Things That Matter To People Who Matter

Switcher Sex | Wawa egg nog | A Whisper in the Noise | Dorothea Lasky

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Published: Feb 5, 2008

Switcher Sex

"Switcher Sex," Slought Foundation's current exhibit of works from the Teutloff collection, is an interaction of three things I think about constantly: art venues, art collections and the human body. This photo and film exhibit engages the conceptual collisions that occur when a themed collection is displayed in a gallery, layering considerations of how and why images are grouped together. Sigalit Landau's barbed-wire hula-hoop, Andres Serrano's portrait and Alfredo Jaar's Good in the Morning (pictured) represent mutated limbs from a greater organism — caressing and clawing simultaneously as dislocated echoes of human experience.

Wawa egg nog

For some, Jan. 1 signifies the end of the winter holiday season. For others, it's the day the tree comes down. For me, it's the day Wawa sells its last carton of egg nog. In fact, I've come to think of that time of year as egg nog season. But not just any old egg nog. I've tried many other brands, and Wawa egg nog is simply the best store-bought egg nog around. And now it's gone! So I say farewell, my smooth, delicious, not too nutmeg-y Wawa egg nog, until the fall. I'll wait for you!

A Whisper in the Noise

My ears have been glued to A Whisper in the Noise's third release, Dry Land, ever since I first heard it a few weeks ago. I don't know if it's Philly's skyrocketing murder rate or simply the bitter cold (I'm from Atlanta), but this record, which a few critics have branded as dark and morose, haunts my ears long after I hit the stop button. It must have something to do with West Thordson's precise arrangements. Take, for example, the final verse of "Armament." Just as the song peaks, West shouts out, "I want all of this to be gone/ I want all of this to die," and an assault of chunky distortion crashes in to catapult the song forward. Hm, maybe things aren't so bad for me after all.

Dorothea Lasky

I watched Dorothea Lasky read her poems at a fundraiser at the Trocadero in November. Imagine the following lines, barked in a staccato chime: "They stole my tires/ They knocked down my house/ They killed my father/ They cut off my fingers/ And I thought, 'And I did like those fingers.'" I don't need to know anything else about Dorothea Lasky, such as what series of personal crises precipitated a poem like "Boobs Are Real." I already know that I want her on my speed dial when my own life goes to hell.

 

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