(things I wrote down on half an hour of sleep this morning; as ever, if it's in brackets they're not my words)
blood half-caffeine, churning and shaking, I stare at 9:00 in the morning with the same eyes that saw 9:00 the previous night - barely rested, sore, and suddenly shaken by the final chord of a four-month-long song. that which had become my nucleus is splitting and I am pinned here, looking up to the sky, heart pounding out delirium, no sleep until I know what happens next, no sleep till I can't stand it anymore.
[thought of you as my mountaintop, thought of you as my peak
thought of you as everything I had but couldn't keep]
what of it now? what to believe? bonds forged in the giddy hours of the morning, taste of diner coffee on my tongue and the good tired feeling of laughter in my throat. something has changed on a deep, irreversible level; a commitment has been made, but what of my promise to myself, what of this tentative declaration of love that hangs clearly visible in the air like our breath in the frozen morning? I'm going on - no time to settle that which matters in the course of a life until the last chord finishes ringing out.
--
saying goodbye for now to one of my friends this morning, she said, "I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow!" to me. just about broke my heart, for some reason. I'm always afraid people aren't going to miss me.
sometimes when monumental things happen in my life I imagine hearing a massive guitar/piano chord in the background, like the end of "A Day in the Life" or "Love Reign O'er Me" something. I can't be the only one.
I think I've said the word "bizarre" a thousand times since yesterday afternoon. it's fitting though. things have been bizarre. wonderful, mostly, but bizarre. like spending the night in the sketchiest office ever, sleeping on a couch, and walking half a mile to a diner for breakfast on the coldest morning you can remember yet this year. at this place on Beacon Street they serve what I think are fried bagels and give you paper placemats with maps of Greece on them; they don't seem to be affiliated with the Greeks in any other way.
I have no idea what's going to happen next.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
thumbin' my way down to north caroline
I wrote a blues song about shit I did this summer. it's called "corners of the midwest" and it's kind of not terrible, maybe. in other news, my voice is terrible, and weak, and too quiet. I always think it's okay until I record it and play it back. eurgh I sound like I'm twelve and have strep. which happened a lot, I had strep every other week as a kid. hey, maybe that's why I can't sing?
I also wrote two songs (and various fragments) about this kid I like a lot. and another song about cutting out and driving to California when you feel like it. these are the things that are on my mind. and shit. at least I'm playing guitar again? and the last couple I wrote have actual chord progressions that aren't just 1-4-5, so.
I averaged four hours of sleep a night this week. I was doing really, really well at not being dependent on caffeine, and then "having to learn how to be a section editor of a daily college newspaper" happened and now Dunkies coffee (and its ACTUALLY NAUSEATING amounts of cream and sugar) is my bff again. but I spent Wednesday night drinking cheap wine and yelling about basketball with other people who are insane enough to work for a newspaper. good shit.
did I ever write about the time I accidentally found Lake Erie over the summer? I was thinking of that when I was writing today and it ended up in one of the songs. that was a cool moment. I miss summer. I think somewhere deep in my brain I believe that as long as I'm still listening to predominantly Springsteen (which I am) it's still summer.
I also wrote two songs (and various fragments) about this kid I like a lot. and another song about cutting out and driving to California when you feel like it. these are the things that are on my mind. and shit. at least I'm playing guitar again? and the last couple I wrote have actual chord progressions that aren't just 1-4-5, so.
I averaged four hours of sleep a night this week. I was doing really, really well at not being dependent on caffeine, and then "having to learn how to be a section editor of a daily college newspaper" happened and now Dunkies coffee (and its ACTUALLY NAUSEATING amounts of cream and sugar) is my bff again. but I spent Wednesday night drinking cheap wine and yelling about basketball with other people who are insane enough to work for a newspaper. good shit.
did I ever write about the time I accidentally found Lake Erie over the summer? I was thinking of that when I was writing today and it ended up in one of the songs. that was a cool moment. I miss summer. I think somewhere deep in my brain I believe that as long as I'm still listening to predominantly Springsteen (which I am) it's still summer.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
to you and me that's jingletown, that's home
When I went to Ireland with my family, just about the first thing my brother and I did was try to convince innocent Irish people that we were Canadian. I have no idea why this happened (although the overnight flight from New York, which left at 10 PM EST and landed at 4 AM EST...which is 9 AM Ireland time...and the absolute lack of sleep on that flight may have had something to do with it), but we walked all around Shannon Airport yelling "EH" and talking about the Edmonton Oilers, in the hopes that someone would mistake us for Canadians. I think we also talked in southern accents (terrible, terrible southern accents) and did Fargo impressions for a little while, and then I passed the fuck out on a bench for an hour and a half. I don't think we convinced anybody of anything, besides that we were complete jackasses even for Americans.
Right now I'm wearing an Oakland Athletics hat. I have four baseball caps in regular rotation, for teams based in Pittsburgh, Boston, San Francisco, and now Oakland, plus a Minnesota Twins one that has been sporadically important in my life (plus my Pens hat, but that's separate). When I wore my Sox hat the other day, this kid on my floor told me I was being a disgrace to San Francisco, and I had to stop and explain to him that I'm not actually from California, even though I ran down the hall whooping it up with my friend who is when the Giants won the World Series. Before that, I wore my Giants hat to the newspaper office, with a Pirates shirt, and got the Spanish Inquisition into why the hell I would ever wear a Giants hat (also got the question "is it Barry Bonds Day?" No, sir, it is never, ever, ever Barry Bonds Day in my life, and you're lucky I didn't slap you for saying so).
I guess there's a definite thread of me wanting people to think I'm from places I'm not from, even though I love where I actually am from (more so now that I don't have to be there year-round). It's just more interesting that way. I mean, I have a reasonable claim to Boston now (I can navigate the city much, much better than I can Pittsburgh, which is a source of guilt) but I just like walking down the street, seeing people notice my hats and think of me as a Californian, or a Minnesotan, or a Chicagoan the times I wear my Blackhawks shirt, and so forth. I want to know what it's like to be from everywhere, how you think of yourself if you're from Wisconsin or Florida or New York or New Mexico, what people want to convey when they identify themselves with one place or another. I personally feel connected to a whole lot of places; hence, the hats.
That's why I got back into sports in the first place, you know - wanting something to connect me back to Pittsburgh. Going into junior year, I was starting to think, and be concerned by the thought, that I could go to school - let's say - in New York and have nothing to distinguish me from people from Cincinnati, or Kansas City, or what have you. And people always expected me to pay attention to hockey, since I play, and I thought sure, I'll just become loyal to the Penguins, and that will be that. The rest is history, obviously, but sometimes I realize that's about the weirdest damn reason to get into something in the world. It worked, though. When I think of home I think of Mellon Arena (rest in peace, old buddy) and PNC Park (you'll see better days, I promise) and walking across the Clemente Bridge in the summer with my family, standing in a crowd of 375,000 Penguins fans on the Boulevard of the Allies celebrating this thing we believe in on June 15, 2009. They don't have that shit in Philly or Dallas. That's just home.
Right now I'm wearing an Oakland Athletics hat. I have four baseball caps in regular rotation, for teams based in Pittsburgh, Boston, San Francisco, and now Oakland, plus a Minnesota Twins one that has been sporadically important in my life (plus my Pens hat, but that's separate). When I wore my Sox hat the other day, this kid on my floor told me I was being a disgrace to San Francisco, and I had to stop and explain to him that I'm not actually from California, even though I ran down the hall whooping it up with my friend who is when the Giants won the World Series. Before that, I wore my Giants hat to the newspaper office, with a Pirates shirt, and got the Spanish Inquisition into why the hell I would ever wear a Giants hat (also got the question "is it Barry Bonds Day?" No, sir, it is never, ever, ever Barry Bonds Day in my life, and you're lucky I didn't slap you for saying so).
I guess there's a definite thread of me wanting people to think I'm from places I'm not from, even though I love where I actually am from (more so now that I don't have to be there year-round). It's just more interesting that way. I mean, I have a reasonable claim to Boston now (I can navigate the city much, much better than I can Pittsburgh, which is a source of guilt) but I just like walking down the street, seeing people notice my hats and think of me as a Californian, or a Minnesotan, or a Chicagoan the times I wear my Blackhawks shirt, and so forth. I want to know what it's like to be from everywhere, how you think of yourself if you're from Wisconsin or Florida or New York or New Mexico, what people want to convey when they identify themselves with one place or another. I personally feel connected to a whole lot of places; hence, the hats.
