Rain always on the edge of snow and my instagram feed fills up with pictures of evergreens mounted with shiny baubles, LEDs strung on walls, by windows, outdoors. Your friend (back) from DC, posting pictures of the airports, families together after three, eight months, one, three, seven years. Adorable slippers and sweaters we're told are ugly. In the spots with food or drink for public consumption, surrounding choruses of "how've you beens?" and "oh my gosh LOOK AT YOU." A lot can change in a year, sometimes nothing does.
I am skipping the holiday party. The religious reasons for the season are one thing, the faith swell, the secular stop-and-breathe-in, some sort of great siblinghood of humanity. But the scheduled reality of the holiday season is a dedicated break for everyone with work seasons recognized by the Government as Regular. Say 7-10am to 4-7pm, five days a week, give or take a project here, three day weekend there. The holiday party is, was, and will always be scheduled on a Friday night, or maybe Saturday afternoon, depending if the hosts have children, how many hugs they want to give in one evening.
This is why, anymore, as a service industry worker, when people ask me about the Holidays, it's roughly the same for me as Friday afternoons when a well-meaning will say "so, looking forward to the weekend?" and I make a decision whether to say "yes, sure" or whether to say "actually, it's my Tuesday. I work tonight, tomorrow. . ." But that analogy assumes a direct, linear work week, when often, shifts are scattered in such a fashion that there's no functional end of week.
This extends far beyond food-and-drink workers; think also of the Nurses, Bus Drivers, Cops, Firemen, Grocery Store Employees, and many more professions that are so necessary to society as to not be able to shut down for more than a day (I'd say the food/drink is a soft-necessity; there's an amount of emotional labor that bartenders take on during the holidays especially). . .
It is a bit surreal to have the lights up around town, the constants of holiday greetings sincere and ironic on every feed, the cousins and friends in from out of town that, likely, I won't get to see, the entirety of Puget Sound rushing to relax, connect, get Meaningful during a handful of days, to walk in, and among it, but feel so solidly disconnected; like watching cars on the freeway from Jose Rizal Bridge, wondering if they'll get where they want in time.
Showing posts with label blogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogs. Show all posts
Monday, 21 December 2015
Monday, 6 January 2014
2013: A recap full of recaps.
Having just spent the last forty reviewing what I wrote, and wrote about in 2013, one thing that stuck out at me is how many of the substantive posts were dealing with endings. The end of 2012, the end of the Greenwood Lit Crawl, the end of my tenure as host of Works in Progress.
There were other endings I didn't post about with as much depth; the end of my tenure at North Seattle Community College, after nearly four years of tutoring. Spending 3 hours daily on rickety buses for 5 hour shifts at a wage that hadn't raised in almost a decade had become untenable, especially paired with subsequent 8 hour shifts behind a bar.
My Grandma, who taught me to love poetry at the age of 10 years old, passed last Christmas, but it was January when the services were, when we could all get together to acknowledge loss. This was a thing I tried to keep private, but that loss definitely cast its net into 2013's waters.
I also moved. For the second time in my life, and the first time as a non-student, I live alone. It's a studio apartment, but it has its own bathroom, kitchen space, plenty of natural light, a view of the smith tower that makes me feel pretty writerly late at night. this is a beginning, but it's also an end (for the time being, at least) of me living in the South End. I've lived in the South End for the last three years, since moving back to Seattle Proper, and in a sense, its become part of my identity. Not that I never left it; contrarily, it was long trips on the 7 that helped solidify my self-identification as a South-ender. Meghan K says that technically I am still a Southender, as my address has a S in it, and I'm past Yesler. . . but I'm not in the Rainier Valley, I'm on the edge of downtown. With Rachel's recent move to Capitol District (where the CD and cap hill meet and no one knows what to call it!) that leaves my job at the best bar in the RV as my only tangible connection to the 98118.
I also noticed how text heavy my posts were this year. So here's this little bit of Pop Culture that also ended in 2013:
If you didn't watch that show, I recommend it; especially if you like romantic comedies in which a jimmy-stewart-esque every man triumphs over corruption, vice, and every day hurdles through a simple purity of spirit.
I wanted to write a proper recap-- month by month, or achievement by achievement, even failure by failure. But I feel like there's been too much recapping and looking back already. The high notes have been harped on and the low notes have been struck. I'm in a different place, physically, literarily, geographically, and emotionally. And I won't be surprised if I'll be able to say the same thing next year.
There were other endings I didn't post about with as much depth; the end of my tenure at North Seattle Community College, after nearly four years of tutoring. Spending 3 hours daily on rickety buses for 5 hour shifts at a wage that hadn't raised in almost a decade had become untenable, especially paired with subsequent 8 hour shifts behind a bar.
My Grandma, who taught me to love poetry at the age of 10 years old, passed last Christmas, but it was January when the services were, when we could all get together to acknowledge loss. This was a thing I tried to keep private, but that loss definitely cast its net into 2013's waters.
I also moved. For the second time in my life, and the first time as a non-student, I live alone. It's a studio apartment, but it has its own bathroom, kitchen space, plenty of natural light, a view of the smith tower that makes me feel pretty writerly late at night. this is a beginning, but it's also an end (for the time being, at least) of me living in the South End. I've lived in the South End for the last three years, since moving back to Seattle Proper, and in a sense, its become part of my identity. Not that I never left it; contrarily, it was long trips on the 7 that helped solidify my self-identification as a South-ender. Meghan K says that technically I am still a Southender, as my address has a S in it, and I'm past Yesler. . . but I'm not in the Rainier Valley, I'm on the edge of downtown. With Rachel's recent move to Capitol District (where the CD and cap hill meet and no one knows what to call it!) that leaves my job at the best bar in the RV as my only tangible connection to the 98118.
I also noticed how text heavy my posts were this year. So here's this little bit of Pop Culture that also ended in 2013:
If you didn't watch that show, I recommend it; especially if you like romantic comedies in which a jimmy-stewart-esque every man triumphs over corruption, vice, and every day hurdles through a simple purity of spirit.
I wanted to write a proper recap-- month by month, or achievement by achievement, even failure by failure. But I feel like there's been too much recapping and looking back already. The high notes have been harped on and the low notes have been struck. I'm in a different place, physically, literarily, geographically, and emotionally. And I won't be surprised if I'll be able to say the same thing next year.
2013: Internet Stats
in 2013, I posted 58 times on this blogspot. This is down by five from 2012, when I posted 63 times, and down by 18 from 2011, when I posted 86 times on this blog. 2011, so far, is the record for posts-per-year since I started writing here (instead of Livejournal(!)) in late 2007, when blogging still seemed an artistic and expressive form instead of being Crucial to Maximizing and Maintaining a Strong Internet Presence.
The most read post this year was my Next Big Thing Interview in February, right before the release of FJGTPL. The second most read was when I wrote about the end of the Greenwood Lit Crawl, which makes me happy, since it was a piece of communication I put some work and thought into, and is perhaps my favorite of the informational blog posts from this year.
The month with the greatest number of posts (nearly a third of them from 2013) is April, due to NaPoWriMo. I still mine that repository of near-finished poems and half ideas for inspiration or pet rocks worth polishing.
Most of the traffic came from instances where I posted a link to this blog on Facebook, though some reroutes from SPLAB and Wonder And Risk came a close second.
I make no promises about whether this year will continue a downward trend in posting habits, or will reverse it. But this is the information as it stands. Deduce what you will about my life from it.
The most read post this year was my Next Big Thing Interview in February, right before the release of FJGTPL. The second most read was when I wrote about the end of the Greenwood Lit Crawl, which makes me happy, since it was a piece of communication I put some work and thought into, and is perhaps my favorite of the informational blog posts from this year.
