Here in Sewage City USA, we are listening to the copy of Elton John's greatest Hits Vol 1, gifted to me by SFJ last week... at my insistance.
I think years of listening to marginal eem-ooh records or spending night after night at the Fireside Bowl, watching like, Coheed and Cambria by accident, and all the new school honkey-skronk*, it makes you hungry for the glossy cocaine sailboat hooks. It makes you really hungry for songs of made for pleasure, not anything to think about, beyond wondering WHO Tiny Dancer is, but imaging she wore leotards and terricota-colored blush and tons of it. I know, loving Elton John and Steely Dan both as well as Michael Mc Donald's solo albums, really I am brushing into some marginal territory, but shush up, dunny, cos I totally got Zongamin and Bad Brains on vinyl upstairs.
Ok, HALLOWEEN UPDATE IS AS SO:
I am going as Jesus, our lord and saviour -- the on-the-cross-edition. Have to round up a crown of thorns out from the garden, which might just by like some sticks. Cardboard cross, need to buy some fake blood for the stigmata. may just have to draw on the beard, which is kind of chintzy, but unless Walgreens has one, it's not happening. I wanted to borrow JR's but he's got that shit on lock cos he's Abe fucking Lincoln, our 17th president. genius.
(* this is MY word, I have coined it, please alert both Phillip Sherburne and Simon Reynolds, I am hot on their trail, and that I am naming every genre they have not gotten to)
Halloween is almost here, and I nearly forgot. I love Halloween for the fact that it's like the lobe's of America's brain split in half. Men go as "someone who just got beat up", Cops, women, pimps and monsters. Girls use it as an excuse to dress as slutty as they want, and get the validation w/out the male-gaze-judgement beat down. Whats compelling 63% of all straight, female-identified women of America to go as Sexy Nurse, or Naughty Nun, or Sexy Ringmaster, Sexy Zombie, Wholly Fuckable Zombie, Check out my boobies Racoon, Dominatrix Rabbit. OR Whatevers. Halloween is totally get out of jail free card.
I should go as NEA-grant denial era Karen Finley, and confront it all head on by going naked cept for some Nestle quick syrup, carry around a half open can of yams. (PS. I saw KF during this point in her career and it was more of a feminist awakening than even seeing Bikini Kill. That bitch is FURRRRREAL.)
My own thinking was this year to go as a man-something, An ugly man-something even more so. I suggested Howard Hughes to JR, but think I may have to do it myself. extra long finger nails, bathrobe, kleenex boxes on feet, jar of fake urine w/ me. Maybe solo career era Grant Hart? -- i could just put a pillow in my shirt, and carry around a drum stick and a Nova Mob album or something. I want to go as something macho and undead and utterly unattractive.
Dan Rather on his day off.
Your dad right after him and yr mom split, circa 81, when he rocked sweatpants on the daily and fed you nothing but baked beans and off brand chicken mc nuggets?...
Again, I welcome suggestions.
Maybe I will write a manifesto about it, pass it out and go as myself.
Or as a rope.
I think going as a rope would be really good.
Blood soaked Sissy Spacek as Carrie?
Apparently I am supposed to update this magic wonderland of my internal tone poem for public display on the hourly. I don't have that kind of time, homies. I appreciate the learning-me as far as internet protocol. Wordlife.
Ok, so as it stands my voice is gone and sorrow has descended upon me like a giant baby-eating raptor from the old school dinosaur times a-passed. All my freinds who I love and make me laugh til I feel so drunk, they live far away from me, and I love being around them so much, I swear I feel like my blood is invincible. I feel like I could just eat them. And they are all in NY, writing and snapping and I AM MISSING IT.
Soooo, I was in NY-C and Brooklyn for pert near a week and I had a lot of meals and way many more giggles. Julianne and i spoke today of the giggles and the times that were had and she pinned it "We have fun without even trying all the time. WE don;t even have to make the fun, we are the fun. We are the corporeal emopbodiment of fun."
And you know, she's right.
