End intermission.

And so I've reached the conclusion of a brief, intermittently rewarding, phase of The auld lang syne.: A life in verse...eh, not so much for me. At least not a public one. Short of that and with what the past few weeks has shown to be a taming of ways--with no heartfelt desire for any of the old instigations, it's liable to look a bit like nap time around here.

I'll be housesitting for my pals, Wendy and Robert, quite a bit this month. Between their fantastic kitchen, and patio with a grill and a view, don't be surprised if this thing in short turn morphs into a bit of a food blog. And if interjections as to my spending habits at Jerry's strike a familiar chord among readers of the always great 7" Slam--from whom both template and energy have been admittedly drawn then all the better. Food and records is a good way of life and 7" Slam is shining the light.

I realized this past spring having logged resident intern hours watching The Food Network and The Travel Channel that, whether by programming strategy or by innate lack of diverse curiosities, many food personalities (what a creepy, Cronenbergian notion!) project little enthusiasm beyond their milieu. Anthony Bourdain, a guy I once followed with nearly a disciple's reverence, has become a tv gadabout, defensively mocking his own purposeless vignettes, occasionally dropping the same three or four Class of 77' punk band names--while confessing love for necrotic American hacks like Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam in an interview with The Onion's AV Club. The man's taste is his own of course, but he was as close to a mainstream personality whose predilections sat with my own. There are others less form-fitted to my interests whose musical affinities are, I suspect, at least passably adventurous. Oddly, the cloyingly autonymic Rachael Ray has emerged one of the sharpest, whose party at the South By Southwest Festival was met by the scorn of haters and hipsters alike; the latters' precarious iconocasm was suddenly met by the possibility that a woman who runs her own line of gourmet dog food and designer cutting boards could, by simply showing a little risk in her listening curiosities, mar their already preposterous generational identity. I'm pretty sure Ray's party went off despite the clamor, and no doubt the food was fantastic.

I really hate these explanatory transitional writings. They invariably feel short on respect for the reader's ability to gauge a broader trend that encompasses the direction of a publication. Something must've happened. I suppose it did. Apologies for the effusion. I'll have some grub for you by the end of the weekend without a doubt. Happy holiday!