The month with the greatest number of posts (nearly a third of them from 2013) is April, due to NaPoWriMo. I still mine that repository of near-finished poems and half ideas for inspiration or pet rocks worth polishing.
Most of the traffic came from instances where I posted a link to this blog on Facebook, though some reroutes from SPLAB and Wonder And Risk came a close second.
I make no promises about whether this year will continue a downward trend in posting habits, or will reverse it. But this is the information as it stands. Deduce what you will about my life from it.
Monday, 8 July 2013
Fast Music For Heavy Fingers or Six Months in a Half Hour
or what happens when we commit to communication
1. Internet Presence/ts.
I just dug through a nearly disused e-mail account to to find a password for a social media network I haven't used in four years. I didn't. Find it. So I had to sign into the New, Improved Version of a site that just won't go away (you know which I'm talking about. it's switched its focus to "music" lately and seems like an unholy marriage of Linkedin and Google Plus any more) and that gave me to the wills of nostalgia and more than a few names I'd forgotten exist. Profiles that haven't been updated and therefore remain locked.
You know, though? After about three minutes it wasn't much hard to click delete on that.
More challenging is/was/will be the 8 years worth of Livejournal. no linking. you'll have to work for that if you want to find all the bouts of self pity, the odd misdirected misogyny, half hearted apologies, and lite-artist-as-a-young-dogisms that simply saying "livejournal" to anyone of A Certain Age implies. Making this whole paragraph redundant.
2. I have acquired another birthday.
You know what I always think I'm going to do? Write some sort of State of the Union*, some three paragraph synopses of the Ats that Here's Where I. This is silly. Not because I never do, or because no one cares (you clicked this link, so I assume you care.) but because I hold off on ALL OTHER CONTENT until I've posted the Big Update. Which is why three updates in June, none in July, a dwindling amount of content even with more to write.
Basically, when people write "I've turned _____ and I FEEL SO OLD" it sounds like a hack's game, someone throwing themselves into a mindset because they think they should. But I also get that it's not always the case that 32 feels just like 31 feels just like 26. Things change, good and bad.** But I'll give you a few more years before you have to endure some smotheringly smug "Getting Older is Getting BETTER!" blog about how spiritually rewarding it is to purchase couches.
3. Seattle is a sentence.
I have not quite lived back in Seattle as long as I lived in Bellingham, but I have lived in Seattle longer than I did in Swansea, and longer than I'd planned/hoped on initial return. This isn't some sort of broken-plans post, I wasn't sure what I wanted from my hometown as an independent entity, so the result tends to be half boxing match, half dance. A frequent frustration being that much of the work of a grad program in a creative field is making connections. . . which are 8,000 miles away. Ba dum ching. So a sense of starting over that leaves me feel like Now, after an event or two, I feel solidly part of the Seattle lit community. It's a good community, usually. Now that I've done that work, do I want to . . . oh, who knows.
This ambivalence is fairly well amplified by reading through old blog entries from both those previous towns.
4. I quit my job at the Loft.
For three and a half years, I worked at North Seattle Community College tutoring English and Writing to ELL students, immigrants, exchange students, folks returning to school after fifteen years in professions that shut down during the recession. Arguably, this was the most rewarding, edifying ongoing*** job I've held to date. Obviously there were days it felt like work, or I didn't want to be there, but there was never a sense of futility. My co-workers were all engaged, considerate, often artistic folks and whatnot.
However, thanks to the repu- state budget crisis, there's a spending cap, meaning no raise, no additional hours. Two-three hours round trip for short shifts became the sort of diminishing returns that I couldn't idealize away any more. I quit on good terms and have already felt healthier for having a consistent sleep schedule.
5. Now I work at a bar.
It's a good bar. The amusing nightmares of past bars can go ahead and remain in the past. When people say "I bet that gives you a lot of material!" the answer is "Sure, but only for the first year. Then it's a job-- you writing a story about data management?"
I like my co-workers, it's close to my house, I make close to three times as much per hour as I did helping newcomers to the country learn the language.
6. Rachel and I are still very much a thing, but are not engaged or married or living together or whatever your conceived "next step" is
You are reading this most likely because you clicked on a link from another site. Believe me, you'd know if something big, good or bad, happened that way. Because internet.
7. I am slowly cutting down the number of literary events for which I am responsible.
Because I'd like to write my own things again, from time to time. A longer post on this balance may be forthcoming, but that's the sort of thinking that got us to this long, list based post in the first place. Never say Probably. Now I will take a bus to West Seattle, which is and is not the same place at all.
*by which I mean Graham. The UNION FOREVER!
**More specific and illuminating insights can be found in the self-help book aforementioned blog post nets me a deal for. Did you also know that change is sometimes hard, but often worth it?
*** So not including one-night gigs reading poetry, or the time I got paid by Southbank Centre to take pics of graffiti and send them to London, where they got made into postcards.****
****Yes, that was a brag. I still think that was pretty cool.
1. Internet Presence/ts.
I just dug through a nearly disused e-mail account to to find a password for a social media network I haven't used in four years. I didn't. Find it. So I had to sign into the New, Improved Version of a site that just won't go away (you know which I'm talking about. it's switched its focus to "music" lately and seems like an unholy marriage of Linkedin and Google Plus any more) and that gave me to the wills of nostalgia and more than a few names I'd forgotten exist. Profiles that haven't been updated and therefore remain locked.
You know, though? After about three minutes it wasn't much hard to click delete on that.
More challenging is/was/will be the 8 years worth of Livejournal. no linking. you'll have to work for that if you want to find all the bouts of self pity, the odd misdirected misogyny, half hearted apologies, and lite-artist-as-a-young-dogisms that simply saying "livejournal" to anyone of A Certain Age implies. Making this whole paragraph redundant.
2. I have acquired another birthday.
You know what I always think I'm going to do? Write some sort of State of the Union*, some three paragraph synopses of the Ats that Here's Where I. This is silly. Not because I never do, or because no one cares (you clicked this link, so I assume you care.) but because I hold off on ALL OTHER CONTENT until I've posted the Big Update. Which is why three updates in June, none in July, a dwindling amount of content even with more to write.
Basically, when people write "I've turned _____ and I FEEL SO OLD" it sounds like a hack's game, someone throwing themselves into a mindset because they think they should. But I also get that it's not always the case that 32 feels just like 31 feels just like 26. Things change, good and bad.** But I'll give you a few more years before you have to endure some smotheringly smug "Getting Older is Getting BETTER!" blog about how spiritually rewarding it is to purchase couches.
3. Seattle is a sentence.
I have not quite lived back in Seattle as long as I lived in Bellingham, but I have lived in Seattle longer than I did in Swansea, and longer than I'd planned/hoped on initial return. This isn't some sort of broken-plans post, I wasn't sure what I wanted from my hometown as an independent entity, so the result tends to be half boxing match, half dance. A frequent frustration being that much of the work of a grad program in a creative field is making connections. . . which are 8,000 miles away. Ba dum ching. So a sense of starting over that leaves me feel like Now, after an event or two, I feel solidly part of the Seattle lit community. It's a good community, usually. Now that I've done that work, do I want to . . . oh, who knows.
This ambivalence is fairly well amplified by reading through old blog entries from both those previous towns.
4. I quit my job at the Loft.
For three and a half years, I worked at North Seattle Community College tutoring English and Writing to ELL students, immigrants, exchange students, folks returning to school after fifteen years in professions that shut down during the recession. Arguably, this was the most rewarding, edifying ongoing*** job I've held to date. Obviously there were days it felt like work, or I didn't want to be there, but there was never a sense of futility. My co-workers were all engaged, considerate, often artistic folks and whatnot.
