Lost at Sea Triplet (to be played simultaneously)
DALE W EISINGER ENTERS GODMODE
we are thrilled to announce the addition of dale w eisinger to the godmode family
-a brilliant writer
-an infuriating photographer
-the best drummer
he joins us as the director of special projects and other provocations
he is from idaho
follow him here
read his eyewitness account of the big snow shooting and aftermath here
look for his ‘saturday 6am’ photobook in the near future (above photo taken from the series)
you can email dale at dwe at entergodmode dot com
This is what one hour of my inbox looks like, in case you’re wondering why you’re not making any money on Spotify.
Which of these papers did NOT recently fire all their photogs?
Front pages, June 26, 2013.
Paul McCartney (click through for more & review)
What I didn’t write about in this piece was how I cried during “Let It Be.” In and of itself it’s an amazing song and one I’ve see Macca perform live before. But there I was, completely alone in this massive arena, weeping to the song, the sense of finality in the piece and at that moment so pervasive that I couldn’t hold myself back. A lady winked at me. I texted my dad that I wished he and my mom were there. It wasn’t until I got home a few hours later that I remembered we sang “Let It Be” at my brother’s funeral and perhaps that’s why I was crying.
An article last Thursday about the re-creation of the restroom in the nightclub CBGB, part of a Metropolitan Museum exhibition on punk influences on fashion, misspelled the surname of the club’s owner. He was Hilly Kristal, not Krystal. The article also misstated part of the name of a punk group whose name was painted on the restroom wall. They were the Dead Boys — not Dead Boys Rule, which was a critical assessment by a fan.
"You may have seen stories in the news about a top secret order Verizon allegedly received to produce certain calling information to the U.S. government.
We have no comment on the accuracy of The Guardian newspaper story or the documents referenced, but a few items in these stories are important. The alleged court order that The Guardian published on its website contains language that:
- compels Verizon to respond;
- forbids Verizon from revealing the order’s existence; and
- excludes from production the “content of any communication … or the name, address, or financial information of a subscriber or customer.”
Verizon continually takes steps to safeguard its customers’ privacy. Nevertheless, the law authorizes the federal courts to order a company to provide information in certain circumstances, and if Verizon were to receive such an order, we would be required to comply.”
Essentially, we can’t say the thing we’re talking about and therefore exists at all exists. Agnostic accountability FTW.
I think the perceived flippancy, the playfulness Chance The Rapper embodies, lets us take for granted the darkness here. That the underlying joy pervading sentiments of having watched one of his brothers die, stabbed to death, watching that in the corridors of his youth, that reality haunting him, that image haunting us, that procession to the blackness … can you imagine? We like to imagine. We like to pretend. What is this reality? Why do we get to pretend? I can imagine. I had taken Chance the Rapper’s reality for granted myself. You don’t project, but the bravery in the sentiment, the ability to say the truth, the extenuated ego, the actualized self.. Chance the Rapper, so young at 20, is teaching us all something here that, so young at 26, I’m only now just learning myself. I have not felt so connected to another person artistically since my brother, who passed two years ago, until I heard “Acid Rain.” Maybe it’s that I finally let my guard down. Maybe I’m finally starting to see what it’s really been like. Maybe I took my friends for granted. Without a doubt Chance the Rapper doesn’t. The jokers on the album, Gambino and Bronson and Solo… they’re the support system. They just let him do his thing. And this beautiful memorial just echoes in my brain. Last week, having spent a fair amount of time with Acid Rap, it finally hit me. My phone dead, walking home, having spent all night just laughing with strangers and being led by the hand by pretty girls and talking honest shit and making jokes… I walked home alone and I just collapsed. I gripped the fence of the Williamsburg Houses at around 4 a.m. I gripped the chain link with both hands and I wept, like I haven’t wept in years, like I’ve never wept. I hadn’t listened to Chance the Rapper in a couple days, but “Acid Rain” echoed through my brain. Do I tell the world? Do I tell the world I was watching cartoons on Thanksgiving day, with my girlfriend, she was new, when my brother died? Do I tell the world we ordered in Greek food and that it was an ordeal to answer the speakerphone call from my parents and cousins and uncles and Nana? Do I tell the world we sighed and laughed? Do I tell the world that when my dad called twice in a row in five minutes three days later I already knew that John had died? How? Do I tell the world that I see him in my dreams? Do I tell the world that minutes after I spoke at his funeral that I got in a car and went to a house of nightmares where a baby crawled on the floor through trash and ash and let a friend buy me hash and acid? Do I admit this wasn’t a dream? Do I tell the world that all I wanted was to be high? Do I tell the world that I dropped acid after my brother’s wake, that it didn’t even seem to matter at the time, that it actually seemed like an acceptable, even good, idea? Do I tell TSA it was me who yelled at you for no reason, tripping at 6:50 a.m. on a flight to LGA, with nothing but gifted gadgets and a cassette delay and a single pair of underwear in my tote? Do I tell the world that I wore a blue tie? That I threw away all my clothes the minute I had them and instead of packing I shoved strange electronics and records and books into a satchel and just bought black new slacks as soon as I felt dirty and lithe? What do I tell the world? Do I tell the world that I focused everything inward? How do I tell the world the pain that my mother must be in? How do I tell the world that my mother and father are better than all of them, that they deserve better than my brother dead and me out of control? What is it about this world that makes this world so cold? Where does my swollen heart fit and why do I already feel so old? What is it about crying that when it comes you don’t stop until you actually feel bold? Or maybe weakened by the bold. Jealous of the bold. Because you aren’t special. This just happens. You grow old and others don’t wait for how you grow old. Is Chance the Rapper just refusing to wait? What is the retrospect we grant honesty and honestly bad mistakes beyond having learned from it? Maybe it’s that everything’s good (everything’s good).