sleeping alone and starting out early

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Archive for the ‘music’ Category

Pink, "Funhouse"

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on May 29, 2010

This is Pink’s video for her 2008 song “Funhouse,” from her studio album of the same name. Apparently, this album’s original title was “Heartbreak is a Motherfucker,” which would have made me so happy if it had stuck.

This is such an awesome video that it makes me want to light things on fire. I can’t help but point out my two favorite moments, both facial expressions, at  :43 and 2:40.


Posted in awesome, beauty, creativity, evil clowns, gender politics, music | Leave a Comment »

best. live performance. ever.

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on April 24, 2010

I just got back from a show starring the Indigo Girls, with a special appearance by a band I’d never heard of. The group is called Girlyman, and they are drop-dead fantastic. They knocked us all absolutely dead, and it was obvious that the Indigo Girls, Amy Ray and Emily Saliers, had a great deal of respect for these guys.

Here’s a vid of one of their recent songs, “Young James Dean.” In the live performance, they also had a drummer, JJ Jones, who added a nice kick to their sound. You might want to consider checking them out if they come to a town near you.

Posted in awesome, creativity, gay rights, gender politics, human rights, music | 1 Comment »

in case you were looking for a reason to like Yoko Ono

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on September 11, 2009

This is “L’Eclipse,” from Sean Lennon’s 2006 album Friendly Fire.

Posted in awesome, music | 4 Comments »

nerdcore is dead? long live nerdcore

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on July 9, 2009

Posted in creativity, music, nerdcore | 2 Comments »

seven things I know about Michael Jackson

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on June 26, 2009

He changed the way we think about movement:

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Michael Jackson, pop icon, dead at 50

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on June 26, 2009

Can you even BELIEVE it?

Michael Jackson was THE pop star of my generation, maybe even the last real unifying star before social media screwed everything up and made it impossible for one star to rule them all.

Jackson was confounding in almost every sense. He forced us to rethink and approach anew cultural attitudes toward race, gender, masculinity, sexuality, and public performance of identity. In many ways it was easier to think of him as an anomaly, a phenomenon so far outside of the world we understood that we didn’t need to bother figuring out what he meant to us, and why.

With his death, analysts will probably find fuel to continue down this path–approaching Michael Jackson as a simple freak instead of the product of a complex interaction between the technologies and (human and inanimate) objects of our culture and one person’s difficulty in being offered up as a cultural object. If we’re lucky, someone will offer up a smart analysis of the cultural tensions that created the two Michael Jacksons: The (damaged, brilliant, trouble, dangerous) person, and the (brilliant, confusing, performative, captivating) public persona. The personal and the public increasingly intersected, especially as Jackson aged into a new media era and suddenly it was more than cameras that surrounded him.

Posted in celebrity, creativity, music | Leave a Comment »

PSA: in support of post-punk laptop rap

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on May 16, 2009

Here’s a new release from MC Lars, who calls himself a “post-punk laptop rap artist.”

Posted in awesome, creativity, Henry Jenkins, humor, joy, Moby-Dick, music, nerdcore | 1 Comment »

"The Man in the Attic," by Steven Millhauser

Posted by Jenna McWilliams on March 17, 2009

At exactly midnight by his strapless watch, Haverstraw puts down his No. 2 hexagonal yellow pencil beside his spiral-bound notebook, which he leaves open on the desk, and leans back in his chair. For a moment he feels dizzy, and grips the edge of the desk; it is hot in the attic room, and the air feels stale and close, despite the twenty-year-old rattling window fan that is supposed to draw the hot air out and somehow leave coolness in its wake. The attic room, lined with bookshelves, is above the second floor of the house, where his mother has her bedroom. Haverstraw’s bedroom is also on the second floor, but he prefers to sleep in the old guestbed in the attic study. The mattress sags, his feet stick over the end, and the room is poorly heated in winter, but Haverstraw does not seek comfort. Haverstraw is thirty-nine years old and lives with his sixty-six-year-old mother. For the last nine years he has been at work on an immense project, an experiment in memory, which will justify him. Tonight the writing has gone well, or at least not badly, though perhaps his ideas have carried him a little astray; he has the sudden sense that the whole project is astray, his whole life astray, but the thought is so terrifying that he quickly suppresses it. He must get out and walk in the night. His waking hours are divided into three segments: from one in the afternoon to six at night he gets through the day, from seven to midnight he writes, and from midnight to five in the morning he gets through the night. He sleeps from five in the morning to one in the afternoon. Dinner with his mother is from six to seven&#8212always. His work will justify him. People will understand. He will be redeemed. Remember old Haverstraw? Guy who lived in the attic? Well! Seems that he. Turns out he. Haverstraw needs to get outside and walk. He turns off the bent-neck standing lamp, pushes back his chair&#8212an old kitchen chair with a pillow on the seat&#8212and stands up, wondering whether his little attacks of dizziness are something he ought to worry about. After all, he’s a man almost forty, a man stuck in a bog. His back hurts. His eyes burn. His life hurts. He will be justified. He picks up his watch without a strap and thrusts it into his pocket. Haverstraw crosses the room, switches off the overhead light, and makes his way through the unfinished part of the attic, filled with the abandoned games of his adolescence, the stuffed animals of his childhood. He never throws anything out. Somewhere in a shoebox are all the little prizes from the cereal boxes of thirty years ago, still in their transparent crinkly plastic wrappers. In a drawer of the old dresser sit piles of old bubblegum cards no one has ever heard of: science-fiction cards, movie-star cards, fire-engine cards. He still has his old patrol-boy badge on its white strap, his old paper targets full of BB holes. He ought to clear out all this junk, but it would be like throwing away his childhood. Haverstraw tiptoes down the wooden steps of the attic and makes his way in the dark along the second-floor hall, past his sleeping mother&#8212he can hear her breathing&#8212and down the carpeted stairs. On the dark landing he passes a black, invisible picture: Hokusai’s Great Wave. In his mind he sees vividly the little yellow boats, the little white heads, the towering waves that frightened him as a child, and far away the wave-like top of Mount Fuji. He continues down the carpeted stairs to the front hall. From a hook on the wobbly clothestree he removes his blue nylon windbreaker. He opens the front door quietly, for his mother is a light sleeper. When he steps outside he sees, high up in the dark blue sky, the big white summer moon. His heart lifts. The night will forgive him.

Excerpted from Enchanted Night by Steven Millhauser. Copyright © 1999 by Steven Millhauser. Printed online at

Posted in creativity, fiction, joy, music | Leave a Comment »