I Kan't Spell
Love Finds Want Where Children Run
Ginsberg, Thompson, Joyce, Poe, whoever - whenever. We were coming back from [blank] when the [blank] hit the [blank]. I can't write like that so I won't try. What I can do is think. I can think uninterrupted about what I want and me. I can chase all the greatness that mediocrity claims it deserves and I scream at the top of my lungs for my righteous inheritance of peace and fulfillment. But screaming echoes off the clouds and falls to earth in shards or frozen shit. Prayers find their way into some box somewhere read by a man pushing a broom on the night shift at a convenient mart.
Do I want love? Do I want love - he asks himself while wearing headphones and looking for a title track to beat the keyboard to. Do I want love? He hasn't answered yet - so that's a resounding "I don't know". What is love to someone who knows no pity or remorse? What is love to someone who values very little but his own dreams and importance? I can chase love but it's more or less like being little and wanting to be an astronaut.
"Oh Mommy can I have the book on Mars? Can I have the book on Venus?"
"I want to be an astronaut."
"Sure - you can have one of them."
So you go to your room and you study and study and study. You find out about black holes, sunspots, craters, and Stephen Hawking's wheel chair model. You fondle and caress everything about space. You look up and you aren't a child anymore. You look up and you are 15 with a 2.7 GPA and C in Trigonometry. Your dreams of space have long since left you. You still like to look through a telescope from time to time but for the most part, the dream of space has long since left you. It's a flighty dream - and there are people who think airplane travel, seeing Paris, or a trip to the county fair is the equivalent of my space dream. The preparation is not all that great but neither is the reward.
Do I want love? I can say yes over and over again but I can be scared just like you. I can think about you in front of my mirror with your hair iron thingy while I wondered where to impress you in the museum. Would I make my move at the Monet or the Seraut? Would I try to explain true Chinese food or would I simply take you for a beer? Is there an art to love? Is there anything more than a desire to want to be naked, peaceful, laughing chubby little creatures that allow for each other's transgressions? It is nothing more than that. It is more than that empty dried out husk you run home to every night. It is work but it is space.
Do I want you? Yes. Do I want me with you? That's a whole different story.
There once was a painter in Italy working on his masterpiece. He had an apprentice with him that followed him around and would set up his easel and fetch his paints and coffee in the evening. He paid the master's bills and made sure he was to work and off the bottle from time to time. The master had been working for years on this project. The paint faded in some corners but the structure for something monumental had been made. The master grew weary one day and fell down. He hit his head and handed his brush and palette to the apprentice. In his final words he said "Finish my love." The apprentice ran out of the house screaming and crying. The painting gathered dust and was thrown in the trash heap upon new tenants arriving.
The thing that worries love the most is the immeasurable aspect of smell, and the feeling you get in you stomach when love comes walking near you. It worries love because those are just a couple of things it can't control. Love can exist in one but not in the other. Love can stand there banging it's tuning fork in one body only to see the other body never rosin a bow to lift to the strings. It can hear no such tune and has no music to play.
Now, I want me. I want to be proud of me. I'm getting there. I have a few good friends and a Mother who might just help me. I have an idea of love that allows me to be strong. I have books on space that I can look to when I get bored. I want me to be me. I was made to be strong and questioning. I was destined to flutter in the sky like a burning kite let go over the tree lines. I will come for you when my day is done. I will come for you when I am smiling, not because of you, but because of me.
You can't have a cheetah as a pet. It will run off. It will suckle you as a kitten and maybe even play with a tethered ball that you lay on the floor for it. After a little while it's tail is knocking over lamps and it's teeth no longer graze but instead cut as you play. It's urges and appetite grow and your backyard cannot hold it's dancing eyes.
The sun shines for her when I think about it the right way. The glistening of buildings seems to not only birth the day but it births my smile as well. Her sun sprinkles those buildings with tiny mirrors or glitter. They are the same tiny mirror that wake me in the morning and dance across my closed my eyelids right before I sleep.
