The past month and a half of my days have largely gone as follows: wake up way to early itching like a motherfucker, pop a prednisone and maybe a few tylenol, shower, overapply various creams, go to class, eat, go to class, return, go on the computer/play counterstrike/take a nap, eat, and wait for something to happen. Now, if something happens, it happens and I stumble back pretty early and awkwardly crawl into bed, lather, rinse, repeat. If nothing happens, I go on the computer for a while before popping two benadryl and counting the 45 minutes down before it knocks me out. Lather, rinse, repeat.
One of the shittiest things about both medication and allergic dermatitis is that they suck the libido and (as if "therefore") creative energy straight out of you.
I'm out of prednisone.
So then what's there to write about? I guess the aforementioned is as much an apology for having nothing to say as not saying it. But maybe it's time to stop apologizing. Everyone says the only way to beat writer's block is to write through it, even if it means pages of dribble, just... words. So I'm here. With nothing of value to say.
I'm on edge lately. Easily frustrated, anxious, worried, paranoid, socially awkward. Only small deviations from the norm but enough to be noticeable. I don't want to do things I should want to do, or that I used to want to do. I worry a lot about friendships. Futures.
Mom doesn't want to let me see an allergist.
Oscar Predications: (aka Who I would give the awards to)
Actor in a leading role: Daniel Day Lewis "There Will Be Blood"
Actor in a supporting role: Javier Bardem "No Country for Old Men"
Actress in a leading role: Ellen Page "Juno" (realistically: Julie Christie "Away From Her")
Actress in a supporting role: Cate Blanchett "I'm Not There"
Animated Feature Film: "Ratatoille"
Directing: Joel and Ethan Coen "No Country for Old Men"
Music (Score): "Atonement"
Best Picture: "There Will Be Blood"
Writing (Adapted): "No Country for Old Men"
Writing (Original): "The Savages"
You know, Rick and I are playing Female Friendly Funk on Thursday. It would be rad if you came.
don't cry on me
Are you gonna fall apart again?
My head plays it over and over.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Indecisive, Conflicted Life of
There is free wireless at this Holiday Inn. It's these little discoveries that keep me going, I'm sure of it.
Yesterday I read a book. Yeah, a whole book. It was nice-- I forgot how much I like doing that. Just sitting down with a book and reading it. Minimal interruption, taking it all in. "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz, before you ask (as I'm sure you were about to). Do I recommend it? Do you think you've ever been in love?
It brings up something interesting, though. The title character, a socially awkward and overweight Dominican sci-fi/fantasy enthusiast, has the bizarre but beautiful habit of falling in love with all of the many women who pass through his life. As endearing is this is, Mr. Diaz' theme works in near direct conflict with one of Mr. Sheff's (Yeah. Will Sheff. Okkervil River. My hero.)
Will writes, (as the album name of what is, in my opinion, the best OR record) "Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See" But Oscar did just that, in the story of his brief, wondrous life. And it was magical. Beautiful and fucking-- innocent. The purity of man in possession of so much love despite the absence of its reciprocation.
So who's right?
I don't know. But while I think Will is right to warn us, but I get the feeling he believes as strongly as I am beginning to that we all fall in love a hundred times in our lives. Hell, I'm talking a dozen times a day. Maybe not Oscar's love, the awkward forwardness of the unkissed and looking to become lost, but the kind of love that comes from looking upward out the back windshield of your buddy's car from the backseat. Or from simultaneous laughter. I think I fall in love every time I buy a damn coffee.
It's like wanting something so bad you build it. It isn't the same but that's what I've got. Somewhere, there's a perfect balance between care and discretion-- and the capacity to have and share all that love.
Unconventional, yeah. But some nice thoughts, I think.
I'm in Florida. But not the Florida with beaches and bikinis and Disney characters. Nope. The other Florida. I haven't seen anyone older than 7 or younger than 45 sans my sister and random waitresses in 3 days. But I'm getting some reading done. And reminding myself why I'm no "family" man-- despite how badly I want to be one.
I wonder if I'll ever write that novel.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Yesterday I read a book. Yeah, a whole book. It was nice-- I forgot how much I like doing that. Just sitting down with a book and reading it. Minimal interruption, taking it all in. "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz, before you ask (as I'm sure you were about to). Do I recommend it? Do you think you've ever been in love?
It brings up something interesting, though. The title character, a socially awkward and overweight Dominican sci-fi/fantasy enthusiast, has the bizarre but beautiful habit of falling in love with all of the many women who pass through his life. As endearing is this is, Mr. Diaz' theme works in near direct conflict with one of Mr. Sheff's (Yeah. Will Sheff. Okkervil River. My hero.)
Will writes, (as the album name of what is, in my opinion, the best OR record) "Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See" But Oscar did just that, in the story of his brief, wondrous life. And it was magical. Beautiful and fucking-- innocent. The purity of man in possession of so much love despite the absence of its reciprocation.
So who's right?
I don't know. But while I think Will is right to warn us, but I get the feeling he believes as strongly as I am beginning to that we all fall in love a hundred times in our lives. Hell, I'm talking a dozen times a day. Maybe not Oscar's love, the awkward forwardness of the unkissed and looking to become lost, but the kind of love that comes from looking upward out the back windshield of your buddy's car from the backseat. Or from simultaneous laughter. I think I fall in love every time I buy a damn coffee.
It's like wanting something so bad you build it. It isn't the same but that's what I've got. Somewhere, there's a perfect balance between care and discretion-- and the capacity to have and share all that love.
Unconventional, yeah. But some nice thoughts, I think.
I'm in Florida. But not the Florida with beaches and bikinis and Disney characters. Nope. The other Florida. I haven't seen anyone older than 7 or younger than 45 sans my sister and random waitresses in 3 days. But I'm getting some reading done. And reminding myself why I'm no "family" man-- despite how badly I want to be one.
I wonder if I'll ever write that novel.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Jesus, etc.
Christ is dry on my tongue and I am a puddle of digression.
I am, perhaps, the term personified. As if a single one of us isn't, now. Catholics
in his house, kneeling and thinking that in the morning we'll draw straws
to see who makes the omelets. We're a splatter of pea coats and sweaters
and hairloss. Too in-between the ages that remember Jesus. The Nicene
Creed is projected on the wall because we don't know it. It should
have been in Latin like I've heard it used to be for all the good we did it.
And I remember Jimmy, telling me with a mouth full of Dutchmaster
that you have to keep it wet so it won't rip. His thumbs working to crack the spine
and spill the dirt and the shit onto the floor. Like a surgeon. Or
maybe like something else, which escapes me. And I remember Junior
year, and how stupid I was. I wonder if I'm as stupid now. Now
that I've come full-circle on the subject of intimacy and landed
nowhere. Like it won't change tomorrow. Like it ever stops. Maybe
it's the way things move around me when the bathroom is dank that makes
people climb out of their people-costumes and stop reciting Shakespeare.
And when someone puts The New Radicals on I feel my own people-costume feather
like molted spiderwebs-- crumbling under the implications of the past
tense and exactly what it is to be too anything. Late, late, late--
like my grandmother who always asked how my girlfriend was. I would protest
at the embarrassment of being eleven and treated like I thought about girls like that
(which I did). Now I think I'd lie. "She's fine, Grandma. Beautiful." And maybe
she'd smile. As I write I realize grandma never met a girlfriend. As big an injustice
as any. Jimmy's name isn't Jimmy. But the idea is the same-- the tongue, like
it intended to send a letter. And I remember cracking the window and toweling
the door. And I remember Father's homily about being God's great masterpiece
and thinking it bullshit. And I remember the great sadness of regret
and the way it all rushed back like if Central America stopped and the East became
the West like it sometimes does in songs about believing. The sex
and how it wasn't important like the music was.
And I remember standing in the upstairs E wing
as I was recited lines I knew by heart.
I am, perhaps, the term personified. As if a single one of us isn't, now. Catholics
in his house, kneeling and thinking that in the morning we'll draw straws
to see who makes the omelets. We're a splatter of pea coats and sweaters
and hairloss. Too in-between the ages that remember Jesus. The Nicene
Creed is projected on the wall because we don't know it. It should
have been in Latin like I've heard it used to be for all the good we did it.
And I remember Jimmy, telling me with a mouth full of Dutchmaster
that you have to keep it wet so it won't rip. His thumbs working to crack the spine
and spill the dirt and the shit onto the floor. Like a surgeon. Or
maybe like something else, which escapes me. And I remember Junior
year, and how stupid I was. I wonder if I'm as stupid now. Now
that I've come full-circle on the subject of intimacy and landed
nowhere. Like it won't change tomorrow. Like it ever stops. Maybe
it's the way things move around me when the bathroom is dank that makes
people climb out of their people-costumes and stop reciting Shakespeare.
And when someone puts The New Radicals on I feel my own people-costume feather
like molted spiderwebs-- crumbling under the implications of the past
tense and exactly what it is to be too anything. Late, late, late--
like my grandmother who always asked how my girlfriend was. I would protest
at the embarrassment of being eleven and treated like I thought about girls like that
(which I did). Now I think I'd lie. "She's fine, Grandma. Beautiful." And maybe
she'd smile. As I write I realize grandma never met a girlfriend. As big an injustice
as any. Jimmy's name isn't Jimmy. But the idea is the same-- the tongue, like
it intended to send a letter. And I remember cracking the window and toweling
the door. And I remember Father's homily about being God's great masterpiece
and thinking it bullshit. And I remember the great sadness of regret
and the way it all rushed back like if Central America stopped and the East became
the West like it sometimes does in songs about believing. The sex
and how it wasn't important like the music was.
And I remember standing in the upstairs E wing
as I was recited lines I knew by heart.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Bring back album-based music!
The following are the top ten most important albums to my life, thus far.
10. "Films About Ghosts" by Counting Crows
"Oh, well happy new year's baby
We could probably fix it if we clean it up all day
Or we could simply pack our bags
and catch a plane to Barcelona 'cause this city's a drag."
