This isn't a lightbulb-above-the-head inducing essay by any stretch, but I'm glad it says what it says: that the boundaries between the roles and functions of critic, artist, and fan are becoming increasingly blurry and irrelevant.
Judy Garland's famous blue gingham dress from The Wizard of Oz is being auctioned by Bonhams & Butterfields in London.
Death Cab are going (adorably) out of their minds in rural Massachusetts prepping their new album (and major-label debut), Plans. (Link via, where else, Pitchfork.) [EDIT: Giddy and I were also wondering if the Grinnellians had anything to do with the naming of this album. . . .]
The Rabbit never fails to crack my shit up. I gotta get me one of those childless whore t-shirts.
Has anybody seen, or otherwise heard from, John Roderick lately? I'm having a serious Long Winters jones these days.
Is there anyone left on planet earth who doesn't have a Gmail account but wants one? I was able to palm one invite off on a friend recently (OK, at his request, but still), and that successful transaction reawoke in me the burning desire to GET THE FUCK RID OF my other forty-nine invites. Any takers?
EDIT: Right after I posted this entry, I, gleefully, discovered some more yummy Decemberists/Colin Meloy goodness: an interview in The Onion A.V. Club's "The New What's Next Music Issue." Accusations of pathetic obsession will be dismissed with a wave of my restraining order.