27.9.05

illin' with hell's angels, s'all about the leather, baby

post-potato illness, i've finally a moment to share this mess in my head.

ok, so we got there at 930am and tailgated a little 'cause we felt sorta outta place, but i got bored of watching everyone else drink themselves silly (i just can't drink before noon) and suggested we head in and check out the scene.

egads. leather fringe, chaps, tattoos, men with long, grey, braided hair, macho men and even more masculine women, cowboy boots and mullets as far as the eye could see, exhaust fumes, burning rubber from the burn out box, the bikes were pretty, but fuck, the people were NOT.

we sat in the beer garden for a while, until it filled with row after row of beer-gutted fat men in leather vests and jackets, stuffed behind the orange fence like sardines. we headed behind the stage, a safe-haven for somewhat like-minded folk.

the first couple bands bit assholes, but the misconducts (who's drummer can be found at my side more often than not) rocked immensely. the set was cut short for damn the diva (who still hadn't played two hours later after a series of rock star hissy fits - apparently they're unaware of their almost 100% suck level), so we went to the vip lounge which was more of a sardine can than the beer garden, and drank ourselves into a state that called for nothing less than dinner at the elephant and castle.

elvis costello, crack boy and boobzilla should get some sort of honorable mention, for giving squish and i the guffaws. she'll probably fill you in with greater detail. and perhaps mention her new love interest in the bad religion shirt.

my first show and shine. a nauseating mess of coors light kegs, breast implants, 3 inch cuffs on straight leg levis, eagle tattoos and revolting musicians demanding to be paid for an event that was raising money for the children's hospital. i really did enjoy myself tremendously though, and the misconducts, from boise or not, were totally oss.






Currently listening:

The Cloud Room

By The Cloud Room

Prison Blog - genpop.org

22.9.05

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

i don't normally enjoy a whole lot of poetry, i dunno why, i guess i'm less likely to enjoy a metaphorical, beat-around-the-bush style of writing and more likely to enjoy a straight forward, in your face hunter s. or kerouac deal - things that aren't necessarily up for interpretation, more just the relaying of a story or sequence of events. blah blah. but jimmy just sent me this poem and i really like it.

*******

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.






Currently listening:

Oh No

By OK Go

Prison Blog - genpop.org

20.9.05

you should have never trusted hollywood

so i went to go see system of a down at the pacific colliseum saturday night, not by choice, but i was pleasantly surprised 'cause mars volta opened and the afro dancing and iraqi flags made me want to weep deep blue salty tears of pure, unadulterated joy. it was a handsome performance. i would have been alright leaving after that, but alas, twas not my choice. system of a down put on a decent show, but as a consequence of not having listened to the radio in about 3 years, i had absolutely no idea how popular they'd become. there were all these teenagers that new the words to toxicity? weird. and of course, the one song i actually like by system of a down, boom, was not to be found within 100 meters of any set list in the colliseum that night.

i would not suggest seeing system of a down in concert. definitely not. the fans don't bathe. no joke, there was this tiny little girl in front of us, all dolled up in her plaid skirt and knee high leather boots and ringlets in her hair, and every time she lifted up her hands to point (indicating she knew the song was about to take a turn for the louder) we got a huge waft of BO. not to mention the death growling. never been one for death growls. i prefer a more melodic approach to music, although i do appreciate, very much, even though they are horrendously hyprocritical, the things system of a down says.

and it was free for me so, it was a good time for no money. mars volta made the show tho.

what would have made it better? if it were pinback. or if one of the thousands of people holding up lit lighters during slow parts to system of a down tunes (cause we all know there are no completely slow songs - heaven forbid melody play a part in music) lit themselves on fire. hehe. ahhh, rock show traditions make me want to cut off my baby toes, salt them, bake them and eat 'em in a sandwich.

not that i'm not appreciative of the gifted ticket - thanks drummer john. i did enjoy myself.

so finally i was released from the pot smoke bubble and went to karaoke with scott and his sister and her friends, and my brother comes rolling in with all 13 of his boys, most of whom i haven't seen since they left for europe so i was pretty pleased. my brother went shots crazy though, spent $500 and only arrived there an hour before last call. needless to say most of his boys were a little done-for, most specifically juddy, who weighs a grand total of about 3 pounds. he left a surprise on the table for michelle and came to the superhouse and dispensed the rest of it on my living room floor. i was unimpressed. it's the great thing about being 28 - your friends don't puke anymore. theyre all seasoned drinkers or don't drink very much.

i stayed up til 3am with caldwell and krusty reminiscing about the old days, like the time when krusty pulled up to the deli in an ice cream truck, music blasting, having gotten the job for the day just so he could cruise in the truck. it's amazing how things change as everyone gets older. i used to think all bobby's friends were annoying as fuck, but now i thoroughly enjoy the company of each one of them.

anyways, mars volta > system of a down > karaoke > superhouse shit show - a long night, but a good one. funny thing is, i went to karaoke the night before at some other bar with a bunch of people. ended up singing a garth brooks song with m3. who would have ever predicted that?






Currently listening:

echolocation

By Fruit Bats

Prison Blog - genpop.org

14.9.05

back to our regular programming

so i got a second call from the con, he giggled a lot talking about how we used to get $1200 phone bills, and when he got his $1.2 million life insurance settlement, his mom chased him down with the old phone bills, and then i read some more about izzy zimmerman and drummer john was playing folsom prison blues by johnny cash on my computer over and over, so he could learn it and play it with his band and jimmy wrote me about his katrina mess in miami and i slept as burns bog burning left ash dust on my house and my purple car and i dreamed that i was charged with theft and hadda go to jail. gee, i wonder where the frick that came from?

so anyway, drummer john is in edmonton and i have his mazda protege and i'm gonna go lay some rubber with his new tires. hhhhhhha, just kidding.

uhh, last week drummer john took me to go see son volt and we walked in as this amazing band was playing, a slow sufjan-y type folk that makes your tear ducts contract a little, so i asked the merch guy who we were listening to and he said sean wesley wood and the vancouver vipers. i asked if they had any cds for sale and the guy said no, but he gave me the myspace addy and i came home and checked it out. i sent the addy to squish who loved them as well, and we went to go see them last thursday at the candy bar and they were just as awesome as the first time. i poked sean wesley wood after the show and asked if he had any cds and he did and i bought two, one for squish and one for me. i listened on the way home and was blown away even more. this guy can write songs, holy crap.

i urge all of you to check him out : Sean Wesley Wood

and thanks sean, for two great shows and lots more to come i hope.







Currently listening:

Aha Shake Heartbreak

By Kings of Leon

Labels:

Prison Blog - genpop.org