Ceci n'est pas une cybercarnet.

Rocket 88

One of the most important people in Rock 'n' Roll passed away yesterday.
Sam Phillips, founder of Sun Records, discoverer of Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison and Johnny Cash (among others), and producer of B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, and Junior Parker (among others), and along with Phil Spector and Richard Branson, one of my inspirations to start a record label.

He also produced Rocket 88, considered by many to be the first "rock" record.

Mystery Train
Train arrive sixteen coaches long
Train arrive sixteen coaches long
Well that long black train
Drop my baby and gone

Train train coming right round the bend
Train train coming right round the bend

Train train coming right round this bend
Well it took my baby
But it never will again

Train train coming on down the line
Train train rolling on down the line
Well it’s bringing my baby
’cause she’s mine oh mine
Mine oh mine, mine oh mine

Never again no, no, no never again

-Parker/Phillips

I've seen your hand turn saintly on the radio dial, I've seen the airwaves pull your eyes toward heaven

I don't wanna know me better

So.
Fucking.
Bored.
Hate.
Tulsa.
And.
Everything.
In.
It.
Been.
To.
All.
The.
Stupid.
Bars.
Clubs.
Resturaunts.
What.
Have.
Yous.
A.
Billion.
Times.
Nothing.
Else.
To.
Do.
Grrrr.

It's a pill that gives worms to ex-girlfriends.

Proof that people in Tulsa just don't get it:
The (crappy) free Tulsa weekly awarded the only Independent theater in town the "best place to see an independent movie" award, and says this in the little discription thingy:

"The Westby is located in downtown's burgeoning club district... where all the hipsters go and play."

Um, burgeoning? The Irish bar, a neeeegro club, a crappy dance club, a miniature crappy version of Coyote Ugly but without the name rights, and the club complex that is the blackhole of all memories (I heart you and your white trash, Voodoo, even though I talk bad 'bout 'cha.) do not a burgeoning club district make.

And hipsters?
I didn't know that the Tulsa equivaltent of B&T and the suburban masses who love a weird amalgam of Country and Rap (i.e. a stars and bars vanity plate whilst blasting 50) were considered hip.

I always thought that if Tulsa did have hip kids they were at Empire or Caz's.

But what the fuck do I know compared to a shitty weekly run by a staff of idiots who couldn't find the pulse of Tulsa if it was as warm as the bile I spew to them in my head each time I read the piece of crap that somehow has survived all competitors, even the couple that actually had potential to be better than it.

Grrrrrrowl.

And it's flair, not flare, you idiots.

Man, I need some new underwears.

Have you ever noticed how clothes just start to fall apart after 5 or 6 years of constant wear?
What's up with that?
Does this mean I actually have to go shopping every 5 or 6 years?

Wanted even more:

Kitty Pride.

Wanted:

Girl who puts Izzy, Slash and Axel Rose all on hold when I call.

Adios, Vocho

This is sad.

I really want to go to a World's Fair.

H2BH will be covering the next one, expo 2005 in Aichi, Japan.


For all you World's Fair needs:
The Expo Museum The most comprehensive Wold's Fair/International Exposition site out there.

Worldsfairs.com A fair site with a good review of the 2000 World's Fair.

The Bureau International des Expositions The official sanctioner of World's Fairs. (Which the US pulled out of in the spring of 2001.)

I fucking love metros.

And this is the best resource/adoration site about subways/metros/light rails/what-have-yous ever.

Go there now and poke about.

Fine, fine, sorry...

ok, no break.
like i could really take a whole month off anyway...
i'm internet addicted.

My house in the mothafuckin' Hamptons, yo

So I'm thinking of taking the entire month of August off from ye olde unified theory of everything a.k.a. the mental spigote.
It's hard being this pretty.
And plus, I really should try to write something for H2BH.
And plus, I still need to finish the print-spig.
And plus, if I don't get into ye olde grad schoole, I need to figure out what I'm going to do with my life.
And plus, I need to work on my TV show idea, We've Been Had.
And plus, I've got all these Ryuichi Sakamoto records I bought at a garage sale the other week to listen to.

But then again, I may not.
But it will be considered.

let it bleed.

I generally scoff at organized religion.
I'm not a believer in astrology.
I believe in fate, but only from a scientific point of view. There is only one reaction which will happen to each given set of circumstances, everything, including the human brain, is a set of chemical and electrical impulses. I guess this would be some sort of biological determinism.

I don't believe in magic,
I don't believe in I - ching,
I don't believe in bible,
I don't believe in tarot,
I don't believe in Hitler,
I don't believe in Jesus,
I don't believe in Kennedy,
I don't believe in Buddha,
I don't believe in mantra,
I don't believe in Gita,
I don't believe in yoga,
I don't believe in kings,
I don't believe in Lennon,
I don't believe in Yoko,
I don't believe in Beatles,
I just believe in me.

