After the Fox

After the Fox

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Today in Twee

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virgin-suicides

Happy 32nd birthday to Kirsten Dunst who will forever be Lux Lisbon in Twee-world and supposedly inspired the phrase “manic pixie dream girl” for her role in Cameron Crowe’s Elizabethtown (the last 20 minutes of which is great, the first two hours plus is… underrated?). I write about Dunst’s role in Suicides quite a bit in my upcoming book. And in Marie Antoinette. And in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Not so much Bring it On.

Today in Twee

The great Mick Ronson, who arrived from Hull to change David Bowie’s life passed away on this day in 1993 at just 46 years of age. One of his last triumphs was producing one of Morrissey’s four more or less perfect solo albums, Your Arsenal (what are the other three? I am willing to debate that with all comers). I interviewed Mr. Ronson’s widow once and she let me hold his guitar for about 30 seconds. It’s a moment I will not forget. Also of note, Tommy James, responsible for a half dozen perfect 60s pop songs, was born today in 1947. Happy birthday Tommy. Your baby does the hanky panky. I think, with the exception of two sleeping basset hounds, we are alone now, and here is your masterpiece. Anyone who plays the edited version is a turkeyneck.

Today in Twee

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Happy birthday to the great Blossom Dearie who would have been 90 (she passed away in 2009). I played a lot of Blossom Dearie while writing my upcoming book Twee. Something about her embodied the aesthetic. She was child-like but whipsmart. She was effortlessly hip (as she declares here) but she didn’t take jazz cool too seriously (as she infers here). Plus photos from her from the 60s are basically a blueprint for current Twee fashion. Again, here was a giant of the aesthetic that I profiled if you ask me AND Blossom Dearie is her real name (well Margrethe Blossom Dearie).

Warm Blood

Warm Blood

Pre book pub. anxiety dream number 2. I am Dick, Joaquin Phoenix is Perry or vice verse and we’ve just killed the Clutter family and are covered with blood. “This can’t be undone,” I say to Joaquin and he says, “Don’t worry, it’s only a movie, man.” “So we’re not responsible for murders and eventually the end of Truman Capote’s writing career, along with pills, alcohol and spurning socialite “Swans?” “No, way, dude.” He said. “Cool.” I said and then I followed him to the body of water at the end of I’m Still Here and we got clean together.