That's why I got back into sports in the first place, you know - wanting something to connect me back to Pittsburgh. Going into junior year, I was starting to think, and be concerned by the thought, that I could go to school - let's say - in New York and have nothing to distinguish me from people from Cincinnati, or Kansas City, or what have you. And people always expected me to pay attention to hockey, since I play, and I thought sure, I'll just become loyal to the Penguins, and that will be that. The rest is history, obviously, but sometimes I realize that's about the weirdest damn reason to get into something in the world. It worked, though. When I think of home I think of Mellon Arena (rest in peace, old buddy) and PNC Park (you'll see better days, I promise) and walking across the Clemente Bridge in the summer with my family, standing in a crowd of 375,000 Penguins fans on the Boulevard of the Allies celebrating this thing we believe in on June 15, 2009. They don't have that shit in Philly or Dallas. That's just home.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
"I have to go see about a girl," part 2
you know what's scary as fuck? when you realize you actually considered, for more than a split second, turning down tickets to a hockey game for which you've said you'd sell everything you own for tickets. because that same weekend, you could drive through the most heinous driving state in the union (sorry, Ohio), to Chicago to cover a college hockey tournament, with two guys you hardly even knew before this fall, one of whom you still don't know all that well. because the other one, you realize, is worth skipping just about any sporting event for, if you have to.
don't get me wrong. I'm going to the motherfucking Winter Classic, I'm not insane. it may well be the biggest hockey event I ever get to be a part of, and when I'm standing there at Heinz Field freezing my ass off for my team in the midst of 60,000 people, I'll probably cry or faint or see God or something. it's going to be amazing.
but this scene keeps running through my head (cheers to IMDB):
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's Game 6!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God; and who are these fuckin' friends of yours, they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh... they had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table, and I said, "Sorry, guys; I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You're kiddin' me.
Sean: No, I'm not kiddin' you, Will. That's why I'm not talkin' right now about some girl I saw at a bar twenty years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don't regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don't regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don't regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don't regret missin' the damn game. That's regret.
[pause]
Will: Wow... Woulda been nice to catch that game, though.
Sean: [sheepishly] I didn't know Pudge was gonna hit a homer.
don't get me wrong. I'm going to the motherfucking Winter Classic, I'm not insane. it may well be the biggest hockey event I ever get to be a part of, and when I'm standing there at Heinz Field freezing my ass off for my team in the midst of 60,000 people, I'll probably cry or faint or see God or something. it's going to be amazing.
but this scene keeps running through my head (cheers to IMDB):
Will: So, when did you know, like, that she was the one for you?
Sean: October 21st, 1975.
Will: Jesus Christ. You know the fuckin' date?
Sean: Oh yeah. 'Cause it was Game 6 of the World Series. Biggest game in Red Sox history.
Will: Yeah, sure.
Sean: My friends and I had, you know, slept out on the sidewalk all night to get tickets.
Will: You got tickets?
Sean: Yep. Day of the game. I was sittin' in a bar, waitin' for the game to start, and in walks this girl. Oh, it was an amazing game, though. You know, bottom of the eighth, Carbo ties it up at 6-6. It went to twelve. Bottom of the twelfth, in stepped Carlton Fisk. Old Pudge. Steps up to the plate, you know, and he's got that weird stance.
Will: Yeah, yeah.
Sean: And BAM! He clocks it. High fly ball down the left field line! Thirty-five thousand people, on their feet, yellin' at the ball, but that's not because of Fisk. He's wavin' at the ball like a madman.
Will: Yeah, I've seen...
Sean: He's going, "Get over! Get over! Get OVER!" And then it HITS the foul pole. OH, he goes apeshit, and 35,000 fans, you know, they charge the field, you know?
Will: Yeah, and he's fuckin' bowlin' police out of the way!
Sean: Goin', "God! Get out of the way! Get 'em away!" Banging people...
Will: I can't fuckin' believe you had tickets to that fuckin' game!
Sean: Yeah!
Will: Did you rush the field?
Sean: [surprised at the question] No, I didn't rush the fuckin' field; I wasn't there.
Will: What?
Sean: No - I was in a bar havin' a drink with my future wife.
Will: You missed Pudge Fisk's home run?
Sean: Oh, yeah.
Will: To have a fuckin' drink with some lady you never met?
Sean: Yeah, but you shoulda seen her; she was a stunner.
Will: I don't care if Helen of Troy walks in the room, that's Game 6!
Sean: Oh, Helen of Troy...
Will: Oh my God; and who are these fuckin' friends of yours, they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh... they had to.
Will: W-w-w-what'd you say to them?
Sean: I just slid my ticket across the table, and I said, "Sorry, guys; I gotta see about a girl."
Will: I gotta go see about a girl?
Sean: Yeah.
Will: That's what you said? And they let you get away with that?
Sean: Oh, yeah. They saw in my eyes that I meant it.
Will: You're kiddin' me.
Sean: No, I'm not kiddin' you, Will. That's why I'm not talkin' right now about some girl I saw at a bar twenty years ago and how I always regretted not going over and talking to her. I don't regret the 18 years I was married to Nancy. I don't regret the six years I had to give up counseling when she got sick. And I don't regret the last years when she got really sick. And I sure as hell don't regret missin' the damn game. That's regret.
[pause]
Will: Wow... Woulda been nice to catch that game, though.
Sean: [sheepishly] I didn't know Pudge was gonna hit a homer.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
been waiting a long time for this moment to come.
I've done some scary-ass things and some ridiculously demanding things in my life. I've driven in Chicago rush hour traffic, in a blistering downpour so I couldn't see five feet in front of me. I've climbed up the sides of cliffs in Colorado. I've thrown punches at people who could beat the shit out of me, and I've thrown myself down on the ice in front of hockey pucks traveling fast enough to hurt me pretty badly. I love that shit. I'm not scared of getting hurt playing sports, or hanging off the sides of mountains or standing up to the mosh pit at a Dropkick Murphys show (okay, a little scared of that, but it's always totally worth it).
This week, all I have to do is ask a friend of mine a question. A short, simple-sentence kind of question. And I'm so fucking terrified about that, I can't even think about anything else.
This week, all I have to do is ask a friend of mine a question. A short, simple-sentence kind of question. And I'm so fucking terrified about that, I can't even think about anything else.
Monday, October 25, 2010
FACT: I have the right to check out athletes I think are hot. Even if I'm emotionally twelve sometimes and blush when I have to say it in front of boys who judge me. Hey, fair is fair: y'all get to go on about Russian tennis player chicks and gymnasts, I get to dig on Josh Beckett. This is the 21st century.(this message brought to you by a fantastic and far-too-late Sunday night of sportswriters being awkward and blushy and making fun of each other, and nobody - least of all me - understanding the role of Rich Harden in my life)
Friday, October 1, 2010
"I have to go see about a girl."
You know what I don't own? (besides season Pens tickets, the Jon Lester shirt I want, the entire Bad Religion discography that I suddenly need?) I don't own high heels. And I don't want to. I've walked in heels twice: once to the Rocky Horror Picture Show in Cambridge, and once on Halloween. Just about a year ago now, both last October. The first time, it rained like hell and I stepped in a massive puddle as soon as we got off the train, and I spent the next four hours with soaking wet feet, slipping and sliding on rice trying to balance on these tiny fucking points I'm supposed to jump up on and do the Time Warp at the same time. The second time, well, it was Halloween (and I was supposed to be a mod chick, I had this rad British flag dress, but everyone instantly assumed I was a Spice Girl, so I just rolled with it). And four of my friends and I walked a good mile or so down Massachusetts Avenue looking for a party to attend, only to fail miserably and have to walk the entire way back. I still count it as one of my all-time greatest athletic achievements that I didn't collapse.
Today, again, it was Cambridge. Except I wore blue low-top Converses, because I still have scars on my feet from the last time I wore my newest black flats, and because we were going to a journalism career fair, at which I would almost certainly not be judged on my footwear. I went with two guys and two girls, and both of the other girls changed from rain boots into heels halfway there, complaining and groaning and clearly in pain, tottering off the train and stumbling on the Harvard cobblestones. I walked ahead with one of the guys, because we were walking at the same pace. And I'm glad for that. My feet didn't hurt. If a bear from the wilds of eastern Massachusetts (okay, no such thing - a crazed Patriots fan, maybe) came barreling down the street to attack, I could have run or climbed up a fire escape or ninja-kicked him. I kept up with the boy I wanted to talk to. And I got to talk to the recruiters from big publications just the same as everyone else did.
One of my friends - one of the girls in heels - was complaining about them, and I said, "why do you wear them?" She said, "they make me taller." I have got to be missing something. I'm 5'2", maybe a hair more, and back when I thought I was going to be a professional basketball player, sure, I wished I were taller. But ever since I quit basketball, height hasn't really been on my mind. And I don't think it's ever been on my mind to the point that I would put myself in pure, unrelenting agony for hours on end, just to be two or three inches taller. I was born short. And I was born with an instinct for avoiding unnecessary pain for the sake of so-called "beauty" or "style."
There's another thing. It doesn't make me any less of a girl, or a woman, not to want to wear shoes that hurt. What an absolutely arbitrary concept. I don't want to weaken myself, or put myself in pain, or put myself in a position where I can't move at my own pace and not be distracted by my shoes. I feel like this makes me a logical human being, if anything. I have a right to wear the shoes I want, free of judgment, and not feel - is there a feminine equivalent of "emasculated"? E-feminated? Doesn't sound quite right. But either way, I am who I am, and I'll wear the shoes that best allow me to enjoy my life. And that's all I have to say about that.
As usual, I want to post about two things at the same time, but the segue is difficult and I don't feel like forcing one. I basically just want to say this: I just watched Good Will Hunting for the second time, and that is a movie that hits me in all the right places. Really blows your hair back, as they say. The funny parts are hysterical (Ben and Casey Affleck, please get drunk and tell me stories all the time), the sad parts are heartbreaking, and every detail is worth remembering. Not to mention that it's a visual love letter to Boston, and everyone has accents (which I love! 98% of America thinks they're annoying, I don't fucking care, I adore Boston accents).
