I don’t know why more people don’t wear hats. Besides the obvious benefits of convenient fashion distraction and shelter, you can’t beat the band. A hatband is better than a wallet or pocket as a place to put theater tickets or business cards so you’ll remember where you put them.

Men used to stuff newspapers in their hatbands for added comfort or a better fit. I’ve read some great old news stories from the papers ice found in hatbands.

If you were very careful, you could probably even fit a garter snake in there.

Or maybe that’s more of an argument for bringing back garters.

Game, match and set. A famous tennis player spoke on campus last week, then headed to Hamilton’s for a warm-up. We’ve never understood why every sportsman who swings a racket thinks they can play guitar just as well. The intruments may superficially resemble each other, but are strung rather differently.

The pro ingratiated himself into a set with that night’s cover band, The Babolats. His first number—a blues standard nobody would know if a certain celebrated electric guitarist hadn’t put it on a live album 30 years ago—devolved into a ten-minute guitar solo. (People forget that the song was originally written for harmonica.) The solo on the next tune, an early rock riff, took closer to 20.

The former champ continued to regress with excess. Many of us turned away from the stage, since he seemed to take the most casual sign of acknowledgement that he was still onstage as an invitation to play “just one more.” After an hour of such ball-chasing, there was no love between Mr. Backhand and his shattered admirers. Give us a football player hoisting fanboys while singing hardcore anytime.

Torn Tree and The Dry Maxes at the Bullfinch… The Polar Lobsters and Wha Sa at Hamilton’s (No rackets, no service)… Prince Thorlo and Gamma Head, a Hamilton’s-style band that somehow cracked the bigtime, at D’ollaires, with Perry Puma…

Parents called. Didn’t mention the letter, but obviously got it.

Campfire OK, Strange Like We Are. They’re not that strange and they’re not that OK. They sound tired and strained. When a song starts slowing down, they take it as an invitation to slow it down further with sluggish picky guitar solos and harmonies that follow and prolong the lyrics. The repetitive fade-outs can drive you nuts. Someone like Neil Young can make some of these affectations work, but it’s not OK for their Campfire churls.

Swallow by Tonya Plank

With such a memorable title, and such a distinctive a name as “Tonya Plank,” Swallow was an irresistible Kindle 99-cent pick-up for me. The novel’s won a bunch of awards and is head-and-shoulders (and, in this case, throat) above most of the romance-novel bargains which Kindle pushes.

That’s because Swallow is really a mature coming-of-age novel masquerading as chick lit. Its protagonist, Sophie Hegel (get the philosophical undertones?) is succumbing to high pressures on all fronts: she’s getting married, she’s starting out as a lawyer in New York, she’s naturally withdrawn and she can’t handle a lot of the people she has to deal with on a regular basis. The title “Swallow” refers to a psychological issue which creates what Sophie colorfully describes as a “fist-ball” in her throat which keeps her from digesting things. Her family and friends naturally mistake this for an eating disorder, and the inability to swallow also interferes with courtroom decorum.

She has constant awkward encounters with family members, co-workers, defendants and shopkeepers, so the fist-ball just keeps clenching. It’s a terrific device, which adds a sort of Stephen King element to the proceedings. The book’s finish is predictable yet satisfying, but the real enjoyment is in the social stress meter provided by that throbbing throat.

The huge pair of metal eyeglasses which rests outside The Study at Yale hotel are back. Some weeks ago, they just vanished—for massivce midterm test-cramming, we imagine.
The specs loom large in the The Study’s logo and are a big part of its bookish personality, so we were overjoyed to see them back. We can relate. We lose our reading glasses all the time.
Here’s a photo I found on tripadvisor.com:

Spinner.com has compiled a list of “Occupy Wall Street Protest Songs” which the site subtitles “A List for the 99 Percent.” The selections are 99 percent obvious, from famous worker sing-alongs such as “This Land is Your Land” to pop songs that happen to be about money (“All About the Benjamins,” “Money for Nothing”) to rock anthems about not backing down (“Won’t Back Down”).
Here’s some they missed. Yes, some are worker sing-alongs and some are pop songs that happen to be about money, but at least they’re not as obvious. Some of them even have a positive message.

1. “Capitalism,” Chris Butler. An incredible distillation of the capitalist philosophy into one selfish guy’s workplace ritual.
2. “The Wall Street Shuffle,” 10cc. “Oh, Howard Hughes, did you money make you better? Are you waiting for the hour when you can screw me?”
3. “It’s Money That I Love,” Randy Newman. Simplifies greed and financial status to the point where it’s baldly ludicrous.
4. “Conservative,” Iggy Pop. Spinner picks Pop’s 1999 tune “Corruption,” but this is Mr. Osterberg’s most articulate first-person screed about systemic social problems.
5. “Killed My Boss,” The Presidential Targets. This Connecticut mock-rock band has a slew of working-class rants in their repertoire, but this one goes directly to the point, defenestrating the administrative evildoer.
6. “Give Me Some Money,” Spinal Tap. A simple and direct have-not plaint.
7. “A Song for Occupations,” Walt Whitman. A poem, but he calls it a song, and asks all the right questions about society’s feelings about work, government and power.
8. “Sure as I’m Sitting Here,” Three Dog Night. Sitting yourself down and figuring out what’s important.
9. “Spread It Around,” Johnny Paycheck. “If you’ll hand it to somebody and help him when he’s down/Tell him some good news, spread it around.”
10. “That’s What I Want to Hear,” Phil Ochs. A call to action that’s framed as rant against apathetic bitching and whining.
So you tell me that your last good dollar is gone
and you say that your pockets are bare.
And you tell me that your clothes are tattered and torn
and nobody seems to care.
Now don’t tell me your troubles
No I don’t have the time to spare.
But if you want to get together and fight, good buddy
That’s what I want to hear.

Think indie rockers hate dance music? Hate is the wrong word. They’re allergic to it.
Bobby Boon of the conversers did a little trot on the Bullfinch stage the other night, fell, and broke his nose.
Last month, Fussy of the Kiss Me Kates tried to demonstrate a step he’d seen on a video, kicked a bruiser at the bar by accident, and got beaten up.
We’ve heard many tales of ripped crotches in jeans, ruined workboots, sweatstains and other dancefloor humiliations.

No dancing required to enjoy Vision of the Apocalypse, American Document and Imagined Wing at the Bullfinch… Dark Meadow and the well-named Adolescence at Hamilton’s… One More Gaudy Night (that’s a format, not a band name) With Deep Song at D’ollaires. Errand Into the Maze opens…

Parents called. Didn’t mention the letter, but obviously got it.

Cold Cave, Cherish the Light Years. It’s hardly a new sound—it’s that heavy fast-yet-bloated ‘80s dark-pop, with the low vocals and the supplementary synths—but in today’s lo-fi and throwback-rock world it comes across as meaningless and offputtingly arrogant. I feel as if someone is trying to shove me around a nightclub against my will.