by Myles Tanzer

The moon over Prospect Park last night was exceptionally nice. Justin Vernon, the lead singer of Bon Iver, took careful notice of this. “Take a look at the moon, it’s really awesome,” he told a crowd. Everyone erupted in cheers for the moon because Justin said so.

Bon Iver fans are a unique group of people. There was the girl switching off taking hits of a joint and covering up her coughing with bites of carrot and humus. There was the group of “bro” friends who are clearly only friends during the summer months. They spoke about the definition of “rompers” and placed bets on how many people in the crowd had iPhones. There were also the three brace-faced teenage girls accompanied by a “cool mom.” Summer camp memories were shared between loud giggles.

Our ongoing beard epidemic was well represented. The most popular style is now the version that Jack sports on Lost when exclaiming that the survivors “have to go back” (for reference). Others were seen with basic scruff and some brave men even wore very long beards.

Bon Iver’s fans share a fascination with the band’s grizzly frontman that’s near Bieber-esque. Everyone “woo’ed” like they were seeing a teen idol when Vernon hit the stage; one girl screamed “I love you Justin” after the first song.

Most of the crowd though was made up with couples. All of the June/July flings have turned into serious August romances, just now hitting their peaks before the “back-to-reality” September breakups. A boyfriend was seen fanning pot smoke out of his girlfriend’s face as they mouthed the words to “Calgary” — one of the night’s highlights.

Justin Vernon plays in front of an eight-piece band which is I guess the only way for him to play his multi-instrument music live without any cheap tricks. The crowd’s favorite was either the percussionist/beatboxer/horn player who looked like Reggie Watts, or maybe Michael Lewis, the bass player, who someone behind me said looked “exactly like Jack Black.”

“Beth Rest,” the Bruce Hornsby-inspired jam from the new album, was particularly enhanced by the full band. It went from mellow thing to arena rock anthem of almost Van Halen or Def Leopard proportions. In any event, lighters were put up in the air.

At night’s end Bon Iver came out for a second encore. The audience was at its peak happiness after a rousing first encore of “Skinny Love”, “Who Is It” (A Bjork cover), and “The Wolves (Act I & II).” The full band took the stage again and tore into a version of “For Emma.”

As the song started, a hard cool wind came in and blew over the crowd. I turned around to look at everyone and they were smiling, because it felt like some neat trick, like Justin himself had caused the wind to blow. The moon was up high behind them and it was an awesome moon.

Are your fancy Italian jeans killing people? Yes. Yes they are.

We may be recalling the Los Angeles riots of 1992 but others are looking further back. Picture it: 387 AD. “In response to an unwanted tax imposed by the Emperor Theodosius, a mob of citizens and local officials of Antioch tore down painted wooden panels and bronze statues of the imperial family and dragged the loot through the streets. After setting fire to a house and attempting to ignite more buildings, the riot was finally quelled by law enforcement.” Hey, let’s not forget Constantinople in 388! And then in 532! The Nika Riots were half soccer hooligans at work, a quarter anti-tax zealots and a quarter paid agitators, basically. Only 30,000 people were killed! And then nobody got to have nice things (chariot races mostly) for a long time. Mm hmm.

Probably we should also be looking at Evil May Day, in 1517, when some folks decided it was time to get all the dirty foreigners (Of course, Jews! But also Greeks and Italians and worse) out of London. The city set a curfew and later arrested everyone, the army occupied the city and then, after some political groveling, everyone was pardoned! Ta da, the end.

This Michael Lewis piece on Germany and its financial industry is incredibly long and incredibly worth it.

