pkern

Nice one, Loch. These are the times when we need our poets most urgently. Anthem For Doomed Youth What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, - The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in The hands of boys but in their eyes Shall shine The holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. - Wilfred Owen

Mark Farina, "Connected" - funky San Fran house. Steve Lawler - pick a CD (which won't be new, but dark and hard nonetheless). Dark Drums... And of course, Danny Howells.

Isn't this the answer, really? Complaining about a dying rave/club scene is like complaining that America's turning to crap. We are the audience - we are the scene. So, if it seems to be declining, then perhaps we're to blame somehow. I don't think the scene will ever really die - it might not return to the youthful enthusiasm it once had, but so long as there are music fans and deejays willing to spin for them, there will be a scene.

Thank you for your help, gentlemen. I appreciate it. And no, I didn't mean to imply that the French are rude. I'm just anticipating the possibility of anti-American vibes, considering...

I never thought I'd be asking this, BUT: Does anyone know anything about the club scene in Paris? I will be there the third week/end in March and would love to go "underground" while I'm there. Any suggestions are much appreciated (other than pretending I'm from Canada, to avoid getting my American ass kicked). Thank you! :D

I'm glad to see that at least two clubplaneteers still read poetry. (Hi Loch! )

Keeping Quiet Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still for once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language; let's stop for a second, and not move our arms so much. It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm whales and the man gathering salt would not look at his hurt hands. Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing. What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. Life is what it is about... If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death. Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems to be dead in winter and later proves to be alive. Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go. --Neruda

Thank you, Phuture... I was just about to spew out an indignant response to our eloquent friend here, but you beat me to it. As usual, you're a hero, bro. Hope life's treating you as well as it should be...

The Best Cigarette There are many that I miss having sent my last one out a car window sparking along the road one night, years ago. The heralded one, of course: after sex, the two glowing tips now the lights of a single ship; at the end of a long dinner with more wine to come and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier; or on a white beach, holding one with fingers still wet from a swim. How bittersweet these punctuations of flame and gesture; but the best were on those mornings when I would have a little something going in the typewriter, the sun bright in the windows, maybe some Berlioz on in the background. I would go into the kitchen for coffee and on the way back to the page, curled in its roller, I would light one up and feel its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee. Then I would be my own locomotive, trailing behind me as I returned to work little puffs of smoke, indicators of progress, signs of industry and thought, the signal that told the nineteenth century it was moving forward. That was the best cigarette, when I would steam into the study full of vaporous hope and stand there, the big headlamp of my face pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

Hello All- Other than Baktun, is there anything else going on this evening? Anything? Anyone? Your help is much appreciated.

(OMG - if it isn't the legendary...when did you start comin 'round these parts again? ) Thank you Loc for getting the seething sarcasm of Collins. I think most get as far as "You are the bread and the knife..." and give up. They miss the rest: "And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way you are the pine-scented air. " Hmmm...is that a tongue in your cheek or ya just happy to see me?

What's up Shannon? I understand I missed a birthday of yours. Happy belated, woman. I'm sure you're as fabulous as you were when I last saw you. And thanks for being the diehard poetry chick on the board. At least someone still reads around here.

...courtesy of our very own poet laureate. God bless Billy Collins. And God Bless America. Litany You are the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine. You are the dew on the morning grass and the burning wheel of the sun. You are the white apron of the baker and the marsh birds suddenly in flight. However, you are not the wind in the orchard, the plums on the counter, or the house of cards. And you are certainly not the pine-scented air. There is just no way you are the pine-scented air. It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge, maybe even the pigeon on the general's head, but you are not even close to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. And a quick look in the mirror will show that you are neither the boots in the corner nor the boat asleep in its boathouse. It might interest you to know, speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world, that I am the sound of rain on the roof. I also happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley, and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table. I am also the moon in the trees and the blind woman's tea cup. But don't worry, I am not the bread and the knife. You are still the bread and the knife. You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow-- the wine. Billy Collins;)

Anyone know? I want to go this Sunday but I don't know what time... Thanks in advance! :)

I had the yummy pleasure of hearing him on a boat party in San Francisco last Sunday. He was absolutely amazing. Just groovy and funky and soooooo seamless. To all who go, enjoy! Enjoy! :D

Hey Deb! How are those breaks treating ya? bluetang: My bad! Brickhouse is right - Pyramid isn't in Chelsea. Oops.