However, thanks to the
5. Now I work at a bar.
It's a good bar. The amusing nightmares of past bars can go ahead and remain in the past. When people say "I bet that gives you a lot of material!" the answer is "Sure, but only for the first year. Then it's a job-- you writing a story about data management?"
I like my co-workers, it's close to my house, I make close to three times as much per hour as I did helping newcomers to the country learn the language.
6. Rachel and I are still very much a thing, but are not engaged or married or living together or whatever your conceived "next step" is
You are reading this most likely because you clicked on a link from another site. Believe me, you'd know if something big, good or bad, happened that way. Because internet.
7. I am slowly cutting down the number of literary events for which I am responsible.
Because I'd like to write my own things again, from time to time. A longer post on this balance may be forthcoming, but that's the sort of thinking that got us to this long, list based post in the first place. Never say Probably. Now I will take a bus to West Seattle, which is and is not the same place at all.
*by which I mean Graham. The UNION FOREVER!
**More specific and illuminating insights can be found in the self-help book aforementioned blog post nets me a deal for. Did you also know that change is sometimes hard, but often worth it?
*** So not including one-night gigs reading poetry, or the time I got paid by Southbank Centre to take pics of graffiti and send them to London, where they got made into postcards.****
****Yes, that was a brag. I still think that was pretty cool.
Friday, 25 January 2013
Wednesday, 23 January 2013
Lets say
. . . by the end of january, the retrospective. because so far, 2013 has felt like loose ends of 2012, even more than usual, what with burying Bana and the attendant services, emotions, and deliberate squelchings thereof.
I got up at five a.m. today to see Brielle back off to Chicago and then visited Greg in the hospital, and now am off work and about to meet Aaron to plan Greenwood without Greg. Its all a lot, and I also have lots of personal/financial errands to do, and I am feeling like a rag doll all over.
This too shall pass, I'm all too aware, but the amount of minutes I've had for blogging have often been taken up with staring at walls or fb scrolling just for the sake of it.
I got up at five a.m. today to see Brielle back off to Chicago and then visited Greg in the hospital, and now am off work and about to meet Aaron to plan Greenwood without Greg. Its all a lot, and I also have lots of personal/financial errands to do, and I am feeling like a rag doll all over.
This too shall pass, I'm all too aware, but the amount of minutes I've had for blogging have often been taken up with staring at walls or fb scrolling just for the sake of it.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
don't call it an anniversary!
The sheer number of bros, back in the day, who took up the chant "This IS SPARTA," was one of the many factors that played into my never seeing 300. Also, the fact that despite the spectacle and women in leather, Sin City left me with a bad taste in my mouth.
all this is appropos only because this is, in fact, post #300 on this particular corner of the internet. Vast importance. To think, it was a mere five years ago, that, with bitterness in my fingers and bile in my heart, I created a refuge away from prying eyes and lurking lovers, a spot where I could say "whatever the fuck I wanted" and did, sometimes. Of course, over time, this has become a staid affair, as my own interest in my life has waned quite a bit, and many of those whom I'd once sought privacy from found me, either of my own accord or by happenstance, and the reaction from the universe was, as it often is, a resounding "okay," shrug, and wander off to get some pizza.
all this is appropos only because this is, in fact, post #300 on this particular corner of the internet. Vast importance. To think, it was a mere five years ago, that, with bitterness in my fingers and bile in my heart, I created a refuge away from prying eyes and lurking lovers, a spot where I could say "whatever the fuck I wanted" and did, sometimes. Of course, over time, this has become a staid affair, as my own interest in my life has waned quite a bit, and many of those whom I'd once sought privacy from found me, either of my own accord or by happenstance, and the reaction from the universe was, as it often is, a resounding "okay," shrug, and wander off to get some pizza.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Semi-live blogging old news. Undead blogging old news? Politics.
So I'm just now getting around to watching Clint Eastwood's speech at the Republican National Convention.
Honestly, so far, it's kinda bizarre, but it's also kinda charming. The Afghanistan joke may have been off-base factually (in terms of who started what) but the joke about Russia was pretty right on. Oh wait, now it's kinda getting weird. But it's still funny. I think people-- especially on the left-- underestimate (misunderestimate?) -- the capacity for humor, especially from an old movie star; after actually watching it, I'm sorta bummed on the media's response-- is that really as weird as things can get?
I was less reminded of a callow hollywood millionaire who shamelessly supports a ayn-randian agenda (as it was being painted on my facebook feed for the last week) than a friend of the family who would bend over backwards to help you, hand good words for everyone, but voted for a different ticket than you.
That said, this is also really funny.
Honestly, so far, it's kinda bizarre, but it's also kinda charming. The Afghanistan joke may have been off-base factually (in terms of who started what) but the joke about Russia was pretty right on. Oh wait, now it's kinda getting weird. But it's still funny. I think people-- especially on the left-- underestimate (misunderestimate?) -- the capacity for humor, especially from an old movie star; after actually watching it, I'm sorta bummed on the media's response-- is that really as weird as things can get?
I was less reminded of a callow hollywood millionaire who shamelessly supports a ayn-randian agenda (as it was being painted on my facebook feed for the last week) than a friend of the family who would bend over backwards to help you, hand good words for everyone, but voted for a different ticket than you.
That said, this is also really funny.
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
I almost titled this post "elf-promotion" but that would have just been silly.
tomorrow! two readings. one here at the school, where I'll continue to erode my reputation as a responsible adult and then:
prepping breadline stuff today. none of this can change the fact that I'm premium-level irritated that you now have to enter HTML for line breaks in blogspot. you can't just press "enter?" no, you cannot.
Wednesday, 8 February 2012
Leftovers from 2011, part 2 of 1 (or maybe 3)
in 2011, there were songs. Oh yes. and there were bands. and there were songs by bands and bands banning songs they used to play and I didn't so much make a list of "the best of" because I am still hearing songs that came out in 2011, and probably will be, well into 2017, because that is how music works. Rarely does anyone simply immerse themselves in "the now" in a way that doesn't also make them look a little bit silly. Here are some songs that I heard a lot of times in 2011, most of them on purpose. I'll bet you could get a good buzz on if you made a drinking game out of the ones that I'd already posted at some point, and forgot about. Most of these are just sound, but there's a couple videos.
Mogwai's album from January is still good 90% of the way through (that opener is a snooooze) and should not be relegated to any sort of bins. This song sparked my interest in actually checking out Mogwai for real, since people had been assuming that I already liked them for years.
The Obits are one of those bands that deserve a bigger following, but most of their fans listen to no new bands except the Obits. They will never write a hit, but they have a lot of cred, and sometimes they write things that sound like hits from a weird alternate-universe mashup of 91-93, 1980, and 2001, just after "fell in love with a girl" came out. "Moody, Standard, and Poor" is a good record.
I assumed Blue Sky Black Death were from Bristol, or France, or Latvia because of their gorgeous instrumental beats/melodies. Guess they're from Seattle. Huh.
. . . of course, everyone and everyone and everyone's mom who knows that Shabazz Palaces are from Seattle because HOLY SHIT SHABAZZ PALACES EVERYONE! EVERYONE! SEATTLE HAS RAPPY TYPES! EVERYONE!
"lana del ray" "odd future" "___________"
Brielle moved to Chicago this year. Go, Brielle, go!
I was gonna do a whole double-entendre thing about this band being called The Men, but realized it would be labored and hackneyed. If they were just called "Men," though, that'd be awesome.