Every time we are together, I imagine that if someone watched back a tape of it, they would think we were on speed and acid, except that unlike people on those drugs, we are very funny and very smart. Julianne has this dance she choreographed for the Clipse's "Ma I don't love her", which makes her seem like a fluid oragami swan, she has that strange grace and hand moves that make you feel like yr shit is straight up goofy like that midge kid that was on Webster.
I am not sure where to start but I will tell you about the end: It was like last night of camp, and Sasha was *not drunk* on gin gimlets, and we took him to the Dim Mak night and showed him what the soul of American Punk Rock as made by 19 yr old Brainiac fans looks like, turned inside out. Mahjonng was the beast (sic), pure calamity smoove jams, where I think maybe in a record or so, they will turn a corner into this iron-clad Morris Day honkey's in trenchcoats with those synths-on-straps thing popularized by Nitzer Ebb or Thomas Dolby ( I might be lying on that one?) and just be like marching around, giving us so much bass in the ass that it'll make yr contacts pop out. Like OONGCH-A OONCHA-Ah-AH, on the dancefloor, all smiles. It's not sexy, it's just really good.
Also, on this night I saw a lot of people I had not seen in maybe 3-5 years and I had my long hair down in pigtails like Rapunzel and 3 and 5 years ago my hair was short and blond, so all the people from the past kept saying "Gee, I love yr hair", which made me feel like i was in a Pantene commercial.
But anyhow, that night, at dinner, Lil Chris, Sasha, Rjyan and Julianne and Partymanica and Craig the drummer I barely know, we talked just about our favorite songs, what you would take a bullet for and what song, as Young (jung?) Chris say-ed "makes you want to like, fuck a rhino", which trangmogrified into "songs that make you want to fuck a brick wall" or "make you feel like you could eat through the brick wall"... And Chris and I both said "ANTE UP" by MOP, and Sasha and I both said some Bad Brains songs, and it felt nice to have things in common with people that you respect, and when music is very important and teathers you to most yr pals like a tin-can and string telephone, knowing you'd be chewing through the brick wall together, it's a nice feeling.
But it was bittersweet. It's like last night of horse camp.
Knowing that soon summer is over and you'll be back in school, frumped with all it's attendent hassles.
Also, one must note: I was in the same room as Jay-Z. That man has 99 problems and a bitch ain't one, according to his new album. And that's bitch meaning anything but bitch as we know it in the King's English. Bitch as in illegal Ecudorean donkey sales. Bitch as yr ex's underpants in a shoebox under the bed. Bitch as in record label management. OR SOMETHING. Three days later and I don;t care and I can only remember the way the studio lights rattled when they played the Timbaland track at the sort of volume that's at least 33 decibels louder than I have ever listened to music at on my own free will. I also remember that he had a voice like a cottonball. I was thinking that he must have been much more thuggish as a teenager if he was really hustling crack.
Maybe Beyonce and "the rap game" has toned him down, cos people that gentle-seeming do not fit the bill for drug-salesmanship.
I can only speculate, granted.
I saw bands I liked a lot this week. Like this:
These Arms Are Snakes - who, conflict aside, I work with, but had never seen and I thought they were VERY REAL, not this faux earnest earnestnesses, their posing and their moves were really NATURAL... Very rugged sounds, lots of delay on the gtr and Little Steve, the sing, deep throats the mic on stage with an unknowing porn aplumb, thats really remarkable and applaudable for a straight boy. Liked it!
I also saw Young People, who's album makes me tremble because I cannot make music in a golden cloud like them. They were rickety in a way that most bands fear being, but knowing their LA art-band backgrounds, I appreciated it.
I saw the Gossip and I love them every time and when i see Beth play I wish I was charismatic, rather than enigmatic.
