Random Indie Bands' Thought For New Year's Eve

Time ain't gonna cure you honey; time don't give a shit.

happy last seven hours of 2008. try not to die. expect lists and reflections and shit in the first week of '09, when I'll have so much more perspective.

These are the stories you won't tell the kids we never have

"Someone's bound to take offense, but you know, fuck 'em."--Ioan.


I'm pretty sure that could have been the theme of the night for everyone. The whole banner-tearing, sex-pistols singing, couple-swapping, crowd-surfing, public-snogging, tearful-confronting, goth-dancing, shot-taking, hey!-you're 86ed bit of it. And I got to watch.

Me and Punk John are shooting each other knowing looks across a Jess/John living room as crowded as I've ever seen it. Hi, thought I knew you, guess I did, but not as well as I could have.

In other news, apparently I have a thing for girls who still live with their ex-boyfriends with whom they are very good friends.

I could sleep, I could sleep--when I lived alone-- is there a ghost in my house?

I find myself oversleeping on days when time is of the essence (like yesterday when I worked at 6:30pm and took that as a cue not to do anything beforehand), times (like today) when I could have had an insanely lazy lie-in, I wake up at 8am.

This is not interesting, or artistic, or particularly personal. I suppose it could have gone in the livejournal-I've-had-so-long-I-don't-bother-to-get-rid-of. But it goes here.

Likewise, the fact that in spite of myself I am compiling best/worst lists in my head and thinking through ideas to reviews I'll never write, theories as to why Fucked Up is representative of one of the both perpetually best and worst continuing trends in underground rock music, why It Might Be Okay Now to write poems Just to Read Aloud since its in a Different Context (yet why I'm already sick of my own Zombie Poem because I think I'm finally almost done with the nerd humour) and the Pretentious Use of Capitals to Symbolize a Much Longer Discussion.

Youtube: a cheap jukebox for the man without an i-pod and a disdain for constant myspace surfing. what's the difference? none. there is none.

-- and I shout that you're all fakes,

fakes!


the point came fast but it was too blunt to miss:
life handed us a paycheck, we said "we worked harder than this!!"
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I have two readings in the next few weeks and don't know what I'm going to read. Probably drag out little red corvette (ie: the new like taking communion but without falling over and throwing microphones) and paintings of famous satanists (another new-school high-repetition favorite) and call it good. or maybe I'll try reaaaaal haaaaard and write some new things, fix some old things and make it "special."

at any rate, here's an old one that never got much play the first time around.

Dinner for One
She walks slow from oven to table
hands pressed firm against ceramic.
mits makeshifted from towels

someone once told her that you could
burn your fingerprints off
on simple kitchen appliances

she hung a "caution" sign above the stove
for anyone who might use it,
took the batteries out of the smoke detector.

a week later her tongs disappeared.
a few close calls with oven doors and apron strings,
untied hair and blender lids,

a few too many arm-burns on oven racks;
friends started telling her
she's got to be more careful.

she eats the pasta dispassionately,
roast with abandon,
half bottle of wine in.

a fork in one hand,
steaknife in the other,
gazing out the window
as she slices.