Have you ever seen a beaten puppy eat from a human's hand? It's a beautiful thing that makes you sad. You can see the puppy's history in those fragile little steps. The mistrust in his eyes is apparent as he sniffs the air. The human has the treat in one hand and if they were smart they would have the other palm open and visible. The puppy's eyes will dance from side to side looking at both hands. It will bark at one of them and it will wait for your fear or anger to resonate through its heart. If it feels the doubt it will scurry back under the couch or behind the trashcan. If that resonance comes out like a mother's warm hug after a scraped knee then you may just get a puppy, a puppy once whipped, to eat from your hand.
Dreams and What You Never Do To Me
Well, we'll start with what you never do to me. Really we'll start with what you never do to anyone. I mean - seriously- don't ever ever ever - never ever ever - call someone at 4 a.m. from another area code, from another person's phone. Why? Well, because the first thing that goes through my mind is "Oh fuck. My grandparents are dead." And of course I don't answer the call because if they were dead someone would leave a message and then call back two or three times. And to be honest I don't want the rest o fmy night being spent packing and rushing somewhere to something that is alread that I can't control. Well - guess what - calling at 4 am on a Wednesday from a strange number and leaving a message is bad enough but calling back 3 times leads me to believe that someone actually IS dead. So now I have to check the voice mails.
Look - I appreciate people calling me and leaving me semi-erotic phone calls at 4 am. But to be honest when you are drunk and interrupting my lovely 4 am (only time when it's cool in my house) sleep I don't find it amusing. I find it downright slavish and rude. The sediment was lovely - well not lovely - but enticing let's say. However, the idea that my Gram is dead somewhere on the side of the road and my Uncle's number, that is not in my phone, is blowing me up at 4 am to tell me the funeral is tomorrow and he needs 3 grand to help with the coffin and other expenses - is not how I want my dreams interrupted.
Speaking of dreams (oh the segwayyyyyy). I remember one of my dreams last night. I'm pretty sure it was because of my fucking phone ringing loud as all hell at 4am on a Wednesday... But I remembered it. It was vivid and it went something like this. Analyze if you like.
I was sitting in a big TV station audience next to a girl and her boyfriend. Her and I were talking for the first few minutes and then I looked over and saw this confused look on her boyfriend's face. He immediately punched me in the face and I laughed, rubbed my jaw, and said "Well done. Good balls for you kid." And then I went to give him a hug. He got a little greedy after that and opened his mouth and said something to the effect of "Your fucking dead." Yeah - punched in the face I respect - talking about future face punching or disrespect I don't dig - even in my dreams apparently.
So I said to the girl, "Baby I'm sorry but I have to hurt him." She shrugged and all of the sudden we were in the parking lot of a college. I had the knowledge that he was coming with 5 guys and I showed up alone because well that's the way I like it. I remember trying to talk him out of it - because I knew I was going to win simply because I wasn't nervous. Anyway - I let him hit me a couple time and then I head butted him, broke his nose, and he cried. I sat there with him holding ice on his nose. His friends and I stood around and smoked cigarettes and then some of my neighborhood friends from where I grew showed up and shot everyone except for me. I then drove away in the car singing.
And then the fucking phone rang -
The fight scene was much longer in the dream. I spent close to what felt like half my time trying to talk him out of fighting because even if he won he would lose eventually. I don't know it was vivid - I don't have a ton of dreams so it was interesting to me. Fuck it... lol
For the Hardworkin' Man or Woman
If you are into slightly off center homo/hetero -semihomo males that say the darndest things than I think you might like the two following things that I read online this morning.
David Sedaris - The gay man's used to be flagship hero, but now since the straight people have found him, has been abandoned in a pool of urine - wading for the sides or a used paper cup with the likes of the rest of the working class college graduates who know what Pinot is because of Sideways - he has been abandoned by his gay brethern crew that in lieu of assholes like me that read Tom Clancy and Anne Rice - Has a (holy shit that was funny to write) new piece of short story anti-fiction out for the New Yorker. You can read it here without a subscription.