The exchange Sean and Will have about soulmates blows me away. The speeches Sean makes to him about actually experiencing life, about not backing off just to keep things perfect and idealized and let yourself imagine how they're going to turn out - it gets me. Robin Williams, in his infinite wisdom, knows what's going on. Even if he did fucking skip Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. He convinces me that it was worth it to miss Carlton Fisk's walk-off homer, and that's a damned impressive thing to do.
Today, again, it was Cambridge. Except I wore blue low-top Converses, because I still have scars on my feet from the last time I wore my newest black flats, and because we were going to a journalism career fair, at which I would almost certainly not be judged on my footwear. I went with two guys and two girls, and both of the other girls changed from rain boots into heels halfway there, complaining and groaning and clearly in pain, tottering off the train and stumbling on the Harvard cobblestones. I walked ahead with one of the guys, because we were walking at the same pace. And I'm glad for that. My feet didn't hurt. If a bear from the wilds of eastern Massachusetts (okay, no such thing - a crazed Patriots fan, maybe) came barreling down the street to attack, I could have run or climbed up a fire escape or ninja-kicked him. I kept up with the boy I wanted to talk to. And I got to talk to the recruiters from big publications just the same as everyone else did.
One of my friends - one of the girls in heels - was complaining about them, and I said, "why do you wear them?" She said, "they make me taller." I have got to be missing something. I'm 5'2", maybe a hair more, and back when I thought I was going to be a professional basketball player, sure, I wished I were taller. But ever since I quit basketball, height hasn't really been on my mind. And I don't think it's ever been on my mind to the point that I would put myself in pure, unrelenting agony for hours on end, just to be two or three inches taller. I was born short. And I was born with an instinct for avoiding unnecessary pain for the sake of so-called "beauty" or "style."
There's another thing. It doesn't make me any less of a girl, or a woman, not to want to wear shoes that hurt. What an absolutely arbitrary concept. I don't want to weaken myself, or put myself in pain, or put myself in a position where I can't move at my own pace and not be distracted by my shoes. I feel like this makes me a logical human being, if anything. I have a right to wear the shoes I want, free of judgment, and not feel - is there a feminine equivalent of "emasculated"? E-feminated? Doesn't sound quite right. But either way, I am who I am, and I'll wear the shoes that best allow me to enjoy my life. And that's all I have to say about that.
As usual, I want to post about two things at the same time, but the segue is difficult and I don't feel like forcing one. I basically just want to say this: I just watched Good Will Hunting for the second time, and that is a movie that hits me in all the right places. Really blows your hair back, as they say. The funny parts are hysterical (Ben and Casey Affleck, please get drunk and tell me stories all the time), the sad parts are heartbreaking, and every detail is worth remembering. Not to mention that it's a visual love letter to Boston, and everyone has accents (which I love! 98% of America thinks they're annoying, I don't fucking care, I adore Boston accents).
The exchange Sean and Will have about soulmates blows me away. The speeches Sean makes to him about actually experiencing life, about not backing off just to keep things perfect and idealized and let yourself imagine how they're going to turn out - it gets me. Robin Williams, in his infinite wisdom, knows what's going on. Even if he did fucking skip Game 6 of the 1975 World Series. He convinces me that it was worth it to miss Carlton Fisk's walk-off homer, and that's a damned impressive thing to do.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
radio clash on pirate satellite
- I'M ON THE RADIO TONIGHT. everybody should listen to it. go to www.wtburadio.org and click "listen live" up at the top, from 10-12. I'm actually playing music this week. still refining the playlist. there's no theme this week so it's just whatever I feel like playing that fits the theme of "ska, punk and other junk". WOOOO!
- the Giants alone among teams I support are still in playoff contention. got to see Mr. Lincecum throw 11 strikeouts last night after a shaky first inning for the win, and that Buster kid display some excellent plate discipline to get on base for Burrell to homer him in. it was a nice, neat, well-executed game. go team! sadface for the Sox being officially eliminated, but we knew that was coming forever. next year, boys, next year. Pirates, well. let's just try to keep it below 100 losses next year, shall we? baby steps.
- life's moving along here. I need to go buy food because I don't have any. I need to study for my Spanish test because the subjunctive is difficult. I need to know if I'm spending my afternoon at Harvard tomorrow but my texts to my buddy aren't going through. ALAS.
- I can't write songs, but here's a thing I wrote yesterday:
- the Giants alone among teams I support are still in playoff contention. got to see Mr. Lincecum throw 11 strikeouts last night after a shaky first inning for the win, and that Buster kid display some excellent plate discipline to get on base for Burrell to homer him in. it was a nice, neat, well-executed game. go team! sadface for the Sox being officially eliminated, but we knew that was coming forever. next year, boys, next year. Pirates, well. let's just try to keep it below 100 losses next year, shall we? baby steps.
- life's moving along here. I need to go buy food because I don't have any. I need to study for my Spanish test because the subjunctive is difficult. I need to know if I'm spending my afternoon at Harvard tomorrow but my texts to my buddy aren't going through. ALAS.
- I can't write songs, but here's a thing I wrote yesterday:
you’re every other thought that runs through my head
you’re the reason when I’m happy and the reason when I’m sad
build my days around seeing you
keep a running score of all the things you do
waste of time to be with anybody else
I’m tired of having all this time to myself
I’m all fucked up, I don’t eat right
I can’t go to sleep till the middle of the night
hope nobody sees
the way I look at you
every day I give myself away
but there’s nothing I can do
Friday, September 24, 2010
take me home, country roads
I just had a good walk and talk with my buddy from Kentucky. I can't explain how great it is to talk to somebody who knows about my part of the country (since it's also pretty much his part of the country) here at school. Here at school you've mostly got:
a) people from California who don't know the geography of the East Coast at all, which is kind of okay because it hasn't really been relevant to them before (even though I still know the shit out of California geography, but I'm a geek like that),
b) people from New England who only know the geography of New England and how long it takes to get to New York, and
c) people from New York who don't give a shit about the rest of the country outside of the five boroughs/Long Island, and generally operate under the assumption that people from Jersey are trash, people from Boston are assholes, everyone from California is high all the time, and everyone else is a redneck. And they say us rural folks are ignorant.
Oversimplifying, obviously, and generalizing, but that's probably 70% of the situation. So it's always great to talk to this kid, who knows I live closer to Cleveland (and Cincinnati, for that matter) than to Philly, and who will bitch about the National League Central with me and marvel at how miserable Cleveland and Columbus are as cities.
We were talking about one of the cheers some members of the BU fan section do at hockey games when we play Maine and other rural state schools: "the wheels on your house go 'round and 'round," which is so fucking ignorant. He was a columnist for the paper last year and actually wrote an article calling them out on being snobs and elitists and generally assholes, and people got all up in arms at him, telling him to go back to Kentucky, calling him a fucking hick, all this shit. Of course, this was all in anonymous comments, on the newspaper's website. He still gets pissed off talking about it, and I get pissed off too - I've been in the student section when that cheer started up, and I wouldn't say it. That's worse than BC calling "safety school" at us, and that makes me livid (I could have gotten into your sheltered, suburban Catholic school if I'd had any desire to, savvy? I got into NYU, which is just as selective, and had a fighting chance at Northwestern, which is more selective, so y'all can kiss my Irish ass, unless you're too scared to come down here into the big bad city to do it).
Anyway. None of my friends here are snobby assholes, obviously, but it's always good to hang with a Midwestern kid who also identified me as Midwestern, haha. The picture above - they were actually going to make a 14th colony/state back in the day, with the highlighted bits of Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Kentucky, because it was wild-ass frontier country back then and they didn't think they really had any connection to the governments back east in Philly and New York. I wish I could cite that to everybody who ever asks me if I'm a Phillies fan or how far I live from Philadelphia.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
we drove 800 miles without seeing a cop, we got rock and roll music blasting off the t-top
Happy birthday, buddy. 61 and still running around onstage like a madman for upwards of 3 hours every night on every tour. Bruce Springsteen is not subject to normal human aging, true story.
The Boss has sort of taken over my life again lately - partly because it was just summer, and nothing is quite so synonymous with summer evenings as Bruce, and partly because I've got a good buddy who loves him maybe even more than I do (he made this his profile picture at one point - epic mancrush city), who recently dedicated a playing of "Darlington County" to me. For being young and in love and wanting to drive everywhere and see everything, it's hard to get a much better soundtrack than the early recordings of Mr. Springsteen.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
don't blame us if we ever doubt ya, you know we couldn't live without ya
When I say "church of baseball," this is what I mean: the renewal of spirit and soul that takes place for me on the walk up to Fenway Park. I mean crossing the bridge over the Mass Pike, welcoming the cool evening air, and descending past the Cask'n'Flagon onto Lansdowne Street, smells of smoke and hot dogs and alcohol and giant soft pretzels all around. I mean stopping, unashamed, to take pictures of the FENWAY PARK - LANSDOWNE GATE C sign with the Prudential Building as a backdrop, leaning through the doors of the Bleacher Bar to get a look out onto the field, little kids in Beckett and Lester jerseys leaning over the dividers in line to show each other how they're gonna catch foul balls from their seats tonight.
