Finished Robert Stone's Dog Soldiers. Written in '75, it's very much in the same vein as Apocalypse Now and that flick's association with the themes addressed in Hearts Of Darkness.
Needless to say, I really dug it and plan on digging in to some more of his work.
Two weekends ago I was drinking beer with my friend Ron and telling him about Stone's book. Also mentioned to him how I finally scored a copy of Robert Bingham's anthology of short stories, Pure Slaughter Value - I'd been on the search for this one for years.
Ron laid Barry Hannah's Ray on me before I left that night.
Fuck me was that a great book.
All this reading has got me jazzed. I'm been deligently working on another short story; juiced man I am.
So today, to capitalize on my gas'ed up newfound inspiration, I went to the Wilson library on the campus of UNC where they currently have an exhibit on Jack Kerouac's On The Road. UNC has a real fucking awesome collection of Beat Lit. City Lights Books proprietor Lawrence Ferlinghetti went to UNC back in the '40s. Of course he was just Larry Ferling back then.
So one of the things they have on display is the scroll that Kerouac wrote On The Road on; it is a sight to behold - one long run-on sentence. Now I've never been a huge fan of the Beats, never got obsessive about them (save for my desire to possess every chapbook in the Pocket Poetry Series), but seeing this really put the whole Beat scene into perspective. Much like burgeoning music scenes over the years (Seattle, Minneapolis, Chapel Hill etc.), you can see how the whole thing got momentum and soon became the shell of its former shelf.
But along the way, thanks in part to Ginsberg's foresight to archive much of it through photographs, you get to discover what fueled this small group of authors who would drastically change the course of contemporary American literature. They all seemed to feed off each other; collaborating with each other; acting as another's agent; helping one type. Really, these guys were like family and the collective mindset helped them forge this new world of literature.
Man, I gotta go write!
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Good Spot
So my boys and I, we've got this game we play when we are in the car called Good Spot.
What you need to spot is a Volkswagen beetle aka the bug car.
It goes something like this:
"Bug car!" hollers Spencer.
"Good spot," I say.
We have since added motorcycles and motor homes.
And convertible.
The granddaddy of them all being a convertible bug car.
Which gets the double good spot.
Like, "Bug car. Montezuma."
Now I don't know how convertible started getting called Montezumas but I assure you it had something to do w/ Spencer and his growing Hot Wheels collection.
Anyway. "Bug car. Montezuma," gets the double reply: "Good spot, good spot."
Also worthy of the double reply are blue or green bug cars.
"Bug car!" Spencer will holler. "Blue."
"Good spot," I'll say.
"Dad, it was blue. That's 'good spot, good spot'," he'll remind me.
This has been going on for about two years or so.
Which means that younger brother Cole is starting to get in on that act.
Although he often just yells out "bug car" or "good sport" at the most random times.
Until yesterday. At Spencer's soccer practice.
We all got out of the car, and parked across from us was a blue VW bug car.
"Bug car," said Cole as he pointed to it.
Spencer looked at me, said aw man and then, "Good spot, good spot," to his brother.
What you need to spot is a Volkswagen beetle aka the bug car.
It goes something like this:
"Bug car!" hollers Spencer.
"Good spot," I say.
We have since added motorcycles and motor homes.
And convertible.
The granddaddy of them all being a convertible bug car.
Which gets the double good spot.
Like, "Bug car. Montezuma."
Now I don't know how convertible started getting called Montezumas but I assure you it had something to do w/ Spencer and his growing Hot Wheels collection.
Anyway. "Bug car. Montezuma," gets the double reply: "Good spot, good spot."
Also worthy of the double reply are blue or green bug cars.
"Bug car!" Spencer will holler. "Blue."
"Good spot," I'll say.
"Dad, it was blue. That's 'good spot, good spot'," he'll remind me.
This has been going on for about two years or so.
Which means that younger brother Cole is starting to get in on that act.
Although he often just yells out "bug car" or "good sport" at the most random times.
Until yesterday. At Spencer's soccer practice.
We all got out of the car, and parked across from us was a blue VW bug car.
"Bug car," said Cole as he pointed to it.
Spencer looked at me, said aw man and then, "Good spot, good spot," to his brother.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Through The Pores
I am sick.
Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.
And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.
I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.
Junk food. Just give me junk food.
I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.
I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.
I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.
Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.
I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.
Either way, it's the pores you'll be smelling.
Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.
And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.
I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.
Junk food. Just give me junk food.
I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.
I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.
I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.
Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.
I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.
Either way, it's the pores you'll be smelling.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Post Nasal Ping Pong
You know what I'm talking about.
When you got that congested head and stuffy nose.
Decide to hit the sack. And then it starts: first it flows to the right side of your head. You have to wait a moment or two to breathe during the transition. Then it's time to blow.
After a while you switch sides, lay on the left side of your head. And the sinus migration begins. Your tongue starts to taste like the underside of a college dorm room rug. And then you surface, can breathe again. Blow.
I did this for several hours last night. I'd say I didn't sleep but then again I did have some twisted dream about getting a job as a custodian at one of the local middle schools. Had to learn how to use the tile buffer on my own. "You'll figure it out sooner or later," he said. "You're a smart guy. You went to college," said my wisened supervisor.
The weird thing was that I had to diagram on a school map where I found stuff. Like broken glass by gynasium, soilded diaper under sliding board, lost sweatshirt near the monkey bars. I had to draw these little icons of the stuff I found on this map.
This is what you get when you send your kids to school and live off of a steady diet of pulp fiction and detective shows.
When you got that congested head and stuffy nose.
Decide to hit the sack. And then it starts: first it flows to the right side of your head. You have to wait a moment or two to breathe during the transition. Then it's time to blow.
After a while you switch sides, lay on the left side of your head. And the sinus migration begins. Your tongue starts to taste like the underside of a college dorm room rug. And then you surface, can breathe again. Blow.
I did this for several hours last night. I'd say I didn't sleep but then again I did have some twisted dream about getting a job as a custodian at one of the local middle schools. Had to learn how to use the tile buffer on my own. "You'll figure it out sooner or later," he said. "You're a smart guy. You went to college," said my wisened supervisor.
The weird thing was that I had to diagram on a school map where I found stuff. Like broken glass by gynasium, soilded diaper under sliding board, lost sweatshirt near the monkey bars. I had to draw these little icons of the stuff I found on this map.
This is what you get when you send your kids to school and live off of a steady diet of pulp fiction and detective shows.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Froggy Went A-Courtin'
Froggy must have the hots for my wife - because she found him in the shower last night with her.
Lord knows how a frog got into my house, much less nestled up in the corner of our tiled shower.
According to this site - http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/anurans/Hyl_chr.html - I believe he was either a gray treefog or a green one. He definitley looked like a rock. And I had just found a treefog on sunday in - where else of all places - the treehouse.
And I was reminded of the turtle my neighbor JB found earlier in the summer.
"Greg," he said over the phone. "I found a turtle in the road and I don't know what to do with it."
"Let him go," I said.
"You've got to see him," he said.
Fucking thing was as big as a hubcap.
I shit you not.
It was either a yellowbelly slider or river cooter.
http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/turtles/trascr.html
Whatever it was, he was big and most likely older than all bloody get-out.
At first I figured we'd keep him as a pet and the boys could hand him down to their kids because surely this guy was going to outlive everyone. So I put him in the fenced part of my yard and went to bed. Next day I woke and a couldn't find him. How do you lose a turtle as a big as a hubcap I thought. The wife figured he'd crawled under the deck and was going to die a slow death, one that would bring lots and flies and other critters who like to feast on the dead.
Then I saw some brush move one day from the kitchen window. The fucker was huffing down the fence line obviously looking for a way to get out.
Then the wife calls and said that some girl she works with has pet turtles. "She let's them sleep in her bed," she said. My wife will believe anything. So this girl and her husband came over to rescue the turtle. I asked them basic questions I'd think turtle lovin' folk would know like how old do you think he is and what kind of turtle is it. Of course they know nothing. Real turtle lovers these people are. So smart guy husband picked up the beast and his lady sticks a blade of grass in front of his mouth. He does nothing. "Well, he's not a snapping turtle," she said. Fuckin' crikey mate! I could have told you that. And if it even crossed your mind he might be a snapper would you put your finger anywhere near his mouth?
