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Friday, November 21, 2003
Interacting with these babies is a twofold pleasure, like Razzles, and I don't mean "double the fun" I mean there are two kinds of pleasure modes.
One is that sort of observational thrill where you don't know what to do with yourself. I get this looking at my current favorite book, "Bizarro Postcards" (Taschen). The book just shows unattributed and un-commented-upon images from 30 year old postcards intended to advertise clothes, restaurants, etc. Really cheezy pics with a luminous "8 Seasons of Chromolox" vibe which I DO NOT find "campy" ...I sort of yearn for a dose of whatever quality of naivete, calm, strange "lostness" a given image seems to possess. I feel this way staring at Miles and Lily; it's a mystified wonder at their inscrutable perfection. You get all jumpy inside and just enjoy that agitaion for what it is. It's mad love. "I could just EAT THEM UP!" That kind of shit.
The other is the more viscerally satisfying feeling of experiencing real-time happiness with no goal or point and no caveats or codicils. I get this listening to my current favorite record, "Soul Coaxing" by Tony Hatch (an instro version of "Ame Caline" by Frenchman Michel Polnareff). The song is like a hybrid of every great 60s pop tune: the changes and big shuffle of "Wouldn't It Be Nice" ...the gorgeous string melodicism of "Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus" ...the intro of "Galveston" ...The big room sound of Quicy Jones' productions for Lesley Gore ... the groovy nerdiness of "Classical Gas" ...etcetera. I play it OVER AND OVER again, bouncing in sheer glee and total release. That's how it feels when I'm laughing at some infant insignifica that nobody else would even notice.
It's a candy AND a gum.
One is that sort of observational thrill where you don't know what to do with yourself. I get this looking at my current favorite book, "Bizarro Postcards" (Taschen). The book just shows unattributed and un-commented-upon images from 30 year old postcards intended to advertise clothes, restaurants, etc. Really cheezy pics with a luminous "8 Seasons of Chromolox" vibe which I DO NOT find "campy" ...I sort of yearn for a dose of whatever quality of naivete, calm, strange "lostness" a given image seems to possess. I feel this way staring at Miles and Lily; it's a mystified wonder at their inscrutable perfection. You get all jumpy inside and just enjoy that agitaion for what it is. It's mad love. "I could just EAT THEM UP!" That kind of shit.
The other is the more viscerally satisfying feeling of experiencing real-time happiness with no goal or point and no caveats or codicils. I get this listening to my current favorite record, "Soul Coaxing" by Tony Hatch (an instro version of "Ame Caline" by Frenchman Michel Polnareff). The song is like a hybrid of every great 60s pop tune: the changes and big shuffle of "Wouldn't It Be Nice" ...the gorgeous string melodicism of "Je T'aime, Moi Non Plus" ...the intro of "Galveston" ...The big room sound of Quicy Jones' productions for Lesley Gore ... the groovy nerdiness of "Classical Gas" ...etcetera. I play it OVER AND OVER again, bouncing in sheer glee and total release. That's how it feels when I'm laughing at some infant insignifica that nobody else would even notice.
It's a candy AND a gum.
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