Real letters from real geeks

Dear purveyors of electronic music,

I've had just about enough of your squeaks and squeals, your grinding bass, your thumping and testicle shattering bass, all of it. Give it a goddamn rest. I know, I know, you're really clever with that laptop of yours and you look badass in a pair of headphones, but I don't give a rusty fuck. I'm trying to get some reading done here.

There is a time and place for that kind of "music"; namely cavernous warehouses or hangars on the outskirts of town. So baffling is the experience of this artform, drug use is basically mandatory. Who could listen to dubstep sober? Why would you?

But now I endure this cacophony even as I sit down to the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle (I do that shit with pen, fuckers) in the comfort of my own home. It so happens that my neighbours are people with devastatingly, heart-achingly, terrible taste in music. I shall carbon copy them on this note, and remit a third carbon copy to God (In the remote hope that he empathizes and makes all your heads explode in a messy fell swoop. He might recall that he owes me).

Signed an old fogey,


Harvey

Observational humour about patently false things

I can't believe that they're still chopping Filipino babies in two. I mean, I get it. We need more Filipinos, but aren't there enough Asians already? There isn't enough lumpia! What's the deal?

Now I love getting popcorn at the movies, but occasionally I'll be on a date and we'll get to that awkward point of whether or not to get butter on it. Right? Because we all know that it's not really butter, but hot oily horse ejaculate. Talk about awkward. I never really know what to do at this point. I mean, if this girl is so willing to eat popcorn slathered in horse cum — on the first date — you gotta ask yourself: what's Thanksgiving going to be like? This is why I always go for Sour Kids.

I think the problem with most classical music isn't that it's boring: it's the risk of being gored during the performances. Do they really need to release a live, rabid bull into the concert hall? What is this, 1856? Yeah, I appreciate an authentic rendition of the Brandenburg Concerto as much as the next guy, but I'd rather keep my spleen unpunctured. Thaaaaanks.

Four valentines to the library

1

The fortnightly visit of our town's bookmobile was my favourite childhood memory. The bookmobile was an RV full of paperbacks that drove around the parts of the city not served by a library. It would park for an hour or so, in the parking lots of schools and community centres. Children from throughout the neighbourhood would climb on, clamber all over the worn paperbacks, and then return to whatever it was they were doing. Not me. I would show up prepared with a canvas sack. The bookmobile was also useful to pick up holds, and inter-branch transfers. I liked it. That's not to say it didn't have problems. It was smaller than a bank vault inside and all you could really find in there were Choose Your Own Adventures. Well, that's all I read at any rate. (Ask me about The System.)

2

When I was a little bit older, I undertook weekly pilgramages to the Central Branch on Saturday mornings. This weekly geek-ly was a two bus wonder. These days the thought of redeeming a transfer due to multi-stage transit makes me sad and municipally frustrated. But as a kid, anything is possible. The media section was heaven. CDs, VHS tapes and eventually DVDs. I could "rent" movies and keep them for a week, for free. And more than this, I could rent R rated movies with ease. Only occasionally would a librarian call me out on a Juliette Binoche flick or something directed by Bertolucci. Results weren't always spectacular, viz., Paris, Texas. Recognizing the iconic mask, I once signed out The Phantom of the Opera. It was a potent gateway to the rest of Lloyd Webber, and Kander and Ebb, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Boubil and Schonberg, Maury Yeston, and the rest of the sopping gay world of musicals. Could I out-fag a cum-guzzling Mormon about that shit. Try me.

3

One of my exes hates the library. She had a nose-ring and worked at a used bookshop if that's any indication. She considered a book (a word she emphasized by pressing her crossed arms against her chest) to be a personal artefact. Borrowing a book is like borrowing a sip of water, she once said. This, of course is a dumb and worthless opinion. I actually think collecting books is offensive; you can't really own knowledge so hoarding it seems ridiculous to me. To whomever invited the library, I salute you.

4

I dig the library so much, I have even had sex in one.  Not with the aforementioned ex -- though I suspect she would not object to the concept. Rumour has it that the fifth floor of Weldon was the place, so in my final year of university me and the GF at the time trundled over. It was a Tuesday night in Winter. When we got there, we couldn't find an empty enough space amidst the stacks, so we slid an upholstered chair into the stairwell that connects floors. Though the ultra-sensitive echo, fluorescent lighting and concrete were contrary to both eroticism and the library atmosphere, it was sex all the same. Plus, in terms of altitude we still qualify for inclusion in the almanac. I would think.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I would say that ABBA is pretty underrated as a band, don't you think?
Miranda: I don't know.
Harvey: I mean, have you actually listened to their early work? There's a lot of good stuff in there.
Miranda: I haven't listened to it. Were you planning on buying something today?
Harvey: Take their debut album Ring, Ring for example. It's really more schlager or folk-pop than disco.
Miranda:
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: I take it you prefer Voulez Vous?
Miranda: OK, get the fuck out now.