I wonder if that turtle soup was good?
Lord knows how a frog got into my house, much less nestled up in the corner of our tiled shower.
According to this site - http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/anurans/Hyl_chr.html - I believe he was either a gray treefog or a green one. He definitley looked like a rock. And I had just found a treefog on sunday in - where else of all places - the treehouse.
And I was reminded of the turtle my neighbor JB found earlier in the summer.
"Greg," he said over the phone. "I found a turtle in the road and I don't know what to do with it."
"Let him go," I said.
"You've got to see him," he said.
Fucking thing was as big as a hubcap.
I shit you not.
It was either a yellowbelly slider or river cooter.
http://www.herpsofnc.org/herps_of_NC/turtles/trascr.html
Whatever it was, he was big and most likely older than all bloody get-out.
At first I figured we'd keep him as a pet and the boys could hand him down to their kids because surely this guy was going to outlive everyone. So I put him in the fenced part of my yard and went to bed. Next day I woke and a couldn't find him. How do you lose a turtle as a big as a hubcap I thought. The wife figured he'd crawled under the deck and was going to die a slow death, one that would bring lots and flies and other critters who like to feast on the dead.
Then I saw some brush move one day from the kitchen window. The fucker was huffing down the fence line obviously looking for a way to get out.
Then the wife calls and said that some girl she works with has pet turtles. "She let's them sleep in her bed," she said. My wife will believe anything. So this girl and her husband came over to rescue the turtle. I asked them basic questions I'd think turtle lovin' folk would know like how old do you think he is and what kind of turtle is it. Of course they know nothing. Real turtle lovers these people are. So smart guy husband picked up the beast and his lady sticks a blade of grass in front of his mouth. He does nothing. "Well, he's not a snapping turtle," she said. Fuckin' crikey mate! I could have told you that. And if it even crossed your mind he might be a snapper would you put your finger anywhere near his mouth?
I wonder if that turtle soup was good?
The List
Books I want to read.
Memoirs: from James Frey and Augustus Burroughs.
Bio: Nick Tosches penned tome on Dean Martin
Housebroken by David Eddie. The fucker who beat me to the stay-at-home-dad published punch
and I just picked up Robert Stone's Dog Soldiers...
Memoirs: from James Frey and Augustus Burroughs.
Bio: Nick Tosches penned tome on Dean Martin
Housebroken by David Eddie. The fucker who beat me to the stay-at-home-dad published punch
and I just picked up Robert Stone's Dog Soldiers...
Reading
I've taken - in my newfound free time - up reading again (yeah, mike i'll read that fucking screenplay soon).
I tackled The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly. One of the Farrelly brothers most noted for movies like Dumb And Dumber and Something About Mary. I had read the book years ago when it first came out. Friggin' hilarious. So I sent it to my brother Mike who is the funniest person I know and he's not even a comic. Anyway, I spotted it at the library book sale and figured it was time to revisit it. And I cracked up all over again.
I just finished Laura Lippman's Baltimore Blues. An awesome crime novel set in Baltimore. She's like a female verson of one of my favorite crime writers George Pelicanos, whose novels all take place in DC.
I tackled The Comedy Writer by Peter Farrelly. One of the Farrelly brothers most noted for movies like Dumb And Dumber and Something About Mary. I had read the book years ago when it first came out. Friggin' hilarious. So I sent it to my brother Mike who is the funniest person I know and he's not even a comic. Anyway, I spotted it at the library book sale and figured it was time to revisit it. And I cracked up all over again.
I just finished Laura Lippman's Baltimore Blues. An awesome crime novel set in Baltimore. She's like a female verson of one of my favorite crime writers George Pelicanos, whose novels all take place in DC.
Back To School
It hasn't been easy for the boys. Neither has warmed up to the idea of school.
My 5 yr. old Spencer has broken down into tears just about every day that I've dropped him off at kindergarten.
I'm not quite sure what this is all about as he had been going to a playschool several days a week for almost three years. Best I can guess is that going from a hippie co-op w/ young girls as teachers to public school where Mrs. Doubtfire is his homeroom teacher has been the most traumatic.
