Read:My:Back

Bangkok Shocks, Saigon Shakes, Cleveland Rocks!

Regular readers know that I've recently begun digitizing the mountain of WPRB aircheck tapes I've accumulated since becoming a listener to the station back in the mid 80s. PRB DJs from that era like Josh Goldfein, Helen Petroff, Mr. Mike Shmelzer, and Rockin' Tim Kastelle remain some of my earliest FM heroes—not far behind Mr. Magic and DJ Red Alert—and certainly played a key role in setting my mind upon radio while still in my very early teens. I joined the WPRB airstaff in 1992 thanks to the encouragement of a few peers in whom I recognized a shared love for independent music and broadcasting. But the shift from idolizing DJs whom I only knew as on-air personalities versus those who would become close friends and creative collaborators was peculiar, to say the least. I still trade emails with many of them several times a week, whereas others vanished into the ether without leaving a single clue as to their next destination. One example of the latter was a woman named Corey.

She was one of WPRB's two music directors at the time I weaseled my way onto the air schedule. Corey was only a year or two older than me, but in many ways came across as the fearsome matriarch of the station. Though she never told me so, I'm sure she thought I was a dork. And she was right—I was a dork. I was a major dork. But I was also enthusiastic, willing to helm an overnight time slot, plus I had a vocal hatred for the band Primus (and therefore promised to deny any telephoned requests for them). It may sound strange now, but in 1992, that last detail was a major asset for townies hoping to land an airslot on the lauded commercial college station.

Corey was into really difficult music, for a student or otherwise. It's almost absurd to think of any current college-age DJ having her musical taste, which had somehow bypassed all the stuff I thought was cool at the time. Her aesthetic was rooted in the musical realm of John Giorno's Poetry Systems, the Dry Lungs noise comps, New Zealand weirdness like the Plagal Grind, the early Homestead Records catalog, and nobody garage bands who'd come and gone without a trace of recognition in their time. Unlike many of WPRB's programs (mine included) which were heavily mired in punk, pop, or indie rock, I recall Corey's show being truly freeform, and bound together by her brilliantly sardonic mic-breaks. After I got to know her, the sense that she was not one to trifle with became even more apparent. Corey was intimidating, she could be wicked mean if she felt like it, and she possessed an amazing ability to whip a bunch of unruly motherfuckers into shape in no seconds, flat.

Sadly, any airchecks I had of either her solo program, or the one she hosted with another female DJ (whose name I forget) called "The Three Bad Sisters" (each host comprising 1.5 of the sisters!) are now long gone, but I did manage to scare up this promo for a Cleveland-centric edition of WPRB's Spotlight which she hosted sometime in 1992.

Spotlight Promo from WPRB-FM

Although it has long since disappeared from WPRB's schedule, Spotlight was a fantastic program in its day. It was hosted by a different DJ each week, and one had to sign up months in advance (on a clipboard in the station's lobby, of course) for a date and artist to focus on. Subsequently, each week's edition of the program was like a crash-course in rabid obsession over a particular band, label, or scene. I fondly recall listening to overexcited DJs drool fanatically over entities as varied as Einstürzende Neubauten, the Feelies, Flying Nun Records... I once hosted an edition of it that focused entirely on the band NoMeansNo, but 15 minutes into my one hour segment, I discovered that an electrical storm had knocked the transmitter off the air and that not a note of my meticulously selected music had been heard. With only 45 minutes left to cram in the hour's worth of music, I raced through the entire thing without doing a single mic break, thusly wiping out any educational value that might've been foisted upon newcomers to the band's catalog. Oh well.

In honor of Corey's more lasting contribution to Spotlight's legacy, here's a classic Cleveland track from the vault:

Sosumi - "Art Party" [MP3], originally from the brilliant Crash Course in Cleveland Life compilation.

and here's a more modern take on Cleveland [via WFMU's Lou Z]. Part of me really wants Les Black's Amazing Pink Holes to cover this.

Alas, Ye Shall Quack No More

There is a very specific thrill that travels up the leg when one holds a piece of flaming meat mightily above one's head. Victory celebrations arrive in scarcely a more triumphant manner, I tells ya.