What I do believe in, however, is the mystic power of the radio.
The seemingly random interplay of songs on the radio can, at times, not be random at all. Each song can carry a message, especially when driving home at 2:30am and Where the Streets Have No Name comes over the airwaves on a hot summer night. Your car becomes a golden comet, shooting through the deserted, darkened lanes of your home town, windows down, hand out, blasting The Joshua Tree, singing as if it were the Gospel, as if in this one moment, you switched from Saul to Paul, as if you had gazed on the face of the infinite, as if Dave Evans' guitar cut through the shielding of your soul and unleashed it into the night air, and the whole of the earth, the whole of its atmoshphere and oceans were not enough to hold it, and it expanded out into endlessness.

And then, when you pull into your driveway, and think "I bet she has emailed me," and the strains of a boys' choir come on the radio, and you check and see that she has, and Mick and the London Bach Choir start to tell you about how you can't always get what you want, and you start to think that, well, you can't always get what you want, and thank you radio for reminding me of that, and then, prosaically, tritely, it's follwed be them reminding you that if you try sometimes, you just might get what you need, and you realize that the crux of the song, the crux of the feeling just then is not the beautiful tragedy of no one ever getting what they want (apologies for paraphrasing TMBG there), or the hope given by the concession that you can sometimes get what you need, but it is the 'try.'

It is the keeping on. The very point of existence. The very definition of humanity. What this whole post means, I can't tell you. I can't sum it up, but in the meandering there is a meaning to me. Hopefully you find one too.

"We all need someone we can feed on."

and all the ladies can exit stage left...

Just when my indie/crazy/bloggy dreamyness was at its peak, let me ruin it all by saying this:

1. Old people fucking suck. (Except for my grandma, she's fucking rad, and don't you forget it.)

2. Despite my well known propensity toward mothers, I hate babies. And most kids, unless they're wicked smart.

3. I do, however, tend to like dogs. Especially Shetland sheep dogs, Golden Retrievers and Labs.

BEHOLD!

And on the Third Day, He rose, and listened to The Rapture.

House of the Jealous Lovers, yo.

And I guess I actually rose on Saturday, cause I worked Saturday night, and then again this morning in fucking Tahlequah, but trust me, I'm finally truly risen, and The Rapture definitely helps. I wanna go see them in Iceland again. By the way, yours truly, along with Matty and Aden, was one of the first people in the entire world to tell you that The Rapture will fucking rock your fucking socks, via H2BH (and yes, smartass, I know we are severely lacking in content since the redesign, but if you want content so bad, then send us some. If you think you're hip enough.) almost a year ago.

Tonight, I make my body pay for keeping me in for three nights. It's on like Limsoon Wong, mofos.

Although, I did like the fever dreams. Tastily, tenderly, terrifyingly, trancendentally, teasingly, tenebriously, tantalyzingly, occupying, thank you.

My bloodstream cries out for the sweet nectar that is booze!

and back up...

to 99.7 degrees.

like burning

and, a little spicy thai food, some antibiotics from Mumbai, and twice the recommended dosage of Advil later, and my temp is back down to 97.4, pretty much normal for the spig (I usually run between 97.2 and 97.6. It's cause I have a heart of ice. Seriously. No emotion. That's why I'm such a bastard.).

And I feel better.
Now, do I chance my newfound wellness with drinking?
Will the boy wonder escape the cage in time?
Will Commissioner get to the SpigSignal in time?
Will the Spig get lucky with Barbara Gordon or Vicki Vale?

Tune in tomorrow to find out, same spiggy time, same spiggy channel.

"I hate the sea and everything in it."

I fucking hate being sick.
I fucking hate that I shouldn't go out drinking tonight.
I fucking hate having a fever in the summer and having to wear sweatshirts and long pants around the fucking house because the fucking AC is set so fucking low.
I fucking hate the internet for boring me when I tried to kill some time on it today.
I fucking hate daytime TV.
I fucking hate how slow my fucking iBook is being today.
I fucking hate waking up in the middle of the night with my sheets so soaked in sweat that I have to put my comforter on top of them and go grab a blanket from downstairs.
I fucking hate aching like this.

I'm hot blooded, check it and see, I've got a fever of...

102.
It just doesn't work right.
Maybe I can try for that extra degree.

102

i hurt.

your eyes are magnets

here it is.
That's Calexico, kiddies. Go see them live. It will change your life.
And then buy Feast of Wire.

where the hell is my provolone?

seriously.
I made a special trip to the store to get some for my sandwich today, and now, it's all gone.

i went looking for spirits, found alcohol, i went looking for soul, and i bought some style.

i want to be in Mexico City. Or Sao Paulo. Or Tokyo. Or Bangkok. Or Tel Aviv.
some place fast and dirty and crumbling and shiny and confusing and dangerous and loud.
somewhere to get lost and scared and not quite know what anything means.
but mostly lost.

As petey pointed out, that was South.

