Orhan Pamuk wins Noble Prize for Literature.

I read Snow last year on Estelle's recommendation. Little did Estelle know that the setting of the story would suck me in. The novel takes place in Kars, which is this town in the cold, snowy part of Northern Turkey that also happens to be the hometown of one leg of my family (my paternal grandfather's parents, to be specific). I had only heard Kars mentioned once before, in Elia Kazan's film America, America, as it was the homeland of the Armenian character, who coincidentally had the same last name as my great-grandmother. Pamuk's description of this place to which I have some vague connection, but have never seen, blew my mind. Then his story did the same.

Go read Snow. Just do it.

Cold War Kids played a hometown gig last night at Spaceland (sort of, I suppose if it were really a hometown gig, it would have been at Alex's Bar in Long Beach). Ivan and I were there. This is an actual note in my notebook.
OMG! I saw someone blogging from his Blackberry!
That's really all I have to say about the show right now. Let's get to the fight.
Yes, kids, a live and bloody indie rock brawl in the midst of Spaceland. I thought I overheard someone say that it started because someone was talking during the show. (I must have heard wrong as talking through performances is just the L.A. way.) Ivan and I were waiting for my car, which took about a half-hour thanks to my getting there early (it was parked dead center in the lot) and said brawl. We actually witnessed the stool fly out of Spaceland's door before five or six people stumbled, rolled and/or flipped over said stool. Then a larger crowd of people somehow associated with the fight walked out and started going on and on and on about said fight and who started it and blah blah blah. Okay, bar fights are common. So are altercations at concerts. However, it is rare indeed that one will encounter a mess of beard rockers and haircut wielders getting into it as piano jams loom in the background.

The problem with a lot of music-related writing in general is that people have this habit of wailing when places go out of business like it's a sign of the apocalypse. Take this mess over Tower and, specifically, the article in today's LA Times. Only one quote in there, from a shopper who pointed that even the sale discs were more expensive than at Amoeba, pointed to what probably remains at the heart of the store's trouble.
I never was a diehard Tower shopper, not even as a kid. In the Northwest Valley, where I was raised, we had three independent shops (Roundhouse in Granada Hills, Tempo in Northridge and Record Trader in Reseda, all of which went out of business within the past decade) and then a bunch of corporate chains. If you were a Valley kid who was dead serious about your music, you did not shop at the corporate stores. If you did go to Tower, it was primarily for the magazines and zines, as they always had one of the best-stocked newstands in the area. The primary reason why we didn't shop at Tower, Sam Goody, et. al. was because the prices were outrageous. Your standard, domestic CD would run at $18.99 where the indie stores might charge an even $15. Import full-lengths would check in at around $30, where we could find them for $20-25 at other places.
In recent years, since the demise of my favorite local haunts, I have made purchases at Tower, but only for sales (basically, when the KCRW and Indie 103.1 picks are down to $12.99). For new releases, I still felt that I was better off heading out to Amoeba and for older tunes, I tend to just comb the few indies that are left (Freakbeat in Sherman Oaks, Vinyl Fetish on Cahuenga, Soundsations in Westchester, etc.) in search of what I need. Tower's demise is perhaps symbolic of the music industry's troubles at large. You simply cannot expect people to consistently spend over $15 per CD when even the least savvy shopper knows how to get it at a lower price.

When it comes to satirical renderings of top 40 hits, nothing beats "Paxilback." B. Monsoon and I heard it for the first time whilst eavesdropping upon The Gray Kid's soundcheck and again during the live performance at Spaceland. In case the name didn't tip you off, "Paxilback" is essentially a cover of "Sexyback" with lyrics that delve into prescription drug use. As if that isn't enough of a teaser, you should note that The Gray Kid's voice is far superior to that of Justin Timberlake. "Paxilback" is not on The Gray Kid's CD, nor is it on his MySpace page. However, he is playing Temple Bar tonight, so perhaps you should go to the show and judge for yourself.

There's that moment when the fear within you suddenly vanishes. It tends to be the same moment that you suck the last bit of alcohol from your second drink. At least, that's how it is with me. Thank God for alcohol, otherwise I never would have had the courage to get up in front of a room filled with writer types and introduce my story by saying, "My two biggest weaknesses are music and boys, this story deals with both."

I read a story called "Last Night at the Fair: Or How to Ruin a Perfectly Good Smiths Song." I wrote it last December, sent it to a hotsy-totsy lit mag and received a half-sentence rejection letter. Then Razorcake picked up on it. I think the story initially ran last April or May. When a friend of mine said, "Hey, I saw your story 'Last Night at the Fair.' Is that true?" I knew that I could be proud of the piece.

I'm not posting the story here, but will give you a synopsis. Basically, when I was fifteen, I was obsessed with the song "Rusholme Ruffians." To make matters worse, my best friend and I were both obsessed with getting boyfriends. Putting the lyrics of the song together with our quests, I decided that I was going to fall in love at the fair. After a failed attempt my freshman year of high school, my friend and I returned to the carnival the following year with a planned "date" between yours truly and the local goth hero. It started out briliantly, thanks to my careful planning in accordance with Morrissey's lyrics. We ended the day as a couple. We were totally, madly in love until we decided that we totally hated each other. You know, I still can't stand the thought of him nearly 15 years later, but the story is good fun.

People laughed. Even though I wrote it as a humor piece, I didn't really expect people to laugh. Maybe a chuckle here or there, but not all out laughter. That was exciting.

This all might make more sense if you read the lyrics for the song. Go here and do so.

I don't have a publicist. Nor do I have an agent, manager or anything like that. To make matters worse, I'm terrible at keeping in touch with people. So, unless you happened to read this blog sometime last week or you are on my MySpace list and happened to be reading posts today, you might not know that I'm reading tonight at the Mountain Bar in Chinatown. Allow me to present my own last minute quasi-press release about this event.

Liz Ohanesian (spell it like it's Armenian, say it like it's Irish) will be reading her story "Last Night at the Fair" that was published in Razorcake issue #31. Those of you schooled in the ways of Morrissey should know that the title is a reference to The Smiths' brilliant song "Russholme Ruffians." Those of you who didn't know that need to get yourself a copy of Meat is Murder STAT. (Tower is liquidating, you can get it for cheap.) "Last Night at the Fair" is not so much an ode to the (formerly?) Celibate Sex God so much as it is a testament to what happens when you stick Smiths albums in the hands young girls well-versed in the ways of Jane Austen heroines and the dramatic arts. No less an authority on the subject than Ohanesian herself says that it's "If I were a 5'6" willowy blonde who shared a Fiat Spider with my twin sister, it would totally be like Sweet Valley High." Oh, and, also unlike Sweet Valley High, "Last Night at the Fair" is indeed a true tale, so true that Ohanesian opted to change the names of everyone but herself. If we're lucky, one of the characters will be in the audience.

Here's the official stuff:
Sunday 10/08/06 8 p.m.
Mountain Bar
475 Gin Ling Way (Chinatown)
Los Angeles, CA
90012-1712
*Also reading: Joe Meno (author of Hairstyles of the Damned), Todd
Dills, Mickey Hess, and Liz O.)
Vermin on the Mount is pleased to announce the book release party for
Todd Taylor's novel Shirley Wins. Joining him are a trio of
Midwestern writers: Mickey Hess (Big Wheel at the Cracker Factory),
Todd Dills (Sons of the Rapture) and Joe Meno (Hairstyles of the
Damned, The Boy Detective Fails). The Mountain is located at 475 Gin
Ling Way (directly across from the Wishing Well) in Chinatown. Fun
starts at 8 PM.