"Carpet-pissing, kidnapping, pornographers, & nihilism" (is a phrase I got published. You're Welcome.)

Ack!—a few days late on re-posting this one. It's this new schedule of mine—limbs churning tireless like a hamster on a caffeine drip—but buoyed, always, by the knowledge that I'm doing what I love (designing, film-learning, tofu-cooking—all them essentials of my awkwardly burgeoning Grown-Up-itude). Who needs sleep when you have iCal, says I.

Anyhow, to counterbalance my somewhat manic contentment, here's a few paragraphs of Eye-ly blather on that beloved Slacker extraordinaire, Mr. Geoffrey "The Dude" Lebowski:

“In wayfarer’s worlds out west was a man,
A man I come not to bury, but to praise,
His name was Geoffrey Lebowski call’d, yet
Not called, excepting by his kin.”

Thus begins Adam Bertocci’s “The Two Gentlemen of Lebowski,” a re-working in full Shakespearean verse of the Coen brothers’ 1998 cult classic The Big Lebowski—that now infamous tale of carpet-pissing, kidnapping, pornographers, and nihilism, with a few marmots thrown in for good measure. It was the cover of this unlikely book—a be-sunglassed Bard holding a bowling ball the way Hamlet might a skull—that first caught my eye upon entering The Little Lebowski, a small store near Washington Square Park (215 Thompson St., to be exact) entirely dedicated to the vending of all things Dude...

Today's Headphone Fodder:

Growin' Up—David Bowie (Bruce Springsteen cover).

Okay. Um— Okay. I don't quite think I can even begin quantify my feelings about the existence of this recording. What I can tell you is that, a week or so ago, mixing & mingling at one of many year-starting galas, I fell into a rather serious Bowie Conversation with some young gents—during which I jumped, squealed, danced, gestured vigorously, & at least twice interrupted to remark how awesome it was to nerd out like this—you know, all those charming, spastic Bowiephilisms that guarantee me more mental health referrals than phone numbers. Anyhow, in the course of our discourse, this recording was mentioned, &—after an incredulous squeal & jump & a few much-needed hours of sleep—I finally tracked it down.

This is, no question, one of my favorite songs of all time—note it, quoted, in the first line of my wee tongue-in-cheek Bio (to the right)—& the fact that Bowie liked it enough to cover it— His voice, scratching & cracking over the lyrics— To feel that kind of connection to your heroes— The same Bruce Springsteen song! I— We— Garble— Squeal— Melting.

Honestly, though:

1) Pick an artist whom you idolize to a sickening degree.
2) Pick another artist whom you regard as a sort of nostalgic, not-quite-guilty pleasure (e.g., inextricably associated with driving around in your old car with your mother)—of whom you have no real reason to believe Artist 1 is a fan.
3) Imagine that Artist 1 covers, not just any song by Artist 2, but the song—not some obvious chart topper, but an identity-defining B-side that you love, intensely.

Now, try to contain yourself while writing about it prose English.