Go buy their records.
I'm all about file sharing and stuff, but when it comes down to it, remember to support the people that make it. Go ahead and fuck the big horrible record companies, take them down, make them burn, but go see live music. Buy records from people like south and calexico. If you wanna rip off that new radiohead or justin timberlake or 50 cent album, go ahead. They make enough money anyway. And you know, if the big record companies had their way, and continued with their slash and burn policies toward artist development, in a few years we would have to turn to shows like american idol for new talent, and the streets of LA would be littered with washouts whose first albums went gold and whose second ones tanked.
And how good does it feel to discover an artist?
to be the first one of your friends, the first one on your block, in your town to listen to, say moses leroy?
It's like you're a member of a secret club.
It should also be like you're Jebus, come to the new world to spread the word of God and tell the lost tribe to hide some gold plates in upstate new york, and by that i mean go buy an ass load of records, and then have a crazy little boy find them hundreds of years later and lead people on a journey to Utah, and by that i mean take people to a shitload of shows, cause shows are fun and what music is all about, and they're more fun than a plague of locusts and living near a giant LAKE OF SALT, that's for damn sure.

Where was I going with this?
oh, yeah.
share your music. just make sure you support that struggling band that you listen to everymorning, or late at night when you're drunk with your friends.

that is all.

if you're really lucky, I'll let you punch me in the face.

here's your song, k.

and from now on, I'll put more of my communiques in email form.

but i have to post something, you know?

#1 sign of the impending apocalypse

Mariah Carey has remade Bringin' on the Heartbreak.

Joe, did you ok that?
Phil?
Rick, you one armed monkey wonder?
Sav?
I bet it was that Vivian bastard.

of course people still live on the isle of man.

things you should know (besides the fact that the isle of man has its original steam railway still intact and operating.):

1) I use my cell phone to check my email when I'm out drinking, just hoping you've written.

2) I mapquest small town ohio to see if I could drive up there for a day, meet you at Value City, and take you for a drive.

3) I would be content to live in that cave, ignoring the animals, writing diatribes on existence, just to have you bring me food twice a week, even if I never saw you.

and finally...

4) I'll tempt you with itineraries until you acquiesce. and then I'll tempt you with more in the midst of that journey.

for that one girl who wants to go to ireland...

#1 I think you're wrong about me. I am gonna be trouble. But only in the very best ways.

#2 let's go. we can go to london (cause it's always a shame to be that close to london and not go.) take the train over to wales, make our way up to Holyhead, take the ferry over to Dublin, drink in joyce and wilde's old haunts and mine, too. Then over to Galway and the Aran Islands and the end of the world. And I'd like to hit the Isle of Man as well, if you don't mind.

n.b.: there was a song to go with this, the perfect manic tired traveling the british isles song, but I can't get my stupid ftp program to put it on the server, so you'll have to check back later, missy.

bah.

i keep getting like 50% through a post and then trashing it.
i'm gonna go into hiding.
i don't know what to say.

"I'm learning to survive on earthworms and house flies"
-the constantines

You think I'm kidding.

spigot: hey rory

RoryGilmore1008: Hi spigot! I'm Just finishing an IM with Lane. In the meantime, what would you like to talk about?

RoryGilmore1008: My video recommendations, Classes not yet filled at Miss Patty's, What I learned this week, Travel aspirations, Things I pretend to like because Dean likes them

spigot: what videos?

RoryGilmore1008: Mommie Dearest - Wire hangers and big eyebrows... need I say more?
Want me to tell you more about this or do you want to try something else?

spigot: tell me more, rory

RoryGilmore1008: Air Force One - Dumb but fun, as Harrison Ford is the President trapped by terrorists on his own plane. But don't rent it with Lorelai, who'll spend the whole time saying things like, "I'd like to see George Bush do that," and "Daddy couldn't bail you outta this one, could he, Georgie-boy?"
More about this, or do you want to try some other stuff?

spigot: tell me more

RoryGilmore1008: Rear Window - Jimmy Stewart plays a photographer who breaks his leg and then discovers a murder while spying into his neighbor's house. After Lorelai broke her leg in yoga, she spent a lot of time looking through Maury and Babette's windows, till, as she told me, "I saw something no one should see."
Want to know more? Or talk about something else?

spigot: of course rear window, duh

RoryGilmore1008: run that by me again.

spigot: you're slow sometimes rory

RoryGilmore1008: run that by me again.

spigot: yeah. Didn't you break up with Dean in like September?

RoryGilmore1008: I like IMing with Dean even though we just got off the phone with each other
Want me to tell you more about this or do you want to try something else?

spigot: Isn't Dean getting married to someone else?

RoryGilmore1008: Things I like to do with Dean, Classes not yet filled at Miss Patty's, Music I'm listening to, My video recommendations, Assorted rants

spigot: Rory, you need to let go.

RoryGilmore1008: run that by me again.

spigot: Let's talk about your hot mom

RoryGilmore1008: She has held onto her childhood diary over the years as one of her most prized possessions. There is one entry in it. "June 27, 1979: Today I got a diary." She still thinks she may write in it one day.
I could tell you more, or you can check out www.gilmoregirls.com.

spigot: tell me more about the hottie

RoryGilmore1008: As a kid, Mom once locked herself in her room for an entire day when she realized she'd never meet The Bay City Rollers.
Want me to tell you more about this or do you want to try something else?

spigot: I could introduce her. I know two Bay City Rollers.