I mean stopping to lean against a railing on the non-park side of Lansdowne, just where you can see the video screen inside, to hear the announcement of the starting lineup, the rumbling applause that escapes up into the sky when David Ortiz (the designated hitter, nummmber 34) is announced, the wild cheers and whistles for Josh Beckett at the end of a difficult, exhausting season. I mean walking down the street completely at peace, every gap and imperfection in the world filled in by the sounds of guys calling "eyyy, tickets? tickets?" and "programs two dollahs, free Green Monstah stickah with ya program."
It took me a few months after I moved here to realize where exactly I'd been on my college visits to Boston the previous summer. Eventually I connected the dots between the three schools I'd seen - Northeastern, Emerson, and BU - and realized that the part of the city I'd fallen in love with was, in fact, just off my campus: Kenmore Square, viewed from a certain angle in the center of the street. I'd remembered walking from a garage downtown to Fenway through a stretch of gorgeous, old-Boston brownstones into a place where the streets split off and a five-story Barnes and Noble claimed nearly an entire block under a 40-foot-high Citgo sign. I lived in Boston for months before I realized that was lower Commonwealth Avenue and the heart of Kenmore Square - the ballpark neighborhood.
It's a similar feeling walking across the Clemente Bridge at home, don't get me wrong. I could happily spend hours walking the river path below PNC Park, or hanging out on the bridge, or standing on the balcony up above the Allegheny on the third base side. But for enthusiasm of the crowd - not to mention magnitude of the crowd - PNC and Fenway are, no pun intended, in different leagues. I would love Boston without the ballpark, but I've never known it that way, and neither has anyone else of my generation, or my parents', or my grandparents'. The ballpark is the city, same as the rumble of the train at street level or the neon beacon of the Citgo sign reflected on the river at midnight. And even when Beckett can't keep his fastball down and playoff hopes have essentially become delusions, the ballpark and the game are there to strengthen the soul.
Monday, September 13, 2010
left of the dial
GOAL FOR THIS WEEK: get involved with the radio station, which I was going to do last year but didn't. My new roommate this year has her own show, in a fantastic time slot too (6-8 on Wednesday nights), and her life goal is to write for Rolling Stone. She's good at keeping up with music in the way I'm not - she's always finding new bands, she knows all these musicians who are truly obscure and just playing little folk festivals in Providence or Boston or Philadelphia or wherever. I listened to her show the other night and I dug a lot of it.
But I've never been good about keeping up with new music. Of the 11 most played artists on my last.fm, 7 are still together, which is more than I expected before I counted just now, but that counts the Foos who are on indefinite hiatus (I think? I've lost track); more notably, the "newest" band on there is the White Stripes, who started out in the early 2000s. Everyone else is from the 90s or earlier. I'm perpetually late to the party, for one reason or another - I guess my mindset is that there are so many awesome bands who already have two or three albums I could buy that I can't be bothered keeping track of, or checking out, every new group that releases a single. Essentially, when I'm looking for "new" music, I tend to look for older music.
Hopefully I'm allowed to just be all the fuck over the place on my (hypothetical/potential) show, because I thought about doing just punk (which would involve pretty much anything that would have "punk" in the description, whether prefaced with "ska" or "pop" or "folk" or "80s" or whatever) but then I was all shit, what if I want to play Frankie Valli? Because very often, I want to play Frankie Valli. I hope it's cool if I play Frankie followed by the Replacements followed by Run-DMC, Elvis Costello, the Kinks, the Beastie Boys, Dropkick Murphys, and Ray Charles. Because that's what I do. That's just about what I've done today, actually.
But I've never been good about keeping up with new music. Of the 11 most played artists on my last.fm, 7 are still together, which is more than I expected before I counted just now, but that counts the Foos who are on indefinite hiatus (I think? I've lost track); more notably, the "newest" band on there is the White Stripes, who started out in the early 2000s. Everyone else is from the 90s or earlier. I'm perpetually late to the party, for one reason or another - I guess my mindset is that there are so many awesome bands who already have two or three albums I could buy that I can't be bothered keeping track of, or checking out, every new group that releases a single. Essentially, when I'm looking for "new" music, I tend to look for older music.
Hopefully I'm allowed to just be all the fuck over the place on my (hypothetical/potential) show, because I thought about doing just punk (which would involve pretty much anything that would have "punk" in the description, whether prefaced with "ska" or "pop" or "folk" or "80s" or whatever) but then I was all shit, what if I want to play Frankie Valli? Because very often, I want to play Frankie Valli. I hope it's cool if I play Frankie followed by the Replacements followed by Run-DMC, Elvis Costello, the Kinks, the Beastie Boys, Dropkick Murphys, and Ray Charles. Because that's what I do. That's just about what I've done today, actually.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
saturday afternoon
I love doing my own grocery shopping. Makes me feel grown up and all that. I went an extra mile out of my way today to go to the Shaw's in Brookline just because I've never been there before, and I had to get my grapes, pretzels, cereal bars and yogurt somewhere. Also, apparently everything is on sale all the time at Shaw's. I seem to have saved $4.68 without even trying.
Brookline (the most immediate suburb of Boston, it runs pretty much all along the edge of my campus) is odd - it's mostly national-chain restaurants and drugstores, but here and there you'll see a weird little one-of-a-kind place stuck between them all. I saw something advertised as a Russian Bookstore today; is this a bookstore that sells only Russian books? Run by Russians? Run in the style of Russians? Everything straight from St. Petersburg? I'm going to have to investigate that. And I'm gonna have to try to do it at a time when the train isn't overrun by Boston College kids in matching shirts with perfect hair. They make me uncomfortable in about seven different ways.
The plan for now is to go hang out and do Spanish homework down here:
The leaves aren't changing yet, obviously, but it's kind of alarming how soon they will be.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
they're all too busy fighting for a good place under the lighting (good for you!)
From the study lounge at the top of my building I can see into Fenway. Definitely have to creep up here on a game night sometime (not tonight, the boys are in Oakland tonight). I can see most of Kenmore Square from up here, actually - this is essentially the spot I envisioned when I used to think about going to school in the city. It's pretty great.
So, one of my main aspirations in life is still to be Rob Sheffield. For a long time he was the only reason I read Rolling Stone, because The Pop Life was literally always funny even when the rest of the magazine was about bands I didn't care about. Love Is a Mixtape, I take that book everywhere I go. I've read it I don't know how many times, and I have it here at school for when I next want to read it again. I quote it in conversation. Rob and I, we think a lot alike. And his new book, Talking to Girls about Duran Duran, is all around pretty rad - music geekery as usual, and a ton of it is set in Boston and New England, so I'm constantly like "Dorchester! Jamaica Plain! Quincy! I know where that shit is on the T!"
But there's this one part, very early on where he's discussing the overall premise of the book, with which I take issue. He's talking about the difference in girl-music fandom and boy-music fandom. This paragraph follows:
"The way girls raved about DD [Duran Duran] was so different from the way we boys talked about music we liked. I remember hours of debate in the high school lunchroom about the Clash: which was better, London Calling or Sandinista!? Is 'Lover's Rock' really about oral sex? Which member of the band truly understood the geopolitical context of Nicaraguan history? Who had a cooler name, Joe Strummer or Tory Crimes? My female rocker friends call this 'boy list language,' and they won't tolerate it. When I talk about Duran Duran with other guys, which admittedly doesn't happen all that often, we end up debating whether the Power Station was a better side project than Arcadia. No Duran Duran chick, not even the hard-core obsessives, would sit through a conversation like this."
The first thing that outraged me in that paragraph, actually, was the suggestion that Sandinista! vs. London Calling is actually a debate at all, because if you have a functioning brainstem and a working knowledge of the Clash discography, the only thing you could maybe rank ahead of London Calling is their self-titled debut, either the US or UK version depending on your degree of purism (unless you're really into the trippy Combat Rock shit, which is respectable, but I would argue against you). But he addresses that in the next paragraph - they were just arguing for the sake of argument, which is totally understandable.
That's the real issue here - I am pretty definitively a girl, and although I don't have that many friends who talk music the way I do, I've had discussions very to these with the ones who do. In junior high I would re-decide which Green Day album was my favorite just about every month, debating back and forth with my brother about the merits of Kerplunk vs. Dookie vs. Insomniac and trying to dispel the myth that Insomniac is a remake of Dookie in anyway - it's the classic first-album-after-a-big hit, really, same as its 90s counterparts In Utero and Pinkerton, the deliberately harsh backlash against being perceived as pop stars. If anything, I'd call Dookie an update of Kerplunk (the re-done version of "Welcome to Paradise" being a pretty obvious metaphor for that) but that's still not really fair to either album (still my two favorites overall, I think).
I digress, which I guess kind of proves my point. I'm not sure where the idea came from that male music obsessives are always making lists, ranking their favorites, wanting to know everything about the bands, while girls are doing...what, exactly? What's left for the female music fan to do in this stereotype, besides go "ooh, he's so cute, I'll buy the new single"? I know that's not the suggestion, but Rob, you're getting dangerously close there. And I don't get it.
He never really elucidates what female music fandom is like, in his experience; I can tell you that in my experience, I made a list of the best guitar and bass lines in every Simple Plan song on No Pads, No Helmets...Just Balls when I was in seventh grade. My dubious taste aside (and the lack of musical proficiency to be ranked on that album at all aside, although I will never apologize for loving Simple Plan), that sounds suspiciously like Boy List Language. I once set a goal in eighth grade to listen to every Green Day song on every album in the course of one day and actually got there (although this was pre-21CB, of course). I can still recite their entire discography in order of year of release, tracklisting, etc. This, again, sounds suspiciously like Boy List Language, and I gotta say, I am most certainly a girl.