But even in such moments—or perhaps especially in such moments, one must be careful that molten fat drippings do not accidentally drizzle onto one's forearm, unless of course one seeks to earn the attention of the children attending a birthday party in the next adjacent yard, by unloading a blitz of unintelligible profanity within their earshot.

This weekend, I made my first attempt at grilled Mediterranean duck breasts. And emotional scarring inflicted upon the innocents notwithstanding, I can now say that whomever first suggested cooking fatty meats on an open flame was obviously a hopeless crackhead. These girls caught on fire pretty much the instant I laid them on the grill, and the ten plus minutes I allowed them to cook might be best described as a controlled burn that my trusty squirt bottle only barely allowed me to contain. It would not surprise me to learn that flights bound for JFK airport were diverted to Newark or Laguardia due to the billowing cloud of smoke that erupted in the yard. But that's not to say it wasn't worth all the trouble...

The ingredients:

A pair of one pound duck breasts (skin side scored in five evenly-spaced increments), marinated for 24 hours in the following:

• 1/4 cup olive oil
• 3 bulbs minced garlic
• 1 tbsp. chopped, fresh rosemary
• 1 teaspoon crumbled thyme
• generous splash of balsamic vinegar
• juice from 1/2 lemon
• salt/pepper

Grill the skin side first, about 5 minutes on medium-high heat. Be prepared with your metal tongs and a squirt bottle filled with water—you'll need to keep the meat moving and away from the fires that will flare up no matter where you position them on your grill. And be careful when you start squirting, as the flames will roar up menacingly when the fat-fuel is struck by water. (This is not a meal to prepare while sporting dangling jewelery, much less pirate shirts or renaissance faire-wear with frilly sleeves.)

When the skin sides are nice and crusty, flip them over, reduce the heat to medium-low and grill an additional 10 minutes, or until center cuts reveal a pinkish red interior. You'll still have multiple fires to contend with, so if you've got other components lined up for this feast, you'll be best off leaving them to a cooking companion. More than anything else I've ever laid atop the flaming Kenmore, these Mediterranean duck breasts demanded constant attention, but as you can see from the picture, the payoff was enormous. The fatty exterior crisps up into a bacon-like texture and provides the perfect compliment to the gorgeously juicy red meat just beneath it. Although it may look burned, it tasted heavenly, and prompted epic levels of orgasmic moaning and eye-rolling, all of which fared surprisingly better with the birthday crowd next door.

Springtime Rocket Pesto

That peppery-flavored beer from the other night clearly left its influence on my palate. Sometime over the last 72 hours, I began daydreaming about rocket pesto, which culminated in yesterday afternoon being entirely de-railed so as to forage for the ingredients I'd need to make some.

Rocket—that's Roquette to you Frenchies, Arugula for the Americans, and Eruca Sativa to the Wikipedians. It's the wonderful little leaf that we could all stand to spend some more time with, and switching it out for basil in a traditional pesto recipe is one of my favorite uses for it. It whips up into a fantastic neon green (below), is amazingly good for you, and tastes simply delicious. Here's what I combined in the food processor to whip mine together:

• 1 4 oz. bag of rocket
• juice from 1 lemon
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• 3 cloves peeled garlic, quartered
• 1/3 cup shredded Parmigiano Reggiano
• 1/4 cup pine nuts
• 1/4 cup walnuts
• salt and pepper to taste
• dash sugar (optional)

As usual, I was too excited to bother measuring anything, so all amounts are approximate. Consistency and flavor are what you're after, though, so use your judgment and decide what it needs more of. Too garlicky for you? Add more nuts and cheese. Too dry? Add more olive oil. I threw in a dash of sugar right at the end to relax the flavor ever so slightly. I also added five or six cherry tomatoes we had sitting around that needed to be either used or tossed, and they helped loosen things up to a hummus-like consistency, which is how I like it best.