(see also, a few posts down, the Thee Oh Sees clip for the continued up-bubbling of punk/psych/garage from various bits of the nation)
Chuck Klosterman pissed this band's fans off. I won't post a link, I'll just say that Klosterman's gotten fuckin' lazy in recent years, and tuneyards fans are touchy folk. Less people need to write about how a Feminist Woman Artist writing about rough fucking is a Statement, and more people need to write about how it is awesome.
Stay weird, Annie.
One night, after working 13 hours combined jobs, a little drunk off beers from work, I wanted to listen to something funny and aggro and weird and didn't feel like FOTL (I know, RIGHT?!) and so I loaded this video up to play this awesome song by these awesome rappers and the internet in Rainier Beach is so slow that it never played and I was angry at 3 a.m. and put on an episode of "Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia" but it woke up my housemate, who had to work at 8 a.m. so I had to turn that off as well. Marty has since gotten the internet fixed.
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
This song can play from start to finish three times in a row, starting at Westlake Station and ending at Northgate Transit Center. The sheer fucking amount of times this has soundtracked the sunset over Lake Union, or the roll out at rush hour by exit 173, or the absolute lack of any view at all.
Mogwai's album from January is still good 90% of the way through (that opener is a snooooze) and should not be relegated to any sort of bins. This song sparked my interest in actually checking out Mogwai for real, since people had been assuming that I already liked them for years.
The Obits are one of those bands that deserve a bigger following, but most of their fans listen to no new bands except the Obits. They will never write a hit, but they have a lot of cred, and sometimes they write things that sound like hits from a weird alternate-universe mashup of 91-93, 1980, and 2001, just after "fell in love with a girl" came out. "Moody, Standard, and Poor" is a good record.
I assumed Blue Sky Black Death were from Bristol, or France, or Latvia because of their gorgeous instrumental beats/melodies. Guess they're from Seattle. Huh.
. . . of course, everyone and everyone and everyone's mom who knows that Shabazz Palaces are from Seattle because HOLY SHIT SHABAZZ PALACES EVERYONE! EVERYONE! SEATTLE HAS RAPPY TYPES! EVERYONE!
"lana del ray" "odd future" "___________"
Brielle moved to Chicago this year. Go, Brielle, go!
I was gonna do a whole double-entendre thing about this band being called The Men, but realized it would be labored and hackneyed. If they were just called "Men," though, that'd be awesome.
(see also, a few posts down, the Thee Oh Sees clip for the continued up-bubbling of punk/psych/garage from various bits of the nation)
Chuck Klosterman pissed this band's fans off. I won't post a link, I'll just say that Klosterman's gotten fuckin' lazy in recent years, and tuneyards fans are touchy folk. Less people need to write about how a Feminist Woman Artist writing about rough fucking is a Statement, and more people need to write about how it is awesome.
Stay weird, Annie.
One night, after working 13 hours combined jobs, a little drunk off beers from work, I wanted to listen to something funny and aggro and weird and didn't feel like FOTL (I know, RIGHT?!) and so I loaded this video up to play this awesome song by these awesome rappers and the internet in Rainier Beach is so slow that it never played and I was angry at 3 a.m. and put on an episode of "Its Always Sunny In Philadelphia" but it woke up my housemate, who had to work at 8 a.m. so I had to turn that off as well. Marty has since gotten the internet fixed.
Momma's gonna buy you a mockingbird.
This song can play from start to finish three times in a row, starting at Westlake Station and ending at Northgate Transit Center. The sheer fucking amount of times this has soundtracked the sunset over Lake Union, or the roll out at rush hour by exit 173, or the absolute lack of any view at all.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Revolutions are real things,
but are poems about "revolution" about the real thing?
this afternoon, at the North Seattle Community College Espresso Lounge, myself, Lindsey Walker and John Newman read as part of the school's Year of Learning program; the theme for the year is, yup, "revolution."
So vague, but so specific; many of the students at North are international students, some are here directly due to displacement brought on by real, violent, terrifying revolutions. So, given my limited scope of experience with these things, I wasn't sure what to read; I support proactive and sometimes risky measures for change (my next post will probably be about Occupy______) but I am not an anarcho-socialist, by any strict measure, and my own experiences with violence involve seeing a few barfights and hitting someone over the head with a broom when I was 14. That said, the definition of "revolution" was intentionally left squishy-- Lindsey read about science, medicine, the pharoahs. John read about the Civil War, 1963 (in a piece about the '60s that didn't make me want to puke) and finding anonymous notes in library books. I read about Wales. More specifically: Culture Vs. Cause (or Enough with the Marley Already if Folks are Actually Dying)/ Neo Takes the Blue Pill/ Dongtan-Hwaesong-Suwon-Seoul/ Swansea-Cardiff Blues (bellingham edition)/ Ambition is Critcial (Swansea Edition)/ Quake Theories
First piece is perhaps anextraneously mean-spirited jab at collegiate hippie types (and bob fucking marley posters) which I wrote about six years ago, just after graduating the first time. The last poem is new, about earthquakes and what happens to Seattle. Things were well set-up and there were actually a lot of people there. (noon on a thursday? who knew.)Cousin Justin hit up the reading after a too-brief hangout beforehand, where we test-drove Ford Focuses and hey! Free coffee.
Tuesday night I had my first taste of facilitating at SPLAB Living Room a task I felt underprepared for. It's a hard working and dedicated group of writers that shows up, founded by Paul Nelson and running for over 10 years. (this is it's second in Columbia City, prior it was in Auburn.) Unforseen and unfortunate circumstances-- I don't feel like blogging grief right now-- prevented much prepwork, but things went well anyway. See above about the dedicated and talented writers.
Anyway. Lots of family is out, I'm working a lot and soon will start putting together a new book/chapbook/manuscript. Longwinded, I know.
this afternoon, at the North Seattle Community College Espresso Lounge, myself, Lindsey Walker and John Newman read as part of the school's Year of Learning program; the theme for the year is, yup, "revolution."
So vague, but so specific; many of the students at North are international students, some are here directly due to displacement brought on by real, violent, terrifying revolutions. So, given my limited scope of experience with these things, I wasn't sure what to read; I support proactive and sometimes risky measures for change (my next post will probably be about Occupy______) but I am not an anarcho-socialist, by any strict measure, and my own experiences with violence involve seeing a few barfights and hitting someone over the head with a broom when I was 14. That said, the definition of "revolution" was intentionally left squishy-- Lindsey read about science, medicine, the pharoahs. John read about the Civil War, 1963 (in a piece about the '60s that didn't make me want to puke) and finding anonymous notes in library books. I read about Wales. More specifically: Culture Vs. Cause (or Enough with the Marley Already if Folks are Actually Dying)/ Neo Takes the Blue Pill/ Dongtan-Hwaesong-Suwon-Seoul/ Swansea-Cardiff Blues (bellingham edition)/ Ambition is Critcial (Swansea Edition)/ Quake Theories
First piece is perhaps an
Tuesday night I had my first taste of facilitating at SPLAB Living Room a task I felt underprepared for. It's a hard working and dedicated group of writers that shows up, founded by Paul Nelson and running for over 10 years. (this is it's second in Columbia City, prior it was in Auburn.) Unforseen and unfortunate circumstances-- I don't feel like blogging grief right now-- prevented much prepwork, but things went well anyway. See above about the dedicated and talented writers.
Anyway. Lots of family is out, I'm working a lot and soon will start putting together a new book/chapbook/manuscript. Longwinded, I know.
Friday, 2 September 2011
Field of Memes
or RobotmonkeybadgerninjaBACONLOLZ
When the robots finally come for you,
probe you with lasers and stick needles
in you and look nothing like R2 d2 Or
the giant bugs from the Matrix
you, for one, will not be pleased to
welcome your new robot masters,
you will be crying and blubbering
And it will totally compute.