I saw Hold Steady who were so SIMPLE and GREAT I yelled "COOL!" out of visceral impulse and fandom after the first song. Craig's words are this naked-bulb bright Jim Carroll, scumfuckedness of Lou Reed Transformer, lecherous and strung out on the slopes of heaven (to bite Ferlengetti (sp?)), teenage preganacy scandals and the shakes. All the while, the rest of the band pulls a full Stinson stuporred gait genius. Fold yr cards, bands of America.
a couple nights later Pretty Girls played and afterwards I was talking to their drummer, who is a genius with that rhyhtmic certainty of his and clearly has no idea about the depth of such, and I was trying to thank him for two things he said/did about 9 years ago, when i was dating his odler brother, and it really was truly the worst time of my life, and he was a mere 15 and had no idea the weight that the small kindness held. And i had been meaning to say thank you since like 1995, and I finally told him and I got totally choked up and teared up and I think maybe I looked insane, and I was really hoping he didn't think I was like basket case. But I said thank you and thats what I had to do.
It's hard not to be macho and be all ashamed of emotion as signifier of weakness.
I woke this morning crying, because I had dreams that were like bad life. It was a funny night for sleep. last night at 10:30 I was exhausted and not getting my 1-million chores and acts of householdery done, with my dish-full sink working overtime as a bacteria-harvest lab surely, just watching Nathan paint the beautiful giant painting that I dared him to paint when we first started dating. I said I wanted a painting of washing machines, and I am getting one and it's 54x54" big. Anyhows, I was just watching him paint and we were talking and I was so adult-style exhausted, exhaustion of a parent or that of day laborers, and I was thinking "nap", despite that it was almost 11. Nathan was to come and wake me in 20-30 minutes, and when that time came, he tried to wake me and in my slumber-drunkeness, I punched him in the head for trying. He tried an hour later , he kissed me and tried to wake me up, and this time I yelled at him to stop putting his mouth on me, I was trying to sleep.
In that sleep I dreamt variously, of:
- I put a manual egg beater up in the air, used it to dispense sparkles everywhere and it was really pretty.
- Spoke to jesus, who appeared in the get-up of the Virgin of Guadalupe, in a casual manner, who counciled me on being stressed out.
- Called my step mother a cunt, over the phone
- Was getting a ride to Denver with a band that kept stopping and doing chinese firedrills, for fun and exercise.
Nathan dreamt of fighting off vampires.
I woke at 7am sharp, just in time to witness a moment of tenderness between my neighboor lady that I truly despise (it's mutual) and her husband going off to work and their cat. They were wishing their cat bye bye ("Bye Bye Bob, Bye!.."). I do not think they, as a couple, kissed or spoke. The fealty was focused on Bob, the broken earred tabby, feline depositor of much shit in my lawn.
Good morning! Good Morning!
Dan Yemin (Ring the namedrop bell if Philly hardcore matters to you),who in a sideways fashion, I am in the employ of, I do certainly suppose, wrote me the day after this here invisble interneat dear diary went up and it said "You internet people are strange, narcissistic bunch", which made me feel more guilty than i already do, despite the fact that this is less personal and less widely read than the f-ing fanzine I do or even my oooh-so-conterversial Punk Planet column, which at current count is splitting some where between 47 and 12,000 punk-identified (wha/) brain pans open like a ripe lychee fruit. I tell you! I feel this guilt like some phantom charley-horse. But, I strike back at you Dan Yemin, is writing on the internet walls more or less narciss-sisick than singing in a band WITH YOUR SHIRT OFF NONE THE LESS?
My pal Trevor Kelley emails this morning:
"So yhis morning as I was tooling around town, I had the radio on KROQ--which, surely you know, is the behemoth alternative rock station here in LA--and after playing the new Thursday single the DJ said something to the effect of: "So I was flipping through the new issue of Alternative Press this weekend and they had an article in there about whether or not emo is actually sexist. Are you kidding me: is emo sexist!? Don't you guys have anything better to write about?"
Also worth mentioning: said DJ was a woman."
I feel encouraged when the emo-is-sexist discourse is being widened to include any sort of national level dismissal. And the funny thing is -- I TOTALLY DO NOT HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO WRITE ABOUT.
Today, I looked at Sasha's blog, and my writing was on there. From an invisble internet forum for discussion on the nu Outkast album.