Chuck Klosterman, my other culture-nerd-boy hero, puts forth a similar view in Fargo Rock City, talking about the loyalty of male rock audiences vs. female ones and how fickle girls can be with music. I really don't get it: there's a difference between the loyalty of music fans, sure, but I don't think it's defined by gender. I'm nineteen and I have been a Beatles obsessive since age nine, Green Day obsessive since thirteen, Clash since fourteen, etc. and etc. I know girls who memorize albums line by line and boys who buy singles online and disregard them after a week; I know both types of fans in both genders. There's definitely an interesting cultural study to be done here, but reducing it to generalizations about gender - basically as a way for boys to feel superior about themselves - isn't getting anybody anywhere.
The best thing I can offer in the guys' defense is that maybe it's a generational thing, that maybe girl audiences in the 80s were different than now, but that also seems extremely dubious. There have always been the girls screaming and crying at the Ed Sullivan Show, and I'd say there have also always been those of us who are quieter, sitting in the back, organizing our music collections by release date, figuring out our favorite Track 7 on every album, making playlists of the best British and Irish and Australian and Californian songs. I guess it's just the general cultural phenomenon that I've begun to notice in more and more places: nerdy girls get overlooked in culture, unless it's some ugly-duckling story where they get made over into the prom queen by the end. And it's bullshit, frankly. "Nerdy" boys show up everywhere, improbably winning over the hot girls with their wit, fronting Weezer (not that I even want to get into the current state of Rivers Cuomo right now, that's an entirely different post), etc. Right now I guess we've got Ellen Page, which is rad, but she can't hold down the fort alone. If I'm missing any prominent examples of nerdy girls kicking ass in the world, someone please let me know, because it's getting to be a real pain in the ass when even the smart, clever, thoughtful guys lump us in with the rest of the supposed crowd.
Oh yeah, and "Lover's Rock" is definitely about some kind of sex and possibly birth control; Joe Strummer is definitely the one who knew and cared about Nicaraguan history (Mick pretty much knew about glam rock and getting high and actin' like a rock star, Paul knew about reggae and the real mean streets of London, and Topper...well, Topper wrote "Rock the Casbah"); and Tory Crimes is a pretty ballin' name (adapted from the original Terry Chimes), but I don't think I could ever make a list involving the Clash that didn't have Mr. Strummer at the top.
So, one of my main aspirations in life is still to be Rob Sheffield. For a long time he was the only reason I read Rolling Stone, because The Pop Life was literally always funny even when the rest of the magazine was about bands I didn't care about. Love Is a Mixtape, I take that book everywhere I go. I've read it I don't know how many times, and I have it here at school for when I next want to read it again. I quote it in conversation. Rob and I, we think a lot alike. And his new book, Talking to Girls about Duran Duran, is all around pretty rad - music geekery as usual, and a ton of it is set in Boston and New England, so I'm constantly like "Dorchester! Jamaica Plain! Quincy! I know where that shit is on the T!"
But there's this one part, very early on where he's discussing the overall premise of the book, with which I take issue. He's talking about the difference in girl-music fandom and boy-music fandom. This paragraph follows:
"The way girls raved about DD [Duran Duran] was so different from the way we boys talked about music we liked. I remember hours of debate in the high school lunchroom about the Clash: which was better, London Calling or Sandinista!? Is 'Lover's Rock' really about oral sex? Which member of the band truly understood the geopolitical context of Nicaraguan history? Who had a cooler name, Joe Strummer or Tory Crimes? My female rocker friends call this 'boy list language,' and they won't tolerate it. When I talk about Duran Duran with other guys, which admittedly doesn't happen all that often, we end up debating whether the Power Station was a better side project than Arcadia. No Duran Duran chick, not even the hard-core obsessives, would sit through a conversation like this."
The first thing that outraged me in that paragraph, actually, was the suggestion that Sandinista! vs. London Calling is actually a debate at all, because if you have a functioning brainstem and a working knowledge of the Clash discography, the only thing you could maybe rank ahead of London Calling is their self-titled debut, either the US or UK version depending on your degree of purism (unless you're really into the trippy Combat Rock shit, which is respectable, but I would argue against you). But he addresses that in the next paragraph - they were just arguing for the sake of argument, which is totally understandable.
That's the real issue here - I am pretty definitively a girl, and although I don't have that many friends who talk music the way I do, I've had discussions very to these with the ones who do. In junior high I would re-decide which Green Day album was my favorite just about every month, debating back and forth with my brother about the merits of Kerplunk vs. Dookie vs. Insomniac and trying to dispel the myth that Insomniac is a remake of Dookie in anyway - it's the classic first-album-after-a-big hit, really, same as its 90s counterparts In Utero and Pinkerton, the deliberately harsh backlash against being perceived as pop stars. If anything, I'd call Dookie an update of Kerplunk (the re-done version of "Welcome to Paradise" being a pretty obvious metaphor for that) but that's still not really fair to either album (still my two favorites overall, I think).
I digress, which I guess kind of proves my point. I'm not sure where the idea came from that male music obsessives are always making lists, ranking their favorites, wanting to know everything about the bands, while girls are doing...what, exactly? What's left for the female music fan to do in this stereotype, besides go "ooh, he's so cute, I'll buy the new single"? I know that's not the suggestion, but Rob, you're getting dangerously close there. And I don't get it.
He never really elucidates what female music fandom is like, in his experience; I can tell you that in my experience, I made a list of the best guitar and bass lines in every Simple Plan song on No Pads, No Helmets...Just Balls when I was in seventh grade. My dubious taste aside (and the lack of musical proficiency to be ranked on that album at all aside, although I will never apologize for loving Simple Plan), that sounds suspiciously like Boy List Language. I once set a goal in eighth grade to listen to every Green Day song on every album in the course of one day and actually got there (although this was pre-21CB, of course). I can still recite their entire discography in order of year of release, tracklisting, etc. This, again, sounds suspiciously like Boy List Language, and I gotta say, I am most certainly a girl.
Chuck Klosterman, my other culture-nerd-boy hero, puts forth a similar view in Fargo Rock City, talking about the loyalty of male rock audiences vs. female ones and how fickle girls can be with music. I really don't get it: there's a difference between the loyalty of music fans, sure, but I don't think it's defined by gender. I'm nineteen and I have been a Beatles obsessive since age nine, Green Day obsessive since thirteen, Clash since fourteen, etc. and etc. I know girls who memorize albums line by line and boys who buy singles online and disregard them after a week; I know both types of fans in both genders. There's definitely an interesting cultural study to be done here, but reducing it to generalizations about gender - basically as a way for boys to feel superior about themselves - isn't getting anybody anywhere.
The best thing I can offer in the guys' defense is that maybe it's a generational thing, that maybe girl audiences in the 80s were different than now, but that also seems extremely dubious. There have always been the girls screaming and crying at the Ed Sullivan Show, and I'd say there have also always been those of us who are quieter, sitting in the back, organizing our music collections by release date, figuring out our favorite Track 7 on every album, making playlists of the best British and Irish and Australian and Californian songs. I guess it's just the general cultural phenomenon that I've begun to notice in more and more places: nerdy girls get overlooked in culture, unless it's some ugly-duckling story where they get made over into the prom queen by the end. And it's bullshit, frankly. "Nerdy" boys show up everywhere, improbably winning over the hot girls with their wit, fronting Weezer (not that I even want to get into the current state of Rivers Cuomo right now, that's an entirely different post), etc. Right now I guess we've got Ellen Page, which is rad, but she can't hold down the fort alone. If I'm missing any prominent examples of nerdy girls kicking ass in the world, someone please let me know, because it's getting to be a real pain in the ass when even the smart, clever, thoughtful guys lump us in with the rest of the supposed crowd.
Oh yeah, and "Lover's Rock" is definitely about some kind of sex and possibly birth control; Joe Strummer is definitely the one who knew and cared about Nicaraguan history (Mick pretty much knew about glam rock and getting high and actin' like a rock star, Paul knew about reggae and the real mean streets of London, and Topper...well, Topper wrote "Rock the Casbah"); and Tory Crimes is a pretty ballin' name (adapted from the original Terry Chimes), but I don't think I could ever make a list involving the Clash that didn't have Mr. Strummer at the top.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
red sox nation state of mind
(this is not an advertisement, I swear)Living coffee shop to coffee shop my first few days in town. Espresso Royale in the bright, blacktop-hot August morning, claiming my wheat bagel and reading my book about the Brooklyn Dodgers. I come back to Barnes and Noble later, claim a wooden-backed chair and sit and write for an hour. I camp out in Dunkin Donuts in Kenmore Square, sweet thick iced coffee surging through my blood till my hands shake and I can’t get the words down on paper fast enough, and freshman kids sit down next to me talking about the crazy night they had last night at this MIT frat party. One kid’s phone rings and he tells his friend dude, you gotta get up here, Boston is crazy, college is the best. They all know each other already, they all have pictures to show each other on their phones, they are in their first 48 hours of College and this Dunkies is the place to be away from home. Wally the Green Monster greets us at the door – not bad advertising, as he actually talked me into getting a Coolatta two days before, which turned my mouth bright blue for an hour afterwards.