And I've seen you play baseball--
the Zombie apocalypse will not be
"awesome"
you will get your face ripped off.
not awesome.
Because the vampires were to be expected,
always a compendium of handsome assholes,
just enough gore and guts to grab the guys, too,
and werewolves have always been a bit goofy,
a metaphor for alcoholism or whatever.
but
seriously
really
literally
inserting "monkeys"
is not
random
that isn't what it means.
I get it-- I'm late to the joke, late to the disdainparty
and the subsequent "What does this say about our SOCIETY"
blog posts by people for whom pop culture is not a relevant
reference point, it is
their ONLY reference point-
so wear your
owldolphin sweatshirt
while eating chocolate bacon,
posting funny cat pics,
while reading Gorilla Vs. Bear
and naming your band
Badger Shark
but when the jokes
run out
and you have to go outside
and you wonder
why
nothing feels good
it's because you've finally done it.
you've really, finally, truly done it.
you've even ruined
animals.
When the robots finally come for you,
probe you with lasers and stick needles
in you and look nothing like R2 d2 Or
the giant bugs from the Matrix
you, for one, will not be pleased to
welcome your new robot masters,
you will be crying and blubbering
And it will totally compute.
And I've seen you play baseball--
the Zombie apocalypse will not be
"awesome"
you will get your face ripped off.
not awesome.
Because the vampires were to be expected,
always a compendium of handsome assholes,
just enough gore and guts to grab the guys, too,
and werewolves have always been a bit goofy,
a metaphor for alcoholism or whatever.
but
seriously
really
literally
inserting "monkeys"
is not
random
that isn't what it means.
I get it-- I'm late to the joke, late to the disdainparty
and the subsequent "What does this say about our SOCIETY"
blog posts by people for whom pop culture is not a relevant
reference point, it is
their ONLY reference point-
so wear your
owldolphin sweatshirt
while eating chocolate bacon,
posting funny cat pics,
while reading Gorilla Vs. Bear
and naming your band
Badger Shark
but when the jokes
run out
and you have to go outside
and you wonder
why
nothing feels good
it's because you've finally done it.
you've really, finally, truly done it.
you've even ruined
animals.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Feb '11/this ends here/has ended/trouble with tenses.
Things that I realized/did/experienced in February that were not related to readings, as such:
1) starting a blog post and getting distracted and starting it up again twenty minutes later is a good way to forget all your awesome ideas.
2) sitting on the floor in the middle of your living room, trying to write things (of any nature) while the universe and your family cavorts around you is less than optimal. the reason this sitting occurs in this place is because of the necessity of physical wires for the internet.
3) roy williams is capable of high levels of support, fun-having, charm and unobrusivity, all at once.
4) my dad know everything about seattle's history and still wants to learn the new stuff ("why don't we swing through georgetown-- where exactly is all the stuff supposed to be happening there?")
5) planning for a class that you are going to teach requires actually planning for a class you are going to teach.
6) having a cute new baby around means people bring your sister food, which you can steal.
7) a broken phone screen is a pain at first, but then, liberating.
8) lists are the lowest form of communication.
1) starting a blog post and getting distracted and starting it up again twenty minutes later is a good way to forget all your awesome ideas.
2) sitting on the floor in the middle of your living room, trying to write things (of any nature) while the universe and your family cavorts around you is less than optimal. the reason this sitting occurs in this place is because of the necessity of physical wires for the internet.
3) roy williams is capable of high levels of support, fun-having, charm and unobrusivity, all at once.
4) my dad know everything about seattle's history and still wants to learn the new stuff ("why don't we swing through georgetown-- where exactly is all the stuff supposed to be happening there?")
5) planning for a class that you are going to teach requires actually planning for a class you are going to teach.
6) having a cute new baby around means people bring your sister food, which you can steal.
7) a broken phone screen is a pain at first, but then, liberating.
8) lists are the lowest form of communication.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
My Year in Lists Part 3
Things I have found during a recent sweep/straightening of the corners of my bedroom, near the end of 2010/beginning 2011:
4 Stacks of American Education Services, Citibank and American Student Loan Services letters of varying relevance, addressed to the old Stanwood address.
2 of the same, but addressed to my current address in Seattle.
3 broadsides of "Genus, Species and Flavour"
7 chapbooks: readers copies of the first three, a misprint of "TWWCHNT: New Revised Standard" and three Ourosboros.
A handwrittend Shane Guthrie piece about condos (yes!)
A stack of photos from the first three months at Ty Beck.
A cd jewel case to Goodness' 1995 self-titled debut album.
3 different scraps of paper with unexplaned british phone numbers.
about 7 different copies of "When Saying Mean Things About Strangers."
Phone numbers from two different ex-girlfriends, acquired prior to our dating.
about 17 differnt crumpled up bank statements from the last two years.
Postcards from three different New York art galleries.
Chapters 1-26 of a book my Dad wrote and lent me, separately stapled and all out of order (read, enjoyed, feedback pending)
a stack of unopened letters from DSHS.
w-2a from Richard Hugo House, Vera Project and North Seattle Community College.
5 drafts of Vera Project's Powersharing Statement Language.
Notes from an interview with Trevor, intern at Vera Project, about the DJ/electronic scene in Seattle (barely legible)
A burned copy of Mastodon's "Leviathan" album (scratched)
Three unfinished Mix CDs, titles scribbled out.
9 different hastily-scribbled setlists for past poetry readings.
9,384 dust bunnies (not very bunny like)
A photo of the one time Phil Woodward came to IOI in 1999, staring at Shane in disbelief.
1 flyer for dianetics.
1 Visitor information card from St James Catholic Church (visited once)
Handwritten lyrics to "It's a Laugh" by Hall and Oates
A copy of "Big Machine" by Victor Lavalle (read, enjoyed)
A copy of "Financial Lives of the Poets" by Jess Walters (unread, probably will sell)
The last flattering photo taken of me, taken July '11 at Bimbo's cantina with Leigh, Emily, Alex and Bryan; I was looking away from the camera and sort of almost smiling. It's all downhill from there.
4 Stacks of American Education Services, Citibank and American Student Loan Services letters of varying relevance, addressed to the old Stanwood address.
2 of the same, but addressed to my current address in Seattle.
3 broadsides of "Genus, Species and Flavour"
7 chapbooks: readers copies of the first three, a misprint of "TWWCHNT: New Revised Standard" and three Ourosboros.
A handwrittend Shane Guthrie piece about condos (yes!)
A stack of photos from the first three months at Ty Beck.
A cd jewel case to Goodness' 1995 self-titled debut album.
3 different scraps of paper with unexplaned british phone numbers.
about 7 different copies of "When Saying Mean Things About Strangers."
Phone numbers from two different ex-girlfriends, acquired prior to our dating.
about 17 differnt crumpled up bank statements from the last two years.
Postcards from three different New York art galleries.
Chapters 1-26 of a book my Dad wrote and lent me, separately stapled and all out of order (read, enjoyed, feedback pending)
a stack of unopened letters from DSHS.
w-2a from Richard Hugo House, Vera Project and North Seattle Community College.
5 drafts of Vera Project's Powersharing Statement Language.
Notes from an interview with Trevor, intern at Vera Project, about the DJ/electronic scene in Seattle (barely legible)
A burned copy of Mastodon's "Leviathan" album (scratched)
Three unfinished Mix CDs, titles scribbled out.
9 different hastily-scribbled setlists for past poetry readings.
9,384 dust bunnies (not very bunny like)
A photo of the one time Phil Woodward came to IOI in 1999, staring at Shane in disbelief.
1 flyer for dianetics.
