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soup is my boyfriend, but the soup man is not.

if you know me at all, you probably know that i could (and often do) eat soup every single day.

it runs in the family. it's warm. it's the old country and the lower east side. there are one million stories about my family soups. my dad taught me how to make it. it's warm. again, i say, it's warm. there ( Read more... )

i just got more key information about my grammy-voting future ( Read more... )

i'm not a "lyricist", i'm a songwriter. i have very, very rarely written an entire song's lyrics without thinking hook at the same time. i don't know how people do it, but i know that they do. how you can take a fully solidifed page of words that has no melodic intention and then try to "set it to music" blows my mind ( Read more... )

i have this memory of hot chocolate from a machine being incredibly good. arguably better than homemade, even. granted, i was like 8, and it was at hal's deli, where everything was incredibly good. we would go most saturdays, just my dad and my sisters and me. sometimes just me and him ( Read more... )

receiving false praise today i was told i was a "genius" for pointing out that an email address shouldn't have two @s in it, and perhaps that's why it was bouncing.

songwriting last week, i wrote a great song. two days ago, jac gordetzky came over and we worked on writing his violin parts. i played with garage band long enough to track piano, ( Read more... )

there's a reason good pop songs are catchy - songwriters made good use of musical conventions, and they provoke certain reactions in the listener. the sound of a familiar chord progression is like any other sensory memory. like the smell of matzoh ball soup being made, or your grandmother's perfume somewhere she's not. even if you've never heard a ( Read more... )

it's because i see the forest, not because i value "neatness" or see virtue in "perfection." for the love of g-d, i like mess. of certain kinds. but i fucking hate needless waste: wasted time, wasted energy, wasted space ( Read more... )

nobody cared about my free soda report. or my joan rivers coffee report. what is the point of lj if no one even cares about the mundanities of my life. my sister gets to write pages about jobs gone awry and is greeted with a chorus of sympathies, but my collapsing bathroom ceiling, described in an appropriate 2-3 sentences elicits nothing ( Read more... )

i just did a starbucks run for joan.