I camp out in the dining hall on Bay State, empty salad plate in front of me for an hour as I sit and read and talk to my friends miles and miles away. Next day I hit Starbucks for the air-conditioning and a caramel frappucino, an excuse to sit and write some more about the Arizona desert. It’s too hot to be outside, too dark in this narrow room to stay inside, so I bounce back and forth trying to think of things I can achieve before Thursday morning. Minor grocery shopping. Textbooks. Organization. Preparation for a segment of my life to start up again. I bounce coffee shop to coffee shop, air-conditioning to shade, grocery store to CVS, bed to hallway to dining hall, buzzing nervous at the end of summer under a bright blue sky.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
and we'll all float on okay.
found this yesterday. somebody actually knocked the cover off the ball up at the Pleasant Unity field. (quite reminiscent of The Sandlot, right? it was awesome.)
I have to do all this stuff before I leave. but it's actually not that much, right? totally doable. at least the things I technically need to do are manageable. stuff I said I'd have written by the end of the summer, that's a little more up in the air, but that's to be expected.
I know the shit out of the mountain roads of Western Pennsylvania after this summer, by the way. and OH-7 and WV-2. any road that runs along a major river, you can pretty well bet that I've driven along it in the last few months.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
this is the place where all the junkies go (time gets fast but everything gets slow)
August is the weirdest month to me. weirder than ever this year, and I think that's only going to intensify every year now. till I'm living in San Jose or Cambridge or Vancouver or Austin or something.
you see I don’t usually drink like this
it was something in the way
the sounds of the West Coast came through to me
I don’t usually want to act like this
sit in the backyard all night
trees and heat spinning all around me
fine upstanding kid but I could use something
I could use a shot of whatever you can find
I’d like to sit in the grass with my friends
seven hundred miles to the west
watch the sun slow us down
and take this opportunity to rest
August days, the air itself is dangerous
makes you crazy, makes you look behind you twice
halfway between leaving here and coming home
crickets in the trees, noise in the dying light
Sunday, August 15, 2010
ashtray floors, dirty clothes and filthy jokes
it turns out I was right about being able to live on the road, I think. it doesn't bother me not knowing where I'm going to sleep from one night to the next. it doesn't bother me living on coffee and whatever other food I can stumble across, keeping an eye on every exit sign for a place to stop and rest. I like trip!world. I want to live there. that's enough stability for me. the freedom to go where I want and when is enough stability for me. I can write for travel magazines and sites for money. I can play guitar on the streets. I require very little money to exist, in general. I just need someone to talk to, somewhere to go, and a way to get there. I truly think I could live that way indefinitely.
my Ted Leo love is coming back to the surface with a vengeance, and the Dropkick Murphys keep coming up on shuffle and Pedroia's about to get off the DL, finally. this all probably means it's time for me to go back to Boston. I'm in a weird place where I'm wanting to go back, and missing it there, but also preemptively missing it here, and simultaneously WANTING TO DO EVERYTHING and just wanting to sleep and read and watch baseball. hooooo hum.
my Ted Leo love is coming back to the surface with a vengeance, and the Dropkick Murphys keep coming up on shuffle and Pedroia's about to get off the DL, finally. this all probably means it's time for me to go back to Boston. I'm in a weird place where I'm wanting to go back, and missing it there, but also preemptively missing it here, and simultaneously WANTING TO DO EVERYTHING and just wanting to sleep and read and watch baseball. hooooo hum.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
reading with the tv on
done working my shitty retail job for the summer. hurrah! I have financed my voyage to Minnesota and some decent clothes for school, and I can buy Sox and Bruins tickets (for when the Pens are in town, and also whenever my friends and I decide to go because we're grown-ass women and we caaaaaan) this year without feeling way guilty. call it a success. ignore the fact that my neck keeps doing this popping thing, hurts like the dickens, etc. I'm putting myself on the 15-day disabled list from life, or at least from lifting watermelons. also my shoulder hurts. if it fucks with my slider or my curveball I will not be amused.
currently rediscovering the Ramones. fuck yeah, I'm fifteen. need to get to a record store sometime soon because there's a lot of stuff I want to get. finally listened to the Husker Du album I got last summer and didn't like it all that much. they're not as good as the Replacements, you see. vocals low in the mix is a good way to lose me.
my brother and I are going adventuring soon, not sure where because we were thinking about Cincinnati (which is a hard word to spell) but a) I am a little sick of driving in Ohio and b) while I now have some money, it's probs not enough to waste on a place like Cincy. I think. EVEN THOUGH I COULD SEE THE SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS IN TWO WEEKS, OH GOD, maybe I'm reconsidering. I would willingly drive ten hours round trip, through Ohio, to see Tim Lincecum pitch in person. this is a problem. aw, fuck.
my next potential job, should I actually get it, might require me to walk through South Boston way later at night than an unarmed kid should ever walk through South Boston. stay tuned.
my family's out doing shit and my friends all have some kind of commitment tonight, although fuck knows what Eric's doing because apparently he doesn't text back anymore. whatevah. I have many, many things I need to read and write, and a Giants-Cubs game I could watch at 10.
oh yeah, and last weekend Ohio was actually gorgeous.
sometimes I think I could live on a farm. one with a minimum of animals, though.
currently rediscovering the Ramones. fuck yeah, I'm fifteen. need to get to a record store sometime soon because there's a lot of stuff I want to get. finally listened to the Husker Du album I got last summer and didn't like it all that much. they're not as good as the Replacements, you see. vocals low in the mix is a good way to lose me.
my brother and I are going adventuring soon, not sure where because we were thinking about Cincinnati (which is a hard word to spell) but a) I am a little sick of driving in Ohio and b) while I now have some money, it's probs not enough to waste on a place like Cincy. I think. EVEN THOUGH I COULD SEE THE SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS IN TWO WEEKS, OH GOD, maybe I'm reconsidering. I would willingly drive ten hours round trip, through Ohio, to see Tim Lincecum pitch in person. this is a problem. aw, fuck.
my next potential job, should I actually get it, might require me to walk through South Boston way later at night than an unarmed kid should ever walk through South Boston. stay tuned.
my family's out doing shit and my friends all have some kind of commitment tonight, although fuck knows what Eric's doing because apparently he doesn't text back anymore. whatevah. I have many, many things I need to read and write, and a Giants-Cubs game I could watch at 10.
oh yeah, and last weekend Ohio was actually gorgeous.
sometimes I think I could live on a farm. one with a minimum of animals, though.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
constructive summer (we're gonna build something this summer)
how to get through a sudden and terrifying thunderstorm in the heart of Ohio: crank up the Beastie Boys, be careful with the gas, and if you're in the passenger seat, just keep knitting.
how to survive Chicago in rush hour: let Alan Rickman take the wheel, yell "MARCO" out the window till your best friend responds with "SCUTARO," let your inner Southern belle give advice on life as you crawl thirty miles in three hours. when all seems to be lost and the sky opens up with another monsoon, break out the Rick Springfield.
how to find a hotel in South Bend, Indiana on an hour's notice: call the Quality Inn, it's cheap and there's free breakfast. turn on your high beams if your headlights burn out; Indiana makes that kinda shit happen, but you still end up loving it more than Ohio.
how to get in a Minnesota state of mind: look at the sky. look out as far as you can because it's the flattest land you may ever see, turn on the Replacements and marvel.
how to enjoy Ohio: Rancid, Offspring, Green Day, blue skies. not necessarily in that order. try not to get off the interstate more than once. also, be careful which exits you take or you will find yourself in Alabama very, very quickly.
how to sleep an average of five hours a night and drive six to seven hours a day: take full advantage of the following: coffee. Rich Harden (ooer - leave it). pop-punk. the lack of state cops in Ohio.
how to ensure that you will be up way too fucking late for anybody's good in Chicago: start showing your best friend pictures of ridiculously attractive baseball players and, any time the conversation lapses, yell "HEGGEDY". this is a better idea than you might think, as it sometimes leads to the writing of brilliant Creed parodies. at four in the morning.
how to get to Wrigley Field: Red Line train to Addison, north of town. put on your Cubbies hat when you get off the train and pretend like you fit in. subtly take pictures of the Ernie Banks banner and marvel at the fact that you're in the Friendly Confines for real.
how to get moving on a gray, soaking wet morning in northern Indiana: "This Year," the Mountain Goats. do it.
how not to tackle Ohio efficiently: stop in Columbus looking for an open public restroom on a Sunday afternoon. assume that Columbus will be a normal city, or at the very least, no more asinine than Pittsburgh about things being open. I tell you this for free: do not count on Columbus for anything, ever. even a McDonald's.
how to come back home: cross the Allegheny and get a little teary, railroad tracks winding back into the woods like they wanted to construct the most Pennsylvania-like scene possible, just for you.
how to survive Chicago in rush hour: let Alan Rickman take the wheel, yell "MARCO" out the window till your best friend responds with "SCUTARO," let your inner Southern belle give advice on life as you crawl thirty miles in three hours. when all seems to be lost and the sky opens up with another monsoon, break out the Rick Springfield.
how to find a hotel in South Bend, Indiana on an hour's notice: call the Quality Inn, it's cheap and there's free breakfast. turn on your high beams if your headlights burn out; Indiana makes that kinda shit happen, but you still end up loving it more than Ohio.
how to get in a Minnesota state of mind: look at the sky. look out as far as you can because it's the flattest land you may ever see, turn on the Replacements and marvel.