RoryGilmore1008: So what you're saying is... I'm not really sure what you're saying.

spigot: I'm saying, do you think you could hook me up with Lorelai?

RoryGilmore1008: She's got suede hot pants. Fuchsia. With an on/off switch.
There's more I could tell you, but I'm cool with chatting about something else too.

spigot: Dude, tell me more about the hot pants

RoryGilmore1008: She has a T-shirt with the phrase "Feelin' Groovy." The embarrassing part is she just bought it this year.
Want me to tell you more about this or do you want to try something else?

spigot: is the t-shirt kinda tight?

RoryGilmore1008: Hi spigot! I'm Just finishing an IM with Dean. In the meantime, what would you like to talk about?

RoryGilmore1008: Classes not yet filled at Miss Patty's, Things I pretend to like because Dean likes them, Secret stuff about my Mom, Travel aspirations, Things I like to do with Dean

spigot: Rory, have you been taking the pot?

where are you tonight?

tonight i'm off to the trb's cd release party.

Go support my record company and by an album, esse.

i'm so bored i'm talking to the Rory Gilmore bot on IM

I'm audi 5k.
off to drink with kurt.

"tell every body waitin' for superman
that they should try to hold on best they can"

hey, since you guys seemed to like the hot/not thing...

remember this?
it was the original hot list from march 19th.
back in the blogger days, yo.
back in the http://www.engineshedrecords.com/jesuschirst.html (yes, CHIRST) days.
old school.

let me 'splain. no, there is too much. let me sum up...

last night:
quiet dvd watching
parent waking phone call
bishop allen gig getting
gin/tonics
free shots
candid camera
dym
dancing
chains of love
shout
red bull/vodka: poor man's speedball
licking the mirror
sparkly lip gloss
smoking
chain smoking
dancing
like RUN D.M.C.
like AC/DC
lipstick
kissing the mirror
the married girl i fucked
is she stalking me?
oh, who cares?
dancing
prince motherfucker and don't you forget it
smoking
vodka/red bull, repeat
cyndi lauper
personal jesus
back to her place
marc bolan
fleetwood mac
pulppulpulpulpulpulp
did i mention jarvis cocker?
eyelash curling
in da club
slapping
slapping hard
like really hard
being slapped
harder
pick one book
harp/corona light
duck calls and addys
lemonade/vodka/tequila
more lipstick
punk rock girl
making out at 7am
did you just say making out?
yup
it came as a suprise to me too
bribing people with the promise of pizza
that god-forsaken weedwhacker
slide whistles
groove is in my heart motherfucker
that damn addy again
sticky floors
TIRE FUCKING IRONS, BAY-BEE
i'll have a pepsi. actually, could you make that a SERRIA MIST?
pizza
little hellions
whither brandi?
brandi, i'll be your personal slave if you just get me MORE FUCKING PEPSI
oh shit, is it time for work already?
drinking cristal in the hot tub on the back of my stretch escalade

you wish you were me.
it's not my fault my life is more fun than yours.
it's just the way the cards fall.

hot/not

hot
girls with scars
paul hewson
dave evans
happy accidents
sleep coming like a drug
gin
gauloises
big big organ sound
headphones
long drives with something to think about
tears in beers
riding in golf carts with a hot girl
utah
fat grolsches with the pop top
the way the word grolsch looks when typed
the fact that we are all breathing the same air
the fact that every atom that makes up my person used to be something else and will be something else after i die
imperial pints
the royals
beth orton
pearls
styrofoamkitty
mesas
bleeding
the dozen
the fact that you will never be what you could and neither will i but we are still beautiful and flawed and fucked up and awful and godlike and hateful and generous and here and one
kenya
tommy james and the shondells
confusion
anger
dying young
albatross
losing it all

not
locusts
the lakers
the white stripes
tires
jack daniel (sorry, mr. daniel, but we're fighting. it'll be all better soon)
head trauma
the arms of america
indecision
black
drinking too much
strivers

the not list is a little short, cause most everthing is hot as fuck today

still building then burning down love

you keep telling me it's hot in your room
i'm coming to take you away, to abscond secretly with you
take you in my car out past needles, through the forests of flagstaff
we'll ride with the windows down, sweating
listening to the joshua tree
singing along, topping out our souls with the volume
through Searchlight, Nevada, through the black rock racing highway
into utah, to zion, then bryce and the stars will come out
and we'll lie there, drinking red wine, hungry
looking at the multitude, looking at orion's arms
leave with me
i can be there in one rotation of the earth,
before the sun hits the same spot twice
we'll stay in a deserted motel, with a dried up pool
in a hot sweaty queen bed
and after nothing all day but staring into the distance,
we'll find a roadhouse and sing hank williams songs with the band
and we'll eat fry bread on the roadside,
i'll buy you a cheap turquoise necklace
and we'll take the back roads with arms out the window,
sticky dirty perfect.

avec moi... sans moi

i had this dream last night, where we ran into each other at Mont Saint Michel, and hiked together across the sand, back to the coast. We spent all day in some little brasserie, drinking coffee and talking, talking about everything and nothing as we are bound to do, and then we walk down the street and end up back in Paris, back in the all nighter, back next to the polite reserved man and his female friend who is having a nervous breakdown, and then we walk to notre dame, but it's not notre dame, it's the royal palace in liechtenstein, and there somehow, we board the orient express, days and nights on the rails, ending up in mongolia, touring buddhist monasteries that were hidden from the chinese, and then to tokyo, where we sleep in a capsule hotel, barely enough room for one, but we make it fit two, and then somewhere, in the haze of a pachinko parlor, i lose you, ilose you and wander all over japan, taking my motorcycle and my satchel from mountain to shore searching for you.

who knew?

now don't go getting all depressed, you silly kitty.

i love the phrase...

