Meg Whitman strides the California political landscape like a colossus. Her estimated $100 million dollar investment in trying to win the state's highest office has given her star-wattage name recognition. Whitman's TV and radio spots, in English and Spanish, are ubiquitous.

She had a retro look: Sunglasses too big for her face, a gray dress with the back mid-section cut out, lacey leggings, Billy Idol hair cut. It was like she had taken a ride in the DeLorean, you know that car… (if I have to explain it, you don’t get it.)

Desperate dictators will do anything to distract their captive populations from their flailing regimes.

Yesterday I decided to just take the train to Pitchfork, especially since landing at Archer and 35^th street meant the L entered into a torrential downpour. It was like buckets of water were being thrown at the train car I was in. Forget trying to ride in this, I thought. I’m rounding the bout to the Green Line. And so I did.

In the dark open space at the Bottom Lounge, a crowd gathered in front of the stage to welcome Neon Indian, an electro-retro-tape manipulation band. Actually, describing the music is hard, and even harder for Alan Palomo, mastermind behind the project. “I’m probably the worst person to ask to describe my music because I’m so personally connected to it,” he says. “I would call it psychedelic tape music.”