Pat Padua
@anamelessyeast
A freelance writer and dog lover with too many records
My new favorite Filipino restaurant in town (and one of the best, period): Paolo Dungca’s Kayu; everything was delicious, and, if not exactly authentic, inventive and generous
recent bot followers that evoke Songs to Remember era Scritti Politti or Slanted era Pavement
The kind of thing that happened two blocks from my house when I was 12. h/t Jeff Krulik who was there
That Wasn’t Me, That Was the Baguette, is the name of the Benny Hill skit that played out at the supermarket checkout line this afternoon
Collectors of Bert Kaempfert albums that belonged to Tom Verlaine, assemble!
I know I’ve been complaining about the juvenile personalities in Our Band Could Be Your Life but somehow I found this more endearing
Hill peeps: Bumblebirds was meh and temporary anyway; go to Little Engine across from Eastern Market and get a lot more chicken for the buck
I’ve been griping about the DC coverage but I love this Mudhoney anecdote. Though I wonder how true it is.
Human League closed with the theme to this, and last night I thought it lifted the curse of “Being Boiled.” But this 1984 film turned out to be incredibly prescient, and predicted the hell we live in today.
Human League, about being human—and I can’t believe they encored with Being Boiled
Sometimes your chihuahua gets carried away listening to the 1974 cast recording of Gigi (w/Agnes Moorehead! Though not on this track).
the best seafood restaurant in the Philippines in 1991 may have been a pumpboat operating from a remote island that gps finds unnavigable
In Richie Unterberger’s new Velvet Underground book, Pickwick producer Bob Ragona describes a session for a General Electric record-and-slides release where Lou Reed sang with a fife and drum on “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” It wasn’t hard to find a match on eBay. But do you hear Lou in this?
seen in an upcoming estate sale listing, I predict straight edge fisticuffs
live music hooray: Hotline TNT and Dry Cleaning, who vaguely strike me as the Smiths sans camp