJ5jeXfYhdLwhBrRkee9RiC5JM4xG/s1600-h/leonardo-da-vinci_head-of-a-young-woman-with-tousled-hair-or,-leda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdHjzmFeYn_b1qCrSQ-HMoqxej0Rv1OA8Onn8mBL-cyQ7uR4CKHGrqxpc421HfLfcBX21OXj4Xmlbxw3bB4X0BYyOrVhyphenhyphenO9EJ5hx2DU19rcUhmFUioJ5jeXfYhdLwhBrRkee9RiC5JM4xG/s200/leonardo-da-vinci_head-of-a-young-woman-with-tousled-hair-or,-leda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434569258040193778" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kiZHd-ZkHNFXpdJSAnWN3DMKzE6k32pmXmVFl8yGEz3mZia5k6O_Ia5BPyKxh36JpPNbwLTwjrRhQLnb3BZviDAf4GwgLITMAw50mZQ15f7H_yOVBPyAg0JIXiRWz1JEz3VXyyAbF3_6/s1600-h/matisse+madame+madras+cropped.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 179px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kiZHd-ZkHNFXpdJSAnWN3DMKzE6k32pmXmVFl8yGEz3mZia5k6O_Ia5BPyKxh36JpPNbwLTwjrRhQLnb3BZviDAf4GwgLITMAw50mZQ15f7H_yOVBPyAg0JIXiRWz1JEz3VXyyAbF3_6/s200/matisse+madame+madras+cropped.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434573047321406562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">A photographer I know</span> sent me the link to a gallery I had never heard of before, but I never got past the home page—<a href="http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/saatchi_online_index.htm">the video</a> of one painted woman melting into another, from Da Vinci's to Renoir's to Matisse's, was too enthralling and disturbing to continue. It may be intended as a lesson in art history but I think it says more about the constancy of our desires.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-35579291976229082292010-01-30T11:05:00.001-08:002010-01-30T11:07:06.566-08:00The Horrors of Bushwick<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygh4U54k3DmOzYiAs3_DKD4J4zzU8YH8AvPMmJ2Roc-Nsmhg_yoyiUPMvSykLkn6hxgJMZmZXvAvvbXAOHTUZ4uzXWaB6GM3uoHVIXdrf0s1jdsEMMuZhfkWBHyyQvZzC1st226OaOC37/s1600-h/face+on+wood+%28Bushwick%29.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgygh4U54k3DmOzYiAs3_DKD4J4zzU8YH8AvPMmJ2Roc-Nsmhg_yoyiUPMvSykLkn6hxgJMZmZXvAvvbXAOHTUZ4uzXWaB6GM3uoHVIXdrf0s1jdsEMMuZhfkWBHyyQvZzC1st226OaOC37/s320/face+on+wood+%28Bushwick%29.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432611327435772146" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Stewart St., Brooklyn.</div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-50181346548841638482009-12-30T18:44:00.000-08:002009-12-30T20:20:20.984-08:00The Fruits of the Earth<span style="font-size:180%;">If you're interested in organic farming</span>, the bohemian cachet of unpaid labor, rattlesnake cuisine, local meat, fresh vegetables, hippies, hillbillies, or beagles—or just in what I did this summer, read <a href="http://nplusonemag.com/organic-farming"><span style="font-weight: bold;">my piece on the </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">n+1</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> website</span></a>.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jMaOMoi5vZsn3HVI4ghcNgp04aRAKrZC2GL4mX_g-RnhDd73QK5-2doVYym3snnnd4NJjB72PCm9X2tM4Fz2Ce3PzCudjEUxgVDBN51P4cX8ERyN528vQ8UPelUnHHYJtGbaQHrRGp_D/s1600-h/farm+pic+for+blog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8jMaOMoi5vZsn3HVI4ghcNgp04aRAKrZC2GL4mX_g-RnhDd73QK5-2doVYym3snnnd4NJjB72PCm9X2tM4Fz2Ce3PzCudjEUxgVDBN51P4cX8ERyN528vQ8UPelUnHHYJtGbaQHrRGp_D/s320/farm+pic+for+blog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421250219553111346" border="0" /></a>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-3854304114368927772009-12-30T18:38:00.000-08:002010-01-03T18:55:10.340-08:00The Year in: Colorful Thrashing Sacks<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDZLgKiF-xFlotSkuPRxi6tNO-Cll-gCgMORrvkGgi24MfHG4sWfz_DjIp0j_f9A5aPj7RK4Z-Mi2WSjl4iebQiEWYS8ce6kcTsFeXfhCEhYlSxhl-HCaEtcQ8Dy4yj-aRoEjehZpf7Lo/s1600-h/pinatas+Austin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDZLgKiF-xFlotSkuPRxi6tNO-Cll-gCgMORrvkGgi24MfHG4sWfz_DjIp0j_f9A5aPj7RK4Z-Mi2WSjl4iebQiEWYS8ce6kcTsFeXfhCEhYlSxhl-HCaEtcQ8Dy4yj-aRoEjehZpf7Lo/s320/pinatas+Austin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422708950761813282" border="0" /></a>Austin, TX.<br /></div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-82973967880513353322009-12-30T18:01:00.001-08:002010-01-31T11:44:46.342-08:00The Year in: Cats I Dig<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4KfPT-QX_i2BTvtrj9ngNDtV_2CHLM30Q1szRGoQk-i6VJDlDSmdTfn7IxajtoDwawGikXapppx5nLcaIec9C83FvoNsZVv0g4484t0AGZMkFPhKMtxCxXvX3AEGJO44Syzezc7auZRf/s1600-h/mark+twain+and+kitten.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH4KfPT-QX_i2BTvtrj9ngNDtV_2CHLM30Q1szRGoQk-i6VJDlDSmdTfn7IxajtoDwawGikXapppx5nLcaIec9C83FvoNsZVv0g4484t0AGZMkFPhKMtxCxXvX3AEGJO44Syzezc7auZRf/s320/mark+twain+and+kitten.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432992150915532370" border="0" /></a>Mark Twain and cat.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DeXjxfcVra-8UWJDvCW0AR5xnO3MsbfauznNkK4fTgvGMq5G1FzoybIBhb5CPefcnMJt1E1IoVGH3XnQUqPLkyjagz_dobdddQFzs8FsLTSIYYXf3iDT37DrOf99TrC84niJ53c7pOkz/s1600-h/Henry_Cowell_Full+Resolution.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DeXjxfcVra-8UWJDvCW0AR5xnO3MsbfauznNkK4fTgvGMq5G1FzoybIBhb5CPefcnMJt1E1IoVGH3XnQUqPLkyjagz_dobdddQFzs8FsLTSIYYXf3iDT37DrOf99TrC84niJ53c7pOkz/s320/Henry_Cowell_Full+Resolution.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422761350181034642" border="0" /></a>Henry Cowell and cat.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRXXzVE4v1-j1JoJNEy-S9pqunZ9FEi_uAmzpamtkegnSwnXVLCNAoYYxHVzIrtFw33IEUXATxYjzNv9bttKlH1-qGm3LvZZkudjSlN7MtnAOiQIOO5xJbajJnUUZyeiB8NXtY5b7r4kl/s1600-h/vincent+price+with+cat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRXXzVE4v1-j1JoJNEy-S9pqunZ9FEi_uAmzpamtkegnSwnXVLCNAoYYxHVzIrtFw33IEUXATxYjzNv9bttKlH1-qGm3LvZZkudjSlN7MtnAOiQIOO5xJbajJnUUZyeiB8NXtY5b7r4kl/s320/vincent+price+with+cat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422761141282355746" border="0" /></a>Vincent Price and cat(s).<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEyDSio-ju2ndiIq9ewTT8n_uKuZtExOkhrkJu0AIgb89ZaOVhp4AHkSbawA35GmDm4xGGYO59Px32IwFB3kWLJjDq9bAEXrheggoHzyjzla6onrLMyP3Vr-wP7WZIJu63I_JpPKUiOmb/s1600-h/Marlon+Brando+cat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEyDSio-ju2ndiIq9ewTT8n_uKuZtExOkhrkJu0AIgb89ZaOVhp4AHkSbawA35GmDm4xGGYO59Px32IwFB3kWLJjDq9bAEXrheggoHzyjzla6onrLMyP3Vr-wP7WZIJu63I_JpPKUiOmb/s320/Marlon+Brando+cat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422760437478835122" border="0" /></a>Marlon Brando and cat.<br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUN0yQCDA1jcniwT0qvt8mZArA148hLoxWVXTumRsSqR2S44qrOnSdB_HboN5R1QkOxE74GaLlFOs18tyftqBPDIo0D1yEv9hEZfhYIndY_8fG7PcclnDeW0LLM7YQm1kvm2lBTSHF5PJ/s1600-h/Clark+Gable+cat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUN0yQCDA1jcniwT0qvt8mZArA148hLoxWVXTumRsSqR2S44qrOnSdB_HboN5R1QkOxE74GaLlFOs18tyftqBPDIo0D1yEv9hEZfhYIndY_8fG7PcclnDeW0LLM7YQm1kvm2lBTSHF5PJ/s320/Clark+Gable+cat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422760044757653842" border="0" /></a>Clark Gable and cat.