1 Visitor information card from St James Catholic Church (visited once)
Handwritten lyrics to "It's a Laugh" by Hall and Oates
A copy of "Big Machine" by Victor Lavalle (read, enjoyed)
A copy of "Financial Lives of the Poets" by Jess Walters (unread, probably will sell)
The last flattering photo taken of me, taken July '11 at Bimbo's cantina with Leigh, Emily, Alex and Bryan; I was looking away from the camera and sort of almost smiling. It's all downhill from there.
Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Swansea, days 6, 7 and beyond . . . !
. . . it should be noted that day 5 did not end at the Rhyddings in a pool of Graham-flavored nostalgia. No, it actually ended with Chris Samia and I at a dinner on St. Alban's road, hosted by our poetry professor and writer-of-many-books Nigel Jenkins and his partner Margot. The food was delicious, conversation both honest and inspiring and the wine was flowing. Oh man, was it flowing.
So it was after that I went to sleep at 1 am, woke up at 4:30am and couldn't get back to sleep. and Day 6 was the day I was to go to Cardiff and meet Anne and Howard Webb. Which I did. And it was nice. I just wish that my primo instinct the whole time hadn't been to find a corner of the pub in Glaedeou y Garth (sp?) and sleep a bit. Then in the backseat of the car and sleep a bit. But saw some amazing views of the area around Cardiff and caught up with Anne, whom it's always good to see. She dropped Howard and I off at City Arms in the 'diff's center, where we talked football (both types) travel (wherever feet may take us) and life in general. I switched between ales and orange juice when it was discovered that City Arms may have all the half-quirky, half-everyguy trappings of a big-city local, but it does not, in fact, serve coffee. In the last hours of our sojourn there, we were joined by Punk John for a round before I trained it back to Swansea.
the train ride was all sleep, and sort of surreal. in my current life context, I am used to waking up at the jostles of the 7, being shoved into a corner when the bus gets too full by an elderly vietnamese man who communicates to me largely with gestures. or the light rail, where the asexual female robot voice informs us "now entering. . . Beacon Hill station."
so to have largely the same in-again, out-again consciousness backgrounded by the landscape I knew well for two years and then disappeared from, the Welsh accents and all-- that was odd.
That evening I had a really nice dinner at Ian and Nessa Folks' house. While in Swansea I didn't go back to my old church (I chose sleep) and I missed seeing people from there whom I'd have liked to. But I was really glad to hang out with the Folks. I won't run down all the conversation topics, because there were many.
Tuesday. Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday. Due to phone-situations (and bad reception) I missed about 8,431 calls (fine, maybe 3)and my morning was spent packing. So it goes.
Dragged luggage to campus. Met for a too-short (not like the rapper) lunch with Wood where we talked music, home life and the time travel murder of millions (okay, maybe a little bit like the rapper.)
Dropped my shit off at Adam/Keiran/Jen's. Adam described his turkey-cooking efforts as "just bastin' away."
Took a quick run to Monkey (downtown) and met Theresa and Pat. Ate cupcakes. Drank coffee. Alun *happened* to be meeting Sophie there later, stopped in and said hi. That was person 3,456 that I didn't know I would see but was glad to (okay, like person 4. ish.)
On my way to the Cricketers I stopped in at Primark. I kind of regret not getting the rad coat for ten pounds, but am happy that a simple shoe-buy didn't turn into a spree.
Annmarie and I drank stella at the cricks. her new BF seems real cool. As does Pat, teez's new dude. All whatevers aside, good for them.
Weesh. My compulsion for play-by-play is wearying me, can't imagine anyone reads this all the way through. Next was Thanksgiving dinner at Adkeirjen's, then a round of drinks at the Bryn Y Mor for Punk John's birthday then various convos and mechanations to stay awake for the 430am taxi to the coach, where we were early, thus facilitating a walk around Tesco in the wee hours, Keiran suggesting various fruit fights.
Jen's sister Laura and I rode the coach together to Heathrow, where the last of the party (for me) disbanded.
the four hours in the airport did a lot to make me glad to actually get on planes and Icelandair's Iceland-centric charm did a lot to make the same three pop songs they played at the beginning and end of my trip a nostalgia-striker.
when I got home I rode the light rail, met Jake at the house, we had a pitcher of Manny's at Lotties and watched some Peep Show. I was back. Am back. Right now Brielle and a friend are making cookies in the kitchen and Jonny and Nat are watching Anime. I should probably take a shower.
So it was after that I went to sleep at 1 am, woke up at 4:30am and couldn't get back to sleep. and Day 6 was the day I was to go to Cardiff and meet Anne and Howard Webb. Which I did. And it was nice. I just wish that my primo instinct the whole time hadn't been to find a corner of the pub in Glaedeou y Garth (sp?) and sleep a bit. Then in the backseat of the car and sleep a bit. But saw some amazing views of the area around Cardiff and caught up with Anne, whom it's always good to see. She dropped Howard and I off at City Arms in the 'diff's center, where we talked football (both types) travel (wherever feet may take us) and life in general. I switched between ales and orange juice when it was discovered that City Arms may have all the half-quirky, half-everyguy trappings of a big-city local, but it does not, in fact, serve coffee. In the last hours of our sojourn there, we were joined by Punk John for a round before I trained it back to Swansea.
the train ride was all sleep, and sort of surreal. in my current life context, I am used to waking up at the jostles of the 7, being shoved into a corner when the bus gets too full by an elderly vietnamese man who communicates to me largely with gestures. or the light rail, where the asexual female robot voice informs us "now entering. . . Beacon Hill station."
so to have largely the same in-again, out-again consciousness backgrounded by the landscape I knew well for two years and then disappeared from, the Welsh accents and all-- that was odd.
That evening I had a really nice dinner at Ian and Nessa Folks' house. While in Swansea I didn't go back to my old church (I chose sleep) and I missed seeing people from there whom I'd have liked to. But I was really glad to hang out with the Folks. I won't run down all the conversation topics, because there were many.
Tuesday. Tuesday Tuesday Tuesday. Due to phone-situations (and bad reception) I missed about 8,431 calls (fine, maybe 3)and my morning was spent packing. So it goes.
Dragged luggage to campus. Met for a too-short (not like the rapper) lunch with Wood where we talked music, home life and the time travel murder of millions (okay, maybe a little bit like the rapper.)
Dropped my shit off at Adam/Keiran/Jen's. Adam described his turkey-cooking efforts as "just bastin' away."
Took a quick run to Monkey (downtown) and met Theresa and Pat. Ate cupcakes. Drank coffee. Alun *happened* to be meeting Sophie there later, stopped in and said hi. That was person 3,456 that I didn't know I would see but was glad to (okay, like person 4. ish.)
On my way to the Cricketers I stopped in at Primark. I kind of regret not getting the rad coat for ten pounds, but am happy that a simple shoe-buy didn't turn into a spree.
Annmarie and I drank stella at the cricks. her new BF seems real cool. As does Pat, teez's new dude. All whatevers aside, good for them.
Weesh. My compulsion for play-by-play is wearying me, can't imagine anyone reads this all the way through. Next was Thanksgiving dinner at Adkeirjen's, then a round of drinks at the Bryn Y Mor for Punk John's birthday then various convos and mechanations to stay awake for the 430am taxi to the coach, where we were early, thus facilitating a walk around Tesco in the wee hours, Keiran suggesting various fruit fights.