Ryan Adams - The working man's used to be rocker, and the guy that single handedly sold at least 100k records for Pete Yorn. The freaky little dork that you held dear until you found out that some freshman at UNC Charlotte was listening to Gold and getting the songs confused with Heartbreaker. "La Cienega Just Smiled is not on Heartbreaker BITCH! Get your fuckin shit straight. Fuckin idiot" and then you saw Ryan play at the Meyerhoff surrounded by guys in Ben Sherman shirts and silk bokers with their pudgy annoying drunk Miller Lite chugging girlfriends clodded up in flip flops and too tight jeans. - Has an (that wasn't so much fun to write as it made me angry to write) interview with Pitchfork Media on the heals of Pitchfork's annihilation of llor and kcor. He has another album out at the end of August called "September". It's supposed to be sadder than the fuckin crucifixion - JOY!. Read the sadness.
Adams: And I'm gonna have that relationship forever, because I humanize everything. When it's a bad show, I go this totally sucks, you guys are fucking loud, we can't play with this dynamic, I'm not having a good time, this sucks! I'll say that, and you're not supposed to say that. Most people go (taking on a European accent): "What a wonderful audience! What a wonderful crowd! I've never had such a fantastic crowd!" I'm sorry, people are throwing beer bottles and you're just gonna stand there smiling? I can't do it. I'm too reactionary. Maybe I need to go on some kind of medication. I'm not sure.
I like Rushmore, Bottlerocket, and Steve Zassou (or whatever it is) - but nothing compares to The Royal Tenenbaum's. I think it like it the most for Royal. Gene Hackman's character is one of my favorite characters ever and I wish there could be like a "Tenenbaum's: 70's episode" kind of thing.
Royal: I've always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember. That's just my style. But I'd really feel blue if I didn't think you were going to forgive me.
Henry Sherman: I don't think you're an asshole, Royal. I just think you're kind of a son of a bitch.
Royal: Well, I really appreciate that.
Tennis Announcer 1: That's 72 unforced errors for Richie Tenebaum. He's playing the worst tennis of his life. What's he feeling right now?
Tennis Announcer 2: I don't know, Jim. There's obviously something wrong with him. He's taken off his shoes and one of his socks and... actually, I think he's crying.
Royal: Are you trying to steal my woman?
Henry Sherman: I beg your pardon.
Royal: You heard me, Coltrane.
Henry Sherman: "Coltrane"?
Henry Sherman: Did you just call me Coltrane?
Henry Sherman: You didn't?
Henry Sherman: Okay...
Peter Bradley: [Eli is on drugs while being interviewed on television] Now, your previous novel...
Eli: Yes, "wildcat".
Peter Bradley: Not a success. Why?
Eli: Well... wildcat was written in a kind of obselete vernacular...
Eli: ... wildcat... wild... cat...
[he stares into space]
Eli: ... pow... wildcat... I'm going to go
Eli: I'm not in love with you any more.
Margot: I didn't ever know that you were.
Eli: Let's not make this any more difficult than it already is.
I don't know why I'm updating people on my weekend. There is nothing more boring than that. But I wanted to share two things that I saw that were really cool.
On Friday I went here and saw Chris Newberg. He was pretty cool and it was the only time I had ever been to a comedy club without knowing most of the material before going in. I was pleasantly suprised. I mean it's kind of dirttastic because the cats that go there were - rather - umm - salt of the earth.
Then on Saturday I went here and saw the Drive-By Truckers play. I was expecting a lot and damned if I didn't get it. I was overly thrilled by what I saw and more than likely have added a new band for me to follow. It might have been the beer though - - I guess I can describe them as sort of like Widespread Panic meets the Black Crowes.
If you would like to hear some DBT shows. You can go here and download the 64k mp3's. http://www.archive.org/audio/etreelisting-browse.php?cat=Drive-By%20Truckers I highly recommend any version of Daddy's Cup - which sounds like Charlie Daniels meets Skynyrd. Yeah yeah - I'm a hick what am I gonna do?
I went there with Doug and had a good time. We were mistakingly involved in the Q-Tip show. We were not disappointed by leaving the Q-tip gig, though Doug was a bit apprehensive to leave. Anyway - that was my weekend - I almost died from taking 8 Tylenol PMs because it was about 8000 degrees in my room - - other than that - right as rain.
Dave Chapelle is Back
Dave made an appearance on Def Comedy Jam at the end of June. Click here to listen to his mp3 rendition of his poem "Fuck Ashton Kutcher".
You can also listen to the entire Chapelle special "Killing them softly" here.