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYez8meet32ByXJNGu0qjR5xCYPePhl9_A0IUhLf1S2Km-8aEpz07MsZfNkjkH7W577OWZfC76QTBlt7Bw3KJqoFyFFXUuh0qPeHJ7YmRys1UTGnigAFIfJ4-KBn3vTJINZaiwMWAV2gJ/s1600-h/Balthus-King+of+Cats.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYez8meet32ByXJNGu0qjR5xCYPePhl9_A0IUhLf1S2Km-8aEpz07MsZfNkjkH7W577OWZfC76QTBlt7Bw3KJqoFyFFXUuh0qPeHJ7YmRys1UTGnigAFIfJ4-KBn3vTJINZaiwMWAV2gJ/s320/Balthus-King+of+Cats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422759873416909538" border="0" /></a>Balthus and cat.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRx0Hh2DE1tv-xHH4IVPABGZNpuaC_kmPwkEmy0Zq4Y7blKWjHWZMy2acIfhJ54BW-OPl6AcBCR4kn0E0w30PPV4VjAudkEgP0K2lIWjXjLpbFOW6NV-NqAJvGYnmGrHppRLtiQ2kjdZYJ/s1600-h/Sadie+reads+Olson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRx0Hh2DE1tv-xHH4IVPABGZNpuaC_kmPwkEmy0Zq4Y7blKWjHWZMy2acIfhJ54BW-OPl6AcBCR4kn0E0w30PPV4VjAudkEgP0K2lIWjXjLpbFOW6NV-NqAJvGYnmGrHppRLtiQ2kjdZYJ/s320/Sadie+reads+Olson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422760889209478018" border="0" /></a>Charles Olson (printed) and cat.<br /></div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-52497987522117023812009-12-30T18:01:00.000-08:002009-12-30T20:30:38.441-08:00The Decade in: Rhyme<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhficmYFTzqltTiS1nFq7HZ2ZIQ9EnSIaGM2T-vrkEfyCLCQjqYXPGOswMqt9t1shNvmKDu4mEOGTvej8ogbmWZTmLgTbhiX-hFnkcXHoxxB4VeQD3SuNQy8vUDOql0b0pnN6HwEk76yneB/s1600-h/2010+glasses.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhficmYFTzqltTiS1nFq7HZ2ZIQ9EnSIaGM2T-vrkEfyCLCQjqYXPGOswMqt9t1shNvmKDu4mEOGTvej8ogbmWZTmLgTbhiX-hFnkcXHoxxB4VeQD3SuNQy8vUDOql0b0pnN6HwEk76yneB/s320/2010+glasses.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421252876474551410" border="0" /></a><br /><br />popped collar rolled dollar old shoes nu blues pink shirt striped skirt ray bans no tans japanese cats vampire bats vegetarian laundromat green sheen lean teen antique drum machine superstition attrition inhibition exhibition diorama melodrama hot fission prohibition cold war cold sore truck stop hip hop taxidermy tax attorney ritual pitbull pre-law coke jaw tight pants necromance straw hat beer fat yoga mat rich rat food stamp farm tramp bed bug man hug shag rug white thug swedish chair swedish hair swedish bed swedish head black prez red fez new pez some rezAvi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-80232239569843400902009-12-30T18:00:00.000-08:002010-01-03T19:19:35.891-08:00The Year in: Holy Rollers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyuDdhVlqxnhq7yUj0HuI2qlYBIMWcLQO04sFJB1bhYJA2jfbpyr31FI_uxKMKAZjjkb23XGi5h03VgBJOAeWXUo1_V2hyphenhyphenhn4RFjDWO1hhMRFar48J3Q5Sqyl2O1D5VZQEMIVh4I3PZo-/s1600-h/church+sign.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyuDdhVlqxnhq7yUj0HuI2qlYBIMWcLQO04sFJB1bhYJA2jfbpyr31FI_uxKMKAZjjkb23XGi5h03VgBJOAeWXUo1_V2hyphenhyphenhn4RFjDWO1hhMRFar48J3Q5Sqyl2O1D5VZQEMIVh4I3PZo-/s320/church+sign.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422718868292778754" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Knoxville, TN.<br /></div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-68719668558828694902009-12-30T17:50:00.000-08:002010-01-03T22:12:05.907-08:00The Year in: Bottled Venom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdMQ1QXoXcj8_-GcmH5cH_lnaSdURvRN_inehWyvNb_1XCNf3PQDKWzdbBqVuN76sQxGkat7EGVViEbsspnMN5_ojfbYjzRevfeoE4c5UIciyqB71lO4o2SvPf3vV3CIEFaQowo_BRQXP/s1600-h/snake+in+licquor.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtdMQ1QXoXcj8_-GcmH5cH_lnaSdURvRN_inehWyvNb_1XCNf3PQDKWzdbBqVuN76sQxGkat7EGVViEbsspnMN5_ojfbYjzRevfeoE4c5UIciyqB71lO4o2SvPf3vV3CIEFaQowo_BRQXP/s320/snake+in+licquor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422715220410913410" border="0" /></a>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-28229031842830870012009-12-28T09:47:00.000-08:002009-12-28T09:59:48.339-08:00The Year in: Celebrated Writers and Young Women<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-o5Kd4HQV7yoOHz8wyE4oSkKIkQarwMTmSSI9EtcFjPEnxDXHcB5u9TJcTp0EzCwMziYZKhLXEi_5tqv0v8Q_Cb0U8ZFILyueh4HULX25ZU9KMo9NAKRmecbxZBDV6LhbPCrRuLSLxIKt/s1600-h/malcolm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-o5Kd4HQV7yoOHz8wyE4oSkKIkQarwMTmSSI9EtcFjPEnxDXHcB5u9TJcTp0EzCwMziYZKhLXEi_5tqv0v8Q_Cb0U8ZFILyueh4HULX25ZU9KMo9NAKRmecbxZBDV6LhbPCrRuLSLxIKt/s320/malcolm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420348205762590514" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Host of Radio Lab: Please welcome the studly Malcolm Gladwell...</div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-12197802744058320702009-11-26T10:59:00.001-08:002010-01-03T18:18:36.938-08:00The Year in: Vampires<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-family:times new roman;" >Part VI</span><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuqPTsmbLvwAecadpCrLsRZbIjmBpTegpCxQWPVcEIez0qsjPUfOj7qfjTA0fL3tCQkKEWRR3K2v0IwB7po9abKl3Icv9_-jn1gXv8skJhab1GE0CCDxWx8o2kCQ6HQ5ncAB8LnIB6WEI/s1600-h/derrida.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuqPTsmbLvwAecadpCrLsRZbIjmBpTegpCxQWPVcEIez0qsjPUfOj7qfjTA0fL3tCQkKEWRR3K2v0IwB7po9abKl3Icv9_-jn1gXv8skJhab1GE0CCDxWx8o2kCQ6HQ5ncAB8LnIB6WEI/s320/derrida.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422699931042984178" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:180%;">By the spring,</span> things were getting out of hand. Vampires started showing up in my non-vampire reading, always bringing with them a whiff of foreign places—from Emily Brontë’s dark little visitor to the Earnshaws, to Walter Pater’s travels among the relics of the Italian Renaissance, to James Merrill’s account of a dinner party full of vaguely European guests. I took each new sighting as a sign that I was on the path of something grave and monstrous.