"cool as fuck"

fuck musictown

i think jack white should let renee come on stage and sing sugar high at every show.
i can't believe they're dating. it's fucking perfect. i seethe indifference towards both.

so, my lunch appointment cancelled. which is ok, because today was shaping up to be insanely busy and i can't find my little voice recorder thingy so i was gonna have to use my digital camera. which would be the ideal way to do it, but i'm not sure how well it captures conversations, and it's falling apart. yeah, my nice new digital camera is broken. Harrrumph. it's still under warranty and it still works, but i'm afraid i'll do lasting and permanent damage if i use it before it goes to the shop.

but enough about my camera. i was supposed to start my interviews for this one-sheet microzine i'm gonna put out. (Those of you who remember the promised special print edition of the spigot are probably going "WTF?", but i promise, swear, that that is still going to happen, and i am working on it, it just kept getting bigger and bigger, and now has a CD component, it'll come, i promise. and it'll be a nice suprise when it does.) This little microzine is uber-focused and should actually be released. assuming i can get people to show up for interviews.

tonight, tonight, tonight will be hectic. tonight is one of those nights i kick myself about. tonight is one of those nights where i stop being a really laid back person and become a stressed out guilt ridden one. i never have anything to do. you know this. my days stretch out into oblivion with nary an appointment on the schedule. but wednesday, july 16th, i have errantly commited to three things which would have to happen in some form of simultaneity to make everyone happy. first, about a month ago, i committed to see bat boy the musical with my mom. this is fine cool and good. i love the WWN and bat boy, and am damn excited to see what is supposed to be a witty, exciting musical. second, today is my friend kurte's birthday. i have committed to going out to sushi with him and some other people and then going out drinking with them. thirdly, i told sarah b. that i would go to empire with her and con them into booking bishop allen when they come through town. something's gotta give, obviously. so here's the plan. sorry, sarah, but we're gonna have to do that tomorrow or friday. or later this evening, like 10:30. i'll be the good son and go to the musical, and either try to convince them to go get sushi early, or meet them after the musical.

*whew*

i know that's all trivial, easily dealt with stuff, but you gotta remember, i have nothing going on here, people being busy all day actually sounded pleasant, i'm sorry my lunch appointment cancelled.

two side notes:
i don't know what exactly it is, but Annie Waits by ben folds is fucking ruling my school today. thanks to matt for giving me that one. it's crunchy and has cheesy piano and synths and it's just beautiful.

and two, i had this realization the other day...
i want to be with someone who makes driving through the streets and over the highways that i've driven a thousand times before feel like i'm driving over them for the first time. you know that feeling you get speeding through albuquerque on the way to los angeles? or pulling into brussels for the first time and seeing the big silver atomium from the halls of justice, and then getting lost and confused trying to get to the kitschy chrome monstrosity? or driving into blacksburg and stopping at a bbq place just because the pig on the sign is wearing a chef's hat and what look to be tux shoes? someone who makes everyday feel new and full of possibility.

make a great lovely noise

i'm bored.
waiting to find out about grad school is causing boredom (as i am reluctant to commit to anything until i hear) and tooth grinding.
my days are remarkably similar, delivering/unloading furniture, working for the catering company, drinking too much, seeing summer blockbusters.
something needs to happen.
stasis is so numbing.
occasionally i feel angsty, or like sunday night, just felt like i really needed a hug, but even those feelings quickly fade.
I exit through the spotlight glare, I stepped out into thin air

Extraordinarily disappointing

It's kind of sad when they take a self contained, smart, literate, well written comic book and make it into a sub-par film that happens to have Sean Connery in it.

The Hulk and Spiderman and X-men are all so sprawling and contain so many contradictions I can understand the trouble in converting them into films.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen was not a 50 year old series. It is two volumes. It is a well concieved universe. The story has little wasted or nonsensical action. There is little excuse for turning it into that cluster fuck.

