Using a borrowed guitar, Beth Orton performed a slew of unheard — and, in some cases, untitled — songs from a forthcoming record slated to drop later this year, and some of her well-known hits, during a just-more-than-an-hour set at Brighton Music Hall on Monday night.
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It is written that the nymph Echo needed to have the last word, and after angering Hera (or Juno, Hera’s counterpart in the religions of ancient Rome), was cursed. All Echo could do was repeat the last thing said to her, becoming all last word. She fell in love with Narcissus, a beautiful man.
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Meet Webster Murphy Allen, a fictional lawyer who was born in April 1925 and who died yesterday. He has several siblings, children, grandchildren, and a wife, with whom he was vacationing when he died. Allen is also the subject of the forthcoming Pure Slush print anthology, obit., for which submissions are currently being accepted.
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The amount my son, Avery, understands routinely surprises me. Words like California and microwave and Internet and, today, dictator.
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Inside The Book of Blood and Shadow, you find codes and golems and mysterious languages and a girl I couldn’t help but picture as Krysten Ritter (from Veronica Mars, and, currently, The Bitch in Apartment 23). And you may even agree that the story, while complete, leaves open enough ways for Wasserman to return to these characters, sweeping them into another grand story of love and history and how we each choose, or not, to believe.
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Eighteen years or so since Cobain’s suicide, Erlandson has released Letters to Kurt, which, as the title suggests, are letters to the Nirvana frontsman, but also letters on a variety of topics, from why “sane people are taking drugs to be fucking crazy” to a series of financial troubles that Erlandson had to hurdle.
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From ultimate geek to ultimate superhero
I started collecting comic books in 1991. My first issue, Uncanny X-Men 273. I bought the comic book for $1 at a bookstore that was four or five storefronts down from our local grocery store and from a K-Mart. I probably only had enough for that book plus the six-cents sales tax, since my mother would give me and my brother a couple of bucks to buy snacks and soda after school while she worked. Instead of eating, which was probably my favorite thing to do then, I bought a comic book, and I bought that comic book because of Jean Grey. Hands down, that big-breasted redhead is why I bought that comic book.
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Last night, I started reading Bill Clegg’s Ninety Days, the follow-up to his Portrait of an Addict as a Young Man. Clegg also spiraled out of control, descending into paranoia, mania, illicit drug use and sex with men who were not his boyfriend, ultimately losing his relationship, dignity, and successful agency. That book ended with his decision to enter rehab, which is where Ninety Days begins, with his leaving rehab and reintegrating back into the life he left behind. I thought I’d read the first chapter, but I couldn’t stop, and finished the book in about two hours.
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She’s a manic-pixie-dream-girl
My friend Mallory went on a maybe-sort-of date last night. I mean, she was on a date; she just wasn’t sure she wanted the date to be a date. I encouraged her to at least kiss the boy. Of course I encouraged her to at least kiss the boy.
Cue Horatio Thelonious Ignacious Crustaceous Sebastian (Sebastian, to his friends, and to King Triton) and an orchestra of sea creatures willing to help Mallory and this boy woo and, if it happened, make whoopie.
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