 

If you're sensitive to what some Californians call The Stinking Rose (i.e. you're not so fond of that pickled tongue sensation that excessive amounts of raw garlic can bring on), I would recommend roasting prior to blending it in with the other ingredients. In this case, you can even cheat by microwaving the bulbs in a covered ramekin with some olive oil until they're soft, but oven roasting will definitely bring out a rich and smokey dimension that'll only make your pesto taste better. Serve it over the pasta of your choice with more parmesan, some fleur de sel, and a bottle of red wine. (That's cheese for you Frenchies, sea salt for the Americans, and an alcoholic beverage made from fermented grape juice for the Wikipedians. As Johnny Lydon once said:

Beer that Tastes like Food, Part II

Only this time, it's sharp pepper (as opposed to bacon) that's got my taste buds alight.

Click here to see a closeup of the label (which is rather stunning, I think—Sort of a hybrid of Time Bandits-era Terry Gilliam, and the Devendra Banhart/Espers beer label trend, which Scott mentions briefly here.)

The people at RateBeer.com can't seem to agree on this one, as this page demonstrates. But in the meantime, I've got an early evening buzz and a pleasantly hot aftertaste to reckon with.

From the label:
Route des Épices (French for "Spice Route") is a rye beer brewed with both black and green peppercorns. Initially, the beer reveals flavours of fresh grain and malt, which give it notes of chocolate, carmel, and fruit. The pepper flavour and aroma is fully revealed in the finish, which leaves a pleasant, spicy, tingling sensation on the tongue.


The photograph in this post is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Opening Day of Grilling Season, 2009 Edition

Ever since my wife convinced me that we needed a gas grill, I've looked forward to each new grilling season with the kind of passion that Mets fans anticipate opening day with. That's not to say I'm strictly a fair weather grilling guy—far from it. I've spent many an Arctic evening shivering in the backyard, armed only with a flashlight and a ramekin of extra marinade, all in the name of new culinary conquests. But as with baseball, the first truly Spring-like day of the year frames the practice of grilling with particular romance. The authenticity and immediate satisfaction of it remind us that we're alive—living, breathing, and sentient beings.

So to celebrate Springtime's descent upon the metro NYC area, I burned a pair of turkeyburgers beyond all recognition, unloaded a mouthful of profanity at no one in particular, and then angrily shook a collection of long, metal utensils at the sky. When I produced the charred remains to my wife—somehow implying that dinner was now "ready"—my confidence was hovering at an historic low. But by quickly disposing of the evidence associated with this epic failure, I think I lowered the risk of its lingering influence tarnishing our next meal. So we did what any practical urbanites would do: smothered the burgers in wasabi ketchup, threw them down the hatch, and agreed to never speak of the incident again. And just as I'd hoped, it wasn't long before I'd once again taken up my place behind the grill with a renewed sense of determination, where experiments with the following marinades offered truly interstellar results.

Cajun Shrimp Marinade

I'm a relative stranger to Cajun cooking, but my customary prowling of the food blogs had lately left me craving something a little bit spicier than usual. And since the arrival of grilling season happens to coincide with the arrival of allergy season, I was floored to concoct this marinade, which is both tasty and sinus-clearing.

• 3/4 cup olive oil
• 1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley
• juice from one whole lemon
• 4 tbsp. hot pepper sauce of your choice (I used a combination of Cholula, Frank's, and habanero Tabasco)
• 3 cloves minced garlic
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 2 tsp. dried oregano
• salt and pepper to taste
• 1 -1.5 pounds of shrimp, unshelled, deveined, tails off.
• wooden skewers (optional)

As with most marinades, all quantities are approximate and I'll proudly admit that I didn't soil a single measuring implement in my version of this one. Just remember to taste it and add more of whatever flavors you like best before you toss in the raw shrimp.

• Mix all ingredients together and let the shrimp marinate for no more than two hours.
• If you're using wooden skewers, soak them in water for at least 15 minutes, and then thread the shrimp on by piercing each piece once near the head and once near the tail. (Note: skewering is recommended because A) shrimp cook quickly, thus you'll be able to flip them more efficiently, and B) nothing sucks worse than seafood falling through the slats of your grill, and skewers prevent this from happening. If you're stubborn, at least use a slotted grill tray.)
• Lightly oil your grilling surface and prepare for medium-low cooking.
• Add skewers and cook several minutes per side, depending how large your beasties are. Remove from heat once they are opaque, and eat 'em up. We threw ours on a salad, cracked open a cheap bottle of rosé, and heralded the arrival of warm weather in our most preferred manner.

