Dear Google,

Hi. I’m an early adopter. We should be friends. But we need to talk.

Dear Steve Jobs,

Image via CrunchBase

I might actually be willing to use Ping – it’s a nifty idea, and would be a good replacement for that old Facebook app that allowed you to post what you were listening to but was too complicated and involved finding files on my C: drive all by myself, which, really, is too much effort to go to just to be embarrassed by how many times in a row I listened to that one Death Cab for Cutie song, and so I never used it – were it not for the fact that you will only allow me to choose three genres, which are narrow to begin with because even though “indie” and “punk” technically do fall under the “alternative” label, my taste for that label went out once I graduated high school and turned my attention away from Seattle, and besides, there are substrata I might be interested in exploring within the indie world, and you know how indie people are: we want more labels, Steve Jobs, because we live for labels, but now you want my musical tastes to be represented solely by the music I purchase from iTunes, which apparently consists solely of Beyonce, Lady Gaga and Madonna, which is fine, except it doesn’t fully represent me, and so, Steve Jobs, I’m beginning to think that you don’t understand me at all. Oh, and facebook integration would be nice too.

Podcasts Are the New NPR: On Following Formulas

Image via Wikipedia

I’m newish to this whole podcast listening thing. The first time I tried listening to podcasts, a) there wasn’t too much out there, and b) what was out there really sucked, in terms of both content and production value.

In the last four months, my car has stopped picking up NPR consistently on the thirty-minute ride to work, so I’ve been using the podcatcher on my phone as a substitute. I have trouble remembering when exactly my previous forays into podcast listening were, since the internet moves in dog years, but things have improved a lot since whenever then was.

Things that Make Me Go *Sob*

I’m getting soft in my early middle age, or late youth, or whatever we’re calling it when we’re afraid to admit that we’re approaching 35 and haven’t started nearly enough of the things we wanted to do with our lives, if we’re even sure what those are. I’m tearing up at nearly everything I read in the newspaper or see on Youtube or on TV all of the sudden, and this is strange because I’m generally turned off by media that tries to evoke that kind of response.

The last time I cried in a movie was E.T., so I tend to judge every subsequent attempt to make me cry by this standard:

Anne Carson Has a New Book Out!

The New York Times has a review, but what struck me was the design:

From Ben Ratliff’s review:

Anne Carson’s new book comes in a box the color of a rainy day, with a sliver of a family snapshot on the front. Inside is a Xerox-quality reproduction of a notebook, made after the death of her brother, including text and photographs and letters, pasted-in inkjet printouts, handwriting, paintings and collage. “Nox” has no page numbers, and it’s accordion-folded.

I didn’t really need another reason to love Anne Carson, but she gave me one anyway. I love seeing books that reflect the processes, written and artistic, that writers use. I like the idea of books as works of art, but this, this is book as craft. Which is to say, it is the kind of art we can all make – perhaps not with as much literary merit as Anne Carson, but with as much care.

I need this book. Today.

In the meantime, I’m comforting myself by revisiting this awesome set of directions for making an accordion book from Belle Boggs’ Blog. Anne Carson made an accordion book to memorialize her brother; Belle made one to memorialize her dog.

Belle also has a new book out. It’s called Mattaponi Queen, and, so far, it’s great. I say “so far” because I keep rereading the first story, “Deer Season”; I’ve read it three times, mostly because it brings back memories of the first community I taught in, but also because it’s that good, and that subtle.

On Love, Hate, and Steampunk: Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker

I ought to hate steampunk. The snob in me thinks any fandom that attracts people who express themselves by dressing weird is simultaneously admirable and worthy of derision. I want to be different, so I’m going to go join these other people and we’re all going to wear corsets and goggles and be unique together. Sigh.

I’ve also been trained from an early age to despise the anachronism that makes steampunk tick. Every family vacation I’ve ever been on involves a visit to a historical site or museum, where my mother proceeds to tell the docents what they got wrong. I used to find it embarrassing, but in this regard, I have become my mother – last month, I texted her from Mount Vernon, looking for someone, anyone, to agree with me that the reproduction Chippendale-style dresser upstairs was just gauche.

Secretly, I love steampunk. Perhaps it’s the last, dying embers of my rebellion against my mother, but I love the idea of alternate history that mashes up time, and science, and history, and magic, and, most of all, gets the objects all wrong. Every piece of steampunk I consume is an affirmation that not everything has to be right all the time.

My latest steampunk consumption, Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker, has brought a new dimension to this love/hate relationship with steampunk. While there’s a lot to love about the novel, it just didn’t immediately hit my literary sweet spot, and I’ve spent the better part of the past two weeks trying to figure out why.

Warning: There be spoilers here, and not just for Boneshaker. Proceed at your own risk.

Video Mixtape #1: Songs About Wrecks, Car Crash Edition

I prefer my nostalgia with a little bit of violence and a lot of broken glass.

Revising Myself: On (Not Always) Coming Correct

Every once in a while, I’m reminded how very, very far I still have to go as a feminist. These reminders usually take the form of me saying something really fucked up, because I’m privileged, and fail to recognize that privilege, or, as in a conversation I had with a friend last night, I’m not fully conscious of the degree to which I, feminist (have I earned that?), have internalized sexism.

Zombie Mixtape #1

No Rob Zombie. Too obvious.

1. Hoodoo Voodoo – Billy Bragg and Wilco

2. Brainy – The National

3. Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around – Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty

4. Till My Back Ain’t Got No Bone – William Bell

5. Butcher’s Tale (Western Front 1914) – The Zombies

Note: I’d really like to see WWI with zombies. Get on that, will you, someone?

6. Point and Shoot – Yo La Tengo

7. Protect Ya Neck – Wu-Tang Clan

8. Run Run Run – The Velvet Underground

9. The Kids Don’t Stand a Chance – Vampire Weekend

10. Here Come the People in Grey – The Kinks

Suggestions for #2 are always welcome.

From Hryck.'s flickr photostream, under a CC attribution license.

I Belong Here, Really I Do

For the longest time, I was afraid to go to the comic store. I went a couple of times in college, always escorted by a male friend, always to buy something “safe” – something by, say, Chris Ware, which would justify my presence with its aesthetic appeal.