New Music Mondays

I say Monday out of consideration for those of you whose weeks might not consist entirely of sunny Saturdays by the pool. (Yes, mine do. It's summer.)

Mondays are new music days. Here's some music that made May 1st a happier day:

Notice the producer of Norah Jones' new album is Danger Mouse. So it might sound a little like the latest album from The Black Keys or a little like this:

May 1st has also given us this one from Rufus Wainwright:

Mr. Wainwright's latest was produced by Mark Ronson. So it might sound a little like this at times:

Lastly, we've got something from our folk rock/hippie friends. I'm not a huge Bon Iver or Fleet Foxes fan, but I'm liking this:

Port of Morrow

This is a really great song: http://soundcloud.com/theshins/its-only-life

In Honor of International Women's Day

A Post Gender Normative Man Tries to Pick Up a Woman at a Bar.

BY Jesse Eisenberg

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[Originally published July 21, 2011.]

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Hey, how’s it going? Mind if I sidle up? I saw you over here sitting alone and I thought, that’s fine. A woman should be able to self-sustain. In fact a lot of women are choosing to stay alone, what with advances in salary equitability and maternity extensions, and I think it’s an important and compelling trend.

I noticed that you were about to finish your drink and I was wondering if I could possibly watch you purchase another one. And, at the risk of being forward, if you could possibly purchase one for me.
What do you do? And before you answer, I’m not looking for a necessarily work-related response. I don’t think we have to be defined by our industrial pursuits, especially when they’re antiquated and hetero-normative. I curse my mother, who is an otherwise lovely human person, for not buying me an Easy-Bake Oven when I was younger. I grew up idolizing male thugs like Neil Armstrong and Jimmy Carter. And, yes, I work at ESPN, but I spend more time being spiritual and overcoming adversity, for example, than I do working for some faceless corporation. And if I were to find a mate, be it you or someone else here tonight, I would be more than happy to tell the proverbial “man” that I quit so I can raise our offspring with gender-neutral hobbies, while my biologically female partner continues to pursue her interests, be they industrial, recreational or yes, even sexual with another mate.

So…

Crazy news about the first female African head of state and Liberia’s sitting president, Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, huh? Announcing her candidacy for 2011 so soon! Wow. What do you think of her chances? I think she’s a shoo-in, but I’m admittedly a bit concerned about Prince Johnson making some last minute strides, especially amongst the Gio people in the Nimba region. I’m thinking of launching a letter writing campaign on behalf of EJ-S or at least cold calling potential Nimba voters over Skype.
Oh, how gauche of me! I’ve just been chattering away incessantly like some kind of boy or girl who talks a lot. I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Although, one often gets the uneasy sense that patriarchy dictates a learned and ultimately damaging order of events with men taking an unearned lead. My name is Terri, with a heart over the i, instead of a dot. I have a heart, is what that says, and I’m not afraid to wear it on my sleeve.

So what do you think? Would you like to take me up on my offer for you to buy me that drink?
If you would like to respond, that would be wonderful. Of course, if you would like to continue to sit here silently, staring at me with that powerful gaze, which both breaks gender constructs and also scares me a bit, that would be fine as well.


Ahh, that beer is refreshing! Thank you for throwing it in my face on this warm summer evening.
Okay, okay! I’m leaving!

Thank you for your blunt rejection of me. It takes a lot of courage, which you no doubt have in equal measure to any other human. Now, if you’ll excuse, I’m going to the bathroom where I’ll cry silently in a stall, questioning my body and texting my mom, but for now, I thank you for your time, which was equal to mine.

Saturday afternoon

I think we tend to associate certain music with places, times, and events. This album to me is like a drowsy late Saturday afternoon after I've come home from playing golf or seeing a movie.

http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=147047574&m=147015014


It might look something like this:

Here's what NPR had to say about listening to this album:

"Pro tip for Andrew Bird fans hearing Break It Yourself for the first time: Clear away any and all distractions, listen on headphones and let its subtle charms sink in slowly. Early mornings or late nights work best. This isn't a record for chaotic commutes or busy offices — these are songs of quiet contemplation, performed by a classically trained artist who sounds unmistakably confident in his craft, yet more muted than usual."

Thanks Stephen R. Covey

Stephen R. Covey, author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, once said:
 
The Prophet Joseph once told a man who was critical of himself because he hadn't come out of the waters of baptism prophesying and speaking in tongues as someone else had: "You had more believing blood." He elucidated the point that those who are of the blood of Israel will often experience less dramatic physical kinds of manifestations than those who are being adopted into the blood.