The next day, we inflicted what some might call a true indignity upon the Kenmore brand name by making grilled tofu. Let me pause here to state that like many of you, I went through the customary teenage vegetarian phase sometime in 1988 or 89. I can now freely admit that my primary motivation wasn't a desire for healthier eating habits, but my infatuation with an unattainable alterna-babe from my high school. She was a vegetarian, and I thought that by copying her diet, she might feel sympathetic towards me and reward me with a date. Instead, she acknowledged my gesture by making me a Roxy Music tape (encouraging!), and then writing something creepy in my yearbook (less so!)

Suffice to say, my relationship with popular vegetarian ingredients has seen its ups and downs in the ensuing years. Only recently did I brave making a tempeh-based dish, and after shucking the peculiar and knobbly-looking slab from its wrapping, I was only able to summon the bravery to chop it up for tacos. Tofu and I go way back, all the way to the dark years of the Clinton administration when making vegetable stir fry was regarded as exotic. But even then, the tofu was simply diced up and thrown in for texture—I'd never made more than a passing attempt to marinate it, and when I did, having it taste faintly of salt was considered a success. So imagine my joy upon discovering that something as simple and pedestrian as English Breakfast Tea could act as a secret weapon for flavoring this most stubborn offspring of the soybean.

Tea-Marinated Tofu Steaks with Mushrooms

• 1 14 oz. package of extra firm tofu
• 1/3 cup of strong-brewed Darjeeling or English Breakfast tea
• 1/3 cup soy sauce
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 piece of fresh ginger root (approx 2 inches long), peeled and minced
• 1 tbsp. brown sugar
• 2 tbsp. olive oil
• a few slices of clean and dried mushroom (shitake, portobello, etc.)

Measuring is a bit more key here, as gushy tofu can easily break up on the grill, but there's still wiggle room for you to adjust as you see fit (less soy sauce, more tea, vice versa, etc.)

• Slice your tofu block horizontally into two slabs of equal thickness. Wrap them side by side in a few layers of paper towels, and place a heavy frying pan or skillet on top for 30 minutes to help drain the liquid out. Don't use one that's too heavy or else your tofu will squish!
• Add the other ingredients to a shallow baking dish that can accommodate both tofu slabs side by side. Stir well, so as to dissolve the sugar.
• Push mushrooms to side of dish and gently add tofu to marinade. Cover, refrigerate, and let soak for at least 4 hours (overnight is better), turning once.
• Prepare grill for medium heat. Give your slotted grill tray a quick shot of cooking spray, lay it on the grill, and wait for it to heat up.
• Using the most forgiving spatula in your possession, add the tofu to the hot grill and cook each side until pleasingly charred/crusty about the edges. Use the excess marinade to baste while cooking.
• Remember, tofu—like the vegetarians who love it—is gentle like a flower, so save the aerial flipping maneuvers for the burger n' dogs crowd. Serve with cilantro-lime rice, and sauteed Brussels sprouts. (Damning detail: Our recipe for the latter includes bacon, so once again it's up-against-the-wall for the Moosewood types.)

Kim Deal (Pixies) Interview from 20 Years Ago

Anyone reading this who's enjoyed a regular pulse over the last fifteen years has probably heard their share of Pixies songs, whether they wanted to or not. In New York City, CDs by the famed alt-rock band are a ubiquitous presence on jukeboxes from Cobble Hill to Hell's Kitchen—long having supplanted barfly standards like London Calling and Inner Visions with Surfer Rosa and Come On Pilgrim. I'm not quite sure how it happened, but I've long-contended that at some point between their breakup in 1993 and reformation in 2004, the Pixies somehow seized the peculiar distinction of becoming my generation's Led Zeppelin.