Counting Crows put on the best live show I've ever seen. The experience was moving in ways I couldn't have expected from a band I wasn't even there for. It became clear during a particularly riveting rendition on "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" why Goo Goo Dolls open for them.
9. "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
"I haven't been this scared
In a long time
And I'm so unprepared
So here's your valentine."
I wouldn't play guitar if it wasn't for Tom Delonge. No two-ways about it. And while I can't remember if it was "Dammit" by this band or "Brown-Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison that was my first learned, I can accredit the effort to Blink. This album appealed in every way to the middle-school kid in me who didn't get girls and just wanted to be a middle-school kid making mistakes and being vulgar and being young.
8. "Greetings From Asbury Park" by Bruce Springsteen
"I stood stone-like at midnight,
suspended in my masquerade
I combed my hair till it was just right
and commanded the night brigade"
For years, this was the CD I played while in my Dad's truck. For entire trips to various campgrounds and back again, Bruce accompanied. It's pretty safe to say that when I started really writing songs I wanted to be the next Bruce Springsteen. Today I hope to one day hold a candle to him.
7. "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
"Stay with me
Cigarettes and open air, hand in hand
I said stay with me
'Cause every star that I see is brighter than the last"
This album IS my freshman year of high school. I got turned on to it by a sophomore in my drama class and, I guess, I haven't been the same since. It was my first exposure to "emo" or whatever it was and I loved it. I went through an elitist classic rock period junior year and I can't even express how refreshing its been to come back to this album. Like coming home by walking backwards.
6. "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
"And is that what you call a getaway?
Tell me what you got away with
Cause you left the frays from the ties you severed
when you say "best friends" means friends forever"
If "What It Is To Burn" is my freshman year, "Your Favorite Weapon" was sophomore. Yes, "Deja Entendu" is "better." But this isn't about that. This record put poetry to my frustrations for the first real time, I think. I covered songs from it in my first "band" at my first "show," the local Cornerstone Cafe.
5. "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
"The end of paralysis, I was a statuette
Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness makes me happier."
I accidented upon Bright Eyes by perusing shared networks on iTunes last year. I found myself listening to strangers' libraries more frequently than my own. It's all about the lyrics and I'm always so thrilled when people get that. Conor Oberst is the artist I'm most frequently compared to, and be that meant positively or negatively... I'll take it.
4. "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
"All your dreams are made
When you're chained to the mirror with the razor blade
Today's the day that all the world will see"
Oasis is the first band I ever went to see with friends. I'll never ever ever forget it. Taking the train, eating at Nathans in Penn Station, noticing the British kids behind us smoking weed, Jet, crescent moon tambourines, and Ultimate the next morning. How perfect.
3. "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
"The cash machine is blue and green
For a hundred in twenties and a small service fee
I could spend three dollars and sixty-three cents
On Diet Coca-Cola and unlit cigarettes"
My album I'm currently wearing out. It's so working/middle-class. So earnest. So midwestern. I tell people I want to move to Oregon or Nebraska. It's because of the worlds that exist in these songs. Wilco is from Illinois but it's a universal things for the middle-Americans I think. Something I've never gotten, having lived only on coasts. A slower life, a big sky life.
2. "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
"So why
did you flee?
Don’t you know you can’t leave his control
only call all his wild works your own?
So come back and we’ll take them all on.
So come back to your life on the lam.
So come back to your old black sheep man."
It occurs to my how much I owe Apple for my musical taste. I happened upon Okkervil River on an iTunes radio station. The first song I heard was "Black." OR is my favorite band. There's just nothing I can say that can express what their songs have done for me.
1. "The Blue Album" by Weezer
"You walk up to her.
Ask her to dance.
She says, "Hey, baby, I just might take the chance."
You say, 'It's a good thing
That you float in the air...
That way there's no way I will crush your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces.'"
I was on a Boy Scout canoeing trip. I was maybe eleven or twelve. My dad and I were carpooling with another family. The other kid in the car was a couple years older than me and on the ride home he asked his dad if he could change the music. After a nod of his dad's head he slipped in a cassette. For the next two or three hours I listened to "The Blue Album" three or four times, interrupted only by the clicking as the car's cassette deck flipped it every five songs. I would have never gotten into rock music, never mind alternative rock music, had it not been for this experience. It's still close to me, despite Weezer's decline. And I think it always will be.
So, to summarize, my life by album:
Middle School: "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
9th Grade: "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
10th Grade: "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
11th Grade: "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
12th Grade: "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
Freshman: "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
Sophomore (s0 far): "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
10. "Films About Ghosts" by Counting Crows
"Oh, well happy new year's baby
We could probably fix it if we clean it up all day
Or we could simply pack our bags
and catch a plane to Barcelona 'cause this city's a drag."
Counting Crows put on the best live show I've ever seen. The experience was moving in ways I couldn't have expected from a band I wasn't even there for. It became clear during a particularly riveting rendition on "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" why Goo Goo Dolls open for them.
9. "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
"I haven't been this scared
In a long time
And I'm so unprepared
So here's your valentine."
I wouldn't play guitar if it wasn't for Tom Delonge. No two-ways about it. And while I can't remember if it was "Dammit" by this band or "Brown-Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison that was my first learned, I can accredit the effort to Blink. This album appealed in every way to the middle-school kid in me who didn't get girls and just wanted to be a middle-school kid making mistakes and being vulgar and being young.
8. "Greetings From Asbury Park" by Bruce Springsteen
"I stood stone-like at midnight,
suspended in my masquerade
I combed my hair till it was just right
and commanded the night brigade"
For years, this was the CD I played while in my Dad's truck. For entire trips to various campgrounds and back again, Bruce accompanied. It's pretty safe to say that when I started really writing songs I wanted to be the next Bruce Springsteen. Today I hope to one day hold a candle to him.
7. "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
"Stay with me
Cigarettes and open air, hand in hand
I said stay with me
'Cause every star that I see is brighter than the last"
This album IS my freshman year of high school. I got turned on to it by a sophomore in my drama class and, I guess, I haven't been the same since. It was my first exposure to "emo" or whatever it was and I loved it. I went through an elitist classic rock period junior year and I can't even express how refreshing its been to come back to this album. Like coming home by walking backwards.
6. "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
"And is that what you call a getaway?
Tell me what you got away with
Cause you left the frays from the ties you severed
when you say "best friends" means friends forever"
If "What It Is To Burn" is my freshman year, "Your Favorite Weapon" was sophomore. Yes, "Deja Entendu" is "better." But this isn't about that. This record put poetry to my frustrations for the first real time, I think. I covered songs from it in my first "band" at my first "show," the local Cornerstone Cafe.
5. "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
"The end of paralysis, I was a statuette
Now I'm drunk as hell on a piano bench
And when I press the keys it all gets reversed
The sound of loneliness makes me happier."
I accidented upon Bright Eyes by perusing shared networks on iTunes last year. I found myself listening to strangers' libraries more frequently than my own. It's all about the lyrics and I'm always so thrilled when people get that. Conor Oberst is the artist I'm most frequently compared to, and be that meant positively or negatively... I'll take it.
4. "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
"All your dreams are made
When you're chained to the mirror with the razor blade
Today's the day that all the world will see"
Oasis is the first band I ever went to see with friends. I'll never ever ever forget it. Taking the train, eating at Nathans in Penn Station, noticing the British kids behind us smoking weed, Jet, crescent moon tambourines, and Ultimate the next morning. How perfect.
3. "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
"The cash machine is blue and green
For a hundred in twenties and a small service fee
I could spend three dollars and sixty-three cents
On Diet Coca-Cola and unlit cigarettes"
My album I'm currently wearing out. It's so working/middle-class. So earnest. So midwestern. I tell people I want to move to Oregon or Nebraska. It's because of the worlds that exist in these songs. Wilco is from Illinois but it's a universal things for the middle-Americans I think. Something I've never gotten, having lived only on coasts. A slower life, a big sky life.
2. "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
"So why
did you flee?
Don’t you know you can’t leave his control
only call all his wild works your own?
So come back and we’ll take them all on.
So come back to your life on the lam.
So come back to your old black sheep man."
It occurs to my how much I owe Apple for my musical taste. I happened upon Okkervil River on an iTunes radio station. The first song I heard was "Black." OR is my favorite band. There's just nothing I can say that can express what their songs have done for me.
1. "The Blue Album" by Weezer
"You walk up to her.
Ask her to dance.
She says, "Hey, baby, I just might take the chance."
You say, 'It's a good thing
That you float in the air...
That way there's no way I will crush your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces.'"
I was on a Boy Scout canoeing trip. I was maybe eleven or twelve. My dad and I were carpooling with another family. The other kid in the car was a couple years older than me and on the ride home he asked his dad if he could change the music. After a nod of his dad's head he slipped in a cassette. For the next two or three hours I listened to "The Blue Album" three or four times, interrupted only by the clicking as the car's cassette deck flipped it every five songs. I would have never gotten into rock music, never mind alternative rock music, had it not been for this experience. It's still close to me, despite Weezer's decline. And I think it always will be.
So, to summarize, my life by album:
Middle School: "Enema of the State" by Blink 182
9th Grade: "What It Is To Burn" by Finch
10th Grade: "Your Favorite Weapon" by Brand New
11th Grade: "(What's the Story?) Morning Glory" by Oasis
12th Grade: "Black Sheep Boy" by Okkervil River
Freshman: "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" by Bright Eyes
Sophomore (s0 far): "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot" by Wilco
Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, November 04, 2007
On the surgical stage
Aside: This note will be composed of disjointed, largely unrelated but nevertheless applicable one-liners. Sorry. This is going to end up highly confessional. Really, don't read it. Sorry. /Aside
How is it that I can surround myself with people and still feel lonely? It's possible that I'm just not good at convincing myself that I'm supported.
Pretentious people are the most self-conscious and insecure.
I am probably pretentious.
I am probably not as pretentious as I seem sometimes. But maybe I am.