Jen's sister Laura and I rode the coach together to Heathrow, where the last of the party (for me) disbanded.
the four hours in the airport did a lot to make me glad to actually get on planes and Icelandair's Iceland-centric charm did a lot to make the same three pop songs they played at the beginning and end of my trip a nostalgia-striker.
when I got home I rode the light rail, met Jake at the house, we had a pitcher of Manny's at Lotties and watched some Peep Show. I was back. Am back. Right now Brielle and a friend are making cookies in the kitchen and Jonny and Nat are watching Anime. I should probably take a shower.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
GOgoGogoGOgO
. . . once again, from the Heathrow airport. Heading in a different direction this time. Days 4,5,6,7 will be hastily documented and chronicled before I allow myself any other blog posts. I do not guarantee satisfaction. a really scandanavian hot woman just sat down across from me.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Nanowripomo and other notes.
NANOWRIPOMO is a lot like NANOWRIMO but with poems. Like, because April is "national poetry month" writer types are encouraged to try to write a poem a day this april. So far I've only missed one day. This is fine; I'm shooting for "produced or significantly revised a poem on the majority of days in april." It's not a literalist interpetation of the law.
Also: been picking up shifts at the RHH Cafe/Bar during events. This is good. Keeps me in incidentals/coffee/incidentals. Placed my chapbooks in a couple of indie bookstores-- Left Bank and Pilot.
About a week ago did a gig at New Crompton with Deerseekingheadlights, My Printer Broke, 1985 and Cat Band. We broadcast the whole thing live on Chatroullette to a smattering of confused 15 year old girls and a Sea of Penises (band name!) I did brief sets between the bands and everyone was bundles of friendly and it was good to see DSH with Peter and hear 1985 again.
Talks of more such gigs.
Other things have happened, or not happened, but I'm not too concerned. Below you'll find two of the things I wrote for Nanowripomopomopwripomo and the setlist for the above show. Enjoy.
The Bar You Like Will Come Back Into Style
Hours: From two hours before you admit you drink
to three hours after its legal.
86ed: the guy with the silver soul patch who always came in with
those two girls who looked way younger than him, reeking of gin at 3pm.
He had a deep voice and perpetually open wallet; the sort you like in every night
until he mistook a server for one of his ladies, darting hand, cheek-slap, escalation.
Now when the girls show up they are drearily sober,
order one drink before hailing taxis.
Benny, the sports nut. Welcome enough to watch the game, but touchdown
re-enactments cost Old Jim his prosthetic leg.
The frat boys who kept trying to hump the moose head.
Loose Mary.
Todays Lunch Special: A burger. A big burger, with bits of meatgrease smeared on the side of the plate. A big huge salty burger you have to unhinge your jaw to eat. A big huge salty burger you have to unhinge your jaw to eat and a whole fuckoff mountain of fries covered in pigsweat and sitting in the meatgrease smeared to the side of the plate, paintchips and stringlets of the fry-cooks curly beard between the bun and pickles. You will have to order a second drink to finish and by then
happy hour is over.
Weekend Events: Friday: A band. Almost good. No, almost GREAT. Almost phenomenal. They know good jokes to tell between songs, you laugh loud but their friends still shoot you dirty looks when they realize they don’t recognize you.
Saturday: Karaoke, magic tricks, dancing clowns, abyss-staring.
Daily Drink Special: Gin and Paint thinner. Scraped and melted from the counter. Whisky and motor oil, straight from the moose’s mouth. Ten bucks extra for some rusty nails. You pay extra to sit here, the last shitty bar in a renovated side of town, wondering if today you’ll finally get to start a fight.
Kids Stuff
In the poem I write about Childhood
I stand in a field with adults and prophets,
running out ahead, hugging the wind
face beaming, I am cute and precocious
and wise like a child in the bible.
In the poem I write about Childhood
we are angelfaced, shedding light
innocent and smiling, positively goddamn beatific,
-- I’ve even got the last half of the end line:
“we knew so much. . . then.”
a little more wistful, a little more pure
instead of the grubby little shits we were,
clawing to the top of the slide,
punching eachother out for bits of snickers.
setlist for 3/28
Rucksacks
Ryan Johnson Asks Me Why Chris Gusta Got a Vasectomy
Little Red Corvette
When Saying Mean Things About Strangers
Cavities
_________
Rules For Riding the King County Metro
_________
Explorer
Pack Mentality and Your Tenderloins
then there was lots of noise and trumpet-raping.
Also: been picking up shifts at the RHH Cafe/Bar during events. This is good. Keeps me in incidentals/coffee/incidentals. Placed my chapbooks in a couple of indie bookstores-- Left Bank and Pilot.
About a week ago did a gig at New Crompton with Deerseekingheadlights, My Printer Broke, 1985 and Cat Band. We broadcast the whole thing live on Chatroullette to a smattering of confused 15 year old girls and a Sea of Penises (band name!) I did brief sets between the bands and everyone was bundles of friendly and it was good to see DSH with Peter and hear 1985 again.
Talks of more such gigs.
Other things have happened, or not happened, but I'm not too concerned. Below you'll find two of the things I wrote for Nanowripomopomopwripomo and the setlist for the above show. Enjoy.
The Bar You Like Will Come Back Into Style
Hours: From two hours before you admit you drink
to three hours after its legal.
86ed: the guy with the silver soul patch who always came in with
those two girls who looked way younger than him, reeking of gin at 3pm.
He had a deep voice and perpetually open wallet; the sort you like in every night
until he mistook a server for one of his ladies, darting hand, cheek-slap, escalation.
Now when the girls show up they are drearily sober,
order one drink before hailing taxis.
Benny, the sports nut. Welcome enough to watch the game, but touchdown
re-enactments cost Old Jim his prosthetic leg.
The frat boys who kept trying to hump the moose head.
Loose Mary.
Todays Lunch Special: A burger. A big burger, with bits of meatgrease smeared on the side of the plate. A big huge salty burger you have to unhinge your jaw to eat. A big huge salty burger you have to unhinge your jaw to eat and a whole fuckoff mountain of fries covered in pigsweat and sitting in the meatgrease smeared to the side of the plate, paintchips and stringlets of the fry-cooks curly beard between the bun and pickles. You will have to order a second drink to finish and by then
happy hour is over.
Weekend Events: Friday: A band. Almost good. No, almost GREAT. Almost phenomenal. They know good jokes to tell between songs, you laugh loud but their friends still shoot you dirty looks when they realize they don’t recognize you.
Saturday: Karaoke, magic tricks, dancing clowns, abyss-staring.
Daily Drink Special: Gin and Paint thinner. Scraped and melted from the counter. Whisky and motor oil, straight from the moose’s mouth. Ten bucks extra for some rusty nails. You pay extra to sit here, the last shitty bar in a renovated side of town, wondering if today you’ll finally get to start a fight.
Kids Stuff
In the poem I write about Childhood
I stand in a field with adults and prophets,
running out ahead, hugging the wind
face beaming, I am cute and precocious
and wise like a child in the bible.
In the poem I write about Childhood
we are angelfaced, shedding light
innocent and smiling, positively goddamn beatific,
-- I’ve even got the last half of the end line:
“we knew so much. . . then.”
a little more wistful, a little more pure
instead of the grubby little shits we were,
clawing to the top of the slide,
punching eachother out for bits of snickers.
setlist for 3/28
Rucksacks
Ryan Johnson Asks Me Why Chris Gusta Got a Vasectomy
Little Red Corvette
When Saying Mean Things About Strangers
Cavities
_________
Rules For Riding the King County Metro
_________
Explorer
Pack Mentality and Your Tenderloins
then there was lots of noise and trumpet-raping.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
It's raining in Vancouver, but I don't give a fuck
Monday night I'm doing my feature at Bellingham's Poetry Night, the reading I cut my semi-adult to adult teeth at. In preparation, in addition to bugging people to re-arrange their entire lives in order to make it to B'ham, I've also made a few broadsides of new poem "When Saying Mean Things About Strangers." Which mayhaps I'll post here at some point. But the point is, I'm using this blog post as a way to put off the hand-drawn illustrations part of the artistic process, because once the ink is on there, its on there.