Chiding any band for their popularity (whether they deserve it or not) is too easy, so I will admit that I like the Pixies well enough. They're not a band I give any regular consideration to anymore, which I guess puts them in the same category as Bullet Lavolta, the Nervous Eaters, Slapshot, or any of the other popular underground bands from the Pixies' hometown of Boston. I bought the first couple of Pixies records when they came out, saw them perform live exactly once, and then they just sort of faded out from my consciousness. (I couldn't name you a single track from Trompe le Monde or Bossanova if I tried.) Although my personal interest in them was apparently fleeting, I've continually marveled at the incredible traction their music enjoys with both aging hipsters, and kids way too young to have seen them in the first place.

That stated, I submit for your enjoyment this interview with Pixies bass player Kim Deal, which aired on Princeton's WPRB twenty years ago this September. (About three years prior to my becoming a DJ there.)

Kim Deal on WPRB, airdate 9.26.89 [All music breaks have been removed intentionally, so as to skirt the wrath of major labels and copyright owners. You probably have these records anyway.]

Kim and her band performed at Trenton's City Gardens later on the same evening, and I actually won tickets to that show by calling in during the guest-pass giveaway at the end of this segment. The opening band was The Blisters, whose t-shirt and 7" single I purchased following their set. Many years later, Tom Scharpling informed me that he had been the one hawking the Blisters' merch that night, and so had presumably sold me the t-shirt and record in question years prior to either of us meeting or being associated with WFMU. New Jersey is kind of small like that, apparently.

The interview is conducted by WPRB hosts Greg Savage and "Cousin" Dave, two of the more exemplary DJs on the station's airwaves at that time. Kim's rapid-fire commentary is quite entertaining, so listen up as she dishes on everything from the Belgian festival circuit, working with producer Steve Albini, and her general indifference towards the poetry of Henry Rollins.

Rough Trade Records: Small Business Owners Say Amen!

History likes to identify the most successful small businesses as those that lashed out against popular convention, constantly sought to raise expectations, re-worked the rules to their own advantage, and remained unflinchingly committed to their ideals. Since the United States vastly outflanks all other countries in the sheer number of independent startups that are registered annually [source: The Economist], there's an awful lot of evidence to sift through in order to discover how accurate that claim really is. But with so many small businesses introduced in the U.S. each year, it's a simple matter of natural selection that a lot of them fail, even during more prosperous days than those being offered by current history. However, a curious detail that's commonly overlooked is that even doomed startups often make a good deal of money, but wind up tanking as a result of poor asset management.

I got to thinking about this while watching the BBC's excellent documentary on the rise, fall, and second coming of England's legendary Rough Trade Records. While it's true that most Americans would be flummoxed by the notion of marketing radical bands like Metal Urbain, the Desperate Bicycles, and Pere Ubu, the Rough Trade story remains an indisputably worthy and thoughtful tribute to the pioneer spirit of entrepreneurship. As a result, the available lessons are ones that any open-minded small business owner can certainly benefit from. Whether you approach this compelling documentary as an established fan of British youth culture, or as a visionary who's sitting on a great idea, the necessary tools for raising your own empire will be revealed with a clarity that's truly inspiring.

Don't snooze on this one, as BBC content is often yanked from third-party hosts!

WFMU Fill-in for Tom Scharpling | 4.7.09

Buckaroo Banzai and the Hong Kong Cavaliers - "Banzai Jam" - The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai
Mr. Scruff & Quantic - "Donkey Ride" - Ninja Tuna *
Beasts of Bourbon - "Drop Out" - The Axeman's Jazz
The Melvins - "The Kicking Machine" - Nude With Boots *
Bob Hund - "Bli Aldrig Som Oss, Bli Varre" - Folkmusik *
Death - "Politicians in My Eyes" - For the Whole World To See *
Golden Earring - "Twilight Zone" - 12" single

Pernice Brothers - "Let that Show" - The World won't End
Insight - "True to the Game" - X: A Decade of Independence 2xCD *
Serge Gainsbourg - "Lunatic Asylum" - L' Homme a Tete de Chou
Marion Maerz - "Frag doch nur Dein Herz" - Burt Bacharach Songbook *
Screamers - "Matar Dolores" - In a Better World 2xCD
Carolee - "Water the Rocks" - CD EP * [MySpace]
Lafayette Gilchrist - "For Vince Loving" - The Music According to Lafayette Gilchrist *
Big Blood - "Heart of Glass" - Under Covers (For WFMU) *
The Volta Sound - "No Control" - My All American Girl