Cole, whom I thought would be digging the interaction w/ other kids (he often seemed bored by me over the summer) has gone the route of his older brother and cries like he's in need of an exorcism every time I drop him off.
These are the joys of parenting my friends.
My 5 yr. old Spencer has broken down into tears just about every day that I've dropped him off at kindergarten.
I'm not quite sure what this is all about as he had been going to a playschool several days a week for almost three years. Best I can guess is that going from a hippie co-op w/ young girls as teachers to public school where Mrs. Doubtfire is his homeroom teacher has been the most traumatic.
Cole, whom I thought would be digging the interaction w/ other kids (he often seemed bored by me over the summer) has gone the route of his older brother and cries like he's in need of an exorcism every time I drop him off.
These are the joys of parenting my friends.
ReCap
The summer went something like this:
a. spencer learned to swim, and when i mean swim i mean cannon balls into the 4 ft. deep end w/o me or the lifeguard having to worry about him drowning.
b. he also learned to open his eyes under water
c. he also taught his younger brother cole how to do the heavy metal rock sign
d. my band - chest pains - played out severla times. live footage can be seen at: www.soundsreelgood.blogspot.com
e. i taught a class on how to make a zine at the Duke Young Writers' Camp (http://www.learnmore.duke.edu/youth/ywc/ywcofferings.htm). i had two classes. one comprised of six middle school girls and another comprised of 13 high schoolers (10 girls, 3 boys). i learned that technology has greatly altered the course of adolescence. i took the middle schoolers to a dance performance by the ADF (http://www.americandancefestival.org/) where one girl text messaged her friend during the entire 20 minute performance. in the high school class, i watched a young crush develop between two students - who shared iPod earpieces in class everyday. one day, while taking a field trip to 9th Street - the main drag of stores by Duke - i said to them as they walked earpiece-to-earpiece, "back in my day, when we liked someone we held hands." of course all i got was blank stares. fucking old man that i am.
f. i had a piece published at www.wordriot.org. ironically, after all these years of writing, it represents my first piece of fiction published. and it's a fucking doozey.
a. spencer learned to swim, and when i mean swim i mean cannon balls into the 4 ft. deep end w/o me or the lifeguard having to worry about him drowning.
b. he also learned to open his eyes under water
c. he also taught his younger brother cole how to do the heavy metal rock sign
d. my band - chest pains - played out severla times. live footage can be seen at: www.soundsreelgood.blogspot.com
e. i taught a class on how to make a zine at the Duke Young Writers' Camp (http://www.learnmore.duke.edu/youth/ywc/ywcofferings.htm). i had two classes. one comprised of six middle school girls and another comprised of 13 high schoolers (10 girls, 3 boys). i learned that technology has greatly altered the course of adolescence. i took the middle schoolers to a dance performance by the ADF (http://www.americandancefestival.org/) where one girl text messaged her friend during the entire 20 minute performance. in the high school class, i watched a young crush develop between two students - who shared iPod earpieces in class everyday. one day, while taking a field trip to 9th Street - the main drag of stores by Duke - i said to them as they walked earpiece-to-earpiece, "back in my day, when we liked someone we held hands." of course all i got was blank stares. fucking old man that i am.
f. i had a piece published at www.wordriot.org. ironically, after all these years of writing, it represents my first piece of fiction published. and it's a fucking doozey.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Coming Up For Air
Yep.
Taking a a gulp of warm, sticky, humid air.
Two more weeks and summer officially ends which means they boys go to school: Spencer will make his kindergarten debut and Cole will make his playschool debut and punk rock daddy will finally get some quality time to himself twice a week from 9am -1pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Blog updates will be more frequent I promise.
Stay tuned.
until then, waste what idle time you have over here: www.mickogrady.blogspot.com
Taking a a gulp of warm, sticky, humid air.
Two more weeks and summer officially ends which means they boys go to school: Spencer will make his kindergarten debut and Cole will make his playschool debut and punk rock daddy will finally get some quality time to himself twice a week from 9am -1pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
Blog updates will be more frequent I promise.
Stay tuned.
until then, waste what idle time you have over here: www.mickogrady.blogspot.com
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Sanity Slowly Slipping
And it's only the first week of summer vacation.
The boys are maddening.