So. Check out my most recently published piece. . . yes, I think online counts. Especially if it's as clearly-planned-and-cool-looking as KP tends to be.
Also, you can read the blog I write for ZAPP, which currently gets updated as often or more often than this one.
Today: So frustrating. So many "almosts" with regards to chapbook completion, art-making and things getting done. Tonight: more work. forge ahead. listen to Japandroids in an empty house on Warsaw street.
So. Check out my most recently published piece. . . yes, I think online counts. Especially if it's as clearly-planned-and-cool-looking as KP tends to be.
Also, you can read the blog I write for ZAPP, which currently gets updated as often or more often than this one.
Today: So frustrating. So many "almosts" with regards to chapbook completion, art-making and things getting done. Tonight: more work. forge ahead. listen to Japandroids in an empty house on Warsaw street.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Give Me Something I Can Take Away-- Year in Music 2 or something
My opinion has always been that you can't quite make a "Best of" list until sometime in June, when you've fully caught up on Year Previous, by which time you are hopelessly "behind" on the next year, because, after all, it is a race. So I probably forgot a couple records in making this list, but it was still fun to make. I didn't include albums by bands I Always Like if I didn't think they were great(sorry Pearl Jam), nor did I include records made by humans I have physically touched in a non-concert setting. Feel free to berate me on my choices.
St. Vincent—The Actor
For me, St. Vincent is like meeting someone at a boring party, deciding she’s nice enough, but pretty much like every other person there and they’re talking about like, wine or something, not that there’s anything wrong with wine, but the hostess, who you really do appreciate the invitation and everything, she’s cute and all and probably the best person out of that douchey study group where you met, but really why did you come to this party anyway? So then, like, later, at some isolated situation that is not a party you meet St. Vincent and she is funny and weird and clever and sort of fucked up in a really interesting way. You do not want to marry her, but hey, she made this sweet album and listening to it is rad.
MF Doom—Born Like This
MF Doom remains a bizarre dude. Not in the “HI MY NAME IS LIL WAYNE/KANYE WEST AND YOU SHOULD LOOK AT ALL THIS CRAZY SHIT I DO I DO SOME CRAZY SHIT BECAUSE I AM AN ARTIST WHO HAS NOTHING TO SAY BUT CRAAAAAZY SHIIIIIIIT” but more in a way that I would give a crap about, ever. The growing collective of People Who Want Graham to Smoke Pot rejoice.
Fever Ray—S/T
Want to come over to my house some frosty winter and have sex with me while we listen to Fever Ray? BDSM/cosplay optional.
The Obits—I Blame You
Someone give Frohberg a check so that he can just keep making good albums like this. Eases up on the Hot Snakes’ breakneckery, throws in some surf, some swing, rockabilly, keeps the guitars clean and crisp, lyrics smart and straight-up. Guy should be teaching classes on this shit, but most “rock and rollers” are too busy worrying about their hair and practicing sneers in the mirror.
Animal Collective—Merriweather Post-Pavillion
I think it’s possible to be highly overrated, have a pretty annoying fanbase and still be really good.
Japandroids—Post Nothing
Go for it boys, you’ve got your youth, earnesty-thinly-hidden-by-swagger and a history of pop-punk, power-pop and shoegaze in your arsenal. If the results are a bit immature sometimes, well, so am I. And that’s fine.
Anti-Pop Consortium—Fluorescent Black
Remember when __indie kids/rockers/hipsters/art kids, whoever___ gave a shit about whether the hip hop they listened to was actually good and not just an excuse to throw a theme party where they could throw on huge glasses and act out racial caricatures in the name of pop-culture parody?
A Place to Bury Strangers—Exploding Head
When you are this loud and ominous you can get away with having the word “heart” in more than one of your song titles.
The Mountain Goats—Life of the World to Come
When I heard that Darnielle was doing an album where each song corresponded to a Bible Verse, I wasn’t surprised; in fact I was almost surprised he hadn’t already. As a songwriter, I think JD is pretty much unmatched, so he’s uniquely suited to a project like this and the results are stunning. The melodies are strong here too, giving a way in to casual-er MG listeners.
Future of the Left—Travels With Myself and Another
. . . but he can’t put his finger on it; he’ll never be that kind of man/He’ll die in his bed on a summer’s night, with his hand on his favorite thing. There are words he could use to describe it/metaphors that should have applied-- he’ll die in his bed on a summer’s night with his hand on his adequate bride.
St. Vincent—The Actor
For me, St. Vincent is like meeting someone at a boring party, deciding she’s nice enough, but pretty much like every other person there and they’re talking about like, wine or something, not that there’s anything wrong with wine, but the hostess, who you really do appreciate the invitation and everything, she’s cute and all and probably the best person out of that douchey study group where you met, but really why did you come to this party anyway? So then, like, later, at some isolated situation that is not a party you meet St. Vincent and she is funny and weird and clever and sort of fucked up in a really interesting way. You do not want to marry her, but hey, she made this sweet album and listening to it is rad.
MF Doom—Born Like This
MF Doom remains a bizarre dude. Not in the “HI MY NAME IS LIL WAYNE/KANYE WEST AND YOU SHOULD LOOK AT ALL THIS CRAZY SHIT I DO I DO SOME CRAZY SHIT BECAUSE I AM AN ARTIST WHO HAS NOTHING TO SAY BUT CRAAAAAZY SHIIIIIIIT” but more in a way that I would give a crap about, ever. The growing collective of People Who Want Graham to Smoke Pot rejoice.
Fever Ray—S/T
Want to come over to my house some frosty winter and have sex with me while we listen to Fever Ray? BDSM/cosplay optional.
The Obits—I Blame You
Someone give Frohberg a check so that he can just keep making good albums like this. Eases up on the Hot Snakes’ breakneckery, throws in some surf, some swing, rockabilly, keeps the guitars clean and crisp, lyrics smart and straight-up. Guy should be teaching classes on this shit, but most “rock and rollers” are too busy worrying about their hair and practicing sneers in the mirror.
Animal Collective—Merriweather Post-Pavillion
I think it’s possible to be highly overrated, have a pretty annoying fanbase and still be really good.
Japandroids—Post Nothing
Go for it boys, you’ve got your youth, earnesty-thinly-hidden-by-swagger and a history of pop-punk, power-pop and shoegaze in your arsenal. If the results are a bit immature sometimes, well, so am I. And that’s fine.
Anti-Pop Consortium—Fluorescent Black
Remember when __indie kids/rockers/hipsters/art kids, whoever___ gave a shit about whether the hip hop they listened to was actually good and not just an excuse to throw a theme party where they could throw on huge glasses and act out racial caricatures in the name of pop-culture parody?
A Place to Bury Strangers—Exploding Head
When you are this loud and ominous you can get away with having the word “heart” in more than one of your song titles.
The Mountain Goats—Life of the World to Come
When I heard that Darnielle was doing an album where each song corresponded to a Bible Verse, I wasn’t surprised; in fact I was almost surprised he hadn’t already. As a songwriter, I think JD is pretty much unmatched, so he’s uniquely suited to a project like this and the results are stunning. The melodies are strong here too, giving a way in to casual-er MG listeners.
Future of the Left—Travels With Myself and Another
. . . but he can’t put his finger on it; he’ll never be that kind of man/He’ll die in his bed on a summer’s night, with his hand on his favorite thing. There are words he could use to describe it/metaphors that should have applied-- he’ll die in his bed on a summer’s night with his hand on his adequate bride.
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