There's little better than being proven wrong on a bad first impression. There's little worse than being proven wrong about a good first impression. Being proven right doesn't really make me feel any more or less of anything. Except maybe cynical.
If you asked me what I looked for in a girl the first thing I would think of would be a mutant Audrey Hepburn/Jenny Lewis and the first thing I'd say would be, "I don't really know."
If you asked me again I would say, "cute, sweet, well read and listened, honest, and in possession of a good, honest laugh." What I would mean to say would be, "cuddler, handholder, lyrics-quoter, and whisperer." What I would really mean would be, "crazy about me." And I would picture sweaters and sidebangs. But those aren't really important.
I think sidebangs are so cute because foreheads are so funny looking.
I'm too picky.
When I find out that someone told me something because it's what I wanted to hear, while they told a party with a conflicting opinion that they agree with them, I get deeply hurt.
Some of the behaviors that bother me the most are behaviors I would adopt given the right circumstance. That makes me feel horrible. But I don't think it's really so bad to be jealous as long as you're honest about it.
Coupland is right. Dogs are beautiful because they never fall out of love.
People are always telling me not to worry about what others think of me-- that I'm amazing and people just don't realize it-- that I've just gotta keep truckin' or hangin' in there or-- that there's a setting and a cast of characters out there waiting for me somewhere--
That is the worst advice.
The term "breakdown" doesn't mean deconstruction or collapse into power chords and crashing cymbals. It's because life is an album and at times things unravel and move at different speeds. We tend to do a lot of screaming during those times. Whether we open our mouths or not.
But it will always always all come back together for one. last. chorus.
I talked about this last time-- but people don't want to hear the truth. And so to preserve what it seems I'm supposed to be I gotta bottle back up. This must be why I've got pores called fingertips. Pens and guitar strings. Blogs and conversations that are only ever half open.
Thinking about how much it would mean to me to be read into makes me feel narcissistic, arrogant, and pathetic.
All writers are liars.
Conceit is like skin.
But it's not the kind of lying you're thinking of. If I say, "I love you," it means I love you. But I'm lying because I didn't say, "I love you because you remind me of the midwest and how I've only been there in postcard racks."
Or assuming a persona. Maybe I don't love you-- but if I did it would be fucking beautiful.
That doesn't make any sense.
None of this makes any sense.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
How is it that I can surround myself with people and still feel lonely? It's possible that I'm just not good at convincing myself that I'm supported.
Pretentious people are the most self-conscious and insecure.
I am probably pretentious.
I am probably not as pretentious as I seem sometimes. But maybe I am.
There's little better than being proven wrong on a bad first impression. There's little worse than being proven wrong about a good first impression. Being proven right doesn't really make me feel any more or less of anything. Except maybe cynical.
If you asked me what I looked for in a girl the first thing I would think of would be a mutant Audrey Hepburn/Jenny Lewis and the first thing I'd say would be, "I don't really know."
If you asked me again I would say, "cute, sweet, well read and listened, honest, and in possession of a good, honest laugh." What I would mean to say would be, "cuddler, handholder, lyrics-quoter, and whisperer." What I would really mean would be, "crazy about me." And I would picture sweaters and sidebangs. But those aren't really important.
I think sidebangs are so cute because foreheads are so funny looking.
I'm too picky.
When I find out that someone told me something because it's what I wanted to hear, while they told a party with a conflicting opinion that they agree with them, I get deeply hurt.
Some of the behaviors that bother me the most are behaviors I would adopt given the right circumstance. That makes me feel horrible. But I don't think it's really so bad to be jealous as long as you're honest about it.
Coupland is right. Dogs are beautiful because they never fall out of love.
People are always telling me not to worry about what others think of me-- that I'm amazing and people just don't realize it-- that I've just gotta keep truckin' or hangin' in there or-- that there's a setting and a cast of characters out there waiting for me somewhere--
That is the worst advice.
The term "breakdown" doesn't mean deconstruction or collapse into power chords and crashing cymbals. It's because life is an album and at times things unravel and move at different speeds. We tend to do a lot of screaming during those times. Whether we open our mouths or not.
But it will always always all come back together for one. last. chorus.
I talked about this last time-- but people don't want to hear the truth. And so to preserve what it seems I'm supposed to be I gotta bottle back up. This must be why I've got pores called fingertips. Pens and guitar strings. Blogs and conversations that are only ever half open.
Thinking about how much it would mean to me to be read into makes me feel narcissistic, arrogant, and pathetic.
All writers are liars.
Conceit is like skin.
But it's not the kind of lying you're thinking of. If I say, "I love you," it means I love you. But I'm lying because I didn't say, "I love you because you remind me of the midwest and how I've only been there in postcard racks."
Or assuming a persona. Maybe I don't love you-- but if I did it would be fucking beautiful.
That doesn't make any sense.
None of this makes any sense.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Like antennas to Heaven
In order to really really express ourselves we need the ability to invent adjectives. They just aren't vast enough or aren't applicable or accurate enough to properly prefix any given emotion. Like that sinking feeling you get in your stomach when the butterflies that used to flutter there wither and die. Like the lead feeling of sleeping feet when something comes full circle. Or even the cavernous hollow of chest-- like the heart's given up, closed its belfry wings, resigned to sicken and so live.
But that's why we have images. And that's why we have nouns. There are nouns no adjective can touch. Guilt. Regret. What is "guilt" when it's something deeper than "guilty?" And what am I if I'm relieved and at the same time so full of regret? Am I a baby born healthy to a single mother, a motorcycle and a magician for a father? I'm not. Or am I selfish because I got to say what I had to say to make the guilt subside[?]-- but I fucked up and you've moved on and we're learning that the recovery process isn't universal. Because what's out there is out there and is it wrong to hope that words alone can find host in opinion and create possibility? For second, third chances?
I'd hope that one day with all this rhetoric I'll finally say something that makes sense. But I hope too much more that with all this weight and hurt I'll finally forget figures and say something real. Or something beautiful.
You don't make friends by saying what is true. You don't get invited to parties or out with the cool kids by saying what is true. You don't get laid by saying what is true. You don't get by on facts. We don't get by on the true. We live on food and water and aethetics and when we can't find enough to eat or drink or love we create it-- and I think that maybe that's why the world is getting smaller. Because we all need to be in Paris to blow our loads. So to speak. And we want so badly to be have everyone else think we're beautiful.
[line deleted] because you don't find love by saying what is true.
Nothing hurts worse than regret, I'm convinced. And I've seen the mantras: "live life with no regrets." But you might as well be living without feeling in the tips of your fingers. So that even when you're subject to bites and cuts and burns and slammed doors-- you're groovy. Wouldn't it be nice to be numb? No. It would be so dreadful and lonely and false to never hurt and never regret.
Aside: Self-conscious ---> self-aware? Goal, maybe. /Aside
So again, sorry.
I'm still figuring this whole thing out. Really.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But that's why we have images. And that's why we have nouns. There are nouns no adjective can touch. Guilt. Regret. What is "guilt" when it's something deeper than "guilty?" And what am I if I'm relieved and at the same time so full of regret? Am I a baby born healthy to a single mother, a motorcycle and a magician for a father? I'm not. Or am I selfish because I got to say what I had to say to make the guilt subside[?]-- but I fucked up and you've moved on and we're learning that the recovery process isn't universal. Because what's out there is out there and is it wrong to hope that words alone can find host in opinion and create possibility? For second, third chances?
I'd hope that one day with all this rhetoric I'll finally say something that makes sense. But I hope too much more that with all this weight and hurt I'll finally forget figures and say something real. Or something beautiful.
You don't make friends by saying what is true. You don't get invited to parties or out with the cool kids by saying what is true. You don't get laid by saying what is true. You don't get by on facts. We don't get by on the true. We live on food and water and aethetics and when we can't find enough to eat or drink or love we create it-- and I think that maybe that's why the world is getting smaller. Because we all need to be in Paris to blow our loads. So to speak. And we want so badly to be have everyone else think we're beautiful.
[line deleted] because you don't find love by saying what is true.
Nothing hurts worse than regret, I'm convinced. And I've seen the mantras: "live life with no regrets." But you might as well be living without feeling in the tips of your fingers. So that even when you're subject to bites and cuts and burns and slammed doors-- you're groovy. Wouldn't it be nice to be numb? No. It would be so dreadful and lonely and false to never hurt and never regret.
Aside: Self-conscious ---> self-aware? Goal, maybe. /Aside
So again, sorry.
I'm still figuring this whole thing out. Really.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, October 26, 2007
With poise, with grace
"Chase This Light," the new Jimmy Eat World album, is hella good. Even though it sounds a little like a musical at times.
My mom is reading some "How to get published" book. I guess so she can give me advice or empathy or something when I hit the point of needing such a book. Anyway, I skimmed through it a little bit and the common advice seems to be what I already knew: write everyday. More of writing pages of shit for a line you love. So here I am.
Mark and I had our first radio show last Monday. It went pretty well for everyone... except whoever tried to call in. We could not figure that stupid phone out. We played some quality jams though, rocked out a little bit. It was fun and I'm looking forward to this upcoming Monday.
Spring break I'm roadtripping to Canada with Keith and Mark.
...
That right there was a pause for applause.
The Moon Red-Handed is coming along, coming together. I've never really been held to a practive regiment before when it comes to music, but everyone who wants to progress should be. Most of the recording equipment I ordered came in too. So big things are ahead, methinks.
Man, I wanted real bad to go to Six Flags tomorrow to see everyone. The weather is effin' shit though. Rain rain, GTFO.
Aside: I just got a text message that says, "Hey can you do me a favor and shut your mouth or I will do it for you okay? Have a great day" And all I can think about is what a terrible sentence it is. /Aside
But yeah. I only even really want to see 4 or 5 people. And I'll be alone in my visit because that's how it goes.
Aside: Nowhere people really are terribly dramatic. /Aside
And then there's the party. Do I even want to go?