Words I hate

I actually don't hate the word "wastrel."  It just doesn't fit its definition.  It actually means "profligate, or one who wastes resources," but when I hear it I can't help but think "single-use minstrel; a disposable musician."

It's not me, it's you

It's hard to be objective about music.

Sometimes, to obtain a more personal perspective on an album, I like to pretend that I dated the artist in high school and that it ended really, really badly. Like you-continue-to-fuck-her-on-the-sly-for-five-months-after-and-her-parents-catch-you-mid-throes-and-then-her-sobbing-bitterly-and-you-trudge-to-your-car-the-cold-cold-night-and-ask-yourself-aloud-what-the-fuck badly. Then she e-mails you three times a day for a year, trying to get back together.  She calls you in the middle of the night and all you hear is her breathing and sometimes her soft crying.  And you swear that it's her driving by the coffee shop where you work, trying catch a glimpse of your face through the storefront glass.

And then one night, you've had it.  Fueled by vexation, you scribble down every hateful thing you can think of saying to her, and, fueled by white Russians, you seal it with a stamp and plop it in the mailbox at four in the morning.

The next day, your throbbing head considers that four double-sided pages might have been overkill.  But it is done.  The e-mails stop.  The phone calls do too.  She is finally gone.

And the next time you see her is years later, smiling on television.  She has a record deal, a music video, an entourage, fame, money, and most striking of all, a life without you.  The girl that once made your phone buzz all night with text messages, now glares at you smugly from the cover of Rolling Stone.

Armed with this backstory, I popped in Lily Allen's It's Not Me, It's You.  ('Cause really, I wouldn't be able to digest it otherwise.)

Like her debut album, this one is equal helpings of upbeat pop and West London snark.  Everyone's at It is a cynical dance-anthem about drug use that gets the album off to a good start.  The Fear is a standout track; self-aware lyrics and crisp production. The thickly-produced album stays true to Lily's style of hep blog-quality slander. I might consider being offended by Fuck You, but I'm familiar with Lily's sense of hyperbole.

But Who'd Have Known takes me back.  I remember that driveway on a Winter's night, watching my breath float over the dashboard, waiting for the car to warm up.  You stood at the bedroom window and you were crying.  When you put your hand on the window, my eyes darted down  to the empty passenger seat.  The engine was cold; I couldn't wait any more.  My gloveless hands gripped the steering wheel and the car crunched soberly away in the thick snow.

Fag Hag is an embarrassing track.  What the fuck, Lily.

As a whole it's not as impressive as her previous outing, but what sophomore effort ever is?  The songs are a bit more self-conscious and introspective, but I would have hoped that three years later, they would have matured accordingly.  I mean, you still haven't found someone who can fuck you properly?  Who gives a shit?

On my "As if you were my ex-girlfriend music ranking system" I'd give this a Wistful, i.e., decent without pushing me into full-blown regret.  I'll can listen to this voluntarily, but I won't be jerking off despondently to the liner notes.

Scale:

• Shitty (just like our relationship)
• Not bad (but we're not getting back together)
• Three stars (meh)
• Wistful (we had some good times)
• Dammit (I made a terrible mistake)

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Harvey: I've got the peace that passes understanding, down in my heart!
Miranda: Where?
Harvey: Down in my heart!
Miranda: OK, get the fuck out NOW.
Harvey: Down in my -- oh. All right.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: Listen I hate to break up the mood...
Miranda: Get to the point, "begin the beguine"...
Harvey: Haven't you noticed we're a protagonist short, and a pack of smokes please...
Miranda: In this idyllic, that'll be $32 please...
Harvey: Well-produced scene?

Tracklisting for a shitty rock opera

Love in the Year 3000

1. Once were we young (Jermaine, Eloise)
2. Almost Forever! (Chorus)
3. We must to repair this station wagon (Japanese mechanic, Eloise)
4. A road is a life not driven (William, Robo2000)
5. Could you, would we, should they, are you? (Eloise, chorus)
6. Non-vegetarian waltz (Eloise, Jermaine)
7. I'd bet $75 that you're right (Jermaine, William)
8. Pay me back later (William)
9. I have a robo-soul (Robo2000)
10. Once we were young (reprise) (Chorus, Robo2000)
11. Entr'acte
12. I've never eaten meat before/Damsels in distress (Eloise, Clay, Japanese mechanic, Rudy)
13. I L-O-V Eloise (Jermaine)
14. Pay me back later (reprise) (Chorus)
15. Niggaz killin' 'bots (Rudy, Japanese mechanic)
16. SpaceTime (Eloise, William, Clay, Rudy, Japanese Mechanic, Robo2000, Chorus)
17. Almost, Almost Forever! (Chorus)
18. Yesterday's Tomorrow, Today/Once we were young/Finale (Chorus, Robo2000)

Music and lyrics by Harvey Kornbluth
Book by Harvey Kornbluth
Directed by Hal Prince