how to enjoy Ohio: Rancid, Offspring, Green Day, blue skies. not necessarily in that order. try not to get off the interstate more than once. also, be careful which exits you take or you will find yourself in Alabama very, very quickly.
how to sleep an average of five hours a night and drive six to seven hours a day: take full advantage of the following: coffee. Rich Harden (ooer - leave it). pop-punk. the lack of state cops in Ohio.
how to ensure that you will be up way too fucking late for anybody's good in Chicago: start showing your best friend pictures of ridiculously attractive baseball players and, any time the conversation lapses, yell "HEGGEDY". this is a better idea than you might think, as it sometimes leads to the writing of brilliant Creed parodies. at four in the morning.
how to get to Wrigley Field: Red Line train to Addison, north of town. put on your Cubbies hat when you get off the train and pretend like you fit in. subtly take pictures of the Ernie Banks banner and marvel at the fact that you're in the Friendly Confines for real.
how to get moving on a gray, soaking wet morning in northern Indiana: "This Year," the Mountain Goats. do it.
how not to tackle Ohio efficiently: stop in Columbus looking for an open public restroom on a Sunday afternoon. assume that Columbus will be a normal city, or at the very least, no more asinine than Pittsburgh about things being open. I tell you this for free: do not count on Columbus for anything, ever. even a McDonald's.
how to come back home: cross the Allegheny and get a little teary, railroad tracks winding back into the woods like they wanted to construct the most Pennsylvania-like scene possible, just for you.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
waiting for a door back into the life he wants, the confession of the bench
okay, one more post.as they say - or at least as I often seem to say - Boston is the reason. in junior high I was playing sports but had essentially wandered away from watching them; I had bands, it was all good. then hockey came back into my life in a huge way, and I could write a novel about that, and probably will at some point. but that's not what this post is about.
there was hockey, and there were the Red Sox. then there was this kid Dustin Pedroia, five-foot-six on a good day and beating the shit out of major league pitching by sheer force of will. I stumbled across him one rainy night in Fenway Park, fell in love very suddenly, and the ten-year-old kid in me woke up and was like "HEY. remember baseball?"
fuck yeah, do I remember baseball. my dad had all these books about the greatest players of the century, top 100, big black and white pictures of Tris Speaker, Walter Johnson, Ernie Banks, up through Cal Ripken and the guys who were big when I was a kid (fuckin' Barry Bonds, I still spit at the mention of his name, almost more because he fucked the Pirates over and broke my dad's heart than because of any of his many steroid abuses). I lived with those books. I did multiple reports on Jackie Robinson, read all the books I could on that dude. I mean, I had it bad.
Pedroia, he brought it all back. kid can't go an inning without getting his uniform dirty, diving, sliding, covering every single inch of the ground he can. kid tells people he's gonna be the best thing their team's ever seen, and then he goes out there and he is. I watched the Red Sox lose to Tampa Bay in the ALDS that year - 2008 - for him.
I watched them lose to Anaheim in the ALDS the next year for him, and because I was living in Boston in a tiny-ass dorm room, sitting on the floor pretending to write a paper but really just holding my breath for Jonathan Papelbon not to blow it. (and man oh man did Papelbon blow it - gets two outs on the Angels and blows a two-run lead as all of New England gapes in horror, REALLY BRO? I went out on the street to run about an hour later and there was still Fenway traffic as far as the eye could see, people sitting there shell-shocked.)
and then I spent the offseason getting way over my head with baseball. the Sox first, because let me explain to you, if there is anything in your soul that loves the game of baseball, it comes out with terrifying force when you live a tenth of a mile from Fenway Park. you become desperately invested in Jon Lester's every move. you instinctively yell "YOOUUUUUUUK" when the situation calls for it. you suddenly need to understand Theo Epstein's approach to building a championship team.
I stole my dad's copy of Moneyball and read it cover to cover as fast as I could. then I read it again. I quoted it at people. I called my mom up to explain how great it was that the Oakland A's had been able to draft Nick Swisher as late in the first round of the 2002 draft as they did. I came to regard RBIs and wins on a pitcher's record as laughably outdated relics of another time. I developed a huge fucking crush on Billy Beane. I still possibly aspire to be the general manager of a hockey team. we'll see about that one. I have a crush on Marco Scutaro's on-base percentage, so you can draw your own conclusions.
I've basically spent this summer so far forming opinions on baseball and baseball players, and it's great. I was coming in with very few specific prejudices (fuck the Yankees, fuck the Rays, Southern California teams are generally bullshit) and almost no players I was really attached to. last time I was big into baseball, the Pirates' 2-5 hitters were Jack Wilson, Aramis Ramirez, Jason Kendall and Brian Giles. I love Freddy Sanchez to the point of tears now, but his time in Pittsburgh was kinda during what my friend Em would call "my black hole years."
so I've kinda just jumped in and started loving everyone this year, everyone who hasn't pissed me off right away by a) wearing a Yankees jersey and not being named Nick Swisher, b) being a bitchass, or c) being fat. (but Evan Meek and Kevin Youkilis are the good kind of fat, see.) I'm fucking fascinated by Tim Lincecum, his weird-ass delivery and how his scrawny little body doesn't blow up with the force of it. I actually gawk in awe at Barry Zito's curveball, when it works. I watch Neil Walker dig in at the plate and I hold my breath and pray, because I believe in him like he's a fucking miracle. I groan and fall off the couch when Garrett Jones chases pitches in the dirt. I want desperately, for reasons that would take a real essay to explain, for Bobby Crosby to succeed, even though he does it about once a month.
I'm back in love with baseball. I decided to do it, back in October as Papelbon was melting down, but I kind of lost control of the magnitude. I didn't mean to adopt West Coast teams. and I didn't mean to end up rooting for the Braves to go to the World Series for the sake of Tim Hudson (and that McCann kid, he's the good kind of fat too). but that's how I know I'm really into it - it's carrying me now, this baseball thing. I feel like it could carry me out to San Francisco and up to Toronto and down to Texas if I'd let it.
but there's nothing - never will be - like Fenway on game day.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
here comes a regular (am I the only one here today?)
this thing is all but discontinued - I use it more at school, I guess. and all that happens is I make a post and then people attempt to send me Asian porn in the comments, lololol. I'm thinking of starting up a Wordpress thing for my actual, yannow, writing. but we'll see if/when that happens.
I'm leaving on route to Chicago, then Minneapolis, in fourish days. it's hard to express how fucking excited I am. here is something I wrote about Minnesota around eight or nine months ago, in Boston:
"I’m a little bit afraid to go to Minnesota. I’m afraid because I think it won’t measure up to the way I think it will be. When I think of Minnesota, I think of the guitar sound on “Here Comes a Regular.” For some reason, to me, Bob Stinson’s guitar is ringing off this huge, open sky, probably in the fall, just as the last leaves are falling, and it’s heart-achingly beautiful.
The vast open sky is what I think of the most – I have this idea that it feels different there than in any other flat state between Pennsylvania and Colorado, that it’s colder, and a little lonely, but not the way you would be lonely in Nebraska, the kind of lonely that inspires poetry.
Maybe it’s because a couple Replacements songs that immediately come to mind mention the sky (I write this as I look at “Waitress in the Sky” and “Skyway” on my iTunes player, and I remember how I felt when I first drove over the Chicago Skyway into the great Midwestern city). I think of “On the Rainy River,” possibly my favorite chapter from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, of driving through an entire state with something called an Iron Range, and on to Canada beyond. I want Minnesota to be breathtakingly beautiful, but not in an obvious way. And if I get there and it looks like Ohio, I may be slightly disappointed."
if it's possible to be obsessed with a state you've never been to? yeah. Mighty Ducks, up through Chuck Klosterman, through the 'Mats, to everything hockey. it's ridiculous how many of the important things in my world involve this state. between MN and CA you've got a good half of my life.
I'm leaving on route to Chicago, then Minneapolis, in fourish days. it's hard to express how fucking excited I am. here is something I wrote about Minnesota around eight or nine months ago, in Boston:
"I’m a little bit afraid to go to Minnesota. I’m afraid because I think it won’t measure up to the way I think it will be. When I think of Minnesota, I think of the guitar sound on “Here Comes a Regular.” For some reason, to me, Bob Stinson’s guitar is ringing off this huge, open sky, probably in the fall, just as the last leaves are falling, and it’s heart-achingly beautiful.
The vast open sky is what I think of the most – I have this idea that it feels different there than in any other flat state between Pennsylvania and Colorado, that it’s colder, and a little lonely, but not the way you would be lonely in Nebraska, the kind of lonely that inspires poetry.