Check out Splash and Pyramid too. They're both in Chelsea. Have fun and be safe!

MDMA was originally created in the 1930s as an appetite supressant and later used in the 1970s in therapy. You're right: MDMA can cause depression and moodiness, but usually only when too much is taken, or if the user does not have a balanced diet, vitamins, etc. The FDA protocol would administer controlled amounts (prob. the equivalent to half a pill) and the drug would not be used on a regular basis by the patient.

The FDA has recently approved a research protocol that would study the usefulness of MDMA in treating sexual abuse and rape survivors. In the 1970s, MDMA was used by psychotherapists in this capacity with some success, but the drug was ultimately abandoned because of what was perceived as negative side effects (i.e. it was too much fun for users...). I'm currently working on an article that will discuss MDMA's usefulness to women (and men) who have survived sexual abuse (or any sort of traumatic event). I'm looking for personal stories, experiences, etc. I realize this is a highly personal topic so anyone interested in sharing is welcomed to pm me. I'm also interested in people's general opinions on this topic: does Ecstasy offer a broader use than simple recreation? Does the Zen peacefulness, ease with oneself, sense of well-being and "rightness" with the world that MDMA can produce offer a theraputic function? We live in an age where drugs are usually taken gratuitously, where their ceremonial use is lost in the rush for immediate gratification. In my opinion, Ecstasy can potentially heal emotional wounds and provide a more optimistic and hopeful outlook on life. What do you think? Thanks for sharing...

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Danny Howells should really buy me dinner first before he does that to me for 8 hours. The man is crazy. I didn't stop moving for the entire night, at least until I pulled my hamstring. God damn I love Vinyl. Where else can a girl fly solo and still have one of the best nights out ever? Phuture: sorry I missed you man!

Thanks, all. Seaman on the 18th! Damn it! I have to graduate from my master's program the next day. Hmmmm...how much does pkern love Dave? phuturephunk: Hey there! Schoolwork has me way too busy these days. I will resurface for Lawler, however, and probably Howells this Saturday. How are you doing? And thanks for the info. :D

Anyone know who else besides Lawler will be spinning at Vinyl this May? Madeevents.com doesn't have a lineup posted yet. Thanks! :D :)

Sorry I'm a bit late on this one, but I had to chime in on Siceone's memory here since I was that mysterious Peggy who found him and kept him company all night. Thanks for taking me back to that night, Sice. It was nearly perfect - Flight 243 twice, Iao's Rapture twice (before it was slaughtered on the airwaves)...Dave Seaman remains a god among men. Next up: Steve Lawler. Bring the dark drums. HOpe to catch you there, Sice.

I Ask You What scene would I want to be enveloped in more than this one, an ordinary night at the kitchen table, floral wallpaper pressing in, white cabinets full of glass, the telephone silent, a pen tilted back in my hand? It gives me time to think about all that is going on outside— leaves gathering in corners, lichen greening the high grey rocks, while over the dunes the world sails on, huge, ocean-going, history bubbling in its wake. But beyond this table there is nothing that I need, not even a job that would allow me to row to work, or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4 with cracked green leather seats. No, it's all here, the clear ovals of a glass of water, a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin, not to mention the odd snarling fish in a frame on the wall, and the way these three candles— each a different height— are singing in perfect harmony. So forgive me if I lower my head now and listen to the short bass candle as he takes a solo while my heart thrums under my shirt— frog at the edge of a pond— and my thoughts fly off to a province made of one enormous sky and about a million empty branches. --Billy Collins