I hereby entreat the Blue Angel, saint of Las Vegas' artistic community and the broad what gave me super-powers in my late 20s, to grant me the power to send the following back in time to Geoff Carter the teen-aged:

1. The internet.

2. Cheap long-distance service.

3. A better-rounded appreciation of post-punk.

4. The compulsion to perform a modicum of daily exercises -- crunches, lunges, simple fucking push-ups.

5. Grammar.

6. The iPod Nano.

7. Solace.

8. Awareness of a world larger than the suburbs, and a desire to see it.

9. The certain knowledge that the phrase "your permanent record" doesn't mean shit.

10. Sexting.

Hey, they're only a month late. I'm very happy to say that I've been consumed with freelance and peripheral work and haven't had time to consider these shots, most of which were posted without the kiss of Photoshop. Also, I haven't had time to pick up the new Wilco record, and my head is filled with radio cures.

( From here we go NSFW. )

The other million-and-six photos are here.

Say what you will about the man's personal choices. (I have.) But we can't deny that he dealt with a level of fame that we can't begin to imagine, and at his prime, he could entertain.

Somebody tell me where "The Thick of It" has been all my life.

Photos from around Ballard. The "Up" house is Edith Macefield's. By the time I got these shots, many of the balloons had popped in the wind.

I am at (name deleted) coffee in downtown Seattle, catching my breath. Today has been non-stop running from 10 a.m., when I paid a fairly unremarkable visit to the dentist, to five minutes ago, when the girl at the counter half-heartedly flirted with me. The young things who work the counters at these places generally don't talk to me, but this one asked me questions above and beyond the usual -- what'cha listening to on your iPod? Where'd you get that t-shirt? Are you a writer? -- and I have to admit I was puzzled by her interest until I remembered that I had Lorien dye my hair yesterday, leaving only the gray streak in the front and the salt-and-pepper at my temples. If I had an unruly lumberjack beard, she might even have asked my name.

Anyway, I'm doing all right. Miffed about this California bullshit, but I don't live there anymore. Work is either picking up or fixing to blow up in my face; such is the life of a freelancer. The weather in Seattle is still gorgeous, and the weather in my head is mostly sunny. And now, my dears, I'm gonna pick up my girl at her job and get her drunk.

By and by, we're getting a springtime.

"I'm in your house. Call me."

By the way: If you have a Wii, please send me your goddamn Wii number already, and one of your Miis. I've taken to jogging in Wii Fit, and it gives me a peculiar joy to run past people I know. I often pass imasage and motomotoyama in the course of my morning consitutional, and it makes me happy.

Needless to say, if you own "Animal Crossing" or "Mario Kart" for the Wii, I wanna network with yo' ass.

Last week in Portland, OR., before an intra-league roller derby bout between Portland's Rose City Rollers and Seattle's Rat City Rollergirls, two Seattle rollergirls got their heads shaved to benefit cancer research and treatment. These are their stories.



That's the Derby Liberation Front's Libby Raider on the left, Grave Danger's Carmen Getsome on the right. In ten minutes' time, they'll be bald.

( Hair-em Scarem! )

1. Printed newspapers that aren't USA Today or the Daily Rupert.

2. Princess phones.

3. Television-show themes that describe the plot of the show (hat tip to TV's Frank).

4. Banks not owned by the Chinese.

5. Record labels that aren't Merge.

6. A home entertainment system pronounced "whee."

7. Outbursts of self-expression exceeping 140 characters.

8. Alec Baldwin.

9. Movies not in 3-D, which makes everything better and gives no one pounding headaches.

10. Privacy.

Cross-posted to Facebook, or as it will be known in the future, "The Internet."

Instead of making Twitter posts, I'm going to mail out Twitter postcards - 140 characters or less, banged out on a 70-year-old manual typewriter. The first batch goes out tonight.

Scenes from Grave Danger's "Dead Leprechaun Karaoke Challenge," last Friday at the Rendezvous. That's LJ's own goldfischegirl at the top, belting out an award-winning rendition of "Roam," plus Swede Hurt singing something that resembled "Dancing Queen" and Sar Problem singing ... something, I don't remember what. It was late and I'd had cocktails. Earlier in the evening, I sang a version of "Love Stinks" that was so abrasive and embarassing to all that one of the hosts of the proceedings, the erstwhile Georgia O'Grief, cut off the song at the instrumental bridge.

