KjB

desert wind

Idea of the week goes to Dana, for “Self-Destructive Sunday”, where in lieu of tithes and a litany of kneeling and standing and kneeling and standing, you throw on your best cutoffs, mix up a day-long supply of mimosas, eat too much red meat, smoke too many cigarettes, and break lying on the picnic table in the courtyard only long enough to watch the Big Lebowski for the ninety-hundredth time.

Some suggestions for next week: Finger food, proper smoking etiquette, and variety diversion .

Also: I was searching for “ways to go to hell” – because I thought it was imminently appropriate to Self-Destructive Sunday - and I came upon a whole slew of rather interesting things. Among them this Slate article from pre-W 1999, that includes this gem: “There’s no evidence that George W. is an anti-Semite. After college he was even engaged briefly to a half-Jewish woman. Some have suggested that Bush may have dumped her because her father was Jewish, but there’s no reason to think he didn’t know that all along.” And a rather disturbing dialogue about whether or not the Jewish go to hell. (Which I was going to post a link to, but why draw even one more hit to the site?) Ugh. All I can say is, there’s nothing like blatant, mean-spirited ignorance proclaimed with awful spelling and bad, bad grammar to make your rainy Monday.

Interestingly, more than 3/4 of the hits I looked at referenced “jews” and “hell” together somehow. Sickly, that means, according to Google, the #1 answer to the question “what ways are best for going to hell” seems to be “be Jewish”. Is this the general internet-populus consensus? Good lord. No wonder half the world hates us.

I’ve got to search random stuff more often.

Candygram…Avon Calling…

Yeah. I think it’s pretty much run it’s course. It was fun for a while, but just doesn’t offer much more than your average bulletin board. Anyway, I saw this today, which is kind of a real-time Friendster. It only works in select cities, but what it does is use your cell phone to notify you when friends of yours on the service (or friends of friends, and so on) are in your general vicinity–at a bar down the street or shopping nearby, etc.

Sounds interesting, but I think it could potentially be REALLY annoying, especially if you know a lot of people. I’d think your phone would ring constantly. And in Atlanta, where the hangouts are kind of clustered 1 and 2 to a neighborhood, and are otherwise miles between, it just might not work. Say you’re sitting at The Local on Ponce. Unless you know someone across the street at T-Bird’s (or whatever that drag-bar’s name is), you’re likely never to know where your friends are—there just isn’t anywhere else close. That is, unless you’re hanging out in Buckhead. And in that case, no one really cares about you anyway. Or, at least I don’t. Anyway.

Also, read about Reverend Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping. It’s adbusters, gospel-style. A kind of gross, but nonetheless worthy stand for one less Starbucks? Hallelujah. Praise for the towns that have voted Wal-Mart out of their city limits? Amen, brother.

Kirkwood School parking lot, last Sunday

Last night, Savath and Savalas and Juana Molina at the Echo Lounge. My review: a rather beautiful, etherial, total waste of time.

Sleepy, wandering, floaty music simply doesn’t play well in large, loud clubs with no seating, at 1:30 in the morning on a Wednesday. I think I speak for most of the audience when I say…tired. So tired. Legs hurting. Back breaking from 4 hours of standing, waiting for you to go on. You then present a musical interlude that, possibly in a coffeehouse with tables and stimulants readily available would have been quite something, but in the dark and smoky closeness of a 900-degree room, was maddening. Tiring. Ire-evoking.

Oy. And, you kept me from doing work last night. And from getting up at a reasonable hour this morning. So as much as I like your music, I think I hate you. Or your promoter. Right now anyway.

Black Rock Desert, August 2002

I was surfing around one day, and on some blog site, I read a kind of interesting question that I want to pose to the 2 or so people who visit here. (And I think I already asked one of them…so that person can ignore this.) The question is: What is something that you know a lot about, but that you never get asked about? Basically, what I’m talking about is knowledge that you never get the opportunity to display— information practically no one knows you possess.

So, I’m asking. What do you know that I probably don’t know you know? Yeah. Email me at kendra@kendrabentle.com

My answers? (in case anyone cares): Lyrics to classic rock songs (particularly Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd) and information, or I guess just the ability, to play the piano. Two things that rarely come up for me.

City of my birth, after the fog

Over the weekend, I watched a bit of VH1’s Most Outrageous Celebrity Moments show. Remember when Mr. T cut down all the trees on his property and his suburban neighbors sued him? Remember Zsa, Zsa’s bejeweled cop-slap? Ah, those wacky celebrities.

But it reminded me of something. Babysitting, weirdly.

I was never one of those girls. Those babysitter girls. Giggly, but oh-so-responsible, with full-fridge privlegages and a pocket full of tactics to get a 3-year-old to go to sleep before 90210 came on. I babysitted for one family, I think 3 or 4 times. They had two relatively mindful kids and a pool and a satellite dish. It was sweet, but short-lived.

I did however, have a rather memorable babysitter as a kid. Her name was Susan. She was (at that point) the coolest human being I had ever met—in high school, loud, opinionated, creative, and really, really fun.

But I’ve got nothing on this girl I went to PC with. So I’ve been told…her childhood babysitter was this guy.

Mecca-lecca-hi, mecca-heiny-ho.