That is all for now.

i woke up in a strange place

scratch that.
i'm gonna watch the extras DVD for punch drunk love
and then go to bed.
sorry to disappoint, dear reader, but all that blogging today wore me out and i have to work tomorrow.

let's kill saturday night

here we go again...

but give me one night with the moon high and the radio poundin'
and brother, this town's gonna go down kickin' and shoutin'
-mr. robbie fulks

i woke up on fire and i'm still burning

i didn't nap
but i did go buy punch drunk love.
and now i'm gonna watch it.
i'm giddy
i heart this movie.

stakes is high

nap time.
read, people.
saturdays were made for spigot blogging.
it's the perfect combo of mania/introspection/hang over.
you get what you pay for.
so read everything i wrote today.

i can't teach you to learn to love yourself

perfection pervection sinisterly
laughing or maybe crying
sometimes there is very little

here's a sad song that i wrote for no one else

1. download
2. listen
3. realize its brilliance
4. go buy lots of clem snide records
5. buy record player
6. come lay on the couch with me

Victor Hugo Pena

what does it feel like to wear the yellow jersey, and know that if things are still the same at the end of the tour that you have to let Lance finish in front of you even if you know in your beating heart that you could beat him, that you could be not only the first columbian to wear that yellow jersey, but the first to win the tour, and not even that, but just win it for yourself, just show everbody how great you are and this moment, your moment is as good as lance's fifth would be because it is yours.

If suffer we must, let's suffer on the heights.
-Victor Hugo

and now for something completely different

now back to more sane and less angsty things...
My Hero offered free cookies to get me more comments after my whining session the other day.
If you did indeed comment, she has compiled a list of eligible people over at the shiny new choppa, so if she doesn't have your address and you're on the free cookie list, go over there and email her.

Cuz they're good.

bonus steve trivia
steve shares a birthday with monty pythoner Sir John Cleese.
and simon le bon of duran duran, but more about that in another post with another title.

i can't write how i feel

but if you could imagine someone screaming running down a hallway carrying a sledgehammer, beating the walls haphazardly as they run, not running from anything, not running to anything, just running because there is nothing else to do, destroying because there is no reason to create, running not fromorto because you have to do something, just lying there all the time isn't something, and nothing ever works out, and even if it did, what fucking difference would it make? what difference has anything ever made?
so i run screaming, destroying as fast as i can because that's all there is

how do you not die more?

last night was brutally drunken.
i did see Sarah B., but she left early to go floating. I was accosted by two attractive blonde girls that I can barely stand, I developed a 20 minute crush on this girl with curly brown hair and indie kid glasses, and I tried to hide my drink so I wouldn't have to finish it.
I also played the drunken fool for a couple of my friends, confirming my "YOU MUST BE THIS DRUNK TO TALK TO ME" rule.
and I could say oooooooooooooooooh oooooooooooooooh oooooooooooooohoooohooooo ooooooooh oooooohooooooo, and everybody here would know what I was talking about, I mean everybody here would know exactly what I was talking about
Why do I get this drunk?
What else is there to do?
and you people enjoy it
don't fucking lie to me
i know you love the bits and scraps
ta-na-na-na-nah
i'm, itchy.
i'm fat.
i'm pissed i didn't find someone to have empty, meaningless sex with last night.
how else am i supposed to pass the time?
booze and sluts.
and bling and cristal and my escalade.
deny me and be doomed.
i'm gonna be huge, like 50 cent.

tender is the night

sometimes i wish i could bite into your flesh and feel your warm blood run down my chin.
tear at your muscle and sinew and feel how they rip and tear.
just hold your breath 'til i finish

You've got a heart so big, it could crush this town

Happy birthday, one day late to miss K.
at least the prezzies arrived on time.
and the maps were just packing material.
cool packing material, but i don't want you to think i'm giving you crumpled up old maps.
but i was rather impressed with myself for thinking of old maps as packing material.
thanks for noticing.
hope you enjoyed the stuff.

one stop shopping for readings of doughty poems

And great original lines like Wussin' out was so nineties.

Go
there
now.

would you like me to cork that whine for you?

ok, ok, i'm lame.
I had to beg to get comments.
But it feels good to look down and see 19 comments.
Even if I did have to get an assist from the choppa.
I had to be pimped out for cookies.
That's ok.

Thank you people.

seriously

Ok, people.
I hate to do this.
I wanted to leave my personal ad up top for a couple days, but according to my stats page, I had over 700 hits yesterday, July 9th.
How many comments did I get yesterday, July 9th?
Z-E-R-O
Now there were the six people looking for a frankie goes to Hollywood page, I'll forgive them.
That still leaves us with 705 people.
Lets say, oh, 100 of those were me as I messed about with the slogan and such.
605.
I know katie checked it at least once cause she IMed me about the posts. I'll be generous to the rest of you and assume she checked it 50 times.
555.
To the Spoon, Wilco, Jack Johnson and Liz Phair fans, I apologise for not having their lyrics here. I hope you enjoyed your time here anyway. All 32 of you are off the hook.
523.
With my massive ego, I assume that at least a couple of those were the fabulous Miss K. Hi Miss K. Sorry i haven't emailed back. I'm sort of at a loss what to do or say. Let's assume she checked the page 3 times just so we get a nice round number.
520.
Now there were other search queries that brought people here, mostly by happenstance, so another 120 of you get off the hook, but a couple of you need to be arrested for searching for those words in that order.
400.
Let's assume that everybody who comes to this site reloads four times.
100.
And let's also assume that say two-thirds of the people who read this are too confused, scared, disgusted or bored to comment.
33.
No one else gets out of here alive.
I should have 33 comments from yesterday.
I know you people have something to say.
I read your inane comments on Sarah's site. She posts about faucets and gets 125 comments.
So, mute people, get thee to a commentary.

