Time is going by really really really really slowly

June 7, 2008

So Hillary’s bid for the presidency, and thus the long, flat, seemingly endless Bataan Death March to the White House (Round 1, le sigh), is dunzo. Things end, things begin again, and the whole process repeats; ’tis the way things go.

It may be a bit of a stretch — okay, it’s a serious stretch, but I’m going with it anyway: my days of internetless, apartment-inbetweenness are dunzo as well, and a new era of blog entries has begun. (Props to Diamond from Time Warner for his excellent installation skills.) I’m not gonna make any promises to you, my dear readers, for my promises about blogging tend not to be kept. But I will say this: my excuses for not blogging, like Ms. Clinton’s excuses for her endless campaigning, are likely to start ringing retarded and desperate.

Among the incredibly overpriced Manhattan Storage boxes which have been hulking over my bedroom for the last week or so, I have discovered a few TRUTHS:

1) Osborne’s self-titled LP for Spectral Sound is the album of the year so far, without question. Todd Osborn, who appears to be Jeff Tweedy’s wayward cousin, makes kitchen-sink house music so not-boilerplate and so utterly appealing that you may feel inclined to throw your laptop off the roof. Like this year’s other big (much, much bigger, really) dance record, Hercules & Love Affair, Osborne mines yesteryear’s dance tropes to create a distinctly 21st-century glamor. But while the former occasionally slips dangerously into hard-on-for-my-favorite-records mode, the latter keeps his dick on lock and his influences deftly internalized. (And is it just me, or is H&LA highlight “Iris” eerily similar to Osborne’s “Suffer” interlude?) Mr. Osborn knows how to pile on the elements — for a release on a label best known for Audion singles, shit is maximal — without getting lazy about the constituents. While by no means “detailed” in the Perlon sound-design sense, each hi-hat and synth pad and clave-hit (mad dankes, sir, for enclosing floorstormer “Outta Sight” herein) finds its funky home. And you’re not likely to hear better basslines this year. Bottom line: I have no idea why motherfuckers outside of Spectral’s usual fanbase aren’t jumping all over this album. But I’d wholeheartedly recommend that you hit the shops before Philip Sherburne pitchforks this and the year-end Top Tens start to pile up. If you only unpack your living room to one record this year, make it this record. That’s what I did, and I’m a better, sweatier man for it.

2) Cops should only take what they can handle.

3) The Wire is the Proust of television, and my after-work life is over. But you already knew that.

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