Well, I need to catch some of this Dirty Blondes show over at 135 Pearl, but my kitten Brando got neutered today, and he still needs a little supervision. He’s mostly sleeping, but I feel like I should be around just in case he tries to jump off the bed or something, which might be a little rough on him at this point.
Plus VH1 Classics is playing the Thompson Twins. Ooh, Ooh, now it’s a full Iggy Pop concert from ’91!
Ha!
I wrote a little Sound Bite for next week’s paper about Daryl Rabidoux and Mike Poorman’s new Burlington recording studio, Strangeways. I’m pretty psyched for them.
I was also wondering why I hadn’t seen any new columns, pop notes or articles from Sasha Frere Jones in the New Yorker lately. I know my employers sometimes read my blog — Hi, Pamela! — but for a fleeting moment, I imagined that he’d abandoned his post, leaving the New Yorker gig wide open for some country mouse to scurry in and become the new voice for impassioned elitists everywhere.
Well, y’all can breathe a sigh of relief — he’s on vacation in Scandinavia.
You know what I like most about Sasha? Most people assume he’s a girl too.
We should form a club. Music critics with androgynous names. Or at least a support group.
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