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">But it should have been clear that my thinking had become corrupted when vampires began to infiltrate texts that featured no vampires before I picked them up. I came across a copy of Derrida’s <span style="font-style: italic;">The Gift of Death</span>, which I had been meaning to read ever since it was assigned to me in a college class years earlier, and got through the first ten pages or so. Here is an excerpt from my notes:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >The movement to the Christian secret of responsibility, the self that responds, is not a full break with the pre-Christian demonic secret. Rather, it is a secret that rises </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">on the back</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > of the old mystery, “repressing what remains its foundation” (p. 7). The vampire is a demon who </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">inverts this position</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >, feeding on the subverted subject of Christian responsibility. Thus the vampire embodies that “infinite alterity” that “regards without being seen,” while at the same time distorting it. Divorced from the passage of time, he gains an exterior position to history, and feels no obligation to </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">respond</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > to the Other, who is trapped in history’s flow. Thus the vampire inverts his relation to the history of Christian responsibility and the pre-Christian demonic mystery, or rather inverts </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">within himself</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > the relationship between…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">It continues in this vein for a frightening length.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">[to be continued]</span></span><o:p></o:p> <!--EndFragment--> <span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:10pt;" ><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:Times;"> <!--EndFragment--> </span></span>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-47789489812547844582009-11-04T16:25:00.001-08:002009-11-04T17:11:24.461-08:00Musical Oddities IV<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeV5TrwI02cfgQRY1Qe-7yuu6DEGPMNGMLjt0KIvX3MLSTnrg6c6ihICvTdJTHbfEaXnb81Ghf3dD1FBtCQ5dGshZThHJaYCL4M-fIO96JeBpeX1TvSf_nS63mQ5maWfLo8v3mqhDXoB9u/s1600-h/Glenn+Gould.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeV5TrwI02cfgQRY1Qe-7yuu6DEGPMNGMLjt0KIvX3MLSTnrg6c6ihICvTdJTHbfEaXnb81Ghf3dD1FBtCQ5dGshZThHJaYCL4M-fIO96JeBpeX1TvSf_nS63mQ5maWfLo8v3mqhDXoB9u/s200/Glenn+Gould.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400420279355261378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsiyFT6GbwI1po0MAb5Q5rkBk4_Y0_vjjcmTTLY6K95uPGbkMYWwry55ndCelFDFmwBw49XjdkL4tsDlk9w93nEDq_WpATfp9eUoggd9JpPcwfEPcmN9KUnM8pshfVrzntuvYrQrs__8Y/s1600-h/billevans.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsiyFT6GbwI1po0MAb5Q5rkBk4_Y0_vjjcmTTLY6K95uPGbkMYWwry55ndCelFDFmwBw49XjdkL4tsDlk9w93nEDq_WpATfp9eUoggd9JpPcwfEPcmN9KUnM8pshfVrzntuvYrQrs__8Y/s200/billevans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400420377425469970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />I saw part of a TV interview<span style="font-size:100%;"> with the jazz pianist Bill Evans</span></span> from about 1971 in which the interviewer, who I think was Swedish, asked Evans if he had a favorite classical composer. Evans said J.S. Bach. That's what all the jazz musicians say, the interviewer said.<br /><br />It's easy to dismiss Evans's answer, as the interviewer did, for being too obvious. But far from doing that, I'd like to offer it as a piece of evidence for a theory I've been developing: that the deceased jazz pianist Bill Evans is actually the same person as the deceased classical pianist Glenn Gould. At the least, I see them as two sides of the same coin. There are the superficial resemblances: the severe profiles, the dark slicked-back hair, the studied elusiveness. Evans was born three years before Gould, and died two years before him.<br /><br />But something about their playing unites them too. Bach was of course the most important composer to Gould. Though their sounds were radically different from one another, Gould and Evans were both committed to a kind of lucid polyphony that mirrored one another while setting them apart from other musicians of their time. Gould said that he was only interested in contrapuntal music; Evans, for his part, solved the limitations of bop by creating a contrapuntal style of group improvisation. Later he went a step further by recording an album in which he by himself <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> all the multiple voices—breaking the jazz taboo against overdubbing by making a whole album of overdubs—and he recorded it on Gould's favorite piano.<br /><br />Gould was notoriously indifferent to contemporary music, but public about his admiration for Evans. And I think what happened between Gould's first and last recordings of Bach's <span style="font-style: italic;">Goldberg Variations</span>—the bookends of his career—was jazz phrasing; in 1981 he stretched time and hid or hit notes in a way that would not have made sense in 1955. It might not be a stretch to say that what made Gould himself was Evans, and what made Evans himself was Gould.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-34933387031750102252009-10-27T17:15:00.000-07:002009-11-04T16:20:12.644-08:00The Year in: Vampires<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsqpYLhGLInUU7nZpLu_vDvXFXHaKZLu1oOVsWXeVG5Rc4xu30M3A5-LyOWw3xA5mQ1xhLn_u2IkvvMVY5k0QaxcaNwZBXkvAGKpIILVAu2f67y6y4SPilrKgW129qWPh33TYyVwQJ1VG/s1600-h/i-am-legend.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIsqpYLhGLInUU7nZpLu_vDvXFXHaKZLu1oOVsWXeVG5Rc4xu30M3A5-LyOWw3xA5mQ1xhLn_u2IkvvMVY5k0QaxcaNwZBXkvAGKpIILVAu2f67y6y4SPilrKgW129qWPh33TYyVwQJ1VG/s200/i-am-legend.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400403606838543730" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br />Part V</span></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">In April I went to London,</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">where my younger brother was studying abroad. We had been in </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">touch throughout the semester, but when we spoke it was always a little hard to gauge how he was doing.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p style="font-family: georgia;"></o:p><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Me:<span style=""> </span>How’s your reading going?<o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">My brother:<span style=""> </span>I’m growing out my fangs and adam’s apple.<o:p></o:p> Those are my main goals for the semester.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> Me:<span style=""> </span>That’s good. Who needs books when you’ve got elongated canines?</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">On the plane, I watched a movie in which Will Smith hunts zombies in an overgrown and </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_Znnhye7mQIDCVEqTpwUbDzhaFocX8pY22LaaG5ZqU_-u76V4x7pqHLn7ayDSptrqPa6-c9dUiiQ89ODrCTPBzgM98PdDatIAMDgIc6SlBfblDPeUsRd4EgWbVwdm20c85MQ0kbkgBuZ/s1600-h/101+year+old+marathoner.