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Monday, February 9, 1998

So I've finally figured out what the point of the entire World Wide Web is: people spend time they don't have to spare doing shit no one will ever see. For example, right now I reek with two days' worth of stench. I am showerless since Saturday. I have seven to ten pages of my honors project OVERDUE (that's right, fight fans; not merely DUE, but OVERDUE). I have no energy to do anything at all, but write shit for this page. Already, I'm infected with the addictive Web bug. Ain't love grand?

Spent the morning listening to Liz Phair's "Exile in Guyville" as I wrote a shitty heroic couplet poem about Sisyphus. VERY powerful album. It's really hard to pin Liz down, actually. I refrained from buying the album because I had read that it was based on the Rolling Stones' seminal (and I do mean "seminal"; Mick Jagger fucks more than a million bunnies) rock album "Exile on Main Street." I wanted to listen to and know the Stones' original work before I got into Liz Phair's response.

As it turns out, I don't see many direct connections between the two records. I had expected a song-by-song response to the Stones record, but it's more of an opposition in feelings. (In fact, this record inspired my good friend Steve Millies to suggest that I write a song-by-song response to Hootie and the Blowfish's semen-drenched record "Cracked Rear View." I soon discovered that doing so would be like writing a line-by-line response to Dr. Seuss, whatever that means.)

There is an ironic detachment which Phair captures perfectly and which is swiped directly from Mick and the boys, although Phair also utilizes a very Stones sound on the record, what with the ragged guitars and classic Charlie Watts drum beat. Phair's voice and songwriting projects an unavoidable coldness, as frigid as anything Mick and Keith could write up in their heroin- drenched constant state. It's a direct blast against the disgust for women lurking beneath the thin rock veil of "Rocks Off." I guess basically what Phair does is pick up the Stones' own tools and uses them to pick "Exile on Main Street" to pieces slowly.

In an unrelated and highly ironic twist, Liz Phair is followed in my CD changer by James Taylor's greatest hits. I'm slipping into a coma as I write this, lulled by the soothing vocals of Sweet Baby James on some beatifully insipid pop folk. Nick Graber, if you can read this: RESCUE ME! RECLAIM YOUR CD! I'M DONE WITH IT!

More on Liz Phair later, probably. Maybe I'll write twice today. Luckily, since this is my home on the Web and no one else's, I can do whatever the fuck I want.


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