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Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Q: Why doesn't Gwen Stefani read Lovecraft?

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In fact, Kasey, one can find pluots and plumicots -- though no "plumpricots" -- at the Hollywood Farmer's Market. I think the difference is supposed to be one of proportion, but all I know for sure is that I've seen the two sold side by side, and there is a distinction. Both hybrids, in the setting just mentioned, show up in one of my poems in the Green Integer book.

(I am putting real plumicots in an imaginary cake. "The Real Plums," as it happens, has been a new-band-name contender for a while, though it's been pointed out that it recalls, fadingly, Eve's Plum. Perhaps I worry too much about not just using a name that hasn't been used [here's a really frustrating case], but of which the elements haven't either. I mean, there's Mountain, and there's The Goats....Package tour w/ John?)

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The real problem with that name, though, is: What could be less rock 'n' roll than nicking a title from Mary McCarthy? Oh, one thing -- nicking one from L. P. Hartley via Joseph Losey.

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"Pluot" or "Plumicot," on the other hand, might work. With 'the' or w/o? Could I live for the next 20 years with "The Plumicots" on my cd covers, $25 baseball tees, LED marquees above Staples Center? Perhaps. Anyway, I call dibs.

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My Hat arrived yesterday, a little dinged and creased by its flight west -- maybe I'll have it blocked. I wouldn't normally do this but -- Errata's lip: A line on p. 12 should read "that bonghit in the breakroom had teeth," not...ah...hat. This in now way diminishes my pleasure at being included in what early returns suggest is the rare single issue of a mag that both crystallizes a moment and is a consistently good read.

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Not wowed by Junior Boys last night; no presence. Mistake (one I've made) to select 3 of first 4 songs from non-album material. J. Greenspan is burlier than you'd think from the recs (and even the pics I've seen), can sing in tune live, and is a rather good bassist -- but he looked, I'm surprised to say, as though he'd be more comfortable rocking out. A few Spacelanders dancing, clearly unused to the effort. Annoyed at self for not realizing The Russian Futurists would go on earlier -- it might have been the another singing-to-our-tracks-with-a-little-added-something trip, but I've found his records appealing, and you never can tell. Instead, walked in to Brad Laner and another guy doing G4 = $2000 effect pedal noise. Split before Caribou/Manitoba, despite recommendations -- just exhausted from my own digital everyday.

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Wandered into the non-Ballard Crash Mon. evening. The common complaint seems to be that the characters are pawns, which I wouldn't mind if the film were actually a polemic; as it stands, it's like the last 3rd of Los Angeles Plays Itself minus a position, plus a larded-on Mark Isham score. Watchable for some of the performances, particularly Ludacris and, what do you know, Brendan Fraser and Sandra Bullock. Undecided on meat-faced Matt Dillon (Mark Wahlberg would be perfect in 10 years) and stoic Don Cheadle. Whole thing fell out of my mind immediately.

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Also seen: Two Minutes (1932, Mervyn Leroy), filmed play w/ Edward G. Robinson just after Little Caesar, not as modulated as his later performances, but you can see why he was a star; The Painted Woman (1932, John L. Blystone, 1932) and Mandalay (1934, Michael Curtiz), both revolving around a "hostess" in a decadent port town (think The Shanghai Gesture) trying to escape from 'the life' and the men who want to drag her back thereto. The first was fairly weak, despite Spencer Tracy and skin; the second significantly better, and very well-appointed, production-wise. Kay Francis' whore name, early on, is "Spot White," which I couldn't figure out at all; when her lover determines to leave her at Walter Oland's "nightclub" in trade from guns he can sell for a profit up a river, it was sufficiently dismaying that Bree -- who rarely speaks during a movie -- leaned over and whispered, "Please don't ever do that to me." Later, on a cruise ship, Midwestern wife shuts up her over-friendly husband: "Don't brag about Topeka."

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[Is there an upside-down html tag? Oh well.] A: 'Cos she ain't no Hollenbecq girl.

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