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 179px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI_Znnhye7mQIDCVEqTpwUbDzhaFocX8pY22LaaG5ZqU_-u76V4x7pqHLn7ayDSptrqPa6-c9dUiiQ89ODrCTPBzgM98PdDatIAMDgIc6SlBfblDPeUsRd4EgWbVwdm20c85MQ0kbkgBuZ/s200/101+year+old+marathoner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400402037775901842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">abandoned New York City. When I arrived, newspapers reported that a man who claimed to be</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS5fL73GP7Kee-KX0Lbpp62pPSgdlC0f11ZhKt9zhirIikWSeAA-fZDSu8cg5vvRkV7sLDv2P5RxpMgdF7j3DMg64n5VkAsILdQ2rh6A3d7obt1NPpdqpCe9a-ZetY3oBOnH1n5nweyWk/s1600-h/whitby+capsize.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 109px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS5fL73GP7Kee-KX0Lbpp62pPSgdlC0f11ZhKt9zhirIikWSeAA-fZDSu8cg5vvRkV7sLDv2P5RxpMgdF7j3DMg64n5VkAsILdQ2rh6A3d7obt1NPpdqpCe9a-ZetY3oBOnH1n5nweyWk/s200/whitby+capsize.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400401684138939826" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">101 years old had run the London marathon. According to several sources, he drank no water </span><span style="font-size:100%;">during the race. In the meantime, an inquest was being held on the deaths of three people whose </span><span style="font-size:100%;">boat had capsized in extremely bad weather off the coast near the town of Whitby.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">A few people in their late twenties who shared a house in Whitechapel were gracious enough to host me for the week. </span><span style="font-size:100%;">At night I slept there on a couch, on a sort of mezzanine floor with big French doors that opened onto a terrace, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">during the day I visited </span><span style="font-size:100%;">the British Museum and historic houses in Chelsea and tried not to get caught in the chronic rain showers that cast a disquieting pall over the city</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> Girls passed me on the </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BX2MmjCC7j8yGeBHUiSe58jTGkk7yF8qjlv8cfsuQn0KeFCXDZSYk-C6sSMxEemjPveIeZlwt_8lmn8BqcgsZEk4NJDmlvLmy0WRmKetlscD-eObkpiXKHZF5ReUEdqGXjYjHF7AYpCB/s1600-h/bram+stoker+home.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8BX2MmjCC7j8yGeBHUiSe58jTGkk7yF8qjlv8cfsuQn0KeFCXDZSYk-C6sSMxEemjPveIeZlwt_8lmn8BqcgsZEk4NJDmlvLmy0WRmKetlscD-eObkpiXKHZF5ReUEdqGXjYjHF7AYpCB/s200/bram+stoker+home.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400399194780746322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">street in pairs, speaking in unison. No use waiting on the waking dead, I thought I heard them chant. Before going to sleep I lay on the couch, trying to take notes on a Bram Stoker biography, but the terrace door blew open again and again, invading my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">On my last day in London, my brother and I visited Highg</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ate Cemetery in the north part of the city. As the burial place of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Karl Marx, among many other notables, it has become a bit of a tourist destination. But I wanted to visit because Stoker used the cemetery as the setting for the scene in <span style="font-style: italic;">Dracula</span> in which the un-dead Lucy Westenra is staked in her tomb by her former fiancé, thus preventing her from becoming an accomplice to Count Dracula’s plans to take over London. It also became the nexus of a bizarre vampire craze that gripped London in the 1970s. By the late 1960s, the cemetery had become fantastically overgrown and vandalized, </span><span style="font-size:100%;">and was a favorite gathering place for young occultists. In February of 1970, one of them claimed to have seen a supernatural figure while he spent the night in the cemetery. Soon, rumors were running rampant, with rival groups of occultists </span><span style="font-size:100%;">offering various theories, one of the more popular being that a 'a King Vampire of the Undead' from Wallachia, a region adjacent to Transylvania, inhabited the cemetery. Before expiring, the affair climaxed in claims of exorcisms, vampire slayings, and a mass, televised vampire hunt on Friday, the 13th of March. Somehow, I hoped, this would all find a place in my article.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">I thought my brother would be interested in Highgate, but it had been difficult to convince him to come with me to the cemetery. My brother ran track and cross-country throughout college, covering dozens of miles every week, and is in much better shape than I am, but on that day he </span><span style="font-size:100%;">seemed drained and listless, and as we climbed the hill to the cemetery entrance I had to stop again and again to let him catch up with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“I feel like shit,” he said. “What are we doing here?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Did you not sleep enough?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“No, I did. You’re just exhausting me. This entire week.” He stopped walking. “Why are we </span><span style="font-size:100%;">walking up this hill?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“That’s where the cemetery entrance is.”<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh yeah. Why are we going there?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Because that’s where all the vampire stuff happened in the ‘70s, remember? I told you.” </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Behind an iron fence t</span><span style="font-size:100%;">o our right, the cemetery's tombstones drooped, choking under the weight of a century's worth of ivy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Oh yeah…” He sat down on a bench. “Can we rest first? You’re exhausting me.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6x_v1xRQ7dcBLE8No5GHYIY7kVsRRkpkxu9ZQxWHDJHCG1CqEM3sYlwWq3P9XZ-IWwS2F2zJmgLrA6AoyzIikt77CgLIk22fJ0Qax5pv6WvECqyir0F9AMnPwv1FX-nhqnRr69hqOv4E/s1600-h/Highgate.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ6x_v1xRQ7dcBLE8No5GHYIY7kVsRRkpkxu9ZQxWHDJHCG1CqEM3sYlwWq3P9XZ-IWwS2F2zJmgLrA6AoyzIikt77CgLIk22fJ0Qax5pv6WvECqyir0F9AMnPwv1FX-nhqnRr69hqOv4E/s200/Highgate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400397904914096898" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size:100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span><!--[endif]--></p> <span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">By the end of the week I was glad to leave London. On the plan</span></span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="">e back to New York I drank Mr. & Mrs. T’s Bloody Mary mix and watched <span style="font-style: italic;">On the Town</span>.<br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc6bV_GxiYjy1-8xahJyPQh1Dn_3Hp1CrEQa_HR5WYEuvkWCZVaagylLXP4fIcI9EOrKIeIiYCiI_DNKSQ08CXHEOtnwr8mZQGvIOscgpaPXknRL-qLnpaiTIydre4YhAJaRWx-nJwdEX/s1600-h/On+The+Town+Frank+Sinatra+Gene+Kelly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAc6bV_GxiYjy1-8xahJyPQh1Dn_3Hp1CrEQa_HR5WYEuvkWCZVaagylLXP4fIcI9EOrKIeIiYCiI_DNKSQ08CXHEOtnwr8mZQGvIOscgpaPXknRL-qLnpaiTIydre4YhAJaRWx-nJwdEX/s200/On+The+Town+Frank+Sinatra+Gene+Kelly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400390904302928818" border="0" /></a><!