P.S. The ever brilliant pip and the two-years-too-young-but-i-doubt-she-could-put-up-with-the-drinking-in-any-event and splendiforous Miss Choppa are exempt because they left comments today. And petey, cause I bumped his awesome slogan. And cause he's the coolest. And they all comment all the time. See, they're cool.

P.P.S. Read my fake personal ad. It's funny.

slowy, slowy, act like you know me

SWM, 26, blond, slightly chubby, green eyes, slightly repressed mostly mid-western boy with some island flavor; intensely solipsistic; somewhat irresponsible; rabid music fan with slightly obscure tastes; reads incessantly: books, newspapers, magazines, 'zines, web sites, blogs, signs, tea leaves, palms, between lines; agnostic with serious existential angst; sarcastic, caustic, but seldom intentionally cruel; overeducated; drinks heavily, smokes heavily, uses profanity all the fuckin' time; brit-o-phile; cash poor, but has thousands of CDs, books and Lps and some cool furniture, and unique airline benefits; world traveler, enjoys getting lost; given to bouts of mild to severe depression, possibly manic-depressive; pop-culture obsessed;
seeks
SF 22-30, slightly earnest, creative type, spontaneous but somewhat grounded, lover of travel, liker of target, cool kitsch stores, willing to tolerate and possibly enjoy hours long trips to record and book stores, preferably writer or musician, but willing to consider others
to
have wild debauched nights, snuggle on couch, watch idiosyncratic movies, listen to records while drinking gin and tonics lying on the floor with the lights off on hot summer nights, travel the world, camp on beaches, have long talks about the existence of a higher power, spend hours quitely reading and have it be pleasant not awkward, go see concerts galore, cheer up slightly in times of depression, calm down slightly in times of mania, have wild sex, sleepy sex, morning sex, and go on cross continent train journeys.

Those with eating disorders, severe father or mother issues, kids, jealousy problems or husbands need not apply.

he only wanted more time

how many of you out there knew that the original title of London Calling was The New Testament?

I ain't a playa, I just fuck a lot

(Bet you never thought you'd see Big Pun lyrics as a header here at the spig, did ja?)

I just threw away three condoms that expired July 1st.
And I know this sounds worse/better than it is, but I've never had to throw away condoms because they've expired before.
For the first time in my life I overestimated my sexual activity.
I guess living with one's parents does kind of hinder one's game.
Shit, let's be honest, I have no game to speak of anyway.
I'm like a bunny, cowering in the corner.

I have no idea what the fuck I'm talking about.

I'm gonna become a monk.
Never buy condoms again.

What the fuck am I talking about?

Found amongst the ruins

Untitled (as far as I know)

You won't divine it immediately,
........................ the infection,
the one, as they say tenderly.
from which people die.
The first sign- a strange cheerfulness,
as if you had drunk an intoxicating potion,
and the second- grief, such grief,
that, exhausted, you can't breathe.
But the third- is the surest sign:
If your heart often skips a beat,
and the candles glow in your mist gaze,
this means tomorrow you will meet
...

- Anna Akhmatova, circa 1910

2 to 6 weeks?!?!?

and school starts in 7 weeks.
grrrrrrr.
well, looks like i might as well stay in ok for most of august.

screw grad school.

i'm just gonna rent this place.

or here. it's got a double bed. *wink*

lust in phaze

ok, voting time at the spig.
It's time to move on from my current slogan (i.e. the boy scouts have issued me a cease and desist order) and i'm having trouble deciding. here's my top 3:

1. now with more sound, less fury!
2. damn it feels good to be a gangsta
3. everything is always ending

so, choose your favorite out of those, OR (being electrocuted) come up with your own, and if it grabs my fancy-dan pants in the right way (i.e. below the button, yeah, down the crotch, yeah, oh yeah, left side, now you've got it. Yeah, right there. ohhh.) I'll use it for a while and then toss it to the curb like the cheap slogan ho-a it was. Oh, and I'll link you from the slogan. Damn, you could be the first link on the spig.
But probably not. Cause I really like "now with more sound, less fury!"

addendum
4. it's tough to be this pretty.

holy time, state of grace
saturday night is judgement day
give me your crown of thorns tight around my heart

part of the conversation we didn't have last night because somehow somewhere i found some modicum of self-control (or maybe just passed out):

the phone- brrrriinng-brrringg-briiiingg
you- hello?
me- hi. i'm stoned.
you- [smiling while you talk] oh really?
me- yeah. i just wanted to thank you for that email.
you- you're welcome.
me- oh shit. it's really late, isn't it?
you - um, yeah.
me- shit, sorry. i should go
you- it's ok, as long as you only do this once every couple months.
me- so you know my 'objective assesment' was a load of crap as far as i'm concerned, right?
you- yeah, that was pretty clear.
me- you mean i didn't sell it well?
you- um. no.
me- shit. so what happens now?

