4/30! Walk Happy Or Don't Walk At All!

The swagger. The shuffle. The near defeat crawl.
The slump. The skip. The swing out. The stomp.
The startled scare. The game loss drag. The short of a
run. The short of a dance. The short collapse.

The doorman wants your identity, your drink count,
your reason for not smiling. The doorman wants to know
why you are walking this way, will he have to deal with
you later, what (the fuck) is your problem.

The stagger. The swim. The sidewalk stain.
The swerve into traffic. The stereo bounce. The late
blink and you missed it, you're in the road now.

The doorman explains it's just his job, because it is.
Eight hours nine hours, twelve, means nothing
when you feet won't pick up the right way.

Elements of comfort, safe place, dependent
on thirty second explanations. You can let him
know, or you can let him know.

The slog. The trek. The amble. The gambol.

#13: Morning You Leave Drinking Game

Mind Spiders. Trotskyism in the third degree, as experienced by those still learning to read. Cold coffee.

Anticipating illness like crazy, like being crazy, like not knowing whether you'll need headphones. We must always be entertained.

A history of labor to bear up on shoulders you fly with. Wings. Which books should I take? That one requires shots.

The way that doing dishes suddenly becomes very important in the face of unpacked pants.
The way that replying to an e-mail from weeks ago is now a priority.

Perhaps this is the week of the friend cull. A history you have a week to experience.
A week to make history.

Perhaps just a few sips of beer for that. And for every time you wonder aloud just how much reading you'll do on this trip, you hate the thought of going somewhere unbooked, but how much do you do at home? Aren't you leaving because it's supposed to be more interesting?

Security check passport rigamarole.

Terrible seconds turn to days and still I cannot show my face

at some point I post blog full on about the new bartending job vs. the current bartending job and old bartending job and its all likely made of venn diagrams and photos of women holding beers at chest level.
nonetheless: Hillman City is like the southend equivalent of Crown Hill. Not. Ballard. (columbia city.) But, as everything in the southend is basically facing south, you have orient things that way. the potential-new-regular got the joke, even as for the fifth time in the evening a man got up to exhort the crowd on the virtues of Merle Haggard (not hating, btw) and I wondered. Things.

Ín plainspeak, I've meant to post many great things to here, to buddyhead, to whatever media source most speaks to you, but I am now working three jobs and will probably have to move again soon.

so, it's 330 am, I'm just under an hour off a 15 hour work day and no sleep in sight, unless this Elysian Loser Ale kicks in soon. Oh, Grunge, the things you gave us will always carry the ghosts of things you took away.

me five years ago, two years from now/fuck it, here's an old song.

Asahi(koreatrip #7)

. . . is the Budweiser of Japan. Accordingly, it tastes way better than Budweiser, but was not worth the 8,500 won I spent on my first drink in two weeks at Incheon International.

I've spent about 60,000 won this trip, but much of it today, as time was running out. Flight boards in 15 minutes; accordingly, I'll post a full(ish) recap, with pictures and links and snark and sincerity, later. But three things about the airport:

*"tasteful" korean porn totally available at the the book/video store. "ero blockbuster" the only words in english.
*there is a Dunkin' Donuts here. There is not one in Seatac.
*of COURSE it is Wi-fi-ed. Of course there is an internet lounge. Of course you can charge your ipod at one of the free ipod charging stations past the security checkpoint.

Repost: Barrooms/Community Building.

In this article, Stranger books editor Paul Constant makes a call for a "writer's bar" where the entirety of Seattle's literary community can gather. It's not a bad idea; I think it's healthy for writers of different styles-- entirely different styles, not just different styles of fiction or poetry-- to rub elbows and bounce ideas. Take the ingredients you like from an essayist and put it into your short story. Things like that.
That said, I do wonder if Seattle (and other) literary types get too into "being literary." A good bar where you can talk as pretentiously as possible about whatever you've read or are working on-- that's a rad idea. but it'll always need to be balanced by the good bars where you can people watch, write in solitude or, gasp, places and activities not involving alcohol.

which I could use a bit more of lately.

off in a bit to meet with Brian about Works in Progress, which if I haven't talked about here yet, I'm not unpacking now.

Talk to the head of the ibex

So far in NY: I prefer Brooklyn to Manhattan. Love Highline Park enough that I may have even written a thing about it. Lailey's place is nice, old ceilings, thinking maybe, say, 1930s? Last night we ate out with her friend Johnathan and then met Jordan (the bf) at a bar called Clems, which was playing a compilation of psychedelic musics that were just fine and dandy. Clem's definitely had, above the bar, a stuffed capuybara (sp?) and the head of an Ibex. Real? Your guess is probably better than mine..
With PBR's scenester-ubiquity, Budweiser is once again the cheapest thing on the block. We drank that.