Cole always wants something to drink. "Juice," he'll say. Or "Milk." So I've taken the necessary precautions and bring along some juice in the car everytime I go somewhere like the grocery store or the park. Of course, he either drinks it all immediately and then asks for more juice in ten minutes or you give him juice and he wants milk.
Add to this an unhealthy obsession with Thomas The Train and the mental state of my brain takes some heavy hits.
Then Spencer adds his two cents in. I promise to take him to the pool on a play date but forgot it was the day the flooring guys came to replace the kitchen floor. Boy has meltdown when he finds out we're stuck at the house for the majority of the day. Quite honestly, I felt for him. I wanted to go to the pool as well.
Of course, I didn't whine about for the next two days like he did.
Then he wanted to go to this park that has a lined baseball field. Baseball being his current sports obsession. But the field was off limits because it was freshly lined. And just like his little brother, he managed to drink all his juice before we even got to the field. It's 90 fucking degrees here in Carolina folks and humid as a motherfucker. I know in two short steps the two will be sweating and thirsty.
Today it worked out for the best because when they started to lay into me with their demands for their thirst to be cured, a stormed loomed on the horizon and we got home just in time to miss the downpour...
And just in time to hear the moans for food, the requests for Thomas videos, and the need to pester me, dad, incessantly about anything.
Xanax anyone?
The boys are maddening.
Cole always wants something to drink. "Juice," he'll say. Or "Milk." So I've taken the necessary precautions and bring along some juice in the car everytime I go somewhere like the grocery store or the park. Of course, he either drinks it all immediately and then asks for more juice in ten minutes or you give him juice and he wants milk.
Add to this an unhealthy obsession with Thomas The Train and the mental state of my brain takes some heavy hits.
Then Spencer adds his two cents in. I promise to take him to the pool on a play date but forgot it was the day the flooring guys came to replace the kitchen floor. Boy has meltdown when he finds out we're stuck at the house for the majority of the day. Quite honestly, I felt for him. I wanted to go to the pool as well.
Of course, I didn't whine about for the next two days like he did.
Then he wanted to go to this park that has a lined baseball field. Baseball being his current sports obsession. But the field was off limits because it was freshly lined. And just like his little brother, he managed to drink all his juice before we even got to the field. It's 90 fucking degrees here in Carolina folks and humid as a motherfucker. I know in two short steps the two will be sweating and thirsty.
Today it worked out for the best because when they started to lay into me with their demands for their thirst to be cured, a stormed loomed on the horizon and we got home just in time to miss the downpour...
And just in time to hear the moans for food, the requests for Thomas videos, and the need to pester me, dad, incessantly about anything.
Xanax anyone?
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Sanity
Trying to enjoy what little I have left.
Come tomorrow, summer vacation officially starts.
Which means tending to two boys, 5 and 2, from 6am to 6pm.
You can only go the the zoo, the pool or the museum so many times before it boys the fucking hell out of you.
Looking forward to the first few times though.
Tomorrow we're going to do the family picnic thing after Spencer graduates from playschool.
Maybe do som fishing.
Come tomorrow, summer vacation officially starts.
Which means tending to two boys, 5 and 2, from 6am to 6pm.
You can only go the the zoo, the pool or the museum so many times before it boys the fucking hell out of you.
Looking forward to the first few times though.
Tomorrow we're going to do the family picnic thing after Spencer graduates from playschool.
Maybe do som fishing.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Caught Up On Catching Up?
Shit.
Two weeks just fly by.
Chest Pains played our second gig.
Masotodon blew the roof off the Cat's Cradle.
Had life affirming experience at band practice when my guitar player's Mexican neighbors invited us into their practice space, played a 30 minute set of whatever it is that they play (country? sung falsetto and backed by a polka beat), the asked us to step up and play. We played one song. The Tim left and returned with his amp and Fender guitar. Played two more songs. Got greeted by chants of "uno mas! uno mas!" and "my first time hearing American heavy metal!" Then retired and let the Mexican guitar player and his brother on drums take us through a Stones-like romp of Mexican rock & roll. Epic. More on this later.
Father-in-law got menigitis. He's okay now.
Son Cole turned two.