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
My mom is reading some "How to get published" book. I guess so she can give me advice or empathy or something when I hit the point of needing such a book. Anyway, I skimmed through it a little bit and the common advice seems to be what I already knew: write everyday. More of writing pages of shit for a line you love. So here I am.
Mark and I had our first radio show last Monday. It went pretty well for everyone... except whoever tried to call in. We could not figure that stupid phone out. We played some quality jams though, rocked out a little bit. It was fun and I'm looking forward to this upcoming Monday.
Spring break I'm roadtripping to Canada with Keith and Mark.
...
That right there was a pause for applause.
The Moon Red-Handed is coming along, coming together. I've never really been held to a practive regiment before when it comes to music, but everyone who wants to progress should be. Most of the recording equipment I ordered came in too. So big things are ahead, methinks.
Man, I wanted real bad to go to Six Flags tomorrow to see everyone. The weather is effin' shit though. Rain rain, GTFO.
Aside: I just got a text message that says, "Hey can you do me a favor and shut your mouth or I will do it for you okay? Have a great day" And all I can think about is what a terrible sentence it is. /Aside
But yeah. I only even really want to see 4 or 5 people. And I'll be alone in my visit because that's how it goes.
Aside: Nowhere people really are terribly dramatic. /Aside
And then there's the party. Do I even want to go?
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A soundtrack
Why the hell do these things work out so perfectly?
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't try to pretend you're cool...
SOUNDTRACK TO THE LIFE OF: Me
Opening Credits:
"Wolf's Mouth" Kevin Devine
Waking Up:
"Kracked" Dinosaur Jr.
First Day of School:
"A View from the Afternoon" Arctic Monkeys
First Kiss:
"Roads" Portishead
Falling in Love:
"What's in Store?" Architecture in Helsinki
Fight Song:
"Killing a Camera" Braid
Breaking Up:
"I Don't Know How to Say This" The Early November
High School:
"The Ugly Organist" Cursive
Prom:
"Silver" Mineral
College:
"Katrien" Mogwai
Study Abroad:
"After O'Rourke's 2:10am" The Good Life
That One Drunk night:
"Bacardi" Nada Surf
(WTF.)
Life:
"In a Radio Song" Okkervil River
Mental Breakdown:
"Pull My Hair" Bright Eyes
Walking Down the Street:
"Blueside" Rooney
How your Husband/ Wife Feels about you:
"Cute Without the 'E'" The Vitamin String Quartet
Driving:
"Enthused" blink-182
Flashback:
"A Shot in the Arm" Wilco
Getting Back Together:
"Butterfly" Weezer
First Job:
"Harvest Moon" Neil Young
Wedding:
"Love and Some Verses" Iron & Wine
Birth of Child:
"Alone Down There" Modest Mouse
(Oh my.)
Vacation:
"All There Is" Rites of Spring
Retirement:
"Neon Bible" The Arcade Fire
Final Battle:
"Smith" Pompeii
Death Scene:
"Last Call" Elliott Smith
Funeral Song:
"I Hope Tomorrow is Like Today" Guster
Closing Credits:
"Voids" Paulson
Funny funny funny.
Bomb it,
Mike
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't try to pretend you're cool...
SOUNDTRACK TO THE LIFE OF: Me
Opening Credits:
"Wolf's Mouth" Kevin Devine
Waking Up:
"Kracked" Dinosaur Jr.
First Day of School:
"A View from the Afternoon" Arctic Monkeys
First Kiss:
"Roads" Portishead
Falling in Love:
"What's in Store?" Architecture in Helsinki
Fight Song:
"Killing a Camera" Braid
Breaking Up:
"I Don't Know How to Say This" The Early November
High School:
"The Ugly Organist" Cursive
Prom:
"Silver" Mineral
College:
"Katrien" Mogwai
Study Abroad:
"After O'Rourke's 2:10am" The Good Life
That One Drunk night:
"Bacardi" Nada Surf
(WTF.)
Life:
"In a Radio Song" Okkervil River
Mental Breakdown:
"Pull My Hair" Bright Eyes
Walking Down the Street:
"Blueside" Rooney
How your Husband/ Wife Feels about you:
"Cute Without the 'E'" The Vitamin String Quartet
Driving:
"Enthused" blink-182
Flashback:
"A Shot in the Arm" Wilco
Getting Back Together:
"Butterfly" Weezer
First Job:
"Harvest Moon" Neil Young
Wedding:
"Love and Some Verses" Iron & Wine
Birth of Child:
"Alone Down There" Modest Mouse
(Oh my.)
Vacation:
"All There Is" Rites of Spring
Retirement:
"Neon Bible" The Arcade Fire
Final Battle:
"Smith" Pompeii
Death Scene:
"Last Call" Elliott Smith
Funeral Song:
"I Hope Tomorrow is Like Today" Guster
Closing Credits:
"Voids" Paulson
Funny funny funny.
Bomb it,
Mike
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The arc and the eclipse
Things come together and things drift apart.
And so seems the general operation of it all.
Really, a post a month wasn't what I was gunning for. But the whole apology thing is growing tired I'm sure. Perhaps I should be more concise and less ambling. More visual and less introspective. I can't scribe my chronology, but I can paint snapshots-- that kind of thing.
So I've finally got something cooperative and musical going on! The sixth, or thereabouts, saw the birth of The Moon Red-Handed-- and acoustic project of Sir Rick Marciano and myself. Judging by our first little jam session the other day, there is certainly something to look forward to. The only downside is that writing songs severely inhibits by ability to write poetry. Yeah, believe it or not the process is entirely different. But it is what it is and I'm glad to make the trade.
I used exclamation points in the previous paragraph.
There's electricity in the air.
I've been pretty down the last couple days(weeks?). The single life is one I'm accustomed to. But it's also one I feel like I need to outgrow eventually. Like wearing hand-me-downs. And it isn't looking so good on me-- especially not lately. Loneliness is a callous lover, let me tell you. Not that, I'm sure, you need telling. We all know the chill.
And I guess I'm just jealous of all the happy couples. I am. And it isn't worth it to pretend I'm not.
It's just that people are so fickle
they fall in love at different angles.
I haven't shared any poetry in a while. Here you go:
[removed]
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
And so seems the general operation of it all.
Really, a post a month wasn't what I was gunning for. But the whole apology thing is growing tired I'm sure. Perhaps I should be more concise and less ambling. More visual and less introspective. I can't scribe my chronology, but I can paint snapshots-- that kind of thing.
So I've finally got something cooperative and musical going on! The sixth, or thereabouts, saw the birth of The Moon Red-Handed-- and acoustic project of Sir Rick Marciano and myself. Judging by our first little jam session the other day, there is certainly something to look forward to. The only downside is that writing songs severely inhibits by ability to write poetry. Yeah, believe it or not the process is entirely different. But it is what it is and I'm glad to make the trade.
I used exclamation points in the previous paragraph.
There's electricity in the air.
I've been pretty down the last couple days(weeks?). The single life is one I'm accustomed to. But it's also one I feel like I need to outgrow eventually. Like wearing hand-me-downs. And it isn't looking so good on me-- especially not lately. Loneliness is a callous lover, let me tell you. Not that, I'm sure, you need telling. We all know the chill.
And I guess I'm just jealous of all the happy couples. I am. And it isn't worth it to pretend I'm not.
It's just that people are so fickle
they fall in love at different angles.
I haven't shared any poetry in a while. Here you go:
[removed]
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Prairie fires
I sometimes worry that to keep a blog such as this one is self-serving and egotistical. So many sentences beginning with "I". But at the same time, where am I without that pharmaceutical glow or percussion of text against eyes against mind against heart? Shut up tight, liquor-lunged perhaps or bronzed from necessity to be something worth knowing. So it's as much for me to share as it is for you to cradle, maybe. And that alone is enough justify it.
That, and the echo.
It's been a while again, hasn't it? I'd promise not to make a habit of allowing months between posts but these things happen. The shame of it is that with such a larger span of time to reflect on I feel like I lose track of the minute bits of beauty that really matter in favor of summary. But this too, will happen. Almost as unforgiving is the feeling of responsibility- to say something grand and worthy of time wasted. And I'll be honest, there's nothing more synthetic than a month sprinkled in powdered sugar. So we'll try avoid that. We'll stay as small as we can without losing it through the space between our fingers.
I don't miss being home any more than I missed college those first weeks between sheets that smell like the sheets I've slept between for years. The freedom is still fresh and I haven't enough time to think about how I'm another year older and another year more unfit for hiding under my parents wings. Or how in 3 years I'll be expected to frequent the nest more as a novelty than a necessity. Give me time. I'll be thoroughly worried about my life and my future and growing up soon. Right now I'm just enjoying the quiet and the late mornings.
My classes are alright. Naturally, Poetry Workshop is the high point of my academic week. My professor proving himself a genius over and over again with each class. It's a homecoming and my poems have never been more organic. Better writers than I have dreamed of being poets. And better writers than I have crumbled, become homeless, sucked shotguns off, given up. Taught high school English in tiny Minnesota towns. Drank until the words couldn't tread water any longer. And worse writers than them have weathered long enough to see dawn break the storm clouds. Precious few of us wake to blue skies. Precious few.
Intro to Psych is essentially the same course I took in high school. With the same book and everything. Anything short of an A is a product of my foolishness. Intro to Lit is essentially 3 hours of prospective Literature majors attempting to assert themselves as insightful. It'd be wrong of me to assume myself above this, but I don't know. If only Hemingway knew what we were going to do to his work. He'd have shot his publisher before himself.
I have Public Speaking tomorrow. It's more work than a Public Speaking course should be, but the professor knows her shit. And the company is quite the opposite of unpleasant. Quiz tomorrow. I haven't studied.
Of all the things I think about, the wildest must be my midwest romances. There are few things more desirable than sky blue skies into sunsets over rangetops. Of handholding and gypsy-moths and blue jeans and prairie fires. The warmth that sweeps through evening chill like inland waves or music.