Rainier and Wedding Music (rough.)

It was their first dance and everybody cried. Everyone. Really.
The room was all champaigne and candles and aftershave and
a circle in the middle where one of the handful of couples I’ve
ever seen that no one had reservations about slow-stepped
into eachother and began the waltz. Perfect wedding eye-contact.
not a dry eye.

Writing alone and in public is an invitation. For interruption,
unwantedconversation. At the bar at a place that’s fast becoming
a “haunt” I liveunswayed by schedule or finances, get another.
I’ve not been writing long, they aren’t busy and this is a thought
to finish. Plus, I haven’t been interrupted yet.

I’ve been involved in executing—at some level—a fair
number of Weddings. Dj, best man, usher, something.
Ritual is important but always better when the Bride and
Groom are Having Fun Up There. The nervous pre-vow clap.
The blush-and-giggle. The spontaneous high-five.
Good food at the reception, if not an open bar.

The bartender isn’t interested that his music choice
triggered these memories, or what I’m writing, or that
I write, or if he is, that’s the wrong assumption to make.
Still, bringing it up is part of the ritual. I have still
avoided interruption, but take thoughtful pauses as I consider more.
Rainier is not a slow sipper.

What makes a great wedding song? Believability. That
the couple has reached into what they think of love
and pulled something out together, both rare and welcome.
That if they can find the right song, perhaps they
just might be ready for anything.

These are unexpected thoughts, ponderances, not plans.
I’ve long stopped making assumptions. Things I work out on paper
but never read as I ease into new haunts. Bartender wipes the
counter down with the absent vigor of one who’s been at this for years.
I lift my glass in deference without even thinking.

________________________________________________________________________________-
this is a few drafts away from anywhere close to "finished" or "let's read this out somewhere" so I'm welcoming comment.

Ladytron live review, 19/11/08.

“You don’t really go for blondes, do you?” my sister accurately observed on her recent visit. With that in mind, I knew that going to see Ladytron play in Bristol wasn’t going to be a bad idea, any way you cut it. Plus, it’d been a few months since my last gig and I was ready to be icily electropopped so the idea of getting my arm-folded head-nod on was very appealing. Also, you know, I like the band. So I hopped in the almost van with Wood and Martin and we were off. Just like that. Like Magic. Light and Magic.

Gig was at the Carling Academy; venues built specifically with the idea that no matter what sort of music is being performed, it will all feel equally out of place. A look at upcoming shows confirms this; Opeth, Alkaline Trio, The Roots. . . ah well. Better than Sin City, at any rate, albeit with worse beer. Seriously, Carling?

The support act, Asobi Sesku was solid; very loud, very pretty, tight and propulsive. None of this quite won Martin over, whose look of “this is thoroughly unimpressive in every right” was evident even dimly lit and in profile view. Wood and I quite dug on them, though; the songs were all indebted to shoegaze, but were varied enough one has their options as to what-sort-of-mix-cd they’d go on. But doubtlessly a good band to scam on girls with cute haircuts with, or perhaps impress a friend with. Fact that she sings in Japanese is cred points plus plus, but unless you’re Swervedriver or Catherine Wheel (Shoegrunge!) no one pays much attention to the words; its all about the voice-as-instrument. Which, incidentally, is one of the few aesthetics shared by a whole generation of mopey brits and the guy from Pig Destroyer.

Ladytron took the stage with Helen Marnie and Mira Aroyo right up front and the guys with questionable facial hair in the back. This is as it should be. You don’t play rhythm guitar for a band called “Ladytron” and expect an interview in Guitar Player Magazine; these guys know what side their bread is buttered on. The women of Ladytron maintained a cool reserve for most of the show as they rocketed through selections from their most recent album. It was all well and fine since that's the one I've got. A bit of a quibble as single “Ghost” felt slowed about a half-step, but “Deep Blue,” “Kletva” and “Forget the Day” were all aces.

The best moment of the show, undoubtedly, was “Seventeen,” when Marnie actually came alive and punched the air like she was at a socialist rally. Starting a revolution. Of angry 21 year olds and the men who empathise. Or something. There are many theories as to why this old, old song (for them) was the highlight of the night—possibly most credible being crowd reaction—but I’d theorise it’s easier to rock out a tune with fewer words. Plus if you fuck up the lyrics you just have to wait a few measures and you can throw down again; yeah!

The encore was a few more new ones and, of course, “Destroy Everything You Touch,” which has been stuck in my head the last couple of days. The show could have been a bit more switched-on energy wise (as demonstrated by a handful of the cuts that were) but all in all I left satisfied. After all, I was going to see a band called Ladytron.