box woman

The Sun-Times had an inane review of the Diamanda Galás show at the MCA last week. The reviewer (hopefully an intern) wasted half of her meagre word count grading Galás on punctuality. That was followed by attempts to describe the indescribable, complaints that the songs were not in English and an incorrect use of the word "ironic." Kirk and I thought the show was fucking amazing and are making plans to move to New York and live in boxes (a la Kobo Abe's The Box Man) and convert Galás to homosexuality. I think she would like that and find it flattering. When are we going to see Jasper Johns?

guilty, guilty, guilty

Now that Beachwood and her delicate musical sensibilities have found a home, the cats and I are back to blasting Diamanda Galás and sending our upstairs neighbor into a frenzy of high-heel clicking. We can’t tell if the clicks are out of delight or horror (both?), nor do we care.

We’re also reading The Revisionist, which arrived in the mail already (yay, Calamari Press, you’re way better than the rubber band looking fish dish of the same name) and I’m eating vegetarian candy corn, which is just as delicious as regular candy corn, with 100% less horse hooves. If they only made those miniature pumpkins out of pure sugar, my life would be complete.