The following night, I joined my friend Benjamen - formerly a colleague at the Las Vegas Weekly colleague, now a neighbor here in Ballard - at a live performance of Cinematic Titanic, the new movie-riffing venture by the crew of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Ben had an extra ticket, and I'm much beholden to him for letting me have it, because I haven't laughed so hard in years. I'd forgotten how good Joel Hodgson was at the effortless comic deadpan. Example: During Saturday night's movie - "Dynamite Brothers," an execreble slice of kung-fu/blaxplotation d-baggery, starring character actors from the first season of "M*A*S*H" - a character jumped into a car, which promptly exploded ... and Joel said, almost matter-of-factly, "You flooded it."

Today, it seems that all this balls-out hard living has caugfht up with me: I've got a cold, and a particularly annoying one. It hasn't helped things that the past two days have brought miserable winter weather back to Seattle - ice-cold winds, freezing rain, dogs and cats livin' together. I'm drinking my fluids and trying to keep my energy up, but it ain't easy. This morning, I woke to discover that the Seattle Post-Intelligencer publishes its last print edition tomorrow, and even though (A) I've expected this, everyone has and (B) I never actually worked at that paper, it still breaks my heart to see a 150 year-old publication cut down. Sure, you can point to the surviving online version of the PI and Clay Shirky this fucking mess all you like, but it's still a sad thing.

That's why I posted those pictures of three pretty girls singing your favorite songs, to help take the sting away. Let me know if it worked; I've got more.

Last night Jo Jo and I went to Chop Suey to see a bunch of local bands covering Disney songs. The event has apparently happened annually since 2004, but this was the first time I'd seen it. Some of the bands were very good - The Catch made the wistful "Part of Your World" into a right and proper grrrrl anthem - and some of the were, ah, unenthusiastic (if I wanted karaoke, Mr. Terry, I'd have gone to a fucking karaoke night). But for all the radical re-interpretations (The Pale Pacific grafted "I'm Wishing" onto the rhythm skeleton of MGMT's "Time to Pretend") and earnest, singer-songwriterly takes on the material, my favorite act of the evening was Noula Johnston of People Eating People, who performed two songs with accordionist Erin Rubin. Johnston was unsure of the words to "Poor Unfortunate Souls" and "Feed The Birds," and read them from a black Moleskine notebook even as she sang them.

I never heard of People Eating People before last night, but Johnston won me over from the first notes of "Feed The Birds." Her instrument, soulful and quavering, is the voice of a superstar. She reminded me of how affecting "Feed The Birds" is, and its part in making the end of "Mary Poppins" so uplifting. (The flying nanny came not to help the kids, who were simply bored and acting out, but to save the father, who was in real danger of losing his family and himself.) Over an arrangement of the song that strongly echoed Garth Hudson's lovely accordion arrangement (from Hal Willner's "Stay Awake" LP), Johnston sang "Birds" as if she didn't know it was from a Disney movie. She treated it the way it was written, as a hymn to the act of charity.

This morning I listened to People Eating People's originals on her MySpace page and yeah, Johnston's just that good. I'll buy the hell out of her record when it comes out.

Springtime is just about to crack open in Seattle. The air tastes like a melon and the sky is back on terms with the flowers and trees. Today I shed an entire winter layer, forgoing the long sleeve undershirt for short sleeves and a light jacket. It's funny to think that the East Coast is buried in snow, and stranger still to think of the Dow Jones Industrials slowly freezing to death. The world doesn't feel like it's coming to an end. I'm going to take that as a sign that it isn't.

Last Saturday, Lorien and JoJo threw me the best goddamn birthday party I've ever had. Most fellers pray to an uncaring god for a birthday party at which a girl jumps out of an ornate yet inedible cake, whereas I asked my friends in the roller derby and burlesque realm for a burlesque show featuring Disney princesses, and I got just that. I watched, with considerable joy (and rum) in my heart, as Alice, Ariel, Aurora, Belle and Cinderella did things that would have stopped Uncle Walt's heart dead. My pal DJ Soda Pop worked the decks, and I didn't pay for one of my own drinks. And I shared the glory of the evening with Rat City's referees and scorekeepers, some of the most magnificent creatures ever to tread the SportCourt. Thanks, y'all. You've spoiled me for every birthday that will follow, and every subsequent trip to Disneyland that doesn't feature pasties.

(By the way, don't get ideas about Snow White. Aimee was just dressing in the spirit of the occasion. And no, I won't post any compromising photos publicly.)

On an unrelated note, I will be suspending or severely curtailing my use of GoodReads, Twitter, MySpace and several other social web thingies in the near future. If I have something to say, I'll say it here or (briefly) in Facebook. I paid for this bl-g, and I should be using it.