It's funny how people can look different from different angles. Or how hard it is to tell the girl across the classroom that her abnormally large nose was the most beautiful thing I saw today. That so much history must be in the creases of her face that form when she smiles. Some eyes are just tired. And I want to tell you, boy with the cigarette outside the atrium, that I know how you feel. You're gonna be alright.
We're all gonna be just fine.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Post Script: Something more tethered to Earth soon haha. I promise.
That, and the echo.
It's been a while again, hasn't it? I'd promise not to make a habit of allowing months between posts but these things happen. The shame of it is that with such a larger span of time to reflect on I feel like I lose track of the minute bits of beauty that really matter in favor of summary. But this too, will happen. Almost as unforgiving is the feeling of responsibility- to say something grand and worthy of time wasted. And I'll be honest, there's nothing more synthetic than a month sprinkled in powdered sugar. So we'll try avoid that. We'll stay as small as we can without losing it through the space between our fingers.
I don't miss being home any more than I missed college those first weeks between sheets that smell like the sheets I've slept between for years. The freedom is still fresh and I haven't enough time to think about how I'm another year older and another year more unfit for hiding under my parents wings. Or how in 3 years I'll be expected to frequent the nest more as a novelty than a necessity. Give me time. I'll be thoroughly worried about my life and my future and growing up soon. Right now I'm just enjoying the quiet and the late mornings.
My classes are alright. Naturally, Poetry Workshop is the high point of my academic week. My professor proving himself a genius over and over again with each class. It's a homecoming and my poems have never been more organic. Better writers than I have dreamed of being poets. And better writers than I have crumbled, become homeless, sucked shotguns off, given up. Taught high school English in tiny Minnesota towns. Drank until the words couldn't tread water any longer. And worse writers than them have weathered long enough to see dawn break the storm clouds. Precious few of us wake to blue skies. Precious few.
Intro to Psych is essentially the same course I took in high school. With the same book and everything. Anything short of an A is a product of my foolishness. Intro to Lit is essentially 3 hours of prospective Literature majors attempting to assert themselves as insightful. It'd be wrong of me to assume myself above this, but I don't know. If only Hemingway knew what we were going to do to his work. He'd have shot his publisher before himself.
I have Public Speaking tomorrow. It's more work than a Public Speaking course should be, but the professor knows her shit. And the company is quite the opposite of unpleasant. Quiz tomorrow. I haven't studied.
Of all the things I think about, the wildest must be my midwest romances. There are few things more desirable than sky blue skies into sunsets over rangetops. Of handholding and gypsy-moths and blue jeans and prairie fires. The warmth that sweeps through evening chill like inland waves or music.
It's funny how people can look different from different angles. Or how hard it is to tell the girl across the classroom that her abnormally large nose was the most beautiful thing I saw today. That so much history must be in the creases of her face that form when she smiles. Some eyes are just tired. And I want to tell you, boy with the cigarette outside the atrium, that I know how you feel. You're gonna be alright.
We're all gonna be just fine.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Post Script: Something more tethered to Earth soon haha. I promise.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
In one fell swoop
If there's one thing I've learned,
it's that we never feel the heat until we get burned.
In one fell swoop we're gonna cover the past two months. Cool? Cool. It's embarassing to realize that I haven't updated in over a month, I assure you. But really, what has there been to say? I work 65 hour weeks and sweat nearly every second of it, I collect reasonably fat paychecks that I don't have time to spend and I dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe. I'd be lying if I said that every day is the exactly the same, but really, what matters are those inexplicable subtleties. So why try? I've met some of the most amazing people and I can't think of another batch of kids I'd rather wear carpet and fiberglass with.
But we try so hard not to die,
sometimes we forget to appreciate life.
It's almost unfathomable to think about not seeing those same smiling or laughing to sleeping or sweating or hungover or stoned faces on a daily basis. And when that time comes at the end of August and into the fall- when I'm back at Ramapo, Laura and Matt are back at Rider, when Steve's on a boat somewhere, all the high school kids are dozing off in class and thinking about high school things- I think, or maybe I hope, I won't be alone in feeling like I left a little part of me at Six Flags. Because I think we do that. Leave little traces of ourselves everywhere we've sweated or cried or bled or laughed. It's a nice thought. That when we die- we're still scattered around the world.
When the spark reaches powder, I will blow up.
I'll become the mist you breathe into your lungs.
Nineteen is a stupid age. I can buy cigarettes I won't smoke and do in secret what Twenty-One year-olds do legally. I can wonder what it's like to be two decades old. I can give coworkers funny looks when I find out that they were born in the 90's. I don't think I want a cake this year. Nineteen candles is perhaps a few too many.
All of my love will then turn into yours.
And you will feel hope bleeding out from your pores.
But I did manage to get out of the house long enough to spend a killer weekend last week with Eric. His brother's engagement party straight into Warped Tour Sunday. Ballin'. Warped Tour was pretty cool. All that could be expected to be lame certainly was. But flying Gatorade bottles and overweight crowdsurfers aside, I had a great time. What follows is a list of the 8 bands I saw ranked from worst to best based on live performance in Englishtown. (because you know that if I do a long and sweeping blog entry... I'm gonna rank shit):
8. Drop Dead, Gorgeous
7. The Starting Line
6. Coheed and Cambria
5. Envy on the Coast
4. Hot Rod Circuit
3. New Found Glory
2. Straylight Run
1. The Spill Canvas
I am the definition of objective.
[Mom and] Dad, you were there when nobody was.
I followed your lead, now I'm proud of what I've become.
I want to grow my hair, grow a beard and get a tattoo. And I wanna play guitar in a rock 'n roll band. Perhaps I'm going through a phase. We never seem to grow out of those, do we? We just grow from one to another. But I kinda like it like that. And I wanna keep putting pretty words together for pretty girls. Up three-sixty-five a year twenty-four sev 'cause real gangsta ass poets don't sleep.
[Girl], you never cease to amaze me.
Maybe someday we'll get another chance to be.
FM Stringer - AIM
12:31 im blogging
12:31 and thinking i sound old
_______ - AIM
12:31 you ARE old
To all my friends, where do I start?
I know I'd be dead without you in my heart.
In my heart.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Credit where it's due: "Appreciation and the Bomb" by The Spill Canvas
it's that we never feel the heat until we get burned.
In one fell swoop we're gonna cover the past two months. Cool? Cool. It's embarassing to realize that I haven't updated in over a month, I assure you. But really, what has there been to say? I work 65 hour weeks and sweat nearly every second of it, I collect reasonably fat paychecks that I don't have time to spend and I dance the Cotton-Eyed Joe. I'd be lying if I said that every day is the exactly the same, but really, what matters are those inexplicable subtleties. So why try? I've met some of the most amazing people and I can't think of another batch of kids I'd rather wear carpet and fiberglass with.
But we try so hard not to die,
sometimes we forget to appreciate life.
It's almost unfathomable to think about not seeing those same smiling or laughing to sleeping or sweating or hungover or stoned faces on a daily basis. And when that time comes at the end of August and into the fall- when I'm back at Ramapo, Laura and Matt are back at Rider, when Steve's on a boat somewhere, all the high school kids are dozing off in class and thinking about high school things- I think, or maybe I hope, I won't be alone in feeling like I left a little part of me at Six Flags. Because I think we do that. Leave little traces of ourselves everywhere we've sweated or cried or bled or laughed. It's a nice thought. That when we die- we're still scattered around the world.
When the spark reaches powder, I will blow up.
I'll become the mist you breathe into your lungs.
Nineteen is a stupid age. I can buy cigarettes I won't smoke and do in secret what Twenty-One year-olds do legally. I can wonder what it's like to be two decades old. I can give coworkers funny looks when I find out that they were born in the 90's. I don't think I want a cake this year. Nineteen candles is perhaps a few too many.
All of my love will then turn into yours.
And you will feel hope bleeding out from your pores.
But I did manage to get out of the house long enough to spend a killer weekend last week with Eric. His brother's engagement party straight into Warped Tour Sunday. Ballin'. Warped Tour was pretty cool. All that could be expected to be lame certainly was. But flying Gatorade bottles and overweight crowdsurfers aside, I had a great time. What follows is a list of the 8 bands I saw ranked from worst to best based on live performance in Englishtown. (because you know that if I do a long and sweeping blog entry... I'm gonna rank shit):
8. Drop Dead, Gorgeous
7. The Starting Line
6. Coheed and Cambria
5. Envy on the Coast
4. Hot Rod Circuit
3. New Found Glory
2. Straylight Run
1. The Spill Canvas
I am the definition of objective.
[Mom and] Dad, you were there when nobody was.
I followed your lead, now I'm proud of what I've become.
I want to grow my hair, grow a beard and get a tattoo. And I wanna play guitar in a rock 'n roll band. Perhaps I'm going through a phase. We never seem to grow out of those, do we? We just grow from one to another. But I kinda like it like that. And I wanna keep putting pretty words together for pretty girls. Up three-sixty-five a year twenty-four sev 'cause real gangsta ass poets don't sleep.
[Girl], you never cease to amaze me.
Maybe someday we'll get another chance to be.
FM Stringer - AIM
12:31 im blogging
12:31 and thinking i sound old
_______ - AIM
12:31 you ARE old
To all my friends, where do I start?
I know I'd be dead without you in my heart.
In my heart.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Credit where it's due: "Appreciation and the Bomb" by The Spill Canvas
Monday, June 18, 2007
Backwards through the megaphone
Yeah. It's been a while. I know.
But what's ever there to say when someone else has said it better already?
My life has belonged to Six Flags for what must be the past four weeks by now. I don't even mean that figuratively. This week, Tuesday through Sunday, I'm working open to close. That's somewhere between 10 and 13 hours every day. But I'll tell you what. I love just about every second of it. From tying in Sly's belly hoop to learning to worship the Character Clubhouse whiteboard to dancing the Cotton-Eye Joe for the second time in 45 minutes to napping on the breakroom floor to drinking contraband Rockstar to being a nonsmoker on cigarette breaks to gradually learning and accepting that everyone in the department is at least a little bit bisexual to gossiping to Block Party. To the windows-down car ride home. And all those other little things between. To writing prematurely nostalgic run-on sentences about how much I actually enjoy my job.