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> <span style="font-size:10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span> <!--EndFragment--><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />[to be continued]<br /></span></div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-6888119875626635722009-10-27T16:22:00.000-07:002009-10-27T16:56:27.293-07:00An Issue of Good Living<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcV6bj4rfCU1Ge0B8U3jjdbi0hc8z0BpDzQwgyKS7Bb0z2M3-sg3VwcNrtM283fgTaukDVX6zgRfEx6jNumnMQAsG6BrdzbA_BLx7YcKqisqhD_TMJxNmGQfKMg60OExKQTm8Nbgpx6Q31/s1600-h/gourmet+first+issue.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcV6bj4rfCU1Ge0B8U3jjdbi0hc8z0BpDzQwgyKS7Bb0z2M3-sg3VwcNrtM283fgTaukDVX6zgRfEx6jNumnMQAsG6BrdzbA_BLx7YcKqisqhD_TMJxNmGQfKMg60OExKQTm8Nbgpx6Q31/s200/gourmet+first+issue.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397429945972977346" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;">Hearing about the demise</span><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span>of <i>Gourmet</i> magazine felt almost like losing my grandmother again. I never really read the magazine, but in my mind it was inextricable linked to her. She was a dedicated gourmand, for whom Christmas was not so much a holiday or even a family gathering as it was a series of meals—turkey, asparagus, and mashed potatoes like mounds of snow for Christmas Eve dinner; Hungarian coffee cake, sausages, and fruit salad for Christmas breakfast; and for dessert on both days, a tin full of sour-cream twists, butter balls, miniature linzer tortes, and toasted almonds and pecans, all homemade. Appropriately enough, <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Gourmet</span><span style="font-size:100%;">'s inaugural release, in 1941, was a holiday issue.) Visiting her house, where she lived alone for my entire life, was a glimpse through a window to another generation, a very quiet one full of detective novels and Ella Fitzgerald's voice, the lingering perfume of cigarette smoke, and, as I recall, stacks of <i>Gourmet</i> in a wicker basket in the living room. My grandmother passed away when I was in high school. Luckily, she raised her four daughters to be exceptional cooks, and one of them is my mother. Any of my own knowledge of, or interest in, food emanates from her, and so in a way from <i>Gourmet</i>. It’s strange to realize I was emotionally attached to a magazine I barely ever opened, and now probably never will.</span><!--EndFragment-->Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-1948818816149613642009-10-05T08:56:00.000-07:002009-10-11T12:15:25.691-07:00The Year in: Vampires[Sometime this spring, despairing that my article on vampires and tourists would ever be published, I gave up this thread. Now that <a href="http://believermag.com/issues/200910/">the article is appearing</a> in this month's <span style="font-style: italic;">Believer</span>, I've decided to revive it.]<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1EIYFaR3tFtnncff1ylPqRB1lX4IID05gAxrT5nbN_VS0AVCgDjmoZoGJF7x1i6wigUlycts9TRrnRBHkc-1TuN5J_382FB4rJiKFAn9niHxW2WYxiwcVv0_9ATOHej-PZj_axRmNNrYg/s1600-h/apunk_preview.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1EIYFaR3tFtnncff1ylPqRB1lX4IID05gAxrT5nbN_VS0AVCgDjmoZoGJF7x1i6wigUlycts9TRrnRBHkc-1TuN5J_382FB4rJiKFAn9niHxW2WYxiwcVv0_9ATOHej-PZj_axRmNNrYg/s200/apunk_preview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389156349502141650" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Part IV</span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">In early 2008, a few weeks after I got the advance copy</span> of the Vampire Weekend album, the band began to emerge from the shadows, but as they got closer the scent increasingly repulsed me. First I found a music video online. It featured a lot Ray-Ban sunglasses, sailboats and deck shoes, and so many swirling scarves and pastel sweaters it could have been a Gap commercial. Suddenly, the album’s reggae beats and West African guitar parts gained a more sinister aspect. Then I started to see the posters, hung around Chelsea and Williamsburg. The image seemed innocuous at first glance: a Polaroid of a chandelier, the very tops of a few youthful heads, and the band’s name in white block letters. But something about the poster gave me a shudder. The chic pallor of the photo; the kitschy, faux-gothic chandelier; and the creeping feeling that the haircuts just below it belonged to a swarm of pale, pretty young Columbia students writhing to fashionably tribal sounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BbMaMyHyQqXBU89Axi646yvVZ_-uC9h7otLRmBnqxvu84mE6wDLTnuUyAg5-FyWri5_l7x_rQFo92gF_0p9U_rg4ekN2gGtQkO36B_LTiUpV3oAGt__xBTepE_rsM4IvDFVWKMfPNlc_/s1600-h/vampire+weekend.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BbMaMyHyQqXBU89Axi646yvVZ_-uC9h7otLRmBnqxvu84mE6wDLTnuUyAg5-FyWri5_l7x_rQFo92gF_0p9U_rg4ekN2gGtQkO36B_LTiUpV3oAGt__xBTepE_rsM4IvDFVWKMfPNlc_/s200/vampire+weekend.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389158201503177970" border="0" /></a><br />My picture of a good-humored, harmless little pop band contorted into one of lurking, ironic cultural predators—weekend vampires behind designer shades. The lyrics about the college green and summers on Cape Cod only deepened my feeling that these Columbia-educated world-music fans hid a dark side. Wasn’t the Cape where Norman Mailer had planned to set that novel about crazed rich-kid hippy-bikers who murdered vacationers in the dunes? <span style="font-style: italic;">The devil did the backstroke/all the way from France…the kids don’t stand a chance</span>, indeed. And that line about Peter Gabriel—“it feels so unnatural”—conjured scenes of Patrick Bateman lecturing his hapless victims about Genesis in <span style="font-style: italic;">American Psycho</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytUHNZ7ZFknJJVEoXC_pCHzwx7lN1s4DwlnchrkJWUfmupwYwoLYY3Hw6W8e3GEzY_cvYqomt6z44e3DwBxCEruzYn6_BbDcGhvEamU0-_azyO22hpCLsljl7tIk5KK9mnsrWQP2SvIK5/s1600-h/American_Psycho+stereo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 108px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytUHNZ7ZFknJJVEoXC_pCHzwx7lN1s4DwlnchrkJWUfmupwYwoLYY3Hw6W8e3GEzY_cvYqomt6z44e3DwBxCEruzYn6_BbDcGhvEamU0-_azyO22hpCLsljl7tIk5KK9mnsrWQP2SvIK5/s200/American_Psycho+stereo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389157823055250946" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">And what was that specter looming behind the young band? Each time I listened to the opening of “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa”—<span style="font-style: italic;">there’s a young girl, Louis Vuitton</span>—I heard, lurking just behind it, an older song with a similar beat—<span style="font-style: italic;">she’s a rich girl, she don’t try to hide it, diamonds on the souls of her shoes</span>. The long shadow of Paul Simon on vacation in South Africa stretched over this band, reaching out of its two decade-old grave—the specter of Paul Simon in 1985, pale aristocrat of pop, forced out of the tower of his crumbling fame to find something fresh, descending on Capetown to draw on the healthy pulse of township rhythms. Like any good vacation, <span style="font-style: italic;">Graceland</span> revived Simon's career. Twenty years later, Vampire Weekend was transfusing some vigor into their songs of ivy league travails through a kind of abstracted musical tourism.