So, in lieu of All That:

GOODREADS: Geoff is currently reading "The Great Upheaval" by Jay Winik. I'm halfway between the French Revolution and the birth of the abolitionist movement. Can't wait to see what happens next!

MYSPACE: My mood is: busy as fuck, considering there's no money coming in.

TWITTER: It's a cloudy day in Seattle, and a soft cool rain is falling. Spring will be here in minutes. Going to SAM and the Space Needle today for freelance assignments.

That should square the circle, I think.

Last thing I'm gonna say about it: It's pretty to think that Hollywood rewarded "Slumdog Millionaire" because it's a great movie (it is), or because Danny Boyle deserves to move up (he does). But really, it's a Hollywood effort to co-opt the last wholly successful film industry on this planet. "Slumdog" deserved many of the Oscars it won, including Best Picture, but not all of them.

I Twittered the Oscars yesterday. I would have posted those thoughts here - and some of you might have been happier if I had; I'm truly sorry that I deluged some of your mobile devices with messages - but I don't feel this forum as I once did. I'm not fan of Twitter, but everything and everyone seems to be moving over there. I'm having a tough time expressing myself these days, and I don't think 140-word blocks are the way to go.

What else? The other day I ran 3.25 miles. I've never run that far in my life - not even in high school, when some fat fuck with a clipboard and whistle made me run. It felt awfully good. 1.75 miles to go! DJ Bathrobe, getting this party started!

"Forty-two! Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em."

I find myself blessed this morning, as I am every morning - but today, for a change, I recognize it. I can has a Lorien. I am surrounded by the finest collection of family and friends a man could hope for. I am in the best physical shape I've ever been. My mind is as keen and curious as it was yesterday. I enjoy writing as much as I ever have, and perhaps even more so. And my cats are pretty adorable for a pair of obnoxious, scratch-happy little fucks. It's a good life, and I wouldn't trade it.

I keep forgetting that I own a LIveJournal, and that it is expected for me to weigh in on matters of global urgency. I will do so, now.

OBAMA'S VETTING PROCESS: Lay off of him; he's doing fine. Like you've never hired any fuckups. And it's important to remember that in the previous administration, those cabinet members with dubious financial histories and serious conflicts of interest simply kept their jobs. There were no Judd Gregg situations because Bush didn't hire anyone who fundamentally disagreed with him. C'est legal, parce que je le voux.

OH, AND WHILE WE'RE HERE, fuck Judd Gregg. Suck it up, clown, and let the census matter slide. We don't have time to dick around. And fuck Timothy Geithner, who had a month to come up with something better than "We'll get back to you."

I WENT TO JARED, and peed on their carpet.

CHRISTIAN BALE yells when he's angry. Wow. That's amazing. Call me when he actually begins hitting people, as Sean Penn does; or when he begins boning transvestites, as Hugh Grant does; or when he launches a stillborn singing career. Or, you know, don't.

IT'S NOT "AN ANDY KAUFMAN THING." I would hesitate to say, though, that Joaquin Pheonix has lost his mind; he knows he's a laughingstock. I think he feels like he has to do this dope-mountain-man bit to re-invigorate a career that hasn't been characterized by its risks. He's mastered every role he's taken on. He needs to know how it feels to have one get away from him.

UNEMPLOYMENT is a lot of goddamn work, you know that? Between wrangling my way into freelance assignments, chasing down job prospects, hitting the gym and updating The Spellout, the day fills up awfully fast. I could probably lighten the load by cutting back on updating the bl-g, but it's the only part of this I'm really enjoying.

THE WATCHMEN MOVIE will be just like the comic book: suitable for 15-year-olds.

MY GOOD FRIENDS Alistair and Aine celebrate their birthdays today, and I celebrate their presence in my life. I hope you know such wonderful human beings.

THE WEATHER is fucked.

I first heard M.I.A.'s 2008 Song of the Year Grammy nominee "Paper Planes" on KEXP in August 2007 (which went on to play the track to within an inch of its life, more or less burning it out by September). Saw the artist performing the song live at the Vegoose Festival in Las Vegas, October 2007. Caught the riff again in the trailers for "Pinapple Express," February 2008. Accepted it in the midst of the otherwise fresh "Slumdog Millionaire," November 2008.

"Paper Planes" has been drifting in and out of my life for a year-and-a-half, and only now - now that the song has been Grammy-nominated and thoroughly beaten into the ground - does it begin to agree with me. Seriously, it's taken me this long to cop to the song's charms - and I still think her delivery of the verses is weak and awkward in the face of that anthemic, bang-bang-bang-bang chorus.

Originally posted on beatnik.vox.com