As far as I know, the only person ever to put Japanese lyrics to the Beatles song “Yesterday” (and to do so in the distinctive Kansai dialect, no less) was a guy named Kitaru. He used to belt out his own version when he was taking a bath.


Is two days before tomorrow,

The day after two days ago.

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It has been a while since I last read Murakami. “Samsa in Love” wasn’t my cup of tea but I enjoyed reading this one a lot.


Thank you


Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It’s not so terrible she tells me,
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are windchimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase
built from hair and bone and listen
to the voices of the living. I like it,
she says, shaking the dust from her hair,
especially when they fight, and when they sing.

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G-DRAGON - Black (feat. Sky Ferreira)

729 plays
Pink Tape (vol. 2)

f(x) - 미행 (그림자; Shadow)

I’m buying the album.

2,319 plays
Patti Page,
Tennessee Waltz


Obit of the Day: Patti Page, “The Singing Rage”

Clara Ann Fowler was 18 years old when she was hired by Oklahoma City radio station KUTL. Ms. Fowler was the featured singer on the 15-minute program sponsored by Page Milk Co. To emphasize the sponsor, she was given the stage name, “Patti Page.” Ironically Patti Page’s fame would far outshine the milk company for which she was named.

For over 60 years Ms. Page would perform her popular songs that pre-dated the harder edged sound of rock and roll. She would record over 100 albums and have 111 singles on the Billboard Top 100 almost continuously from 1948-1982.

Her biggest hit was “Tennessee Waltz” which sold over 10 million copies in 1951. It also became one of the music industry’s first crossover hits topping the country, pop, and R&B charts.

She would have other hits like the kitschy “How Much is That Doggie in the Window” (1952) and “With My Eyes Wide Open I’m Dreaming” (1950). The latter song was unique as it featured Ms. Page overdubbing herself with a four-part harmony, one of the first songs to employ the technique. (The label listed “Vocals by Patti Page, Patti Page, Patti Page and Patti Page.)

Like many music stars of her generation, Ms. Page would find herself on the big and small screens as well. She would co-star in three films including the Academy Award-winning Elmer Gantry. She would also have three separate television shows, each would only last one year - but she is one of the few performers in television history to have a program on the three major networks: ABC, CBS, and NBC.

Patti Page won her lone Grammy in 1999 for Live at Carnegie Hall: The 50th Anniversary Concert, recorded in 1997 to mark a half-century of performing. She won in the category of Best Traditional Pop Vocal Performance.

Ms. Page, who died on January 1, 2013 at the age of 85, was scheduled to be honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award at this year’s Grammy Awards.

Random note: Ms. Page opened a maple syrup company with her third husband, Jerry Fillicotto, in the 1990s. It was based in New Hampshire.

Sources:, ABC News, New York Times and Wikipedia

(“Tennessee Waltz” and Tennessee Waltz are copyright Hallmark Records, 2005)

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This is absolutely beautiful ;_;

Memories of Murder (2003):

Based on the true story of South Korea’s first serial killer… when women start turning up dead in a small town in South Korea in 1986, two reluctantly-partnered cops resolve to bring the killer to justice.

I know boring movies. Believe me when I say this isn’t one of ‘em. It gives me the chills learning that it’s based on real-life killings.

Because they loved one another, I guessed.
Because they had seven kids and there wasn’t
a door in that house that was ever locked —
except for the bathroom door, that door
with the devil’s face, two horns like flame
flaring up in the grain of the wood
(or did we only imagine that shape?)
which meant the devil could watch you pee,
the devil could see you naked.
Because that’s where people took off their clothes
and you had to undress for sex, I’d heard,
whatever sex was — lots of kissing and other stuff
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Because at night, when I was scared, I just
climbed into my parents’ bed. Sometimes
other kids were there, too, and we slept
in a tangle of sheets and bodies, breath;
a full ashtray on the nightstand; our father’s
work clothes hung over a chair; our mother’s
damp cotton nightgown twisted around her legs.
Because when I heard babies were made from sex
and sex was something that happened in bed,
I thought: No, the babies are already there
in the bed. And more babies came.
Because the only door that was ever locked
was the bathroom door — those two inside
in the steam of his bath, her hairspray’s mist,
because sometimes I knocked and was let in.
And my father lay in the tub, his whole dark body
under water, like some beautiful statue I’d seen.
And my mother stood at the mirror, fixing her hair,
or she’d put down the lid of the toilet
and perched there, talking to him.
Because maybe this was their refuge from us —
though they never tried to keep us away.
Because my mother told me once
that every time they came home from the hospital
with a brand new baby, they laughed
and fell in love all over again
and couldn’t wait to start making more.
Should this have confused me? It did not.
Because I saw how he kissed the back of her neck
and pulled her, giggling, into his lap;
how she tucked her chin and looked up at him
through her eyelashes, smiling, sly.
So I reasoned whatever sex they had, they had
in the bathroom — those steamy hours
when we heard them singing to one another
then whispering, and the door stayed locked.
Because I can still picture them, languid, there,
and beautiful and young — though I had no idea
how young they were — my mother
soaping my father’s back; her dark hair
slipping out of its pins.
Because what was sex, after that? I didn’t know
he would ever die, this god in a body, strong as god,
or that she would one day hang her head
over the bathroom sink to weep. I was a child,
only one of their children. Love was clean.
Babies came from singing. The devil was wood
and had no eyes.

November 9 is Carl Sagan Day

Read his book Cosmos, or:

watch him talk about “the gods”, his message to humanity, and his TV series.

In our tenure on this planet we’ve accumulated dangerous evolutionary baggage — propensities for aggression and ritual, submission to leaders, hostility to outsiders — all of which puts our survival in some doubt. But we’ve also acquired compassion for others, love for our children and desire to learn from history and experience, and a great soaring passionate intelligence — the clear tools for our continued survival and prosperity. Which aspects of our nature will prevail is uncertain, particularly when our visions and prospects are bound to one small part of the small planet Earth. But up there in the immensity of the Cosmos, an inescapable perspective awaits us. There are not yet any obvious signs of extraterrestrial intelligence and this makes us wonder whether civilizations like ours always rush implacably, headlong, toward self-destruction. National boundaries are not evident when we view the Earth from space. Fanatical ethnic or religious or national chauvinisms are a little difficult to maintain when we see our planet as a fragile blue crescent fading to become an inconspicuous point of light against the bastion and citadel of the stars.