Who needs some new happy music to start off their week? If that person is you then I recommend the following band from across the pond. It sounds like the Beta Band and Teenage Fanclub got together and did something kick butt.
Enjoy - - - The Boy Least Likely - - - I recommend "Be Gentle With Me" first.
Addendum - For all you Postal Service - Post DCFC - Or Current DCFC fans - here is the new single from them as well - - - it's ok - - -
Enjoy - - - Soul Meets Body - - -
All this love comes from the cast at scenestars.net.
Random Thoughts on a rainy day on the 15th floor
Kafka wasn't all that good. I just realized today that I'm reading a book by Kafka and another book entitled Kafka on the Shore. I recommend the second. My book reading has become very 'poppy' lately. I find that it helps me be good at something when I read lower brow books where the metaphors jump out at you and sit in your lap purring, telling you with their vibrating larynx that you are ever-so-smart.
I really like listening to the following songs when I'm playing 'worker bee'. I play them in this order it is called the "Life_aint_so_Bad.m3u"
Billy Bragg & Wilco - California Stars
John Vanderslice - The Won't Let Me Run
Spoon - The Way We Get By
Deerhoof - Sealed with a kiss
Ryan Adams - Magnolia Mountain
Rilo Kiley - POrtions for Foxes
Sufjan Stevens - That Dress Looks Nice on You
New Order - Krafty
My Teenage Stride - Arlan Sykes
Ted Leo - Me and Mia
Kimya Dawson - Chemistry
Funkadelic - You and Your Folks
Enon - Natural Disasters
Elliott Smith - Say Yes
Bear vs Shark - Bloodgiver
Two if By Sea - Contracts
Architecture in Helsinki - Fumble
Andrew Bird - A nervous tick motion
White Stripes - Jolene
The walkmen - Little House
Ryan Adams - Strawberry Wine
Yep - no one read that - but that's what plays on repeat all day at work - well at least during the drag hours of 2-4 (ohhhhh how do we all dread the 2-4).
When I was little I used to trace these drawing that were in some flighty coloring book I had at home. Even when I was little I always had a propensity to aim high and hit low. I would bring the drawing into class and give them to the girls and tell them I loved them. One day, a French kid, or Arabian, I can't remember, challenged me to a drawing contest in front of the class. I accepted and he decided the topic was to be a table. My table looked like a Triscuit that had been dipped in water too long. The jig was up.
Everybody's reaction is to assume that I'm lonely. Really I miss my mother and I miss being her son. Even as crazy as I was I get lonely but I'm not that lonely yet. I want to hop on the next jet and just fly to Russia or Seattle. I'd like to dive anywhere west in chase of the sun, somewhere that I can reinvent myself. I can chase the bottle from my hands and the idea of a pen from my head. I'm lonely and all but there's wine in the bottle and a song on the stereo. There's a shadow to dance with and a table to stand on. If I feel so inclined as to call my father I'll just cry. I'll just break down again and I'll want someone to hug. I miss my mother but the bottle fills in when I need it. I'll take anybody I can get. Sometimes I want to call you but I feel like a pest. I get lonely, but I'm not that lonely yet.
People write so well. People that I love and respect seem to be doing so much more. I get so jealous that no one calls me. I get so jealous that there is someone having fun without me and not thinking of me. I want to touch everything but then when I do it shrivels like one of those South American flowers that wither because it's never been touched by anything. People act so damn well and all I can do is be one of two things. I can be bright orange. I can be like shag carpeting in a poor family's house. They never saved enough to renovate so they have this obnoxious pitiful carpet that everyone knows is old and warn out. I can be black. I can be like absolute space vortex black. I can be somewhere that no one can touch me. I can blend into vapor and dance around in my own head ignoring everything.
I would like to rest my head on your pocket book while you drive. To feel the cool breeze of the Pennsylvanian Appalachian coastline as it brushes up against the Allegheny and secludes itself through valleys and acres and acres of cows and corn. I want to fall asleep on your pocket bag and wake up to a good song on the radio that you are already playing. I like the idea of the night and it being too cold to smoke outside. No one wants to stop or get out of the car because we just keep looking ahead singing and touching each other's hands. I love simple silent signs of love.
That's the way I get by sometimes. I walk and read at the same time.