John Cale - "Leaving it up to You" - Guts
PJ Harvey & John Parish - "Black Hearted Love" - A Woman A Man Walked By *
Frak - "Breakfast Morning" - Loce Beyond Synth Saga *
Kraftwerk - "Home Computer" - Computer World
Sweet Tee - "I Got da Feelin'" - Fly Girls! B-Boys Beware 2xCD *
Wooden Shjips - "Motorbike" - Dos *
The Next - "Mr. Wonderful" - Deep in the Throat of Texas: Six Small Wonders of Texas Punk [compilation]
Sunshine - "Insomnia" - Necromance: Digital Urban Icons
Pet Shop Boys - "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)" - Pop Art [Vinyl Box Set]
Kurt Vile & the Violators - "The Hunchback" - The Hunchback EP *

Eglantine Gouzy - "Boa" - 4 Women No Cry [compilation]
Arthur Russell - "Place I Know/Kid Like You" - World of Echo
Bobby Goldsboro - "Summer (The First Time)" - 7"
Alan & Richard Bishop - "Space Prophet Dogon" - The Brothers Unconnected: Tribute to Charles Gocher & Sun City Girls *
Dub Dickerson - "Lovinest Lovin'" - Desperate Rock & Roll, Vol. 10
Spacemen 3 - "Walkin' with Jesus" - The Perfect Prescription
Erica Pomerance - "You Used to Think" - You Used to Think [Re-issue, 1968] *
The War on Drugs - "Show me the Coast" - Wagonwheel Blues *
James Brown - "The Boss" - Black Caesar
Andrew Lloyd Weber & Tim Rice - "This Jesus Must Die" - "Jesus Christ Superstar"
Michael Nesmith - "Rio" - From a Radio Engine to the Photon Wing

Notes:

• An asterisk indicates a new or recent release.
• After some consideration, I decided to shut down the real-time comment feed during this show. I certainly don't intend this as a slight against the many wonderful listeners who've made meaningful contributions in that forum, but I think the technology has begun attracting people who don't actually give a hoot about WFMU or its programming. I'm sure you'd agree there are plenty of online platforms for hurling stupidity into the ether, so rather than provide another one, I'll probably be cruising comment-free in the future. It''s also worth mentioning that the show got a hell of a lot better once I swung the axe.
  
• That new Kurt Vile song is THEE-DIRTY-HOODED-SWEATSHIRT-DRUGGIE-JAM-OF-2009! For more on Kurt Vile, check out the piece I wrote about him in Dusted Magazine a while back, or head this way for some killer MP3s from WFMU's newly launched Free Music Archive.
• A bunch of songs played during this show were brought to my attention by the brilliant SibLINGSHOT ON THE BLEACHERS MP3 blog. I love this blog not just for the editor's musical taste (which is exemplary), but also for his artful presentation of the material. Rather than post entire albums (which I don't approve of), he instead zeroes in on a particular song or two and offers it along with anecdotal text which is as smart as it is smart-assed. Ambiguity and mystery is, for me, a major component to the joy of discovering new sounds, and unlike a lot of MP3 blogs that treat art as a bland commodity, SibLINGSHOT uses it to make personal and political points with exceptional panache. I'm proud to call myself a fan.
  

Something Sinister Stirs in the Suburbs

Pictured: The battered husk of a telecom junction box that I came across somewhere in suburban New Jersey. Is this an example of poorly directed populist rage? A random act of artistic protest? Maybe it's just local cable technicians pulling a McNulty and getting wasted on the job. Whatever the logic, it's a good reminder of just how fragile the technology is that keeps entire suburban neighborhoods wired up to Bravo, Turner Classic Movies, and the Playboy Channel.

It's an idea worth pondering, as one of the most striking observations to be made when visiting the 'burbs is the apparent lack of people who spend time outdoors, even on nice days. It can be downright jarring to see someone out for a walk, or smoking a cigarette on their front stoop, or doing any of the other things I see people doing (and do myself) on a regular basis in New York. And then weirder still, when you do see someone on a suburban street who's lacking an apparent destination, they often seem suspicious and alien and make you wonder if maybe the police ought to be summoned.

