Blogs, Bands, Baseball

The Times Sunday Magazine had a story about musicians blogging to attract fans. Apparently, blogs are going to do for this guy what Pitchfork did for Arcade Fire, MTV for Weird Al, and depression for Elliott Smith.

Eventually, though, no matter how word-of-mouth originates, the music is going to have to stand up for itself. The Hold Steady, a) a band I've been all about for six months, one week, and two days, give or take, and b) the second subject of the article, after Mr. Coulton (in Times-speak), apparently built a following through the guitarist's blog. [Note to readers: I learned about the aforementioned Brooklyn-based quartet, not from some nerdy blogger, but from a real live girl.]

The Hold Steady's music is certainly good enough that doesn't need some dude tapping away on his keyboard to make sure they get some airplay; now the band's version of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" is played during the 7th-inning stretch of Minnesota Twins home games. Chalk up one point to the idea that the blogosphere is a meritocracy.

Blech

There are some things you just don't do in public. Among the most obvious, of course, are peeing, spitting somewhere that is not a proper spit receptacle, and, if you are particularly unfortunate looking, making out.

I have a less obvious but equally icky item to add to the list: cutting your nails.

Nail-cutting should be a private affair, to be conducted alone in one's bedroom or backyard - somewhere where the sound of dead nails snapping off fingers won't be heard, somewhere where the droppings won't be stepped on. This is not for public consumption. Why, oh why, then have I been forced to bear witness to no fewer than three public nail-cuttings in the past week?

By far, today's was the most egregious. Sitting on the Metro, that unmistakable snapping sound emanated from the seat directly behind me, cutting through the music coming from my mug-me-white ear buds. "Don't turn around," I told myself. I didn't want to see the face of my new nemesis, the individual responsible for ruining my commute. And I didn't. For like 30 seconds. I couldn't help myself, and I looked at the window to see the reflection of the nefarious nail-clipper behind me.

Lo and behold! It was a young mother clipping the nails of her two-ish year-old son. Gah! This kid will be a life-long cut-nails-in-public-er. Way to teach your kid lessons on how to live life, lady.

When I'm a super hero, that kid is going to be my arch-enemy.

The Phone Rings

This evening, on my way home from work, I stopped to purchase a) the new novel by Mr. Michael Chabon (on whom I have a non-sexual crush), and b) the brand album by Ms. Leslie Feist (on whom I have a very sexual crush).

My new-found consumerism wasn't the only thing different on my way home: as I was passing by the intersection of Dupont Circle and New Hampshire Avenue, the pay phone rang. Natch, I picked up. And what followed demands transcribing.

Me: Hello?!
Mystery Lady: Who's this?
Me: I'm sorry?
ML: Do you hang out around there?
Me: No, I was just passing by.
ML: Oh. OK. Thank you.

*click*

Wow. Was this someone dialing from a future she reached via flux capacitor, vainly attempting to get ahold of the one person who could save her from a terrible fate? Or maybe just a homeless drunkard, hoping to find her buddy for Miller Time? Who knows? I think it better to preserve the mystery.