"How do you walk and read?"
"I don't know it's a skill like being able to play the drums or hang glide and eat."
That's what I do to dream. I walk and read. I hope that I die by tragedy so that way my life won't seem like an induced waste. It will seem like more of a -- well --- tragic waste.
"Oh he died in a plane crash."
"Oh that's so awful. How tragic."
That sounds much better than.
"He died drunk driving."
"Oh that's awful."
"He deserved it."
Sexcapades and Your Picture on the Internet
So when I started the JVMM I applied to all the these weird dating services. I started to get emails to my junk account email@example.com. Part of being me, is well, being.. umm sexually enticed at nearly all hours of the day. I'm a sexually charged person for the most part. So I signed up for adultfriendfinder in addition to these other sites. What I find on a daily email basis is both horrifying and intimidating.
Today I received the following tag lines from local singles in the Baltimore area looking to meet me (or anyone not in a decaying state):
Wanting someone who is looking for just one woman to fill needs not being met. As well as filling my pussy.
HEY MY NAME IS SWEETZ AND I SINGLE IM 18 YEARS OLD AND LIVE IN MARYLAND. I LIKE TO HANG OUT AND FUCK. PLZ APPLY IF 8" +
25 y.o sexual, black grad student looking for intimate chat and possibly more...I love sex and know hot to use my ass
hey everybody! i'm a total hottie with the best body you've seen. i have awesome cup d's and love big cocks
BLACK MEN ONLY WITH BIG DICKS!!!!!- YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY. A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS!
im just a girl lookin for a man who is also interested in havin me as a fuckbuddy
The crazy thing is that these sentences are often accompanied by a picture of a girl on a bed with a black line over her eyes (just in case her daddy or boss may stumble upon to the site) spread eagle with two fingers showing you where her pee comes from.
Now, while I completely endorse free love and the idea of consensual, safe, guilt free sex. I also find these things to be completely and utterly intimidating and awful. Every time I read them I don't find myself wanting to ever in a million lives of the sun want to email or call or even be in the same zip code as these people. Why? Call it evolution. Call it the idea of romance. Call it anything other than not having an 8 inch cock and not wanting to wonder what kind of warts are going to be growing on my thighs in the morning.
More than that, and why I felt compelled to write, is what man - in all seriousness and not in bar room "I'll bang her talk" - would really engage in this sort of thing? What prototype of a human being looks at a woman on a public internet site showing her birth canal, wanting giant crushing cocks, and thinks to himself - ya know - - I could use some side poot? Do they really think to themselves , "I can handle that ass?" I don't know what kind of man that is. What I do know is that I never really imagine that people are like this. Now I am far from a prude but I don't ever look around and imagine that people ARE swingers or ARE out on the Internet looking for someone to throw them the high hard one in the parking lot of a Denny's. I imagine that all people go out to dinner, go home, turn on the evening local news and have sex through a sheet. Is that so wrong? Am I off base there?
I guess I am more turned off by the idea that I may not be able to fulfill the sexual desires of almost 98% of the women in the world, and to be honest, guys - - give up on simply trying to satisfy a woman for an extended period of time. Realize that most of us aren't studs. Most of us aren't the sexual beasts that we imagine after 9 beers. It's nice to have an ego and that is attractive, but at some point you are going to have to come to grips with the idea that you aren't really rocking the piss out of anyone's world. Then again - maybe you are - and I just lag behind. It's very rare that you ever find someone so attracted to you that your standard moves of ass tickling or nipple petting can storm the weather of a long relationship. Also, women tend to be more attracted to aesthetics (not as much as we are). So the next time you are picking your toes, farting, belching, and scratching yourself while watching SportCenter think about whether or not that can get them off for an extended period of time.
I guess the idea here is that these 'hook up', casual sex, sexcapade on batteries festivals that go on online are not for me. There are certain things in life that I just couldn't do. Things like this:
"Hey are you CutiePie188?"
"So uhh - where uhhh.,... you know.... do you wanna fuck?"
"You got 8 inches like you said?"
"Uhh - I got some toys and a mule in the trunk."
"Yea...I guess thats cool. Over there by the dumpster is fine with me."
