Author: jbenton

Happy World AIDS Day, everybody! I bet restaurants everywhere are totally booked solid.
Went to my third (if memory serves) professional football game yesterday: the New Orleans Saints, a force for good in the universe, versus the Washington Redskins, a race-baiting conglomeration of hatred and evil. (Aren’t the clear black-white lines of sport ethics wonderful? No silly shades of gray.) Fellow Pewtron Noel and I managed to scalp front-row seats (!) for $35 each — quite a deal. It proved even more of a deal when the Saints pulled out a 24-20 win.
I’ve got to admit, though, I was a bit disappointed in the ‘Skins fans. I mean, I was the only Saints fan around. Whenever anything pro-Saint happened, I was yellin’ and hootin’ and hollerin’ — the sort of vigorous fandom that is de rigeur in a home stadium but potentially risky on the road. I fully expected a few catcalls, or perhaps some popcorn thrown my way.
I got nothing! Even when Boo Williams caught his 15-yard touchdown in the fourth quarter — ripping away a seemingly secure Redskins win — there was no reaction to my pro-Boo yelps. I expected better.
By the way, I was back in Dallas yesterday — if only for an hour, in Terminal E at DFW. Sorry I didn’t call. I’ll be back to Dallas for good (or at least a few days) in two weeks.

I have watched a Game Show Network original documentary. (I never thought I’d type that sentence.)
It’s called Big Bucks: The Press Your Luck Scandal. It’s all about an ice cream truck driver named Michael Larsen who figured out patterns on the Whammy-heavy ’80s game show and manipulated them into winning $110,000 — at that point, the largest sum ever won on a game show.
I’m not proud of the fact I sat through two hours of game show docudrama, but I did.
A couple journo-plaudits I didn’t post about while I was in Africa:
– Mad props to Justin Chen of my old college paper, who was named college journalist of the year.
– Madder props to Mike Sallah and Mitch Weiss at my old non-college paper for writing a series on Vietnam war crimes that will in all likelihood win a Pulitzer Prize. My only regret: If I was still in Toledo, I know I’d be getting a piece of that Pulitzer. Mike and I were the go-to p.1 projects team for my last year there. (For example, here, here, here, here, here, here, and many more.)

In a surprising admission of critical fallibility, Pitchfork has reconsidered its Top 100 Albums of the 1990s listing from a couple years back. They’ve produced a new, revised ranking, and I can imagine the question you’re all asking yourselves:
But Josh, how do the various Pitchfork rankings correlate with your own voluminous record collection?
Here’s your answer: The new list matches my own tastes quite a bit more than the old one. The stats back me up on this one. Here are the number of top ranked albums from each list you’d find in my CD collection:
On the old list, I own:
– 9 of the top 10 (exception: Tori Amos)
– 15 of the top 20 (Walt Mink, Beastie Boys, Sunny Day Real Estate, Built to Spill)
– 19 of the top 30 (Shudder to Think, Wrens, Brainiac, They Might Be Giants, Fugazi, Elliott Smith)
From the new list:
– 9 of the top 10 (Bonnie Prince Billy)
– 17 of the top 20 (Smashing Pumpkins, Talk Talk)
– 24 of the top 30 (Modest Mouse, Built to Spill, Beta Band)
There’s only one possible conclusion to be drawn from this evidence: Over the last several years, my record-buying habits have had a significant influence on the tastes of Pitchfork writers. Of the 11 “top 30” albums I didn’t own from the 1999 list, 10 dropped out of the new top 30 — clearly marking them as inferior pretenders to the indie rock throne. (The one disc I’m missing from both lists: Built to Spill’s There’s Nothing Wrong with Love. And even it dropped from No. 11 to No. 24.)
In related music news, I feel I should apologize to the Mountain Goats, the one-man lo-fi folk band of John Darnielle. Back when I was running the CD Mix of the Month Club, I criticized the Mountain Goats in my February 2003 liner notes. (My exact quote, it now pains me to say: “Dude, the Mountain Goats blow.”)
Well, the Goats’ most recent album Tallahassee was one of the few I was able to cram on my (tiny) hard drive for my trip to Africa. I’ve listened to it countless times over the last six weeks. It’s really, really good. Ranks up there with the Afghan Whigs’ Gentlemen as a classic portrait of dysfunctional love, a relationship built more on spite than affection. And the lyrics are great, even when they’re absurd (e.g., “Our love is like the border between Greece and Albania”). Darnielle’s voice is a strange but affecting mix of TMBG, Eef Barzelay, and Ethel Merman.
I think the Guardian gets it right: “As with Guided by Voices, these songs exhibit the gentle eccentricity of a self-contained world; as with the Go-Betweens, there is an intoxicatingly literate portrayal of noble failure and a heartstopping sense of melody. Infinitely understated but eminently sophisticated, Tallahassee is a treat made for incurable romantics to love unreservedly.”
Anyway, my belated apologies to John for the slight.

For the last 14 hours or so (or at least those hours I’ve been awake — which, thanks to jet lag, are quite a few), I haven’t been able to stop playing Clem Snide‘s cover of “Beautiful,” the Christina Aguilera song. (It’s on the newly released A Beautiful EP. I also saw them play it live a few weeks ago.)
Such a great song. Musically well assembled. And that message of empowerment in the face of rejection (“I am beautiful / No matter what you say”) works so much better coming from a whiny indie kid than from a pop star. At this particular moment in time, I just can’t stop playing it. I guess it speaks to me in some way. Even the hopelessly arrogant can use a little empowerment once in a while, you know.
Anyway, I’m off to Louisiana in a few hours for Thanksgiving break. My grandma’s long national nightmare can finally come to an end. I expect Cajun food to compare favorably to Zambian. Full culinary report to come (along with many, many Zambia photos).

