Coffee Soluble.

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I’ve been banging my forehead against a couple of tunes for a week or so–trying to craft a key chorus lyric for one, trying to just unlock a structural gimmick for another–went up to my soothing Connecticut friend’s place for a couple days to avoid it, then laid around the house for a couple of days, poking at the songs occasionally and despairing.
Then I get up this morning and within forty minutes of my first cup of coffee I’ve unlocked them both.

Voice Sacks Christgau = Voice Truly Dead At Last (Blog About N.Y. Newspapers That Will Be Baffling Perhaps Even to Most N.Y.-Ers).

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I’ve snarked at him plenty, but ultimately much respect.
Funny that my old alma mater, the NYPress, has been able to maintain
its pose–that of the drunken self-destructor–longer than the Voice’s progressive-avenger pose. Not that the Press is vital in the least anymore. Both papers lost the people that justified/created those personas years ago.
New York is the city of Time Out. I never would’ve thought so when it debuted. It seemed so laughably gee-whiz, I thought they’d fold in a month. But New York is like that now. (I really, really don’t want to be the “I miss the rats on Rivington Street” guy, OK?) The children move here for fantasies of Sex and the City, expensive shoes and bottle-service clubs, not squats and art and rock and roll.
And I, and I think everybody else, goes looking for their drunken self-destructors and progressive avengers out in the blogosphere. I pass the street corner boxes that distribute the Voice and the Press, and man, they look sad. Moribund.