And that's where I would have passed out.
And of course my end of the conversation would have been acres less coherent.

i don't know why i don't know why

can't get enough of your love, babe

RIP Barry.

and isn't elsa cabrera like the coolest name ever?

yowza.
it reminds me of why i don't swim in lakes.
let's just say i saw creep show at too young an age.
and i'm a fraidy cat.

my only complaint is the parties aren't as wild as bastille day

yesterday was the first fourth of july i've spent in the usofa in about 6 years.
it was fine.
those of you that know me know that i'm the first to deride our great nation. i love scotland and wales and greece and germany and luxembourg and spain and france (yes, france.) and think they're all great nations.
i despise gaudy american patriotism.
mostly because it's so uninformed.
butbutbut...
i love the usofa. it is the only place in the world that i could live this life, and i love this life.
there are things, massive, divisive things that are glaringly wrong with this country.
but we do have the opportunity to change them.
so instead of blind patriotism, instead of american flag t-shirts and memorized rhetoric, do me a favor.
celebrate how great this country is by voting.
vote every time you can.
and after you start voting every time you can, do me another favor.
actually look at the platforms and records and funding of the people you are voting for.
and after you start doing that, do me one more favor.
write/email/fax/call your congresspeople. state and national. hell, write that fucking idiot of a president we have too, i'm sure someone will read it to him before bed some night.
but steve, that sounds like a lot of work
it's not.
if you want to wave your flag, go right on ahead. but if you really want to celebrate this country and all it stands for become an active, intelligent, vocal participant in your government.
and at the very least, i'll respect you. even if you like guns and tax breaks for the wealthy and cutting public spending and relaxing media ownership restrictions and forcing illegal abortions and bombs and destroying the enviroment and war.
unless you vote for this fuck-o.

addendum
and write them about this, please, which is one of the most beautifully simple plans i've ever seen.

U-S-A
U-S-A
ohshutthefuckup.

one regret about wednesday/thursday

i should have ki
ssed her. i shoul
d have kissed her
. i should have
kissed her. i sh
ould have kissed
her. i should h
ave kissed her.

(more later, I wrote a big stream of fury about travel and consciousness on the plane and in the airports, but I gotta go.)

if it were just about sex, i'd fuck anyone

i want to lie in bed naked feeding her ice cream while she reads me Kavalier and Clay again.
i want to have awkward horrible urgent sex in some flat in paris again.
i want to tell her to pick out a cd to fuck to from my wall of cds and have her pick out morphine's cure for pain again.
i want to fuck her in a field, and be so scared and then amused when the automated grain elevator begins running that we give up on sex, and just lie there, laughing, naked, listening to the grain elevator again.
i want to have sad, break-up sex on the floor of her room again, after everything is moved out, after the whole building is empty, and just lie there, afterward, on the floor tangled in half discarded clothes and arms and legs whose owners it is nearly impossible to tell.
i want to pull her green ford explorer over to the side on the 5 to SF, hop in the back and fuck her again, because we couldn't wait the hour we had left.
i want my friends to take me to her dorm room when i am too drunk, where she takes care of me like a small child again.
i want to stay in the fawlty towers in elait again and not leave because it is so hot and huddle naked next to the air conditioning for three days again.
i want to spend night after night with her sleeping under my desk because my bed is too cluttered again.
i want to to spend endless summer days in her house in norman, on summer break, on a break from the world again.
i want to lie next to her, her lying on my matress, my matress lying on the floor next to me, after a long night in edinburgh.
i want to want to fall asleep next to her on the couch while watching joe vs. the volcano, but to be so afraid i might snore or drool on her that i only feign sleep.
i want to lie on a blanket in a stony driveway, looking at the ocean, listening to blood & chocolate, wondering if she wants me to kiss her again.
i want to stay up til 4am on the roof of a former soviet youth children's camp talking excitedly about ideas with her again.
i want to kiss her on my couch, to hear her tell her friends she'll be alright, and to have her curl herself up in my arms like years had never passed again.
i want to see her for that first time again, at the party, look at her, and just know, just know that this girl, whom i've never spoken to, know nothing about, but am instantly captavated by is what i'm looking for, and somehow, some way i will track her down even though she left the party before i worked up the courage to even learn her name, and meet her again and talk to her and find out that i was exactly right, and would never be so right again, again.

but what i really want, is for none of these things to have ever happened.
and then i want them all to happen with the same person.

or maybe to never happen.

people can be so great.

why are you so perfect, sometimes?

the interloper

petey, thank you for your concern.
I am not dead, luckily.
I did however see the TMBG movie, Gigantic, sunday night.
and while watching the movie, oddly enough, this self-loathing/nihilistic/existential/angry train of thoughts kept running through my brain, and I wished I were infront of a computer, but I kept being distracted by how cool the Johns are.

And so this is what unrequited something is like.
Nothing weird is going on. There's no need to be nervous. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.
By the way, which one's Pink?

Still in LA.
Still as fucked up as ever, so fear not, dear reader.
I just feel weird about blogging from someone else's living room.
i am the eternal interloper.
so don't worry about me, I'll be fine, i swear.