The night before last, I was out on my bike, outside Highschool/Buddy, which is convienently (sp?) located above the upscale velvet roped Booty Club-Lounge (not it's real name) and 3 dudes in a parked Cutlass next to where I was unlocking my bike. and 2 of the dudes were smoking a joint and the dude in the passenger seat was, with Temptations style hand motions in play, singing along to Prototype. He turned to his boys and said "This is my shit, this is my shit". he turned to me and said "You know, I love my gangsta shit, I am a gangsta AFICIANADO, but, you know, this is about love, this is real. Live in My Lap, thats real love shit.". I put my hand on my heart and made a little thump-thump, which is emo-signlanguage that I picked up at some Thursday show or soemthing, and I said "I love this record too. I like the Big Boi side a little better." Then the guy in the backseat tried to buy my bike from me.
and I will add this:
There is a pack of mean Jr High Ballers who hang out acorss the street, hooping it up and flirting with neighboorhood 6th grader girls that dress like they are for sale cos no one is around to catch them leaving their home in that sort of outfit, anyhow, they too offered to buy my bike. I think they were doing it to fuck with me, because I was riding a tiny early seventies schwinn girls dirt bike, with bana seat and streams. I was also wearing a terrific hat and stripes with plaids. I rode over to them, and said "No, my bike is much to awesome to sell." This boy, maybe not older than.... 13, offered me cash out of pocket.
I am scared of boys this age a little, because when i lived in LA, some neighboor boys were having a 12th birthday party, and I was walking by and they threw a basketball at my head -- as they explained shortly after -- BECAUSE THEY THOUGHT I WAS IN THEIR CLASS. I was 21 when that happened. Inside my brain, I am tall. I can no longer pass for 15 yrs my junior. I look far too tired.
I told my mom about the rats -- her advice:
don't let the rats get your pooky.
I asked her "Is Pooky meaning "booty" or does it mean "food"?"
her answer: "It could be either under the right circumstances. I do not really know, just mean to be a general, protective statement! "
TO THOSE ON RAT WATCH -- Hide yr Pooky up high where craft rats cannot get at it. PS. RATS CAN COME UP THROUGH THE TOILET. I read it in the paper.
Dear invisible interneat magic Diary,
Last night, Nathan and I were out bike riding because of the 81 degreee heatwave that happened last night. And Nathan, being the hot Protestant Samaritan he is made me dinner and then we found out that Joe Proulx was sick, and so we took the Nathan-made dinner to Joe, via bike. When I ride my bike I normally like to sing aloud: Rudolph the red Nose Reindeer (my favorite song - very hooky and memorable), a song that I think is the national anthem of America (it has a line about "Amber Waves of Grain") -- but I am not sure because I don't watch sports and went to a Montessori school where we learned Russian instead... but I made up a song about the immenent CHICAGO RAT INVASION of 2004.
WE're gonna have a Rat Invasion!
( thats just the chorus, because each verse is made up, and Invasion is rhymed with asian, persusion, abrasion etc...)
PBS and NPR told me that with 'this heat' the Rat's will come and INVADE OUR CITY, because the city trash haulers and the trash truck workers can;t settle a strike... Eight days of Trash is not a big deal to me, but, alas, I am not a chinese resturant with 77 lbs of half eaten eggrolls a-piling up.
I will say this: The Rat Invasion fascinates me.
I imagine some super signal, perhaps a great fetid stench is sent out to all rat hovels, nationwide and the rats grab thier little rat coats, or capes or shoes (think Secret of Nymh) and run, run, run full speed -- we know they will be here by Friday, which makes me think that they left Monday and are all scurrying To Chicago, under the cloak of night. Stopping only to eat a snack of melted plastic or a sewer-soaked cheetoe. And upon sun up on Friday... the whole city is like Willard. Or was it Ben. (lets say Ben, because Michael Jackson did that great song for the soundtrack.) ... Just, like, you cannot walk outside the house because Rats try and crawl up yr pant leg and stuff, Rats coming down in parachutes. Tactical forces plotting for maximum trash gnawing.
Thats what I think when I think of the Rat Invasion.