"Sweet, I'll be right back. I have to go put on my leather mask."
Blue Eyed Seeds
I was sitting there listening to the biggest drug dealer that everyone knows. He was detailing to the owner of the bar that I frequent, that he could help him out with money or whatever he needs. I looked down at my drink and shook my head. I turned to the bartender with a flinch of pain and decided to defocus my brain for a few seconds.
Me: Did you go to North County?
Bartender: Sure did.
Me: What year did you graduate?
Me: Did you know Billy Whitecloth?
Bartender: He's my little brother.
Me: Small fuckin world.
... (minute lapse)
Bartender: That girl is so trashed.
Me: It's ok. Lucky Chucky will take care of her.
Bartender: Oh I don't doubt it.
Me: He's always around hot girls. I guess that's what you get when you carry around 5 8-balls a night.
The bartender walked away on that last sentence and engaged Lucky Chucky in conversation. They had known each for a long time and LC, it looked like, was the one that got her this new job. I continued to talk to myself. I talked to myself for a while.
I looked next to me and there was a run down 50 year old man with a couple teeth missing and a lazy eye. He had on a straight billed Nike hat that could have been fetched from any dumpster and his clothes were poor and ill-fitting. He asked me, "How are the Orioles doing?" I almost wretched right there on the floor thinking about how this man knew me enough to talk to me. "You know I own half that Crepes store up the street?" I did not respond to his attempt to talk to me. I got up and went to the bathroom and washed my face.
LC sat down at the end of the bar talking with people. He was discussing money, houses, stocks and all the things that make my blood boil. He talked about all the things I detest. The poor always detest what they have no control over. The poor never care about something that they will never have. We can live through illusions but eventually when those illusions betray us we have a tendency to despise them. Get hurt by the woman in your dreams and watch you hate women. Get beaten by the system and you all of the sudden hate the world. You just want to be alone. You just want to crawl into a glass and never look anyone pretty in the face. You are afraid they can see the fragile wrinkles on your face that could crack at any time and reveal the hollow fraud within.
I drank more. I drank and drank and drank. Drinks are counting to 5 and then 9 and then 15. It had only been a couple hours but whiskey flows like that sometimes. Whiskey on the rocks in the summertime heat blends so well. It melts at a 4 sips per glass pace. The harder you pound it back into your throat the easier they become to drink. The faster you drink them the more time you have by yourself before it sneaks up on you. The more time you have before the demons come knocking.
You push back your chair and throw a couple 20's down on the bar. You don't say a word as you leave. As you leave you pass derelicts, bouncers, booze hounds, and distant friends who all know your name. They nod or five your passing. You don't want eyes right now. You want a bed and a nice memory to take you away. You want to kill yourself a little more. You want the torture to be real in some way. You want bittersweet torture to take you to a world where you once lived or would like to try to live one day. You can't escape pretty eyes.
I mumble to myself, "If you worry about me, don't bother. There's no time. Before the day fades you gotta pitch your seeds into the ground or you won't get flowers. You won't get no corn to eat. You won't get no woman to bed and you'll be left to feel cold breezes come down on cold days from mountains made out of dreams too high to climb."
You'll notice everything about the world for a time and you won't like it. You won't like whom you know or what you do. But that's all pity for your soul's collection plate. That's all quarters thrown into your heart's wishing well. It only funds some new feeling yet to come about. The pain of hating and wanting fuels your rebirth. You want nothing to remind you of anything you hate for a while. You feel fine in your own skin but not skin that pretty eyes ever see. Shame is a garment that you wear when your memories come to judge you.
More bands found it easy to skip Baltimore on their FRIGGIN 30 SHOW EAST coast tour again!
This city - I swear - if it isn't the The Oranges Band ( a really good band - but I mean - when you open for Ted Leo and Spoon - it's a tough road ahead.) then nobody cares about booking them. You know I don't expect the White Stripes to land at the Ottobar or Spoon to start playing Fletcher's any time soon or for the NIN/QOTSA tour to come through the Baltimore arena - but damnit - damnit damnit - - Fringe Indie bands should be stopping in one of our 5 venues (sonar, fletchers, ottobar, talking head, rams head live) for at least one night on their way to the fucking Knitting factory, Bowry, or First Unitarian Church - - anyway - it fires me up.
