timing is everything.

Had I been able to recognize that the surest way to pretty randomly attract violent spiritual resuscitation would be to christen 2014 The Year I Got Old just so the Fucking Universe could rear up and attempt to Prove Me Wrong, well...I would've done it Way Fucking Sooner. Either way: thanks, Fucking Universe, you win, pleeeeeeease just keep on doing what you're doing.

All of which puts VDuck in a bit of a Transitional Phase, content-wise...issues of jurisdiction. I go to America in ten days for a month, I'm sure I'll have things we can document and discuss in the traditional VDuck stylee.

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i reach out from the inside.

If you know me at all, you probably know I don't like telephones.

Illustrative anecdote: It's 10am, I just came in from a long hot shower (our shower is out in the hallway). From upstairs I heard the sound of the white noise generator aka Taifun aka loud-as-hell antique-looking black metal (!) fan, so I assumed the Mara was still asleep.

Suddenly the house phone rings (vs. one of our mobiles), a semi-shocking, impolite, and unmodifiable sound. Roughly five people on earth have this phone number, and at this hour it can/should not be anyone we know unless they've just been shot or stabbed or otherwise intruded upon, but the idea of someone calling us as an emergency measure is pretty tragically misguided.

It rings again, jolting me out of my "who could this possibly be" thoughts. Instead of continuing to think, I immediately execute my default pre-noon phone-ringing behavior, which is to deftly remove the phone cable from the phone, thus returning The Pod to its preferred state in one swift antisocial motion.

A beat of silence, and then from upstairs I hear, "You dipshit, it's me."

This would be an artifact of days gone by, when our house used to be of a size/shape where the person just waking up in the upstairs bedroom would call the already-awoken person downstairs in the kitchen to request delivery of one or more breakfast items (or tiems, as I just typed).

So: pleeeeease. Don't feel bad if you call and I don't answer. It's so not personal.

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potential.

Yes, we have entered a period of record-breaking silence here at VDuck. There were eight posts in February. Five this month. Just stwuggling with priorities and time management, let's say that.

Made this again, it's just really really good. I think the next time we do it we'll try pairing it with some halibut or other sturdy white fish sauteed in ghee or something.

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commence relaxation period.

It remains sad but true that I have not one iota of interest in blogging at the moment. Why ees thees? We just don't know. I am the complex organism. 


Mara is back from her Brief Test Thrust with the band this week, having made a quick dip through Luxembourg and France, and apparently it was all a smashing success, so she leaves again tomorrow for a UK jaunt that includes Leamington, London, Manchester, Glasgow, Cardiff, Bristol, and Nottingham. 


I myself am enjoying a couple of days off after a couple of weeks of semi-intense sonic development that, hey, resulted in two very different but pretty satisfying shows. So I'm cooking a bit: roasting a chicken this very minute, and before that I made some red sauce for I don't know what, and started the days' cooking adventures by braising a big old honker of a daikon in dashi for a kind of soup. I always buy daikon whenever the Maroc/Turk (I've given up keeping track) has one because it's versatile and healthy and very cost-effective (one the size of your arm for a little more than a euro).


After I braised my daikon (euphemism alert), I picked up Momofuku to see what Mr. Chang does to his daikon, and it turns out we do the same thing (I imagine this is also euphemistically correct, generally speaking).


Fascinating story, I know. What else is happening, Peter. We just watched the first half of Mad Men Season Two, I must say it seems a bit scattered in terms of its atttention span and pacing, but maybe that'll change. 


OK, well, yeah! You know sometimes you call a friend and they don't have anything to say and don't really sound like they want to talk? I mean, I hear that this kind of thing happens. It's a bit like that. 

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fumbling toward nextacy.

I've been trying to post something here, but everything I've been up to lately is too complicated to post about quickly. So I'll just say this:

Worst Live Band Ever? Helium. No contest, hands down, etc. I've seen them 5 times and watched them suck powerfully and incessantly 5 times. This was tragic for me b/c Pirate Prude and The Dirt of Luck were two of my absolute favorite discs of 1994-5, and while some of my other favorite artists were just up and actually, literally dying left and right without my having seen them live, Helium just couldn't get excited enough about their gigs to do anything other than scowl and pout and just unabashedly befoul the stage with their energysucking absence of goodness (sorry Ash, I don't mean you), for me most memorably at Atlanta's now-gone-I-think Cotton Club, where Blonde Redhead just mopped the floor with Helium's frowny-faced shrug of a set.

Really, it's not like I've been obsessing about this for 11 years or anything, honest. It's just that I had a summer of unusually nostalgic listening because all of Matador, Touch and Go, and Merge Records' back catalogs are now available on eMusic, so I downloaded all the old favorites that I accidentally sold when we had our CD shop (I didn't realize that some of them were out of print)...I was happiest to find the boys from Chavez, Polvo, and Archers of Loaf out there...and of course Helium, which started all of this. "Baby's Going Underground" is still a great song.

Still no Bonsai Superstar though, 'cause it was released on Grass. I had a prolonged fantasy about releasing it myself last night, but thankfully it seems to have passed.

Something about food will show up here eventually. Until then, go listen to some Camille. Her Le Fil disc is, IMHO, everything that Bjork's Medulla should've been but wasn't. It's playful, passionate, experimental, occasionally awkward, and interesting while still being pop-song-predictable enough to play for normal people. And there's none of that over-emotive full-throttle yell that the Swan Lady indulges herself in. Additionally, there aren't 36 distracting guest stars. I also don't understand a word of the Camille stuff, and I'm sure that helps immensely.

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