Peter Christopherson died today. He was a founding member of several seminal industrial / avant-garde groups of the 70’s and 80’s, including Throbbing Gristle, Psychic TV and Coil.
If I were to choose just one band that I would be forced to listen to for all eternity, to the exclusion of all else, I would choose Coil. They started out making very harsh industrial music in the mid-80’s, influenced as they were by the AIDS epidemic that was killing so many of the band’s friends. Into the 90’s and ’00s the band started experimenting with acid house and neo-folk, and were heavily invested in a stark sort of dark ambience by the time of Jhonn Balance’s death and the dissolution of the band. I keep my set of Ape of Naples vinyl away from everything else on my mantle because it is something approaching a sacred object to me.
Everything that Sleazy participated in, from TG all the way up to Threshold Houseboys Choir (his de facto solo project), was brilliant, and his music was changing and evolving throughout his career. I was looking forward to more decades of beautiful music from Sleazy, but sadly he has been taken from us too soon. I haven’t been this devastated over the death of an artist since Jhonn Balance, the other half of Coil, fell from his balcony to his death in 2004.
I was meaning to send Sleazy an email — he apparently would respond in full to every fan email he receieved and have extended conversations with writers – but somehow I slept on that and now I’m obviously kicking myself pretty hard. RIP.
The Quietus has a brief remembrance from Chris Carter and Cosey Fanni Tutti here. No word as yet from Genesis P. Orridge, who left the reconstituted TG a few weeks ago.
In response to a post about Wikileaks causing a rift between the US and its allies, MsAndreaDworkinIsInThaHouse brings us another comment full of insight and nuance http://gawker.com/comment/33078113/
Her comments are like the call of the great wild Gawktard: shrill, stupid and without thought and they always bring the lulz. If Andrea Dworkin could see what her name hath wrought I suspect she’d be sad at the spectacle of the stupid.
I took my dog Casey to the vet today — nothing too serious, just a persistent infection. While I was there, I couldn’t help thinking about other dogs, other trips to the vet, other Thanksgivings.
Let me tell you about Kona the Wonder Dog, the dog who’s faster than a speeding squirrel, who can climb sheer hillsides with a single bound, the scourge of cats from coast to coast. The same Kona who steals my dinner off the grill as it cooks, then hops onto the sofa and naps at my feet. The same Kona who bares her belly shamelessly, begging for tummy rubs. And the same one who lets me wrap my arms around her and cry into her fur, who lets me know that she’ll always be there for me.
A chunky, 70-lb shepherd mix, black and tan, with a big smile and a floppy ear, Kona is nearly 14. She’s slowing down some, but she remains as wondrous as ever.
Remains.
Remains.
Remains.
They are on the dining room table in a tin canister. Her tags, collar and leash are in a bag.
The night before Thanksgiving Kona’s back legs gave out. She needed to get to a pet hospital but I couldn’t handle it. I want to say I held her through the night, that I kissed her and told her I loved her, but the truth is, I don’t remember.
I do remember spending Thanksgiving Day at the hospital. Pneumonia. Possibly cancer. Tests and more tests. I couldn’t breathe: Friday morning I was supposed to get on a plane to California to see my father, who recently told me has cancer, a type of melanoma that doesn’t respond well to treatment, that is said to act quickly.
Couldn’t I postpone my visit a couple of days? Some friends — who know more about parents? who know less about dogs? — ripped me apart. It got too late to change plans, I was too tired. So that night, Thanksgiving night, I stayed with Kona for hours, telling her her life’s story — how she came to live with me and my ex. How we got her a sister dog. How she, Astro and I left their dad and moved to Washington, D.C.
A few hours’ break, clothes in a suitcase, hugs and kisses for Astro. Back at the hospital, Kona was too weak to walk to a private room. So I lay down on my belly on the floor in front of her cage, rested my head on her rear and continued with her story. Ten minutes into it, she turned around so we could be face to face, eye to eye, nose to nose. She was so beautiful, but so tired, so pale, so old. I cried more as departure time approached. I hadn’t finished her story. I told her I was saving the rest for my return, so she would have to wait for me.
She didn’t. She couldn’t.
Four vets worked fiercely that weekend but cancer had spread through her body. The only question was which would kill her first — cancer or pneumonia.
Then Saturday they thought she’d stabilized! She might even be able to come home with me. But Sunday she was worse. They made a last attempt while my family took me out for dinner. It was my birthday.
The plasma transplant failed. Late that night I had to make the decision. It was easy, really: Everything we’d done so far had been to prolong her life; anything more would only prolong her death.
A sweet veterinarian cried on the telephone with me, then said something lovely: We don’t put her down, we don’t put her to sleep. We let her go.
I wasn’t there and when I got home Tuesday night, she wasn’t here. Only Astro, scared and skittish and lost. She needed me so I gave her enough love for two dogs.