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt36jrB7EXgP-NNJsCC6YEiRNMPJs2Ase5M18dBtHG9cY_dOjFnc_6fgGbkWVq4ixLkWKwnBFt5dF-iQNX7YR7ifMEQSRbd6iy9tfjSuri706GCRNFXj0p06wKfoyYRIi-W-xH9MB-FZyH/s1600-h/simon+Graceland+tour.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 165px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt36jrB7EXgP-NNJsCC6YEiRNMPJs2Ase5M18dBtHG9cY_dOjFnc_6fgGbkWVq4ixLkWKwnBFt5dF-iQNX7YR7ifMEQSRbd6iy9tfjSuri706GCRNFXj0p06wKfoyYRIi-W-xH9MB-FZyH/s200/simon+Graceland+tour.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389157533988256962" border="0" /></a><br />[to be continued]<br /></div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-33841533305109423442009-10-05T07:54:00.000-07:002009-10-05T08:53:33.162-07:00Aphorisms (on vampires, on tourists)<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0fYwRlNcCZBtyxDU5Zq9BFiI7KyM2YlgXTcNPqUKWLoI-Lkd8FNRpiGm2enWU0P0qpkh3k1mtGQ8eB_Wm0CEfsCnBok_Vcg8UxKka79Lz6GkcgXleiq_U8qEwUVxEcGngxZ8ZT-px-Bk/s1600-h/dracula-gary+oldman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 172px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm0fYwRlNcCZBtyxDU5Zq9BFiI7KyM2YlgXTcNPqUKWLoI-Lkd8FNRpiGm2enWU0P0qpkh3k1mtGQ8eB_Wm0CEfsCnBok_Vcg8UxKka79Lz6GkcgXleiq_U8qEwUVxEcGngxZ8ZT-px-Bk/s320/dracula-gary+oldman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389142770702698914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"<span style="font-size:180%;">E</span>verywhere has vampires."</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJSIJPZrxL32CE0pI3Fo02zAPlySctxj_pl9dyJyK8mjYmxhBYn4K2IEKHf_U1HqgFjci0w9LDl7DkQkzbeIpSce7veAsanqdz72PRNoAxQ6iWD2XgTvh3qQa2iexYAEU-3gb9ThY3cE-/s1600-h/twain+innocents+abroad+cartoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMJSIJPZrxL32CE0pI3Fo02zAPlySctxj_pl9dyJyK8mjYmxhBYn4K2IEKHf_U1HqgFjci0w9LDl7DkQkzbeIpSce7veAsanqdz72PRNoAxQ6iWD2XgTvh3qQa2iexYAEU-3gb9ThY3cE-/s320/twain+innocents+abroad+cartoon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389142485304252290" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"<span style="font-size:180%;">E</span>very tourist is a traveler visiting a place for something that isn't there."</span><br /></div><br /><br />For these and similarly grand statements on the connections between vampires and tourists, read my article, "The Undead Travel," in <a href="http://believermag.com/issues/200910/">the October issue</a> of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Believer.</span>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-526901514208680282009-10-01T06:28:00.000-07:002010-05-26T10:26:09.201-07:00Thoughts on Walt Whitman, Pt. III<span style="font-size: 180%;">Whitman in Class<br />
</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ptOp3c9Bnqaw7VYDdiduuFowlwffYfgMbhNsQtVlzFYwqu4qfk6ZCxz25_P_ot_Zj5ktVoZNeWtnuc07u7eu_Xk5V4cYcFLZugQ1Wis9qcXCe0C673NRR8HIs7d5jCca5CAdsrrYHc9v/s1600-h/Whitman+draft.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388022150987270274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ptOp3c9Bnqaw7VYDdiduuFowlwffYfgMbhNsQtVlzFYwqu4qfk6ZCxz25_P_ot_Zj5ktVoZNeWtnuc07u7eu_Xk5V4cYcFLZugQ1Wis9qcXCe0C673NRR8HIs7d5jCca5CAdsrrYHc9v/s200/Whitman+draft.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 161px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;">When people ask me</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%;"> if I've considered going to graduate school for writing, I think about Walt Whitman. I try to imagine him going to grad school for writing. I try to picture a world without the nineteenth-century poet Walt Whitman, in which a graduate student at NYU named Walt Whitman walks into a classroom where his fellow graduate students are about to workshop one of his pieces.<br />
<br />
What constructive criticism would they offer him about this passage, for instance?<br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">The cloth laps a first sweet eating and drinking,<br />
</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">Laps life-swelling yolks . . . . laps ear of rose-corn, milky and just ripened:<br />
</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">The white teeth stay, and the boss-tooth advances in darkness,<br />
</span><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 100%; font-style: italic;">And liquor is spilled on lips and bosoms by touching glasses, and the best liquor afterward.</span>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-21917640444055629952009-09-30T18:25:00.000-07:002009-10-02T08:41:21.191-07:00Stiff Lower Lip<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;" >This is the face of public shame</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" >in America. The </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >New York Times</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >' homepage featured this picture today:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9wI0wLp-M1d7wurvifmaWc4iXPtWDiAEt0fYhmPDxtXbVeckpAlOBDF8oLf6MHQ1ssdP6OU8G5q-Sg8vHsnGrmBSnqNJBxbZcs-8uLPJmKDp-1LUQulIsfZXbdHhf7Dmc2zZ0Hi6ncph/s1600-h/Ken+Lewis+guilty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht9wI0wLp-M1d7wurvifmaWc4iXPtWDiAEt0fYhmPDxtXbVeckpAlOBDF8oLf6MHQ1ssdP6OU8G5q-Sg8vHsnGrmBSnqNJBxbZcs-8uLPJmKDp-1LUQulIsfZXbdHhf7Dmc2zZ0Hi6ncph/s320/Ken+Lewis+guilty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387438113774626674" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >I recognized it immediately, but not as the face of Ken Lewis, who announced his resignation as chief executive of the troubled Bank of America, my bank. I recognized it from last spring, and the picture that suddenly blanketed New York media:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJs6iwerPm4LUpS5acyJcsS5J2zBgF7BCuX-04DzQkNECNaDBTnljNRtztHkL5FykZSToVbYTA4tDSGUUGOXVlFoYpiMddrP-30D_6viiZCbfQ9hebwttvVPzxt3TzeDFmhl4A-RQdUyc/s1600-h/eliot+spitzer+guilt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJs6iwerPm4LUpS5acyJcsS5J2zBgF7BCuX-04DzQkNECNaDBTnljNRtztHkL5FykZSToVbYTA4tDSGUUGOXVlFoYpiMddrP-30D_6viiZCbfQ9hebwttvVPzxt3TzeDFmhl4A-RQdUyc/s320/eliot+spitzer+guilt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387441325453925442" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Governor Eliot Spitzer's grimace was usually accompanied by shots of a frank prostitute from New Jersey.