Thanks to all who said Movement 2011, aka Detroit’s techno music festival, would be worth the visit. It was. Totally. Excellent people watching, set to the persistent thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of electronica. Let’s not talk, today, about whether it qualifies as “music” or not. Clearly it is. The musicianship consists of weaving these aural tapestries. If you’re accustomed to going to a show where you pay attention to the stage, where there is a clearly identifiable performer playing an instrument or singing or whatever, it can be a little weird, granted. So, is that Poindexter standing behind the sound board the Space Time Continuum, or just their sound guy? The answer to that question is, who gives a fig, because you didn’t go to see them. You went to see this:
This is a version of a common look for girls. The synthetic-fur leg warmers are called “fluffies.” The colors are day-glo, presumably for the black-light possibilities. The semi-nudity? Well, it was everywhere:
This doesn’t bug me, for the most part, which is to say, “as long as it’s not my daughter.” We’re only young once; as Nora Ephron tells young women today, “If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini and don’t take it off until you’re 34.” It’s the juxtapositions that unsettle, all this slutwear and stripper gear worn with pacifiers and Oscar the Grouch backpacks. I guess that’s the point. To unsettle. To greedily accept the gifts of adulthood (sex) while clinging to those of childhood (pacifiers, Oscar the Grouch), all while wearing leg warmers made of cheap acrylic.
Then there were these people:
Such fun folks. We went on Saturday. I wish we’d seen Fatboy Slim, but he was the Monday headliner, and Monday it was 90 degrees, and my appreciation of almost everything would have changed under those conditions. For one thing, I’m sure the fluffies would have been left at home. Monday was the day to go sailing, and we did. The farther you got from shore, the more the stifling temperatures were left behind, and it was one pleasant way to pass an afternoon, especially when you knew that the morning’s work was waiting for you when you got back, i.e., red potato salad with caraway, a strawberry-rhubarb pie and some beef tenderloin marinating in sesame oil and soy sauce, ready to skewer and grill with some red pepper, onions and mushrooms. A good ending to a long, fine weekend.
Which had some fine reading, as well. A few links to sample:
From the WashPost, a profile of the oldest competitive female bodybuilder. She’s 74. Check the photos; they’re pretty amazing. The question for me, though, is this: Is looking like that worth eating the way she does, i.e., on chicken breasts, green beans and (gag) egg whites? Worth thinking about, over the next piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Via Roy, a New Yorker profile of the recently departed Gil Scott-Heron, who died last week. I don’t know how I missed this the first time around (last year), a portrait of the artist as a crackhead.
While you’re noodling around at the New Yorker, you might also enjoy Atul Gawande’s commencement address at Harvard Medical School last week.
For those of you reading this back in my native state, the Sports Illustrated package on the sins of St. Tressel. I read it with mixed feelings; thankful I really don’t care about this stuff, and yet, there’s a certain head-shaking mood that pervades it all. Can we do away with college football programs entirely? Or set it up as some sort of minor-league, self-supporting adjunct to higher education (yes, I know it already is) and drop the charade that this has anything to do with college?
EDIT: Oh! Almost forgot! David Von Drehle, aka the Master of Disaster, has filed again, this time setting the standard for the best twister story, ever. Absolutely worth your time, particularly in light of this particularly dumb post from Jeff Jarvis, suggesting articles are now “luxuries” when someone like Brian Stelter has already wandered through Joplin posting to Twitter. Read and compare, tell me which one you prefer. I’m on Team Von Drehle.
OK, another hot one on tap, and I have lots to do. Hitting the ground, running and sweating. Starts now.