Death is new to me. I’d expected a constant, crushing agony. Instead it is a numbness broken by brief but painful crying jags. It’s a feeling I’m afraid I’ll come to know very well: Dad is noticeably thinner and paler than he was six weeks ago.
Kona’s presence can be felt throughout the house, as can feel her absence. Both make me ache.
Astro and I are going to take a trip to North Carolina’s Outer Banks. The three of us once spent a week there. Kona charmed all the beach boys into throwing tennis balls into the ocean for her to chase. I begged them not to throw so far. I was sure she would end up in England or France.
Who knows, when we scatter her ashes, maybe she will end up in France. Where she will eat baguette and pate while Astro and I grieve.
In memory of the Wonder Dog and Baby Astro, please hug your animals tonight.
Gawkward is Crasstalk’s compilation of truly ridiculous/idiotic Gawker comments.
Today’s Gawkward contribution comes from the commenter MsAndreaDworkinIsInThaHouse after a nice post by Ryan Tate making the case that News Corp.’s new iPad-only news app was doomed to fail:
at least he’s trying. entrepreneurs take risks. that’s why some people are entrepreneurs and some people criticize them.
Well played, Ms. Dworkin! It’s so obvious that this Tate fellow is just some jealous pussy who’s afraid to start his own mom-and-pop multinational right-wing media death cult. Good job. Now let’s go make sure Bristol Palin doesn’t get voted off DWTS!!!1!!!
Last night I was awake at 4:30 AM and with no real chance of sleeping so I decided to go out to the couch. On TV I found the 1991 gem Nothing But Trouble starring Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd, John Candy and Demi Moore. Plus a bonus cameo by Digital Underground. Since I wasn’t in my right mind, I decided to watch the entire movie. Continue reading →
There really weren’t too many lessons to be learned from Hawaii Five-0 this week. I hope you aren’t disappointed. But I’ll still share what I learned from the episode where four very, very evil people used Triathlons as cover for their crimes.
1) Snow cone guys are a lot more important than I realized. Apparently they hang out with high-level law enforcement all the time. Even when they are just working around the house. (Either that or I’m just missing the cues that “our hero” has very, very broad tastes.)
2) If you are the highest ranking law enforcement official in the state, with complete immunity and a direct line to the governor, you can totally just give your phone away to other people, no problem. Like “Oh, you sat on my phone, that’s gross. You keep it.” levels of no problem.
3) Being a Rookie Cop sucks. And you should always wear your bathing suit instead of underwear in case you have to strip down and jump in the water all the time.
In an isolated spot in Elbert County Georgia stands one the most mysterious monuments in American history. The Georgia Guidestones are are an arrangement of large granite slabs that are arranged in a manner that allow them to be used as an astrological calendar and clock. This would make the structures interesting enough, but the uncertainty about who built the monument and the cryptic messages written upon it make the Guidestones the object of much speculation from the conspiracy theory community. Continue reading →
You may or may not have noticed myrecentobsession with 70sclothingads. I’m here to share some more reminders of why change is sometimes a good thing.
First, one that’s not that bad (for the 70s). We have British men who look like douchebags. Their shades have actually come back into style, and many people still look like douchebags while wearing them.
Every six months, I decide that I am going to write something. This something is usually a short story. Occasionally, it is a novel. Always, it is basically autobiographical, because I am not good at making things up that aren’t lies to make my life easier, e.g., “No, Verizon customer service representative, I did not repeatedly drop my Droid on concrete, as that would be irresponsible. It vibrated off a slightly sloped, very low table, onto thick-pile carpet. What? Oh. I have no idea how that cracked the screen. Faulty product, obviously.”
The problem is, I am not good at writing like this. I don’t know why I keep trying. It is like Barney Frank deciding to sing opera or Britney Spears promising to wear underwear every day. Some people are not cut out for some things.
And yet. I try. I’m trying now. I have two pages – and that’s single spaced. It will be different this time. There will be a plot, instead of vague and morose character development lasting for ten pages before I get distracted and never come back to it. There will be some pretense of it not being a journal entry. I will not channel Holden Caulfield. I will not start every sentence with the words “I,” “they,” or “the.” And when I fail miserably, as I always do, I will shelve this foolishness and go back to the things I’m actually good at, like telling the internet about interesting scientific progress or what food products I woke up to find on my floor after a night of heavy drinking.
I seriously hate this Travelers’ commercial. The one with the rattlesnake with the baby rattle instead of a real rattle. And the rabbits are no longer afraid and start laughing at it. And it curls up and cries.
Bullshit.
They need to show the next ten seconds of that ad, where the rattlesnake remembers “Oh, hey, I don’t kill rabbits with my rattle, I kill them with my speed and fangs and venom!” and then proceeds to strike at each in quick succession as they lay back with exposed bellies giggling to their deaths.
You may or may not have noticed 