It's been a long time, I've realized, since I've actually given my all into something. Since I've really dedicated myself to doing the best that I can do. And even longer since I've felt that glowing feeling you get when your efforts are recognized. Four weeks ago I was making a huge fucking mess out of escorting Porky to and from the Big Wheel. Three weeks ago I was imagining the embarrassment of dying dressed as K-9. Two weeks ago one of my most respected co-workers said I was a great escort, among the best he'd had. And sometime last week I walk in and see my name next to "Main Gate: Sylvester." There I stayed for three days. Possibly 36 of the best hours I've ever had. I don't care if this sounds stupid. I can't expect the vast majority of those reading this to understand. But when I'm on the street, when I'm Sly or whoever else, it's not about watching the clock and counting down the hours. It's not about the paycheck or weekend plans. It's about rocking the fuck out to "Mmm Bop" and "Mambo Number Five." And rock the fuck out I do.
My second day as Main Gate Sly I was escorted by the guy who usually fills that role. After the morning's first, or maybe second, Cotton-Eye Joe he said to me: "You killed it, Sly. Amazing job." And it made my fucking day.
Sure, there are times when I want to drown myself in the fountain. A good number of the high school kids are, objectively, whiny little bitches with attitude problems. Honestly, I've never heard so many absurd complains and makeshift maladies. Nor have I ever met anyone quite so eager to make insulting assertions about myself. Whatever. I'm sure it's to compensate for his own overwhelming inadequacies or some other jargon like that. And I'm feeling just good enough not to punch him in the throat.
I have off tomorrow but go back Tuesday. I can't wait.
Now the usual fractures of thought:
My dog, Cassie, passed away last week after being transported to the Garden State Veterinary Clinic. They attempted CPR and it wasn't successful. We think it was spleen cancer. I went to the Relay for Life Cancer Walk last night with my family and we lit a luminary-thing for her. It was nice. I thank whom ever is up there for letting me spend her last day with her. I miss the tinkle of her collar and the way she would wag her tail. Even up to those last hours, too weak to walk.
My lodge adviser in the Order of the Arrow died also. I helped conduct the Broken Arrow Ceremony at Conclave. I was proud to have been a part of it and to have served as one of his Chiefs.
They say death comes in threes. We'll leave this one open ended...
There are a ton of friends I haven't yet seen this summer.
And not even a prospect of a summer romance. Seems this won't likely be one for the record books.
Sex, as an event and not an act, confuses me.
And that's about it. If you're reading this, I probably miss you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But what's ever there to say when someone else has said it better already?
My life has belonged to Six Flags for what must be the past four weeks by now. I don't even mean that figuratively. This week, Tuesday through Sunday, I'm working open to close. That's somewhere between 10 and 13 hours every day. But I'll tell you what. I love just about every second of it. From tying in Sly's belly hoop to learning to worship the Character Clubhouse whiteboard to dancing the Cotton-Eye Joe for the second time in 45 minutes to napping on the breakroom floor to drinking contraband Rockstar to being a nonsmoker on cigarette breaks to gradually learning and accepting that everyone in the department is at least a little bit bisexual to gossiping to Block Party. To the windows-down car ride home. And all those other little things between. To writing prematurely nostalgic run-on sentences about how much I actually enjoy my job.
It's been a long time, I've realized, since I've actually given my all into something. Since I've really dedicated myself to doing the best that I can do. And even longer since I've felt that glowing feeling you get when your efforts are recognized. Four weeks ago I was making a huge fucking mess out of escorting Porky to and from the Big Wheel. Three weeks ago I was imagining the embarrassment of dying dressed as K-9. Two weeks ago one of my most respected co-workers said I was a great escort, among the best he'd had. And sometime last week I walk in and see my name next to "Main Gate: Sylvester." There I stayed for three days. Possibly 36 of the best hours I've ever had. I don't care if this sounds stupid. I can't expect the vast majority of those reading this to understand. But when I'm on the street, when I'm Sly or whoever else, it's not about watching the clock and counting down the hours. It's not about the paycheck or weekend plans. It's about rocking the fuck out to "Mmm Bop" and "Mambo Number Five." And rock the fuck out I do.
My second day as Main Gate Sly I was escorted by the guy who usually fills that role. After the morning's first, or maybe second, Cotton-Eye Joe he said to me: "You killed it, Sly. Amazing job." And it made my fucking day.
Sure, there are times when I want to drown myself in the fountain. A good number of the high school kids are, objectively, whiny little bitches with attitude problems. Honestly, I've never heard so many absurd complains and makeshift maladies. Nor have I ever met anyone quite so eager to make insulting assertions about myself. Whatever. I'm sure it's to compensate for his own overwhelming inadequacies or some other jargon like that. And I'm feeling just good enough not to punch him in the throat.
I have off tomorrow but go back Tuesday. I can't wait.
Now the usual fractures of thought:
My dog, Cassie, passed away last week after being transported to the Garden State Veterinary Clinic. They attempted CPR and it wasn't successful. We think it was spleen cancer. I went to the Relay for Life Cancer Walk last night with my family and we lit a luminary-thing for her. It was nice. I thank whom ever is up there for letting me spend her last day with her. I miss the tinkle of her collar and the way she would wag her tail. Even up to those last hours, too weak to walk.
My lodge adviser in the Order of the Arrow died also. I helped conduct the Broken Arrow Ceremony at Conclave. I was proud to have been a part of it and to have served as one of his Chiefs.
They say death comes in threes. We'll leave this one open ended...
There are a ton of friends I haven't yet seen this summer.
And not even a prospect of a summer romance. Seems this won't likely be one for the record books.
Sex, as an event and not an act, confuses me.
And that's about it. If you're reading this, I probably miss you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Saturday, May 26, 2007
"Spill this dark ink"
It's always hard to say what makes us feel the way we do. What puts us in these "fuck yourself" moods.
But I'm just impatient lately. And any number of other things that either do or don't stem from my frustration with this two-dimensional conversation. Practice for whatever it is I'm waiting for. I don't even know what it is I miss about the way things were. It's possible that they never actually were, in reality. I have a bad habit of romanticizing things.
And I can't decide if it's more or less mature to tell myself that things'll change. Because they never really seem to for any significant length of time.
And I also can't decide if it's more or less mature for me to try so hard to believe in Shane Koyczan lyrics. Or, I don't know, John Cusack movies.
"Gotta cash in my reality checks."
And maybe stop living between one-liners.
I do apologize for the ambiguity. But I guess when I'm this burnt out trying to articulate lonliness without using the word comes out a little less clear that I'd have liked. And maybe vagueness is just our way of not saying what we mean. And I'm just to exhausted with... with everything to hide it effectively.
And I hate using words like "empty" or "hollow" when I'm trying to describe how I feel. It's more like being a big bowl of chicken caesar salad without the dressing. You don't really need it. But everything just isn't right without it. Yeah. Exactly like that.
And I really do believe that independance is an impossibility. That we are only the sum of our relationships and interactions. And that whatever it is we're trying to achieve, happiness or whatever else, is attainable only through that moment of silent belonging. I think that's love.
I need someone willing to lend me her maddness.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But I'm just impatient lately. And any number of other things that either do or don't stem from my frustration with this two-dimensional conversation. Practice for whatever it is I'm waiting for. I don't even know what it is I miss about the way things were. It's possible that they never actually were, in reality. I have a bad habit of romanticizing things.
And I can't decide if it's more or less mature to tell myself that things'll change. Because they never really seem to for any significant length of time.
And I also can't decide if it's more or less mature for me to try so hard to believe in Shane Koyczan lyrics. Or, I don't know, John Cusack movies.
"Gotta cash in my reality checks."
And maybe stop living between one-liners.
I do apologize for the ambiguity. But I guess when I'm this burnt out trying to articulate lonliness without using the word comes out a little less clear that I'd have liked. And maybe vagueness is just our way of not saying what we mean. And I'm just to exhausted with... with everything to hide it effectively.
And I hate using words like "empty" or "hollow" when I'm trying to describe how I feel. It's more like being a big bowl of chicken caesar salad without the dressing. You don't really need it. But everything just isn't right without it. Yeah. Exactly like that.
And I really do believe that independance is an impossibility. That we are only the sum of our relationships and interactions. And that whatever it is we're trying to achieve, happiness or whatever else, is attainable only through that moment of silent belonging. I think that's love.
I need someone willing to lend me her maddness.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"Through candy-coated eyes"
People say that Jersey is a dive.
But, really, livin' ain't that hard if you know you're alive.
It's the day to day life for forgetting what it is to worry, right? Dad always said, in a given situation, it's always too early or too late to worry. But that doesn't stop either of us. The future is scary. Big and scary and dreadfully obscure. So I guess it's nice to come home from work too tired to do anything beyond collapsing into bed. It brings out the subtleties. Smooths the redundant and highlights the extraordinary. Makes every misplaced moment significant. There's a beauty in that akin to novelty. And probably as fleeting. But for now I'm okay operating on the small scale. For now I'm okay just living until my bones ache with restlessness.
But I'm as historically restless as I am historically ideological. But I sometimes wonder if I'm too busy watching falling stars to chase them. Or if I'm too busy chasing them to catch one.
I got my Manzar letters the other day. Letters written to me two years ago by myself and some of my friends. It's funny how at the same time things change and others stay exactly the same. I don't think anyone can write a letter to himself and not come across as dumb two year later. I think parts of us grow at different speeds. I don't know for sure though.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But, really, livin' ain't that hard if you know you're alive.