This is who you who to drive to Philly or DC to see - - -
Devendra Banhart, The Detrtoit Cobras, Sufjan Stevens, Get Him Eat Him, Kimya Dawson - - the entire Important Records label, New Pornographers, and the most heart breaking of all - to me - the Black Keys.
Anyway the 9:30 club has a good summer to fall lineup coming - -
Hilites include - - -
The Bravery w/ The Dead 60s & Nic Armstrong and the Thieves - FRI. JUL. 15
Teenage Fanclub w/ The Rosebuds - WED. JUL. 20
Kaiser Chiefs w/ The Cribs - FRI. JUL. 22
David Gray w/ Micah P. Hinson - SAT. AUG. 6
Kings of Leon & Secret Machines - THU. AUG. 11
We do get the Decemberists at Sonar October 1st - * side note - I have to hand to IMP productions (and oh yes that acronym is "It's My Party). They are really trying with Sonar - but I don't understand why they aren't pushing harder with Ram's Head Live - Sonar's rep as a club with menacing bouncers and guys with neon tongue rings is going to be hard to admonish. I think if they keep trying we'll be on the circuit with the Electric Factory, Beacon, and 9:30 in a year or two with the rising of Ram's Head Live and Sonar.
Hey - it could be worse. We could be living Delaware.
Random Boogie Moment
Has anyone listened to Spoon's "I turn my camera on"? Because I warn you that if you do - you'll be shaking in no time.
New Music and Movie
Do you like the Postal Service?
Do you like happy synth pop that normal people make fun of and roll their eyes at when your latent homosexuality leaks out through your musical tastes? Whaaaa? Where did that come...whaaa?
Anyway this is new and it's real good. It's the Stars. Listen to Ageless Beauty and What I'm Trying to Say - it's interesting anyway - also -
In other news...
For those who haven't seen this, Gus Van Sant of smelly people fame and fortune, is releasing a new movie called Last Days with the Tommy Spec/Gnosis from Hedwig and the Angry Inch character playing a psuedo Cobain -
When the Clock Reads 14
He's 14 and that's no place for a stone to fall so heavy in the creek. First off, there is no tide. Secondly, there is no life. Chip the bark right off the tree and just hand it this way. You don't need a sugar pill to rattle down the street. He's 14 and you should know better. Watch the life rise up out of him like steam from a kettle. A shake starts in the chest when he hears the first baseline. An arm flutters hard to the right when the piano comes in and then he's 14. He's 14 forever.
What would you like to be other than that one thing that you dream? Right, nothing, that's what I thought. There is no reason to be anything less than hot air scraping up the sides of building wanting to breathe it's own body into space. Air runs around looking for stars and the body looks for an extension of its soul. It looks for an extension of it's movements. It's a nervous tic motion to the left. It's all a nervous tic. It's all nerves wrapped around what our brain needs to be satisfied.
Loss? Who has loss at 14? A spade is a spade. It's a ploy at nothing to claim loss at 14. You have the world. You have orgasms now. You have muscles sprouting and breasts budding out of your buddy. You have your life taking shape. You can see your face in 15 years and there is nothing to ask of life. How old are you now anyway? How dare you? I guess there was just no pleasing you.
I was born a couple miles from here. I was raised to be 14. I was tired after that. I was an old man wanting the Vox stand and the Gibson cherry stained wood. From the decade my family has run the town and you step out of line and the family council will set you straight. The day I fell in love, of course we fucked around. I followed through and now I have a moon. No geese to be part of your winged band because they won't let you run. They won't let you get beyond 14.
I was walking through a life one morning. The sun was out and the air was warm but I was cold. Do you believe in something beautiful? Do you believe in 14 the same way I believe in you? Do you remember when you were running with cool air on your face? You only remember what it's like to eat what is rotten. The latest in a grand tradition of "what did you find?". Don't fly just any banner. Don't believe in what isn't beautiful. 14 is beautiful. Call your friends because they've forgotten that even the nights can get better and the days aren't all that bad. Don't run from 14.