One other thing: Don’t forget to check out the blogs of the other Pew Fellows who were travelling with me (well — at the same time as me). You’ve got Noel Paul in Russia, Jeremy Kahn in Ivory Coast, MJF in Iran, Jesse Deeter in Sierra Leone, Antrim Caskey in Argentina, and Suzanne Marmion in Egypt. All worth checking out.

Good morning! For those of you who didn’t read my last entry carefully, you’ve been missing my posts over at zambiastories.com, where I’ve been faithfully blogging about my six weeks in southern Africa. Go check it out, dudes and dudettes.
I got back to this fine country of ours Saturday night after an epic journey — three continents in one looooong day. I was slightly insane by the time I got to Flight Hour 18 or so, but I can report I’m safely reacclimated to the land of McDonald’s and Krispy Kremes and prescription drug benefit debates and other such niceties. Perhaps in a couple days I’ll even stop sleeping from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.
To jumpstart the ol’ crabwalk style, I point you to this article in Friday’s Post, which argues that Johnny Hart, geriatric creator of the comic “B.C.,” most likely slipped an anti-Muslim message into this strip on Nov. 10. Now, I love Gene Weingarten (the reporter) and I know Hart’s past as a funny-pages proselytizer, but doesn’t this border on the absurd? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

Sadly, the glory that was Emusic is coming to an end. No more unlimited downloading, and the prices are going up. I guess it had to happen. Do your downloading now (or at least by Nov. 8).
In 45 minutes, I leave for Dulles and hop on a British Airways jet to London. I’ll be in the U.K. for 12 hours (anyone with suggestions on how best to spend 12 hours in London are welcome), then it’s another 11-hour flight to Lusaka, Zambia.
Everyone who’s reading this should shift their Josh-alloted attention away from crabwalk.com for the next six weeks and to zambiastories.com, where I’ll be posting as often as I can about my journey and my observations. When you hear from me next I’ll be in Africa (and dead tired).

Not long ago, I was hoping to make my way into Zimbabwe to do some reporting. Now, I’m pretty sure that would be a less-than-good idea, since the Zim government seems keen on shutting down all independent media.
After shutting down The Daily News and The Daily News on Sunday, Junior Information Minister Jonathan Moyo and Media and Information Commission chairman Tafataona Mahoso say they have turned their guns at The Standard and The Zimbabwe Independent.
Ranting and raving at the official launch of New Ziana, a multi-media State organisation charged with publishing pro-Zanu PF information, an agitated Moyo made it clear that after the closure of the two Associated Newspapers of Zimbabwe (ANZ) titles, he was now after The Standard and The Zimbabwe Independent, two newspapers he called “running dogs of imperialism.”
A highly charged Moyo said the type of “trash” published by the newspapers, both owned by the same company, would not be published anywhere overseas…
“If we were serious people, who do not want to apologise for who we are … really we would shut these papers down because they are trash, they injure our national interest,” ranted Moyo, who incidentally only gained national prominence in the 1980s and 1990s by writing his anti-Mugabe and anti-Zanu PF tirades in the private media.
Moyo also pronounced the “death” of Studio 7, a Voice of America (VOA) news broadcasting station that beams to Zimbabwe.
“Studio 7 will die. It faces death. They think we are sleeping, we want to see where they are going with Studio 7, ” said Moyo.
I think I’ll stay in nice, peaceful Zambia.

Joe Pernice, leader of the Pernice Brothers and former copy editor for Cosmo Girl, has written a new novella about the classic Smiths album Meat is Murder. (Well, actually about a dorky Boston teenager who loves the album to pieces.) Here’s an excerpt:
“Why don’t you listen to something else…like jazz? That Smith Family is so depressing,” offered my mother, simply doing her best to help, and I blamed her for it. “No wonder you don’t feel like getting up,” she added, leaving a basket of folded laundry inside my room without coming in. “Their poor mother and father.” I rolled over on the bed so that if she had anything else to say, it would be to my back. Even as I was acting like a hateful little shit, I knew I loved her, but I could not stop myself from excluding her from my life in a hurtful way. It’s endearing now, the way she thought The Smiths were a real dysfunctional family. But then I was embarrassed both for her and for myself.
“They’re not related. It’s just a band name, like The Dead Kennedys,” I snapped (though at that time the Dead Kennedys were a band I knew by name alone), and closed the door hard in her face with my foot. “Besides, it makes me feel good.”
She stood outside for a few seconds, then she sighed. I could hear her footsteps moving down the hardwood hallway until I jacked up the volume knob on the tape player. Once again, thankfully, I was alone. I took a pen and some paper from my bag and started to write Allison yet another note I would never send. I flipped the tape from front to back as I imagined her on her bed, listening to a girlfriend on the phone, with her feet against the wall.
It’s part of the 33 1/3 series, “a new series of short books about critically acclaimed and much-loved albums of the last 40 years.”

I am happy to announce the birth of a new blog, hosted on one of my other servers: Trisarahtops, the site of Miss Sarah Collins, Austinite, education activist, and owner of cats (one slightly injured, by the looks of this morning’s post). One read and you’ll be hooked.