It's the day to day life for forgetting what it is to worry, right? Dad always said, in a given situation, it's always too early or too late to worry. But that doesn't stop either of us. The future is scary. Big and scary and dreadfully obscure. So I guess it's nice to come home from work too tired to do anything beyond collapsing into bed. It brings out the subtleties. Smooths the redundant and highlights the extraordinary. Makes every misplaced moment significant. There's a beauty in that akin to novelty. And probably as fleeting. But for now I'm okay operating on the small scale. For now I'm okay just living until my bones ache with restlessness.
But I'm as historically restless as I am historically ideological. But I sometimes wonder if I'm too busy watching falling stars to chase them. Or if I'm too busy chasing them to catch one.
I got my Manzar letters the other day. Letters written to me two years ago by myself and some of my friends. It's funny how at the same time things change and others stay exactly the same. I don't think anyone can write a letter to himself and not come across as dumb two year later. I think parts of us grow at different speeds. I don't know for sure though.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Tonight's for fighting
I need new soundtracks for these whiskey nights. But that's for another day.
I've finished my first year of college. But somehow I'm not yet prepared to write about it. It just hasn't sunk in yet. It isn't real. Not tonight.
Tonight's for summer mixdiscs and open windows. For working it out. For trying to be panoptic.
Tonight is for one liners.
Shifting my biological clock should be a gradual process, I understand, but I'm finding it dangerously difficult to get up before noon and go to bed before 3. And living the next four months without Late-Night Dining to tide me over is going to be a trip and a half. The intelligent person would start eating breakfast but I say "Nay! Breakfast foods are for in Diners at 4am." See the problem? I need to reset my life for summer-rules.
I need to set goals for the next several months. Because if I don't, I'll get nothing done and I'll feel like a giant failure. So please accept the following as my "SuMmA lOvIN' tO-do LIsT!"
1. Weekly Ultimate Pick-up Games
Status: Begun
I need to stay in/get in better shape for next year's Ultimate season. To do this, I gotta keep playing. Good thing for me there are plenty of willing and talented disc-tossers around here. The only wrinkle will be finding a day that's good for everyone. It'll get even trickier when I start working. I have no idea what that'll do to my calendar.
2. Survive Empoyment at Six-Flags, Make Mad Dough
Status: Begun
I have department orientation on Sunday, which essentially means that I'll be starting next week. This is either wonderful or terrible news.
3. Make Rock in a REAL Musical Project/Band
Status: Pending
Dan and I have been talking about this forever and I know we both really want it to happen. And honestly, there's no group of guys I'd rather work with than the ones he's assembled. He's probably the most rock-dedicated dude I know, Matt's amazingly talented, and Tom has the Dan-stamp of approval. And that's good enough for me. I picked up the Strat today and didn't sound so hot. I need to get my electric chops back in shape. That, or turn it up. Volume and quality are so totally correlated. But seriously. I want to write sweet songs and play shows. Like... now, damn it.
4. Have a Summer Fling
Status: None
Seriously, is there any better a topic to write about? I could get some quality pop-punk out of it. I'll just overuse the words "heart" and "boardwalk"and somehow incorporate driving abandoned highways with the windows down. In every song. But there's some appealing novelty in it... in falling in and out and never forgetting. In that "what if's" and coulda-beens. We'll see about this one though. The opposite sex is historically uninterested in its resolution.
5. Write my fucking Musical
Status: Put-off for like 2 years
Not much to say. I just need to fuckin' do it.
6. Spend as much time as POSSIBLE with my Boys and Girls
Status: Pending
I love my Monmouth County crew. I really really do. There are no times like those shared with them. I need to make personally sure that Applebee's nights and WaWa runs and drunken antics and bad movies and late nights and hysterics and honest conversation and man-hugs and blown kisses and four/four handshakes and Socratic singalongs and drama gossip and Surf Taco evenings and political Starbucks humor and lasting memories are maximized. That's all there is to it.
And no, I haven't yet decided myself if number four is a joke.
But I'm no longer a college freshman. And that's enough to tickle the corners of my lips upward.
Next time: A lengthy reflection on this past semester and musings on my disdain for bullshitters.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I've finished my first year of college. But somehow I'm not yet prepared to write about it. It just hasn't sunk in yet. It isn't real. Not tonight.
Tonight's for summer mixdiscs and open windows. For working it out. For trying to be panoptic.
Tonight is for one liners.
Shifting my biological clock should be a gradual process, I understand, but I'm finding it dangerously difficult to get up before noon and go to bed before 3. And living the next four months without Late-Night Dining to tide me over is going to be a trip and a half. The intelligent person would start eating breakfast but I say "Nay! Breakfast foods are for in Diners at 4am." See the problem? I need to reset my life for summer-rules.
I need to set goals for the next several months. Because if I don't, I'll get nothing done and I'll feel like a giant failure. So please accept the following as my "SuMmA lOvIN' tO-do LIsT!"
1. Weekly Ultimate Pick-up Games
Status: Begun
I need to stay in/get in better shape for next year's Ultimate season. To do this, I gotta keep playing. Good thing for me there are plenty of willing and talented disc-tossers around here. The only wrinkle will be finding a day that's good for everyone. It'll get even trickier when I start working. I have no idea what that'll do to my calendar.
2. Survive Empoyment at Six-Flags, Make Mad Dough
Status: Begun
I have department orientation on Sunday, which essentially means that I'll be starting next week. This is either wonderful or terrible news.
3. Make Rock in a REAL Musical Project/Band
Status: Pending
Dan and I have been talking about this forever and I know we both really want it to happen. And honestly, there's no group of guys I'd rather work with than the ones he's assembled. He's probably the most rock-dedicated dude I know, Matt's amazingly talented, and Tom has the Dan-stamp of approval. And that's good enough for me. I picked up the Strat today and didn't sound so hot. I need to get my electric chops back in shape. That, or turn it up. Volume and quality are so totally correlated. But seriously. I want to write sweet songs and play shows. Like... now, damn it.
4. Have a Summer Fling
Status: None
Seriously, is there any better a topic to write about? I could get some quality pop-punk out of it. I'll just overuse the words "heart" and "boardwalk"and somehow incorporate driving abandoned highways with the windows down. In every song. But there's some appealing novelty in it... in falling in and out and never forgetting. In that "what if's" and coulda-beens. We'll see about this one though. The opposite sex is historically uninterested in its resolution.
5. Write my fucking Musical
Status: Put-off for like 2 years
Not much to say. I just need to fuckin' do it.
6. Spend as much time as POSSIBLE with my Boys and Girls
Status: Pending
I love my Monmouth County crew. I really really do. There are no times like those shared with them. I need to make personally sure that Applebee's nights and WaWa runs and drunken antics and bad movies and late nights and hysterics and honest conversation and man-hugs and blown kisses and four/four handshakes and Socratic singalongs and drama gossip and Surf Taco evenings and political Starbucks humor and lasting memories are maximized. That's all there is to it.
And no, I haven't yet decided myself if number four is a joke.
But I'm no longer a college freshman. And that's enough to tickle the corners of my lips upward.
Next time: A lengthy reflection on this past semester and musings on my disdain for bullshitters.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, April 29, 2007
It's a funny thing...
...about writing as a craft.
It's the integrity of the art.
And how we write whatever the fuck we want.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Love always,
Hugs & Kisses,
Mike
It's the integrity of the art.
And how we write whatever the fuck we want.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Love always,
Hugs & Kisses,
Mike
Saturday, April 28, 2007
"Face or kneecaps"
Come on. Hit me with your best shot. I'm down and you won't get a better shot than this one.
Maybe it isn't entirely her fault that everything I see her do or hear of her doing disgusts me. Maybe I'm just emotionally overdriven enough to transfer the pain into anger. The only thing I can hope is that what happened to me, what she did to me, helps generate awareness of her game to everyone.
I've already struck chords to the last song I'll ever write about you.
And 2001 alone has more than the number of one-liners you deserve.
So, as a final thought, I hope that every time you get your heart stomped on... every time you get led on or played... I hope you stop and realize that he isn't me. That he isn't half of me.
But enough of that. Only a week or so left in this semester. How wild is that? I remember so vividly this time last year. Preparing for prom, graduation, summer... worrying about high school problems. Well, I suppose that some things aren't so easily changed. But I don't really feel any smarter. Maybe it'll take a couple weeks of being apart from the classes and exams and homework and the fucking Birch Tree Inn cafeteria food for it to set in. For me to feel whatever wisdom I'm supposed to have garnered. It's not over yet, though. My nostalgia is premature.
The single/uncommitted/untethered gauntlet isn't the worst thing in the world, I suppose. There's always that promise of chance meeting, of aligning availability and interest. It all boils down to that "hope" thing, as it tends to. But I guess I'm okay with that. What else have we got, right? It'll take some time to trudge through the doubt and cynicism though. My self-esteem isn't the quickest at recovering. But refusing to hide the cuts- by letting them run in the rain- I think that'll help. I think I'll be back to my swagger before too long, so to speak.
And I'll be ending one of the worst weeks of my life with some of my best friends. Tomorrow we drink in celebration. There's no drowning on Cinco de Mayo.
So no. Everything isn't back to normal. It won't be for a while. Everything isn't forgotten. Forgiven, perhaps. Each of our greatest weaknesses is our humanity. And that's what she is. She's human. And so am I. We'll always have that. We'll all always have that. So I guess everything is okay. Life is okay.
I am okay.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Maybe it isn't entirely her fault that everything I see her do or hear of her doing disgusts me. Maybe I'm just emotionally overdriven enough to transfer the pain into anger. The only thing I can hope is that what happened to me, what she did to me, helps generate awareness of her game to everyone.
I've already struck chords to the last song I'll ever write about you.
And 2001 alone has more than the number of one-liners you deserve.
So, as a final thought, I hope that every time you get your heart stomped on... every time you get led on or played... I hope you stop and realize that he isn't me. That he isn't half of me.
But enough of that. Only a week or so left in this semester. How wild is that? I remember so vividly this time last year. Preparing for prom, graduation, summer... worrying about high school problems. Well, I suppose that some things aren't so easily changed. But I don't really feel any smarter. Maybe it'll take a couple weeks of being apart from the classes and exams and homework and the fucking Birch Tree Inn cafeteria food for it to set in. For me to feel whatever wisdom I'm supposed to have garnered. It's not over yet, though. My nostalgia is premature.
