november 10 i use an apple, i like the apple ads.
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or at least that's what i said, without taking the time to elaborate on it.
lucky for me, and for you, i have friends like wayne and agro.
it must take some weird stuff to make sneakers.
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Date: Wed, 12 Nov 1997 From: wayne bremser To: justin Subject: ew re: i use an apple, i like the apple ads. i use apple and i find those ads offensive. i dont think its right to use people like martin luther king or ghandi to sell advertisements for computers or any consumer product. those people have NOTHING to do with the product, certainly never used them and, quite frankly, ghandis politics are against the kind of image exploitation that western culture embraces in advertisements. i especially think its offensive in the tv ad how they have ghandi and ted turner seconds apart. i think its vile to put ted turner in the same ad with ghandi, personally. i think its vile to put ghandi in any ad selling any computer. on the level of them as advertisements, i find them insincere and i dont see how they will sell a single over-priced macintosh. so we going to hang out in philly when i get there. i get there the 13th. wb.
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jane's addiction liveat the "corestates" spectrum
november 10 continues: i was apologetically booted from the vinyl barely bondage goth production of much ado about nothing here
i hope they still use my flyers,
wilson told me that nothing, in shakespeare's time, meant, amongst other things, vagina ("she's got no thing!")
so i drew according flyers
"much ado about n[vagina-o]thing" okay, so i was a sleepy verges,
but i told them i was going to go to
"corestates" sounds orwellian, like some future scifi fiefdom
i was so stressed or in a tizzy or something today that i lost my tickets three times, including one sad critical one when wilson and i were about ten minutes from the show and already twenty minutes late,
we drove back to campus and found the tickets and returned and there was monday night football sharing the corestates complex so we parked near a mile and a half away on the front lawn of a big bank and ran that far in cold air they were playing "stop" which means we probably missed Ocean Size, Ain't No Right, Then She Did..., which is sad tho okay cuz i was holding my cool and just glad to be therearrival was accordingly like being at a large concert at once supposed to be swelled by the girth of the venue and 'pointed by the broad flourescent concrete nachos with cheesyness of the joint. corestates spectrum might seat well for basketball. as it was we crowd were not vertically enough in their face. vast cordoned space separated us. there was broad open in front of us wide and there was nothing there above it but an unused scoreboard which might have been funny if it had listed the bandmembers and the audience scores. when will some band take advantage of the stadium to announce their show -
and now, from drug rehab in southern california, the lead guitarist, standing 5'7", number 34, jerry brown!but in this case the room size merely served to absorb the sound and spread out the energy. we were more like a puddle than a deep swimming hole. but i think that was okay with mr farrell cuz he could see himself well reflected in us. we were so white. a few blissed out freaks, morely a philadelphian number of barelybouncing thick high school homies. we knew the lyrics, we approached sharing in an intensity of musical transcendence jane's possible as porno is not. jane's in concert. maybe an hour and a half total. the greatest hits. ten thousand people. 30 dollars. where were we? nostalgia?
we hung absently on his universal good and evil, good fuck speeches, except the wonderful inebrianderthol next to me, who interrupted perry's discourse on the inevitable victory of universal love and the millenial rise of femininity to chant "show us your tits!" at the scantly clad g-strung gyrating goluptuous gymnasts wringing themselves on stage sprung poles. a touching collaboration to be sure.
it surely made him high to watch the crowd wriggle at his touch. the other fellows up on stage, each shirtless in some feminized state of undress and makeup, they were disengaged, likely debating whether cheesesteak is better with or without peppers. the shaman on demand rallying enough troops to justify his absurdity, then leaving everyone hanging.
security looked to be tightly maintaining control of the floor. there was however a young man with some leadership potential in our asile, "let's rush that shit! everyone! rush it!" and eventually they did, increasing sea-borne mammals jumped the walls and dashed past dazed or uncaring well-fed security staff who somehow disappeared until only two young ladies and my friend and i remained in the space cleared at the front. these girls were wailing sobbing swaying holding their heads, having been horribly trambled clearly stomped or headslammed into the metal railing of the guard barriar, "she sez, stop boy, i'm a girl."
only one song sent me, now in the space cleared by the quick and the deadened, ted just admit it which is about as close to electricity as you can get in music, i was able to finally twitch and shake in my seat space and avoid analyzing the dizzying array of cock-shocking symbols they'd strewn around stage.
i arrived and left thinking that he had affirmed himself with our diminished gargantuan gathering of what was possible before they split. what was new at the show? only a few tahitian moons and the use of samples? they could have been the grateful dead or nirvana or the beatles or something because he had that desire to be that celebrated so why the break up and why the relapse? he's a skitzo rat bastard that's what he is but he's funny and the people who go to his shows have the potential for bonded courtesy, if only he could stay focused on maintaining relationships long enough to put out another soul-searing record. which song had i heard that was written in the ninties? but we were there for the legend. since when did a rock band play to expectations? welcome to the hotel california. expectations to shock. with tits and ass? he's so subversive it's commercial.
i urged him to show us his dick, but he couldn't hear me from the back.
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justin hall | <justin at bud dot com>