I believe sometimes that as Latter-day Saints we are like fish who discover water last. We are so immersed in the element that we are unaware of its presence. We have been immersed in the revelations of the Lord in this dispensation. No dispensation can compare to this one. The level of light and knowledge about man's true nature, our mission, and the full scope of ordinances that can be performed for the living and the dead in the temples of the Lord transcend that which has been given to any other dispensation. In a sense this is a dispensation of the Holy Ghost. We don't experience the personal ministry of the Savior in our presence, but that isn't as great as the Holy Ghost. The Savior even said to his disciples, "It's necessary that I must go or the Holy Ghost will not come" (see John 16:7). You can imagine their feeling about that because every time the Savior would leave they would fall apart and desert him. There wasn't one disciple that did not fall away--including, as we know, the chief disciple, Peter. But before he did finally leave them after his resurrection, he breathed on them and said, "Receive the Holy Ghost" (see Acts 1:5­8). It's possible to be given a gift and receive not that gift. They prayed, the scripture says. They stayed together and fellowshipped each other, read the words of the scriptures, and remembered the words of their Savior. Then on the day of Pentecost the Holy Ghost came like cloven tongues of fire. Then the real conversion processes, under the influence of the gifts of the Spirit, changed these otherwise weak men into indefatigable disciples, champions of the truth right to their martyrs' deaths.

Also: President McKay taught that to all members of the Church who are in the line of their duty the Holy Ghost normally speaks through their consciences. The Lord may choose many ways to speak, but it seems that the still, small voice, the enlightened conscience, or heart within a person would be the natural one for him to choose. However, it may require some other way to reach a man who is perhaps beyond the experience or the words of Christ which have been deposited within that conscience, or it may require the imposition of keys, priesthood powers, or certain other special blessings. The choice would lie in the Lord's hands according to his purposes. But for most of us most of the time the Holy Ghost will speak through our consciences. The Spirit of Jesus Christ is the medium through which the Holy Ghost, this member of the Godhead, performs his unique and special functions (see Moroni 10).

Thanks again Brother Covey.

                                                               Josh Ritter. Cool video.

 

An Open Letter to the Man Who Accosted Me in an Attempt to Sell Me a Power Balance Bracelet in the Mall.

BY Giordano Lahaderne

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Dear Man Who Accosted Me in an Attempt to Sell Me a Power Balance Bracelet in the Mall,

Maybe it was empathy that drove me to respond; I’ve worked my share of mall kiosks.

There was also that countenance I took for desperation in your sweaty, bloated face, as you nodded at me knowingly and waved me down, asking how I was “doing tonight.” That look, matched with your ill-fitting polo shirt and front-pleated khakis, evoked a sort of sublime pity in me. If only I’d known how misplaced my pity was! Whatever the reason, I took those tentative steps away from my wife and entered your world; a perfect maelstrom of Dadaistic thaumaturgy.

“Can I have a moment of your time?” you asked. I responded in the affirmative.

You held up a rubber-band bracelet with a little hologram sticker affixed to it, not unlike the one on my debit card.

“This Power Balance Bracelet,” you announced, “can help you with your balance.”

You went on to explain that the bracelet could do this because it was “made out of ions” and that the little sticker on it contained “minerals” that would “go into” my bloodstream. You then explained that all electronic devices emitted ions, and that these ions are what cause us to dodder about off-balanced like a pack of drunken mules.

“If that’s what I think it is,” you said tapping the plastic bag containing my purchase from the video game store, “then it’s giving off ions, too. As we speak.”

I had not suspected this second-hand copy of Harvest Moon for the Nintendo Gamecube of such sinister behavior. You opened up an previously unimagined world of possibilities. Humbled by your willingness to engage in such a Newtonian dialogue with me, I interrupted you to gain clarification. “What exactly is an ion?” I asked, abashedly.

I will never forget your baffling, measured reply.

“Science.”

Your single word apparently put my question to rest. Embarrassed by my ignorance, you endeavored to teach me. It was then that you proceeded, with outstretched arms, to lay your hands upon me. Like a man tenderly instructing his lover on the finer points of the bergamask, you ordered me to lift my right arm. This I did, keeping it at an angle perpendicular to my body.

You then told me to place my feet exactly together. All it took was a severe look from you to tell me that my feet were not aligned as precisely as they ought to be. I struggled to push them somehow closer together. For a moment I was afraid you’d collapsed in a fit of rage, but you had only thrown yourself on the floor in order to inspect my feet. When you arose you placed your hands on my outstretched arm with the whispered admonition, “Lift your left leg.”

This I did as you began to apply downward pressure upon my extended arm. Your furrowed brow and grunts of exertion, so animalistic in their kinetic force, at first frightened, then intrigued me. I knew you would probably cause me to topple like so many crumpled Sbarro wrappers placed atop the overflowing trash receptacle. And yet, I stood firm. I have never been known for my sense of balance but as I stood there on one foot with my arm outstretched, the people in line at Pretzel Maker occasionally witnessing our dance, I was a veritable Douglas fir of stability.

You sputtered a spent sigh and ceased pushing. As you let go of me I lowered my leg and arm, eagerly awaiting an explanation for what had just transpired between us. How had I stood firm without the talismanic bracelet to assist me? I received a solemn nod from you as you explained, “Sometimes the bracelet has an effect even if you’re not wearing it. Sometimes you just have to be near it.”

I didn’t purchase a bracelet that day, for money would only have cheapened the transcendental moment. Our encounter was brief; we were two ships passing in the night. But I left the mall that day questioning the very foundations of all I had learned before; science, religion, self-hood, ions.

I was, at last, awake.

Thank you for opening my eyes,
Giordano Lahaderne