Saw the most fucked up movie: The Saddest Music In The World.
I'm sure more happened.
Enjoy the abridged for now.
Two weeks just fly by.
Chest Pains played our second gig.
Masotodon blew the roof off the Cat's Cradle.
Had life affirming experience at band practice when my guitar player's Mexican neighbors invited us into their practice space, played a 30 minute set of whatever it is that they play (country? sung falsetto and backed by a polka beat), the asked us to step up and play. We played one song. The Tim left and returned with his amp and Fender guitar. Played two more songs. Got greeted by chants of "uno mas! uno mas!" and "my first time hearing American heavy metal!" Then retired and let the Mexican guitar player and his brother on drums take us through a Stones-like romp of Mexican rock & roll. Epic. More on this later.
Father-in-law got menigitis. He's okay now.
Son Cole turned two.
Saw the most fucked up movie: The Saddest Music In The World.
I'm sure more happened.
Enjoy the abridged for now.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Shit, While I'm At It...
here's another gem of a poem.
inspired by the *first* Gulf War.
nothing has changed my friends:
This Ain’t Alaska
Smell of a thousand
oil changes lingers in the air.
Incessant eye sting
brings tear trail,
cutting and carving the face their way - down.
Sand clings like Bay mud
to boots, hands, lizard, and the like.
Darkness at noon
here to sway metabolism
cheating lives - away.
Soupy skin of disaster
looks straight out of hell.
This ain’t Alaska
rather modern day Mesopotamia
burning from the inside.
Eden seems some far away - now.
inspired by the *first* Gulf War.
nothing has changed my friends:
This Ain’t Alaska
Smell of a thousand
oil changes lingers in the air.
Incessant eye sting
brings tear trail,
cutting and carving the face their way - down.
Sand clings like Bay mud
to boots, hands, lizard, and the like.
Darkness at noon
here to sway metabolism
cheating lives - away.
Soupy skin of disaster
looks straight out of hell.
This ain’t Alaska
rather modern day Mesopotamia
burning from the inside.
Eden seems some far away - now.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Laundry, Fucking Laundry
I feel like I'm always doing laundry.
Always a load or two to do.
Always a bundle of clothes to be folded.
Fucking laundry.
I hate laundry... almost as bad as I hate VH1 Movies That Rock.
But, in honor of my buddy and fellow archivilist Mike Daily,
I bring you this gem from 1988:
The Church Of For Best Results
It wasn’t gray out
but rather hot - too hot.
The gray skies seem synonymous
with doing laundry; maybe it’s all those
sunshiny-fresh detergent commercials.
Heavy air of heat was beginning
to crush down on my chest
and the faint tingle of listlessness poked his head out.
Laundry isn’t terrible only
full of inconveniences: humming dryers,
dust of detergent to tickle the nose; bleach to burn it.
And the radio, just loud enough to not be ignored,
dancing between dryer and washing machine.
Becomes religious to some; apostolic.
Same day, same time, same machine.
Alcleaning, washing souls mixing
the darks with the whites.
The Church of for Best Results
and its congregation
going soul-searching with the Tide.
Always a load or two to do.
Always a bundle of clothes to be folded.
Fucking laundry.
I hate laundry... almost as bad as I hate VH1 Movies That Rock.
But, in honor of my buddy and fellow archivilist Mike Daily,
I bring you this gem from 1988:
The Church Of For Best Results
It wasn’t gray out
but rather hot - too hot.
The gray skies seem synonymous
with doing laundry; maybe it’s all those
sunshiny-fresh detergent commercials.
Heavy air of heat was beginning
to crush down on my chest
and the faint tingle of listlessness poked his head out.
Laundry isn’t terrible only
full of inconveniences: humming dryers,
dust of detergent to tickle the nose; bleach to burn it.
And the radio, just loud enough to not be ignored,
dancing between dryer and washing machine.
Becomes religious to some; apostolic.
Same day, same time, same machine.
Alcleaning, washing souls mixing
the darks with the whites.
The Church of for Best Results
and its congregation
going soul-searching with the Tide.
Chest Pains in Chapel Hill
So the Ron Liberti flyer is for my band's second show ever at some new club in Chapel Hill called Wetlands.