<br /><br />But Spitzer must have got it from somewhere, right? A few years prior saw this fine example across the Hudson:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOBSmAKXK8fI3wctA-JHgDortI1F-0aRByomP-iuEBo2qqR7KPc4tUw4y8w-LML_2dyPqmq_ez67zllrVtdu_NqR1jYVM-mRZzghRc9NGdd83Wp9rf5wbxVhUK2y7T0FiUEYK5icz8NU2/s1600-h/McGreevey+guilty+better.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOBSmAKXK8fI3wctA-JHgDortI1F-0aRByomP-iuEBo2qqR7KPc4tUw4y8w-LML_2dyPqmq_ez67zllrVtdu_NqR1jYVM-mRZzghRc9NGdd83Wp9rf5wbxVhUK2y7T0FiUEYK5icz8NU2/s320/McGreevey+guilty+better.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387443345311622690" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Then again, we probably shouldn't give Governor McGreevey too much credit. I'm sure you could find plenty of other examples. There's also this notable forebear:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjEusMlR8-dRIgDD1GXZeLucGkZhIZBuMC2FTncc7UfrdL2TyOxLY20V-r8uJ01SpPfLRfcR7OSDX4kz5G9qmCEXAyRM_w-HwiCqxHjImGCh5gr8e5Lqn92_h0P-QI21sgumgNIwdUH8o/s1600-h/nixon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnjEusMlR8-dRIgDD1GXZeLucGkZhIZBuMC2FTncc7UfrdL2TyOxLY20V-r8uJ01SpPfLRfcR7OSDX4kz5G9qmCEXAyRM_w-HwiCqxHjImGCh5gr8e5Lqn92_h0P-QI21sgumgNIwdUH8o/s320/nixon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387445340861666834" border="0" /></a></span>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-36527462089847719962009-08-04T14:34:00.000-07:002009-10-02T08:42:03.428-07:00Jack Johnson v. Jack Johnson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcg29I4YeEjGA8RsSJPK2AHHifgNOQl50mdq8dZqdQQotJyfFY-x7HAfaHlzaLH63Eg3w65HdsWRsNJu_AX0Jvx-K82CZp4O41FdmThE9o3Ha8itSrzrg5ufbnxrQtgqOcujVsLiRcq_G1/s1600-h/a+tribute+to+jack+johnson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcg29I4YeEjGA8RsSJPK2AHHifgNOQl50mdq8dZqdQQotJyfFY-x7HAfaHlzaLH63Eg3w65HdsWRsNJu_AX0Jvx-K82CZp4O41FdmThE9o3Ha8itSrzrg5ufbnxrQtgqOcujVsLiRcq_G1/s200/a+tribute+to+jack+johnson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366245637320437538" border="0" /></a><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:180%;" >Miles Davis is one of those artists</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> <span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" >for whom, no matter how much of their work I listen to, there will always be more. I finally started listening to</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" >Davis's album </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >A Tribute to Jack Johnson</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" > a few weeks ago.<br /><br />It reminded me of a time last summer, when I was working for Vice. There was a guy at the company who worked as an all-around music consultant. He seemed to be friends with every band, hip-hop outfit, DJ, and club owner with indie cred in New York. He was a walking encyclopedia of pop music history. He was in touch the trendiest music circles in every important city in the world. One day that summer, he was reading a magazine in the lobby and called out to no one in particular, "Hey, who the fuck is this guy Jack Johnson who's headlining All Points West with Radiohead?"<br /><br />"Have you not been listening to the radio for the past five years?" I asked.<br /><br />"No man, I don't listen to the radio," he said.<br /><br />At the time, this seemed like the ultimate confirmation of the singer Jack Johnson's utter <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUl85unFVb9NX1965faaPORtX2CPQpVLizjhleGtRzRqeTMqPW7EXLssk7snKAnrlPJY6ExBsdJrKj9J8UszFQ6huCrHEWAtx32foN2cOsJ5TbHL3UPbfLxXuayH1z8H4o3x1aLTMUihZS/s1600-h/jack-johnson+singer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUl85unFVb9NX1965faaPORtX2CPQpVLizjhleGtRzRqeTMqPW7EXLssk7snKAnrlPJY6ExBsdJrKj9J8UszFQ6huCrHEWAtx32foN2cOsJ5TbHL3UPbfLxXuayH1z8H4o3x1aLTMUihZS/s200/jack-johnson+singer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366246284695572994" border="0" /></a>irrelevance. But now it makes</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwScXT2DD8EO0Hrh-vS3FwGwinEifWsRD2TfIz_g-lr1OhhmSXZUlMc1TkQgpokgTDrCrsWYjU6CaGw7-8tzL4ylyr5cEVgg23LCNbH-hH1aWrJmV2zL3rmFXFnDPqiba0YtUr-s-CtMs/s1600-h/jack+johnson+boxer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwScXT2DD8EO0Hrh-vS3FwGwinEifWsRD2TfIz_g-lr1OhhmSXZUlMc1TkQgpokgTDrCrsWYjU6CaGw7-8tzL4ylyr5cEVgg23LCNbH-hH1aWrJmV2zL3rmFXFnDPqiba0YtUr-s-CtMs/s200/jack+johnson+boxer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366246068257805090" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" > me wonder, where does this guy get off performing as Jack Johnson </span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" >(even if that</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" > is his birth name)? He's a tepid white guy who mumbles totally forgettable songs accompanied by an acoustic guitar and flip-flops. The original Jack Johnson became the world's first black heavyweight champion in 1908 (and, incidentally, was born Arthur John Johnson). Miles Davis, who boxed himself, put out the </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Jack Johnson</span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;" > album in 1970, the same year Black Panther membership reached its height. As the liner notes Davis wrote for the album put it, "Johnson portrayed Freedom—it rang just as loud as the bell proclaiming him Champion." How can you share a stage name with someone like that?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB9DQ9BbeX6Tkkg7x2Oq5suX-fnJSZyub0eKERmQPha7Cm52xd89MYOtz1eECfLjtiSl_1VuPcvWgzR36bf307UXUTioUtHYHn3LcV-fepP8Su0wJn5PMGIwvMyezzP1NKm5iNBOo3qkR/s1600-h/milesboxing2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB9DQ9BbeX6Tkkg7x2Oq5suX-fnJSZyub0eKERmQPha7Cm52xd89MYOtz1eECfLjtiSl_1VuPcvWgzR36bf307UXUTioUtHYHn3LcV-fepP8Su0wJn5PMGIwvMyezzP1NKm5iNBOo3qkR/s200/milesboxing2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366245738792536370" border="0" /></a></span>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-35642370259625714842009-07-18T14:48:00.001-07:002009-10-02T08:42:43.371-07:00This is Bad, Real Bad, Kanye West<span style="font-family: times new roman;font-size:180%;" >The icons of the twentieth century are dropping</span> <span style="font-family: georgia;">like flies. A single month has seen the demises of the King of Pop, the King of Policy Analysis, and now the King of Primetime News.