Ok, so I know a few Graces, and each one seems to embody the word in a special way.
Last year, I got to meet a new Grace: Grace Pettis. She's a young singer-songwriter in Austin, and she's amazingly talented. I'm talking Anais-level wunderkind here, where she's like, "hrmm, I've been working on a song," and she sings you a few lines, and then you're saying things like, "That's pretty good..." but actually you're just hoping she didn't notice that you just burst into tears. She's that kind of good.
Well, we got together a few times last year to try our hand at co-writing, and we came up with a pretty awesome song. It's called Dancing, and it's on Grace's new rekerrd!
And by the way, Grace just won the Mountain Stage NewSong contest, and she's going to be on Mountain Stage, which is a show carried all over the country. She is Going Places, and such.
A few months ago, some of Damien Hirst's work sold for a mindbogglingly large amount of money. It made something like $50 million, if I remember correctly.
Damien Hirst is the guy who makes enormous thin slices of dead cows and suspends them in glass. I was confused, because the article kept referring to the work as "art."
"That is not art," I thought, no doubt accompanied by millions of other people sitting in their kitchens reading The New York Times.
"Art" is the stuff that you take with you when the Nazis are coming. You know -- "They're coming! Quick! Hide the Monet!"
And if you had a Damien Hirst life-size cow-slice-embedded-in-glass?
"The Nazis are coming! Quick!...err, no, never mind."
The only possible use for it in that scenario is during a general blockade, during which the formerly wealthy art patrons break open the glass and try to salvage something edible.
So this is my new definition of art: Would you hide it from the Nazis?
Or, would you say, "Who says nothing good comes out of a Nazi invasion?...I've always hated that thing."
A few years ago, I had a terribly boring job, doing QA for a website. I spent all day alone in a room they called "the cave."
I streamed a LOT of public radio.
One of my great discoveries was KUT (this was before I moved to Texas). And one of the great joys I experienced was this radio documentary: Rediscovering Barbara Jordan. Very inspiring.
Sometimes I wish that I'd been a teenager in the 70's. Just think of it -- I missed out on Led Zeppelin, Fairport Convention, Stevie Wonder, Joni Mitchell...
...but then I realize, there are some things it's ok that I missed. And here's one that I've just discovered: Paul Anka's "You're Having My Baby," featuring -- I shit you not -- these lyrics:
PAUL: Havin' my baby What a lovely way of sayin' how much you love me Havin' my baby What a lovely way of sayin' what you're thinkin' of me I can see it, face is glowin' I can see in your eyes, I'm happy you know it
BOTH: That you're havin' my baby PAUL: You're the woman I love and I love what it's doin' to ya BOTH: Havin' my baby PAUL: You're a woman in love and I love what's goin' through ya
...etc.
I youtube'd the song and it's just dreadful, including the cheesy flute parts and everything.
I recommend you listen to it and laugh till you cry.
In terms of my personal un-favorite songs, I must also nominate Mandy, as well as all the collected works of Burt Bacharach.