Granted, this is a common remark made by arrogant city folk all the time, so I know I'm not blazing any new trails with this discussion. But I do believe the reasoning behind it goes deeper than mere lifestyle or cultural differences. In the suburbs, there is a designated place for every desired activity. (You drive to the park to walk your dog, or you drive to the gym to run on a treadmill.) City life is more hastily thrown together, and the structures and spaces are constantly being re-purposed to suit the changing needs of the population. (We live in apartments that used to be warehouses, and we eat in restaurants that were formerly banks or brothels.) All of this has convinced me there must be something that hinders suburbanites from using the ample space they've left between themselves and their neighbors. Yards, parks, baseball diamonds—They'll brag endlessly about the enviable amenities of their environment, yet they rarely seem to use them. So what is it? What's inside their homes that's got their rapt attention? Money? Drugs? Video games? Since the behavioral line of demarcation is so apparent when crossing from a city to a suburb, I think it's got to be something that city people either don't know about, or wouldn't care about in the first place. Something like the Playboy Channel.

I don't believe I've ever seen the Playboy Channel, even back when I was 12 and had friends whose fathers kept dirty magazines and unmarked VHS tapes stacked away in secluded cabinets. For all I know, the Playboy Channel may not even exist anymore, what with adult entertainment now being more commonly sought on the internet. But something about the mere idea of the Playboy Channel—that one can tune it in and possibly see something naughty—just seems more wholesome and suburban than the porn-packed internet, which I'd argue is used more deliberately by those seeking to quell their prurient urges. Even saying the words "The Playboy Channel" out loud just sounds silly and like a thing that only very mild people would find risqué—much like the magazine itself, I suppose.

Anyway, the next time you're driving through empty suburban streets and notice that the houses on most every block have only a faint blue glow emanating from behind the drawn curtains, I recommend giving this theory a moment of consideration. The vacant backyards, empty swimming pools, and abandoned basketball courts may be symptomatic of something even more peculiar than we ever imagined.

The photograph in this post is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.

Thursday Night Five Finger Linkdump

Actually, make that seven fingers.

Isabella Rossellini speaks loudly about penises [New York Magazine]
She's as weird and wonderful as ever. Among other things, I really want a soundbyte of her saying: I will develop a tunnel and it will be a labyrinth (in, as Logan Hill calls it, that "heavily accented, slightly naughty voice".) I'd play it on the radio every week.

Beat Mining with the Vinyl Hoover [BBC Radio 4]
A brilliant, one-hour audio history of beat mining and record collecting. With thoughtful commentary from Steinski, Afrika Bambaataa, Malcolm McLaren, the 45 King, and other such luminaries. Only available for few more days, so don't snooze on this one!

F***ed by Grandma [Roving Gastronome]
Zora's bouncing around Spain for a few weeks, doing what any sane person would do—Eating in as many different restaurants as possible, and then writing about it in such a way that'll have you alternating between pangs of hunger and peals of laughter.

Top Ten Punk Jazz Records [Lovegloom]
Blurt, Last Exit, Rudolph Grey, Ornette Coleman, and other aggro skronk made somehow approachable via the casual genius of WFMU's Scott McDowell.

The G20—Be Bold [The Economist]
Early theorizing on the summit from my favorite bunch of over-educated doomsayers. Seriously, cover stories from the last few issues have been so grim, I'm now anticipating a headline that simply reads: WE'RE ALL DOOMED. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES.

Russian Nuclear Icebreakers [Dark Roasted Blend, via Tale of the Twelve]
Impressive photo essay of exactly what the link title implies. Sort of like The Shining meets that Sean Connery movie about the submarines. Also, mammoth fossils just lying around the place.

Death [MP3s]
When NPR creams itself over anything music related, it's usually time to pack up the wagon and start looking for a new mud pit. So no one was more shocked than I was to see them get their panties in a twist over Drag City's brilliant re-issue of that Death record. (Detroit proto-punk band featuring all African American band members.) The New York Times has also worked itself into an accordant lather over this one. No doubt that the MP3s are nice, but support the label and mail-order yourself a hot slab of vinyl right now!