between a rock and a rrrrock

Yesterday was Thursday and Thursdays are ESP days (electric sensory pineapples or everybody shock perception or extra smirks pretty) and so when I passed an old lady wearing the most practical padded and laced shoes (taupe) and a crisp sun hat (matching taupe) with a wee bit of white froth of hair descending over the smooth wrinkled sky of her forehead and a little jacket (mmm...tan) and a little shirtdress (taupe) I thought, SHE'S NO-NONSENSE and then she lifted up her eyes which leapt from the faces of my feet to my eyes and I heard her think, SHE'S ALL-NONSENSE. Never has an expression in reverse reflected such cunning self-vindictiveness. I was wearing green eyeshadow. This mental self-flagellation brought to you in honor of the new Onex shoes I purchased. The design is called "Present." The lady moved away from me so quickly and adroitly in her sensible shoes that I could only whisper but they're so comfortable into the mouth-warm train wind hustling through my hair.

But really, folks, they are that comfortable. Excellent arch support, buttery straps, well-proportioned heel. And of course there are the tasteful rhinestones, or diamantés, if you will. These shoes are about both privilege and determination. They are the key to the fake-rich-old-lady aesthetic I attempt on a daily basis. If I were a little mouse and I called myself The Brain, I'd say Onex shoes will be the key when I TAKE OVER THE WORLD. And I wore my new red shoes to the Sleater-Kinney show at Roseland last night and I danced, oh yes, I danced. I danced through a two hour show and two encores. I danced until I quite literally wet myself. There was even a brief moment when I believe I took part in the kind of dainty mosh pittance you can imagine me allowing myself. A little bit of elbow move. Lots of hair. Only one toenail, large and to the left, polish partially stomped off on the dancefloor. But enough about the shoes.

Carrie Brownstein is a rock guitar god. Corin Tucker sings like a fucking superstar, like nobody else. And Janet Weiss is a beast on the drums. When compared with the aforementioned Get Up boyband, I become wordless. I begin quoting Susan Sontag:

Art is the objectifying of the will in a thing or performance, and the provoking or arousing of the will. From the point of view of the artist, it is the objectifying of a volition; from the point of view of the spectator, it is the creation of an imaginary décor for the will. ("On Style," 1961)

This music is actualized. It's erotic because it does in fact arouse the desire for movement—moral, sexual, physical, intellectual—in the listener. Movement toward something more real. We, the audience, are witnesses to something personal that creates the deepest craving to possess and communicate something just as infinitely personal and communicable as their music. S/K's songs actually sound like distinct songs. Not just intro-hook-verse-chorus-verse-hook- with a cockrockend. And I'm sorry, like, in the junior high sense of being sorry, but Carrie can wank a ten minute guitar solo in my presence, like, any day.