American English is a lot like the American national project, it steals its resources from other cultures, dumbs down the nuance and meanings into a flavorless boil, and then demands a premium from the rest of the world for being forced to use an inferior product. William Faulkner wrote about his time as a failed writing asset/acquisition of the Hollywood studio system by lamenting about how everything in Los Angeles was “too large, too loud and usually banal in concept” before calling Tinseltown “the plastic asshole of the world.” That appellation fit nearly a century ago, but everything has expanded since then, like assholes are known to do in times of trial and excess. That expansion now fits snugly around the United States, a superfund-site plastic asshole with the biggest military in the history of the world wielded by the most egregious — well, you know, assholes — on the planet. So how do you talk or write about love when trapped in such a blaring, contaminated crater? I don’t know, but here goes.
Romance and erotic love are over-marketed but never purchased, a wonderful contradiction. To be in love is to align with something that allows a flowing channel of expression from within yourself to be within another, and then outward onto others, outward and onto the world at large, glowing with shimmering rays colored by the same silent symphony that flowers sing wordlessly to the bees. That thing the sun pours into the vacuum of the universe to warm distances no human has ever comprehended, but that we can feel in both the living soil and the frozen spotlight of the moon. All love is an affront to the indignity of humanity’s conquest and the perverted cruelty and violence it spreads like a pornographic slur across our shared history. Love powers the soul and protects the solitude, along with the solitude of the beloved, while recognizing a unity within those solitudes that can be shared as they protect each other — with a nod to the poet Rilke.
And like anything else that can never be tamed or domesticated, love is a danger to the conspiracy of civilization and its fraudulent authority. It’s yours but you can’t take, buy, trade or sell it. And most importantly, you can’t be forced to give it away. It is mine, it is ours, it is universal and secret, intimate and everywhere. I’ll close with the last line from William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 112: “You are so strongly in my purpose bred, that all the world besides methinks are dead.” That meant something to him about someone, just as it means something different and wholly unique to me about someone else. Someone very special.
Happy Valentine’s.
Thursday
The Sadies are a second-generation Canadian band who have been playing their cool mix of country and weird rock for three decades from their native Toronto to around the globe. Formerly fronted by the Good brothers, the group has continued after the tragic death of founding sibling Dallas in 2022, keeping the flame lit for a style that has attracted collaborations with everyone from the Mekons to Neil Young. In an age where the human part of music is increasingly drowned in generic production and mechanized reproduction, these guys are the shit, the real deal.
Similarly, Portland’s Jenny Don’t and the Spurs hold a place of grimy rhinestone glory in the live country and western world, and are regular and welcome visitors to Humboldt. Seeing both acts together at one of the best venues for this organic type of sound, the Old Steeple, is a treat that can’t be beat. The show starts at 7:30 p.m., early bird tickets are available online for $25, $30 at the door plus the risk of missing out.
Friday
It’s the first of a trio of Fridays the 13th in 2026, and what better way to celebrate the eerie auspices on this eve of Valentine’s Day than a night of punk rock at everyone’s favorite indoor skatepark? Come join locals Brain Dead Rejects, Guffer and Something Wicked for a team up with East Bay’s East Boys and Nashville’s flamenco punk masters The Rumba Madre as they rip up the plywood contours of RampArt at 8 p.m. Tickets are $10 in advance, $15 at the door, and drinks will be served to those of age by the Humboldt Roller Derby folks. Viva.
Valentine’s Day
How about an all-ages Queer Prom Party at Siren’s Song Tavern tonight to celebrate Cupid’s stupid little annual mess? Join Heaven’s Taint and Clean Girl and the Dirty Dishes — with an added theremin player — for an evening of rockin’ costumed fun? No pussyfootin’ around about the costumes, too. There will be a photo booth and a costume contest happening. The fun starts at 8 p.m., and $5 is an easy ask, even in this economy.
Sunday
In the mood for some clean comedy from a nice Midwestern fella? Come by the Arcata Theatre Lounge tonight at 6 p.m. for the microphone stylings of Michael Palascak. A familiar face on the night show circuit, Palascak is a sort of friendly, sitcom-warm Jerry Seinfeld character, if you disregard everything about Jerry Seinfeld outside of the range of the spotlight, mic stand and brick wall ($25, $20 advance).
Monday
It’s a tough time right now for institutional wins in America for anyone whose politics are to the left of Adolf Hitler, so it’s important to remember what we gained in the past, mustn’t lose again and can eclipse in a victorious future. Fight, fight, fight like the world is at stake, because it is. That’s how Alaska Native Elizabeth Peratrovich felt when she helped get the Alaska Anti-Discrimination Act of 1945 passed on this day in that year, which is why this day belongs to her in celebration. The first piece of legislature of its kind in both Alaska and the U.S., it killed the application of Jim Crow laws in Alaska and started a long legislative push for legally protected racial equality in a country that wasn’t even a century past the Civil War. Huzzah, hold the line, we shall overcome.
Tuesday
Nothing doing in the music scene that crossed my desk for today. However, this is a special date regardless, as the Lunar New Year and Mardi Gras are crossing paths to rumble on the turf of a brand new age. So laissez les bon temps rouler and a welcome to the Year of the Horse. May good times and sharp hooves kick down the prison walls and burn the plantations down forever.
Wednesday
Tom Jones wasn’t a young man in 1996, and 30 years later he’s still not retired, which is quite a thing. Why do I mention 1996? Because that’s when Tim Burton, a man who certainly should retire, made one of his last great films. I’m talking about Mars Attacks,a real fun time with an ensemble cast — including the Welsh crooner — improbably based on the early ’60s Topps trading card series. My favorite part is when Jack Black gets burned alive because I can’t stand that putz and his japes annoy me. Anyway, there’s lots more to love here, which you can find out for yourself by hitting up the Arcata Theatre Lounge between 6 and 7 p.m. and forking over $6, $10 if you want to leave with a poster.
Collin Yeo (he/him) wishes you well.
This article appears in Needles and Ink.