The single/uncommitted/untethered gauntlet isn't the worst thing in the world, I suppose. There's always that promise of chance meeting, of aligning availability and interest. It all boils down to that "hope" thing, as it tends to. But I guess I'm okay with that. What else have we got, right? It'll take some time to trudge through the doubt and cynicism though. My self-esteem isn't the quickest at recovering. But refusing to hide the cuts- by letting them run in the rain- I think that'll help. I think I'll be back to my swagger before too long, so to speak.
And I'll be ending one of the worst weeks of my life with some of my best friends. Tomorrow we drink in celebration. There's no drowning on Cinco de Mayo.
So no. Everything isn't back to normal. It won't be for a while. Everything isn't forgotten. Forgiven, perhaps. Each of our greatest weaknesses is our humanity. And that's what she is. She's human. And so am I. We'll always have that. We'll all always have that. So I guess everything is okay. Life is okay.
I am okay.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, April 23, 2007
"Isn't that what you expect?"
"I could have sang you to sleep.
And all you want from me..."
All you want from me...
You want nothing to do with me.
Today is most likely the worst day in recent memory. I'm listening to Saves the Day and laughing my ass off because what I really want to do is cry and catch a train to Kansas City where I'd forget everything I've known in the last month. Where I can save some fucking face. This is the last time I put so much stock in someone. The last time I try to make something out of nothing. The last time I let myself lie in bed and smile to myself at how much promise there is in a potential future with someone.
But I am guilty of saying that all I wanted was some closure. And, in a manner of speaking, that's exactly what I got.
So, although it's a really roundabout way of saying it, this is essential entirely my fault. I don't doubt it. I don't deny it. I believe it fully. My conduct in the past few weeks has been so so so stupid. I set aside everything I've learned about people and let myself get enraptured. Again. A-fucking-gain.
It's entirely my fault for letting myself sink this deep.
When you say "yeah I get you" I hope you understand that you couldn't possibly.
When you say you "dated someone exactly like" me... I hope that one day he takes you back.
Because boys don't care like I care much anymore.
That's all I've got to say about that. This'll be on facebook for whoever want to read it. But I don't care anymore. I'm sick of trying to be who everyone wants me to be.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
And all you want from me..."
All you want from me...
You want nothing to do with me.
Today is most likely the worst day in recent memory. I'm listening to Saves the Day and laughing my ass off because what I really want to do is cry and catch a train to Kansas City where I'd forget everything I've known in the last month. Where I can save some fucking face. This is the last time I put so much stock in someone. The last time I try to make something out of nothing. The last time I let myself lie in bed and smile to myself at how much promise there is in a potential future with someone.
But I am guilty of saying that all I wanted was some closure. And, in a manner of speaking, that's exactly what I got.
So, although it's a really roundabout way of saying it, this is essential entirely my fault. I don't doubt it. I don't deny it. I believe it fully. My conduct in the past few weeks has been so so so stupid. I set aside everything I've learned about people and let myself get enraptured. Again. A-fucking-gain.
It's entirely my fault for letting myself sink this deep.
When you say "yeah I get you" I hope you understand that you couldn't possibly.
When you say you "dated someone exactly like" me... I hope that one day he takes you back.
Because boys don't care like I care much anymore.
That's all I've got to say about that. This'll be on facebook for whoever want to read it. But I don't care anymore. I'm sick of trying to be who everyone wants me to be.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Tennis shoes
It's 3:40am on what promises to be a beautiful April Sunday and I have nothing better to be doing than reheating some General Tso's, putting on and half-watching Kingdom of Heaven, and thinking about things. And how crazy things always seem to get. This is the night and what it does to you. What it does to me. Makes me think and dream in impossible ways with a clarity, or cloudedness, uncharacteristic of day. I'll sleep through half of the beautiful Sunday today promises to be but what matters now is me and my General Tso's. My cherry coke zero. The backround noise and my wandering mind. This is the night.
Greek Week seriously interupted our Ultimate Frisbee equillibrium. I arrived at the field to discover it swarmed with Fraternity boys and Sorority girls. Their muscle shirts and big white plastic-rimmed sunglasses. Their uniform crew cuts and fucking sidebangs. We started our game 40 minutes late because of their potato sack races and inability to understand that their tug-o-war game could just as easily be conducted on the sidelines. That's 40 minutes to watch and think and realize that I'll never be one of those guys. I'll never have mammouth biceps or million dollar abs or chisled features or centerfold calves. I'll never be able to competetively throw a beer keg for distance or bench press a small horse. I won't. I will never be that good looking or have that certain collegiate air of superiority.
Is that what you want in a guy? Is that what I'm not to you?
Hilton hit one of them in the head with a disc. I laughed. Sometimes it's the best you can do. Laugh and be self-righteous in the face of everything you're not.
I took Casey's advice and wrote a song. I may be an asshole, but I listen. It's not bad as far as I can tell, but everything sounds better alone at 2am than when I finally get the balls to play it for someone or to record it. It's what I want to say, though. What I wish I could reverse but can't, it seems. It's not for lack of trying, but then again, it never is. It is now, though. It's something. I've got something to show for these 4am's, these dreamless nights, these unreciprocated gestures. It's the opposite of how it happened to Rivers. You've got my letter, I've got my song.
Just say something. Say fucking anything.
On Friday I went to the Ramashows concert. The bands were half-good, half-bad. I took a liking to the fun-loving Flaming Lips-esque Lima Research Society whose infectious melody and saccharine singwriting left me with "Magic Juice Box" stuck in my head all weekend. The show's headliner really made an impact though. I Am the Avalanche started as what I expected, a mediocre emo punk rock band. But they had two significant differences. One was that they closed with a Lifetime cover, which will always win me over (unless you do it poorly) and the other was the song "Green Eyes":
When she called my sneakers "tennis shoes"
I knew she was from the west coast
or the "best coast" like she'd say
and I had to disagree
I fell in love with a ship
A vessel with at least twenty holes
Yeah but she still floats
I fell in love with the sea
A brilliant tidal wave
She devestated me
It has to have been since my rediscovery of "Nothing Feels Good" that lyrics have shouted at me like these. We all fall in love with wild things, with beautiful things. We all invest ourselves in heartbreakers and the only thing that seems to ever be true to us is our roots. So continues my love affair with New Jersey. One day I'll go back to California. But I don't think anyone ever really leaves New Jersey.
At least not forever.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Greek Week seriously interupted our Ultimate Frisbee equillibrium. I arrived at the field to discover it swarmed with Fraternity boys and Sorority girls. Their muscle shirts and big white plastic-rimmed sunglasses. Their uniform crew cuts and fucking sidebangs. We started our game 40 minutes late because of their potato sack races and inability to understand that their tug-o-war game could just as easily be conducted on the sidelines. That's 40 minutes to watch and think and realize that I'll never be one of those guys. I'll never have mammouth biceps or million dollar abs or chisled features or centerfold calves. I'll never be able to competetively throw a beer keg for distance or bench press a small horse. I won't. I will never be that good looking or have that certain collegiate air of superiority.
Is that what you want in a guy? Is that what I'm not to you?
Hilton hit one of them in the head with a disc. I laughed. Sometimes it's the best you can do. Laugh and be self-righteous in the face of everything you're not.
I took Casey's advice and wrote a song. I may be an asshole, but I listen. It's not bad as far as I can tell, but everything sounds better alone at 2am than when I finally get the balls to play it for someone or to record it. It's what I want to say, though. What I wish I could reverse but can't, it seems. It's not for lack of trying, but then again, it never is. It is now, though. It's something. I've got something to show for these 4am's, these dreamless nights, these unreciprocated gestures. It's the opposite of how it happened to Rivers. You've got my letter, I've got my song.
Just say something. Say fucking anything.
On Friday I went to the Ramashows concert. The bands were half-good, half-bad. I took a liking to the fun-loving Flaming Lips-esque Lima Research Society whose infectious melody and saccharine singwriting left me with "Magic Juice Box" stuck in my head all weekend. The show's headliner really made an impact though. I Am the Avalanche started as what I expected, a mediocre emo punk rock band. But they had two significant differences. One was that they closed with a Lifetime cover, which will always win me over (unless you do it poorly) and the other was the song "Green Eyes":
When she called my sneakers "tennis shoes"
I knew she was from the west coast
or the "best coast" like she'd say
and I had to disagree
I fell in love with a ship
A vessel with at least twenty holes
Yeah but she still floats
I fell in love with the sea
A brilliant tidal wave
She devestated me
It has to have been since my rediscovery of "Nothing Feels Good" that lyrics have shouted at me like these. We all fall in love with wild things, with beautiful things. We all invest ourselves in heartbreakers and the only thing that seems to ever be true to us is our roots. So continues my love affair with New Jersey. One day I'll go back to California. But I don't think anyone ever really leaves New Jersey.
At least not forever.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Forgive me my antiquity
I had a stick of gum for dinner last night fighting back or biting down to halt the dams behind my eyes for bursting first in many months but then... it isn't often one has a week like this And these are the nights we thought we'd left in high school The dry mouthed cigarette sips gin stink of liquor broken now and open to abuse it's so hard to always hide baby and I've grown too old or tired to try to be for you that soldier who doesn't break when you bend him, doesn't bruise when you beat him, doesn't wait for you for hours honey harrowed now but hoping maybe somewhere there's a reason why you aren't where you said you would be oh baby baby baby ... Am I to you so commonplace? Ours is a generation that's forgotten forehead goodnight kisses or holding hands on trains because we like it But most of all we are a breed that has forgotten conversation We're all small-talk segways and witty quips that somehow always lead to fumblings with buttons breathing heavily deliberately hot and gripping slipping squeezing salt balloons and moaning - we might as well be fucking ourselves So forgive me my antiquity I just try too hard to believe in people.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
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