14 is not the last verse but it echoes. Everyone has their own 14. For you it might be when you are 30 but for this it's 14. For us it's 14. For the jagged waking morning keeping me up for the time being it's 14. All is the reason to seize the day and regrets befall today. Spread out like a Venus into muscle and feel your mountain below you. Blow your sand everywhere. The 14 of clubs stands making sense, talking to you about your wake at dawn.
It all ends in a sad song as 47 comes knocking. It all bleeds out when hands start shaking and other things beside Vox and base become important. Tell me where you are going. What is going wrong? I felt you leaving before you had even come. Hold me now and never hold me again. No more talk can take me from the idea that gold never fades. Moonlight rides out to the stars taking your 14 and leaving you with just something else. It leaves you with the imaginary number that was the same as the imaginary 14.
Live 8 and Hogwash
Somewhere in Africa, India, Sri Lanka, America, or in a small South Pacific Island someone is starving or dying of malnutrition. Somewhere on a stage in London surrounded by a room of cameras, wearing a silk scarf, and drinking cold Carling beer are numerous bands claiming their stake in the war on - - - ummm - - hunger?, war?, shit? Banana gentrification? Who knows - Live 8? Bullshit. Even woodstock was assembled to be an ego boost for some young kids trying to make a name for themselves. Ambitious - sure - - holistic - go kill yourself. LOL - - Somewhere in one of those countries.
Huge Live Aid televised events meant to raise awareness in the name of good will on behalf of millionaires is not what I would call a riveting social event. Bob Geldoff 20 years later is really rich and the world is real hungry. Trying to alert G8 to giving poor countries money is like throwing rocks at the Hoover building and thinking they'll overturn anti-civil liberty laws. I would rather see rock stars going to dive bars, retail restaurants, dentist's offices, weddings, wakes, water parks and walking around with buckets collecting money for the poor. You want to impress me - - sacrifice more than 4 songs on a stage in front of an audience of 1 million people who will no doubt boost your record sales. Ponces...
Anyway - you can watch live 8 here. I mean - no reason to ignore tunes.
Holy shit Geldoff sings on this thing as well.
He sings "I don't like Mondays" by his old band the Boomtown Rats. Lord...
Pandora Song List
Amazon Wish List
Revolutionary Wealth - Tofflers
Things Making Me Smile
Listening - [out of 5]
Benjy Ferree - 4.8
The Thermals 3.1
David Gray 3.8
Like the guy with the beard? YES - like the guy with the beers. What? Yep
Bands That I Check Schedules For
Badly Drawn Boy
Belle and Sebastian
The Black Keys
Drive By Truckers
Mark Hopkins Band
Iron and Wine
Mates of State
Two if By Sea
Places I Rock in the Flesh
The Knitting Factory
The Otto Bar
Places I Eat/Drink in the Flesh
Cross Street Market
No Way Jose
The Irish Pub
The Waterfront Hotel
My Greatest Hits (that's so lame)
The time I almost killed a child
July 4th in Korea
Excerpts from Demian
Why I screen phone calls
Bret's Death Metal Report
A conversation at a cocktail party
A conversation at breakfast
So you think you are a Baltimorian
A conversation about a girl singer
Observations from a bar
Observations of strippers
Why I love Oasis
I would go to war
"You Son of a Bitch" An Open Letter to Tom Friend
Dance to Your Ocean
When men become pussies
Jason Whitlock is a racist propaganda promoter
Pitchfork takes music snobbery to new level
The Cosmic Clash of the Red Sox and Cubs
The Hatred that is Runts Candy
Starting corporate line-up
Do you know me? List 1 / List 2 / List 3
The Night I Burned Philly Down
So You Want to be a Booze Hound
She Said it was Free
Funniest Corporate Story Ever
Striped Shirts and the Fucks that Wear Them
Pieces of Morning
Oasis Album Revew
The Art of Tipping
Starting Fires With Grass Stains
Bret's Federal Hill Food Review
Sexcapades and your Picture on the Internet
Stupid Secrets the Return
Stuff I Swing By From Time to Time
Indie Video Archive
Large Hearted Boy
Pitch Fork Media
Scenestars MP3 Blogs
Sound Garden Baltimore
Angry Little Girls
Junior Varsity Meat Market
Baltimore City Paper
The Baltimore Sun
Villa Julie College Baseball
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