</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOC8fcnq9skOD5f14sUns_uw4CBFgZ5q3Cb76B9MN1APi2DAiHOIHY2Outm3v4fe8K0XXvHs2l2K0qKY-ZfaSvyuKqgIYnPzXfMFIpV9fPQmkzT6PunxZeYitRYimXBAZJPHu6qqz6b2Ww/s1600-h/walter+cronkite.bin"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOC8fcnq9skOD5f14sUns_uw4CBFgZ5q3Cb76B9MN1APi2DAiHOIHY2Outm3v4fe8K0XXvHs2l2K0qKY-ZfaSvyuKqgIYnPzXfMFIpV9fPQmkzT6PunxZeYitRYimXBAZJPHu6qqz6b2Ww/s320/walter+cronkite.bin" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359927085676397970" border="0" /></a><br />The worst part is that we don't even have John Updike around anymore to tell us what it all means.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://reemsaied.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/michael-jackson-toestand.jpg?w=450&h=450"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 289px;" src="http://reemsaied.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/michael-jackson-toestand.jpg?w=450&h=450" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_S69p8cpwqso6487dNReU5SlJrIUUmebLCDMTdPClVJznz02tCGeuPNOb6Jg4LbRFfrjgUkcdnnK9bl6fksxFC2DYYQmgfNa1cCpvXtDbWpkX7FcSAVwTO93VBDUS8yG-l6tI8WQ118qT/s1600-h/RIP+Michael.jpg"><br /></a>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-75673881098073441192009-07-18T14:22:00.000-07:002009-10-11T12:13:43.478-07:00Musical Oddities III: Dream of Electric Meat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdmdLaDNJSZ0Es5IpEXcyYRQNf8SHjS9YsmBoFUBBap-fFAvODnukQdnTKK7_SqiI3CgJrS0VWGsTQVP5CvMTy2fmO0lkMiStQtPgXlBn0MtXpR-B36CAVK5dNcfxhmo5ZvCMdZdxSawS/s1600-h/scott+walker.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZdmdLaDNJSZ0Es5IpEXcyYRQNf8SHjS9YsmBoFUBBap-fFAvODnukQdnTKK7_SqiI3CgJrS0VWGsTQVP5CvMTy2fmO0lkMiStQtPgXlBn0MtXpR-B36CAVK5dNcfxhmo5ZvCMdZdxSawS/s320/scott+walker.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359917585035243554" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">While staying at a friend's house</span>, I dozed off in front of the TV, only to wake up to the sight of a man punching an enormous slab of raw meat in front of a microphone as a baritone voice warbled about Benito Mussolini.<br /><br />If you want to learn about one of pop music's most committed weirdos, watch the documentary <span style="font-style: italic;">30th Century Man</span>.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-78847378964256100702009-07-18T13:35:00.000-07:002009-07-18T14:12:14.416-07:00Musical Oddities II: Angling in the Badlands<span style="font-size:180%;">From a review <span style="font-size:100%;">of Bonnaroo 2009 in </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Blank Newspaper</span><span style="font-size:100%;">,</span> a free Knoxville arts rag:<br /><br />At the end of Phish's set, "Trey Anastasio paused for a moment to give a brief monologue, explaining that the first concert he ever went to was three hours of nonstop action and fun...The next moment [Anastasio said] 'I'd like to bring out my boyhood idol, Bruce Springsteen.' "<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDc3Oz5rqC4LpyduyWmU5b9_NPTdh-q5XBkEZicwqYVm4i93JZarLV-RXBNixpNK1XNOSqruOlv60xU54USqDLcsMWcCL7w_oKMhfgj6JLuy9fHE3JpW8QouebsvYL7IKN5koE9vpr1Cn/s1600-h/Phish+Bruce.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyDc3Oz5rqC4LpyduyWmU5b9_NPTdh-q5XBkEZicwqYVm4i93JZarLV-RXBNixpNK1XNOSqruOlv60xU54USqDLcsMWcCL7w_oKMhfgj6JLuy9fHE3JpW8QouebsvYL7IKN5koE9vpr1Cn/s320/Phish+Bruce.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359909320917407058" border="0" /></a><br />What?? How do you get from E Street to a watered-down version of Shakedown Street? Then again, if you had asked me to pick the one thing that would top off the jack-tastic "three hours of nonstop action and fun" that I imagine a Phish concert to be, it may very well have been a quickie from The Boss.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-72273294916384309032009-06-19T14:26:00.000-07:002009-06-19T14:27:18.682-07:00Street Art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyNiPBTwmfdMRuyB-Ej7QU2dUMjwE4-axm9zivt18Lw_zM18vuDanP60hd6K3UWOMfCH4dLGai4AmzEmX-VJi98nur5i8NGqKfSrkFcxB-xYHa8tap2ZknlSbQGY4dVOHQ6mUjje0SCo5/s1600-h/vermeer+construction+truc.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUyNiPBTwmfdMRuyB-Ej7QU2dUMjwE4-axm9zivt18Lw_zM18vuDanP60hd6K3UWOMfCH4dLGai4AmzEmX-VJi98nur5i8NGqKfSrkFcxB-xYHa8tap2ZknlSbQGY4dVOHQ6mUjje0SCo5/s320/vermeer+construction+truc.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349153325930314914" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Front St., D.U.M.B.O.</div>Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-69593422292721130322009-06-09T18:06:00.000-07:002009-07-18T14:38:39.407-07:00Musical Oddities I: Give Me Back My Name<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rock and roll was simple and clear.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">-Paul Davis, " '65 Love Affair" (1981)<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5tOLYpDthrmhliEABNlK9xuaKaFlSKoyRtY0jRgrApMnfdEoI3Ax39C_lLE6qI5SPagEw5pbqnytf8arfE8TqfHiwfdGc39oF1aXnfdJJTJnmqDhyphenhyphenydemubN7Jpw_2mwcUMdLjpyFTKu/s1600-h/paul-davis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ5tOLYpDthrmhliEABNlK9xuaKaFlSKoyRtY0jRgrApMnfdEoI3Ax39C_lLE6qI5SPagEw5pbqnytf8arfE8TqfHiwfdGc39oF1aXnfdJJTJnmqDhyphenhyphenydemubN7Jpw_2mwcUMdLjpyFTKu/s200/paul-davis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345501231922602898" border="0" /></a><br />Rock and roll was never simple and clear. Whatever he was listening to, if it was simple and clear, it wasn't rock and roll.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4916024909482166661.post-42293046224946752292009-05-20T16:32:00.000-07:002009-05-20T16:49:12.984-07:00What They Meant When They Said Repent<span style="font-size:180%;">I walked into a store</span> where the TV was playing a sports channel. For a second the sportscaster looked like Mel Gibson.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpYo8Bb9AxUhFT4-6smRcFOUDaHyrk90LeJn_n-H2tbHIe5Xrtyc59-QIsNnC-2uhaXPXwTREBHYDYhkwGfzinZl2iy1GWpVvVA7yFcDKN81skA4io2y1b6XcKl1t3gGyKVzY19oGQ8m3/s1600-h/Mel+Gibson.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpYo8Bb9AxUhFT4-6smRcFOUDaHyrk90LeJn_n-H2tbHIe5Xrtyc59-QIsNnC-2uhaXPXwTREBHYDYhkwGfzinZl2iy1GWpVvVA7yFcDKN81skA4io2y1b6XcKl1t3gGyKVzY19oGQ8m3/s200/Mel+Gibson.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338056960939377186" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPGrn1kT_jpHauxhHfPf8h-yiLjK-9rRn91t72FNmnZCimVDPDlV_97spvZwe2DnYf59mgFyVD41Wke5nMXrNxO5n5wQJTPfA15FGNotfeNiV0cJ9HKk0K1huxhD5Q34seuB1xb9lx-Lt/s1600-h/sportscaster.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPGrn1kT_jpHauxhHfPf8h-yiLjK-9rRn91t72FNmnZCimVDPDlV_97spvZwe2DnYf59mgFyVD41Wke5nMXrNxO5n5wQJTPfA15FGNotfeNiV0cJ9HKk0K1huxhD5Q34seuB1xb9lx-Lt/s200/sportscaster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338057049997838130" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I dreamed of a future in which Mel Gibson was sentenced to spend the rest of his life as a sportscaster.Avi Davishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15323687140889610124noreply@blogger.com0