I’m so eye-rolley about the conceit of “Watch the Throne” — the collaboration “album” by Jay-Z and Kanye West, that was thrown together in a few hotel rooms — that I can barely handle listening to it. (Also, did I need a tribute song to ladies in the year 2011 called “That’s My Bitch”? Not really!) Despite his usually awesome politics and generally rather wonderful mouthiness, I just don’t feel the need to get Kanye’s opinions on the state of the world, when he might not have any idea any longer what that state really is. Somehow? On the album, Jay-Z ends up looking clued in, and he’s the one banging the political gong, as described here:

There are two kinds of rich man’s rhymes on this album, and it’s worth understanding how they differ. Just because both men talk about their riches doesn’t mean they’re talking about them in the same way…. Kanye, depressingly, seems to be content with his shopping list as an end in itself. The guy who once backed up his Katrina-era criticism of Bush 43 by promising to ask his manager how much he could donate to victims now appears to be drained of whatever empathy he once possessed….

“The scales was lopsided/ I’m just restorin’ order” Jay says of his capitalistic rise. But he also recognizes that his own success is not enough. On “Murder to Excellence,” he says, “Only spot a few blacks the higher we go. … We’re gonna need a million more.” (Kanye joins him in that sentiment, briefly, before departing to buy Gucci shoes at the mall.)

Besides, Gucci hasn’t really made an exciting men’s shoe in at least four years.

“We hate for the twist endings of movies, TV shows and books to be given away. But here’s a bit of relief for those of you who are just now learning that Snape, in fact, killed Dumbledore: Spoilers don’t really ruin stories for us. In fact, a new study suggests that we actually enjoy spoiled stories more than those left unspoiled.” Also: Snape killed Dumbledore, apparently.

1. Sometimes we’re going to use your picture and your name in ads. Maybe we’ll tell your friends, “Hey guys! This guy over here likes this thing, shouldn’t you?” It makes people buy more shit if we trick them like that. Since we’re going to use your name and picture one way or the other, it’s probably better if you tell us how you do and don’t want it used.
2. Seriously, though, we promise not to tell advertisers anything about you without your permission. See? When you get to know us, we’re not so bad.
3. On the other hand, we don’t have to tell you shit, either. Sometimes you’ll see something that looks like an ad, but maybe it isn’t, and you’ll be like, “Is that an ad, Facebook?” and we’ll be like, “…Good question.”

— Finally someone made Facebook’s Terms of Service intelligible. In four parts.

Britain’s Sun, covering all the bases: “HOT, pouting lips get men in the mood for love — and they could also hold the secret to a woman’s sexual enjoyment. A study has found women with a prominent and pointy tubercle — the middle part of the top lip that points upwards, also known as the ‘cupid’s bow’ — are up to 12 TIMES more likely to hit the heights during sex than those with flat lips.” “But are your lips also sending warning signals about your health? Dry or sore lips could indicate anything from diabetes to herpes or Crohn’s disease.”

London should check in with Rudy Giuliani on how to crack down on criminals.Thu Aug 11 12:47:18 via web

Newt Gingrich
newtgingrich

Today, London is tearing itself apart again — in Parliament, where they are talking, essentially, about how to reconfigure society. Prime Minister David Cameron would like, among other things, the ability to assess whether the state has the “right to stop people communicating via these websites and services.” You know: by using, like, PHONES and stuff. Meanwhile, a man has been charged with “riot incitement” for his Facebook messages. My favorite bit of his speech: “Cameron said he would encourage people to shop their neighbours if they have mysteriously acquired a new plasma TV screen.” (Yes: “shop” is “English” for “narc.”)

And yes, why not, Newt Gingrich? Giuliani Partners already had a $4.3 million contract with Mexico City and another with Citgo Petroleum, AKA Hugo Chavez’s oil company. (And see also: New York City, 1998, as Giuliani began bleeding millions in settlements for victims of his law and order.) So you know he knows the ins and outs of helping to form a restrictive state.

You’re mad at me. I can tell. But hear me out. Remember how we were going to talk about the original, hairy, musky Joy of Sex? And it was going to be ACE? Well, apparently, when you’re in Canada and you attempt to get a used copy of said august tome sent to you, it doesn’t really work. People keep sending you the new version, EVEN CLAIMING IT TO BE THE 1972 CLASSIC, which, whatever, I know how to have sex, right? It’s pretty endemic in the culture at this point. I want to see sort of unattractive people bringing their 1970s A-game to the table. That’s what I want. And that’s what YOU want, and you’re the most important people in the world.