Last night I was drinking and spinning records getting juiced up for the show, working off some nervous energy and generally just inspired to be making music again - punk rock no less - after a 20 year absence.
I got to thinking about how to describe the band because people aske me what we sound like and hell I've been in the business of telling people what bands sound like for many moons as a music journalist/rock critic.
Yet I find it oddly incomprehensible to describe my own band.
Last night I looked at the pile of vinyl records next to my turntable, the ones currently in rotation, and I thought that might be a good place to start for inquiring minds as to getting to the bottom of what my band may sound like from my perspective.
Here's the list:
Sacchraine Trust Paganicons
Reigning Sound Time Bomb High School
Flipper Album
The Dehumanizers End Of Time
Minor Threat Out Of Step
Mentors You Axed For It!
ZZ Top Tres Hombres
Sheer Terror Just Can't Hate Enough
Rites Of Spring self-titled debut
Die Kreuzen self-titled debut
FEAR The Record
Venom Black Metal
Thee Headcoats Elementary Headcoats
Fang Landshark!
Laughing Hyenas You Can't Pray A Lie
Last night I was drinking and spinning records getting juiced up for the show, working off some nervous energy and generally just inspired to be making music again - punk rock no less - after a 20 year absence.
I got to thinking about how to describe the band because people aske me what we sound like and hell I've been in the business of telling people what bands sound like for many moons as a music journalist/rock critic.
Yet I find it oddly incomprehensible to describe my own band.
Last night I looked at the pile of vinyl records next to my turntable, the ones currently in rotation, and I thought that might be a good place to start for inquiring minds as to getting to the bottom of what my band may sound like from my perspective.
Here's the list:
Sacchraine Trust Paganicons
Reigning Sound Time Bomb High School
Flipper Album
The Dehumanizers End Of Time
Minor Threat Out Of Step
Mentors You Axed For It!
ZZ Top Tres Hombres
Sheer Terror Just Can't Hate Enough
Rites Of Spring self-titled debut
Die Kreuzen self-titled debut
FEAR The Record
Venom Black Metal
Thee Headcoats Elementary Headcoats
Fang Landshark!
Laughing Hyenas You Can't Pray A Lie
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Punk Rock For Life
So my band - the Chest Pains - played our first show this past weekend.
It was a four-band bill in Raleigh at a place called Kings (www.kingsbarcade.com).
I was nervous as all get out come the day of the show.
But we came, saw and conquered.
Nobody could have fingered us as a new band. Most folks thought we were tight.
Which is good.
I fucked up the verse on the first song but we figured out how to fuck up and keep playing weeks
ago, so it was all good. By the second song, I was channeling my inner rock god and going full bore.
The club owner said my vocals reminded him of Dez Cadena-era Black Flag, my friend Daniel over at www.dfbpunk.com thought we had some Minutemen-esque moments. Another friend said we sound like Gwar. Nothing to complain about there; our 8 songs in 20 minutes won over many, as we were asked to be the opener for shows next month with The Ghost Of Rock and the Chrome Plated Apostles. Also Kings c-owner (and Cherry Valence bassist) Paul Siler said he was happy to see something that punk at his club.
Nice.
Keeping the flame alive.
Punk rock for life.
www.thechestpains.com
It was a four-band bill in Raleigh at a place called Kings (www.kingsbarcade.com).
I was nervous as all get out come the day of the show.
But we came, saw and conquered.
Nobody could have fingered us as a new band. Most folks thought we were tight.
Which is good.
I fucked up the verse on the first song but we figured out how to fuck up and keep playing weeks
ago, so it was all good. By the second song, I was channeling my inner rock god and going full bore.
The club owner said my vocals reminded him of Dez Cadena-era Black Flag, my friend Daniel over at www.dfbpunk.com thought we had some Minutemen-esque moments. Another friend said we sound like Gwar. Nothing to complain about there; our 8 songs in 20 minutes won over many, as we were asked to be the opener for shows next month with The Ghost Of Rock and the Chrome Plated Apostles. Also Kings c-owner (and Cherry Valence bassist) Paul Siler said he was happy to see something that punk at his club.
Nice.
Keeping the flame alive.
Punk rock for life.
www.thechestpains.com
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