So finally, I said, screw this, and I decided to talk about Pet Sematary while we wait. Which I love, obvi.

Important Disclaimer: Stephen King is not trashy. Stephen King is kind of great, and I have a useless thesis on the intersection of medieval and Renaissance English drama, which suggests that for at least four months several years ago I was mildly qualified to make value judgments. Except Marjorie Garber hated it. Whatever. I’ve moved on, obviously. I never dwell on it. I don’t even know why I brought it up!

Read On Writing or something. He’s awesome. I don’t even know why I’m trying to talk him up, like he needs the help. Stephen King is doing just fine, thanks for asking. You want to read The Man Without Qualities instead, mazel tov.

But Pet Sematary is totally bordering on trashy, we can all admit that, and it’s so scary. Really, really scary. I don’t even want to talk about freaking Zelda in the book OR the film adaptation, because AHHHHH, right? (They’re doing a remake. Just an FYI.) King apparently tried to keep this book in the can, probably because it’s trashy, but his publishers made him fork it over, because his brain is basically a machine that mints money for a dying industry. Even that really horrible one he wrote after getting hit by the minivan, with the shit-weasels (Dreamcatcher). Not Duma Key, which is sort of about being hit by the minivan and actually good.

Pet Sematary. Mistakes are made, guys. Mistakes are made. Louis Creed, our hero, has shit-for-brains. It’s not that he tried to bring his kid back from the dead. We all get that. I mean, to be fair, we have several thousand years of don’t bring your kid back from the dead, it’s not worth it, in both the written and oral traditions of all known cultures, but Pet Sematary is responsible for at least 30% of that, and The Deathly Hallows for another 10%, and Stephen King’s own short stories for 10%, and Louis Creed was not able to benefit from any of those cautionary tales. Or from Dawn Summers trying to bring back Joyce. It was the ‘80s — maybe Louis was sincerely innocent of Zombie Law.

But the cat. He brings back the cat. Had he ever met a cat? I have a cat, and I love her, but any idiot could tell you that the battle between good and evil rages between her ears every single day, and one would have to assume that exposure, however slight, to the forces of death, would tip the balance fairly decidedly towards Evil. Of course Church is coming back wrong. Just get a kitten.

It’s not Louis I blame, though. It’s Jud. The folksy neighbor? The one who knows about the burial ground? The one who tells him about the burial ground as a favor? Thanks, buddy! Sure glad we didn’t wind up with a boring story about how Louis’ daughter cried for a few days and then got used to her new, non-zombie kitten.

Considering this particular book is reportedly a little on the autobiographical side (the Kings moved near a busy road, their daughter’s cat got hit by a car, their toddler son had a close run-in, local pet cemetery, etc.), I would love to have been a fly on the wall at Stephen King’s next Thanksgiving with his wife’s family. “Hi guys, what’s for supper! I loathe you all.” Tell me there’s not some serious subtext there.

Well, now, let’s toss this mother open. You should feel free to discuss the gushy merits of Stephen King’s oeuvre as a whole, and not strictly confine yourself to the trashy delights of Pet Sematary. This is a safe space. We’ll be back with the original Joy of Sex sometime before the heat death of the universe. Or not! Prove me wrong with better conduct, used book purveyors.

Some questions to get us started:

• Do you remember how, in It, the children all have sex with Beverly, and that actually happens?
• If you brought your cat back from the dead, how would he or she try to destroy you? Be specific.
• Does the Indian-Burial-Ground conceit just annoy the holy shit out of actual Native Americans, or what?
• No, seriously, what the hell kind of parents leave their little daughter with her messed-up dying sister? That’s cold.
• Do you have kids? Would you take them to the Micmac burial ground and hope for the best? Be honest. Not that anything bad will happen to your kids. Ever.
• Who’s more obsessed with dead kids: John Irving or Stephen King?

Nicole Cliffe is the proprietress of Lazy Self-Indulgent Book Reviews. She is also summering over at The Hairpin through August.