Maybe it’s because a couple Replacements songs that immediately come to mind mention the sky (I write this as I look at “Waitress in the Sky” and “Skyway” on my iTunes player, and I remember how I felt when I first drove over the Chicago Skyway into the great Midwestern city). I think of “On the Rainy River,” possibly my favorite chapter from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, of driving through an entire state with something called an Iron Range, and on to Canada beyond. I want Minnesota to be breathtakingly beautiful, but not in an obvious way. And if I get there and it looks like Ohio, I may be slightly disappointed
if it's possible to be obsessed with a state you've never been to? yeah. Mighty Ducks, up through Chuck Klosterman, through the 'Mats, to everything hockey. it's ridiculous how many of the important things in my world involve this state. between MN and CA you've got a good half of my life.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
I am still living with your ghost, lonely and dreaming of the West Coast.
how's this for ridiculous: at school, most of what I wrote was about Pittsburgh. almost everything set in Pittsburgh or the vicinity, everything about what it's like and what it means to be from where I'm from. (maybe because at school, everyone thought I was from Philly no matter how many times I told them - it was like being from nowhere at all, after a while.)
and now I'm home, in the middle of the Appalachians again, and all I want to write about is...California, a state in which I've spent a grand total of five days. all I want to read about too, between Kerouac and rereading Moneyball again (I wonder how many people are fascinated with Beat writers and baseball statistics simultaneously, to the point where they seem to be connected? not many, probably).
it's a little stupid. I am following two baseball teams from the Bay Area (or trying, anyway, while keeping up with the Pirates and Sox, not to mention hockey); making a playlist entitled "going to California"; wondering how realistic it is to plan to live in San Francisco at some point if at all possible. wondering how I could handle being that far away, if 3,000 miles is any different than 600. wondering when I can get back to the Pacific Ocean because I need that shit in my life as soon as I can get it.
on top of it all, every time I see Fenway Park on TV I miss Boston to the point of physical pain. it's weird things I miss about Boston. Fenway on game nights, of course, and all the places I can lie in the grass and read and write. the random spots on campus, Boston Common. the fact that I can take a fucking train to a fucking beach. tall buildings, looking out my window from fourteen floors up instead of two. sidewalks. places where I can be by myself, or at least not bothered, being easily accessible. other things I don't miss at all, but almost none of those have to do with the city itself.
I feel like wandering. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen right now, except I don't know what it is. I'm in a minor writing lull - that is, what I want to say isn't coming as easily - which always makes me kinda restless. sometimes when I'm not writing, I feel like I need a change elsewhere in my life to get me moving.
and now I'm home, in the middle of the Appalachians again, and all I want to write about is...California, a state in which I've spent a grand total of five days. all I want to read about too, between Kerouac and rereading Moneyball again (I wonder how many people are fascinated with Beat writers and baseball statistics simultaneously, to the point where they seem to be connected? not many, probably).
it's a little stupid. I am following two baseball teams from the Bay Area (or trying, anyway, while keeping up with the Pirates and Sox, not to mention hockey); making a playlist entitled "going to California"; wondering how realistic it is to plan to live in San Francisco at some point if at all possible. wondering how I could handle being that far away, if 3,000 miles is any different than 600. wondering when I can get back to the Pacific Ocean because I need that shit in my life as soon as I can get it.
on top of it all, every time I see Fenway Park on TV I miss Boston to the point of physical pain. it's weird things I miss about Boston. Fenway on game nights, of course, and all the places I can lie in the grass and read and write. the random spots on campus, Boston Common. the fact that I can take a fucking train to a fucking beach. tall buildings, looking out my window from fourteen floors up instead of two. sidewalks. places where I can be by myself, or at least not bothered, being easily accessible. other things I don't miss at all, but almost none of those have to do with the city itself.
I feel like wandering. I feel like I'm waiting for something to happen right now, except I don't know what it is. I'm in a minor writing lull - that is, what I want to say isn't coming as easily - which always makes me kinda restless. sometimes when I'm not writing, I feel like I need a change elsewhere in my life to get me moving.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
pictures of cool stuff I've done in the last 24 hours
Fenway Park, foolz. one of the greatest places in the world. contrary to how it looks here, it did not rain.
and the Sox won in epically clutch bottom-of-the-eighth fashion and my two favorites were heroes. Pedroia = favorite human.
Blue Line train to Revere Beach today. I take pictures of the T a lot.
THIS IS NEAR ME. an hour out on the T, anyway.
oh hallo I am in the ocean
living there someday. or a comparable place in New England or Northern California.Monday, May 3, 2010
distraction #74. blogger still won't let me upload images
there's so much I want to say. most of the time I don't have anyone to say it to here at school. I'm sure that's part of why I've written so much this year (on Wednesday or Thursday, when I have nothing to do, I might count up all the words I've written this year, outside of the epic stuff I've had to do for class). I've always written better than I talk.
I'm not excited-without-reservations to go home. after the Bruins game on Saturday I sat outside in the sun just looking at the North End, being in this second city of mine and enjoying it. today I went to the badass record store on west campus for the first time. walked there. can't walk anywhere at home. there's a whole lot I love about Boston, and about being here (and I am seeing Jon Lester pitch at Fenway tomorrow night, and it had better not fucking rain because I am 2EXCITED4LIFE).
but I'm ready to go home. I'm ready to speak freely and be comfortable just about all the time. I'm ready to have my car back and not have to wake up every time my roommates get up, because I won't have roommates. I'm ready to drive into Pittsburgh and get to know my first city a little better. I'm ready for the Pens on my TV, not on a shitty internet feed that routinely breaks down during the second period. I'm ready for my friends and family and epic adventures and summer. and oh yeah, shit, I turn 19 on Thursday. what a weird age.
I'm not excited-without-reservations to go home. after the Bruins game on Saturday I sat outside in the sun just looking at the North End, being in this second city of mine and enjoying it. today I went to the badass record store on west campus for the first time. walked there. can't walk anywhere at home. there's a whole lot I love about Boston, and about being here (and I am seeing Jon Lester pitch at Fenway tomorrow night, and it had better not fucking rain because I am 2EXCITED4LIFE).
but I'm ready to go home. I'm ready to speak freely and be comfortable just about all the time. I'm ready to have my car back and not have to wake up every time my roommates get up, because I won't have roommates. I'm ready to drive into Pittsburgh and get to know my first city a little better. I'm ready for the Pens on my TV, not on a shitty internet feed that routinely breaks down during the second period. I'm ready for my friends and family and epic adventures and summer. and oh yeah, shit, I turn 19 on Thursday. what a weird age.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
georgia on my mind? forgive me, it's my last week of class
While contemplating my possible future in an all-girl Beatles cover band (where I would, of course, be George - I've even been told I play guitar like him, which is not exactly the highest compliment a guitarist can be paid, but I'll take it), I realized that my name could totally be shortened to Georgia if I so desired. I tried to go by Georgie for about a week once in first grade, and I seem to remember that this was because of a girl in the Nancy Drew books I was reading named George. It didn't take.
It's kind of weird that I never, ever think of myself by my given name, and I don't think anybody else does either. I don't even think about it, aside from when I'm preparing on the first day of a new class to say "I go by Annie." I still have to take my time signing my full name on checks because that big unwieldy cursive G just doesn't come naturally. I have an A-name. I've always had an A-name. I kind of forget I'm Georgianne most of the time. But if I ever need a pen name or a clever alter ego I might just fall back on Georgia.
It's kind of weird that I never, ever think of myself by my given name, and I don't think anybody else does either. I don't even think about it, aside from when I'm preparing on the first day of a new class to say "I go by Annie." I still have to take my time signing my full name on checks because that big unwieldy cursive G just doesn't come naturally. I have an A-name. I've always had an A-name. I kind of forget I'm Georgianne most of the time. But if I ever need a pen name or a clever alter ego I might just fall back on Georgia.
Monday, April 19, 2010
because my roommates are doing important things and I can't turn on the Sox game and interrupt them.
a brief list of mostly-semi-epic things I want to do in my life, in no particular order:
1. run the Boston Marathon (which is going on outside my window, zooomg)
2. go to Base Camp of Mount Everest
3. go to a Yankees-Sox game in New York in Sox stuff (I'd need someone to go with me, as I like being alive)
4. go to an NHL playoff game
5. play an actual gig with a band/play songs I/my band has written in said gig
6. meet Chuck Klosterman
7. party with Max Talbot
8. drive from an East Coast state to a West Coast state
9. go to Australia
10. live in Ireland for at least a few months
11. go to Spain and the Czech Republic and maybe France if I can be bothered
12. go to Montreal
13. write and publish a book
14. drive to somewhere I've never been before and sleep there for the night, unplanned
15. become fluent in another language.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
america.
"This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and the crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, reexamine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."
- Uncle Walt
yeah, sorry for being insufferable.
- Uncle Walt
yeah, sorry for being insufferable.
every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
the sky is
seamlessly blue-gray
rippling over dark Cambridge
splashing down into the Charles
where it meets the highway
I am
on a fifth floor that feels more like a basement
parsing the writings
of a sweaty-toothed madman
and his heirs
willing or unwilling
I remember
clouds overseas, over seas
that broke up against the easternmost wall of my continent
and an island at the end of the world
where kids with soccer nets in their damp front yards
grew food in walled-off Cromwellian soil
and went to the mainland when they needed the twentieth century.
this sky is
heavy and low as in Ireland
as at the foggy tip of the English emperor's reign
old New England in muted color
and Dickensian quiet beauty
miles away.
seamlessly blue-gray
rippling over dark Cambridge
splashing down into the Charles
where it meets the highway
I am
on a fifth floor that feels more like a basement
parsing the writings
of a sweaty-toothed madman
and his heirs
willing or unwilling
I remember
clouds overseas, over seas
that broke up against the easternmost wall of my continent
and an island at the end of the world
where kids with soccer nets in their damp front yards
grew food in walled-off Cromwellian soil
and went to the mainland when they needed the twentieth century.
this sky is
heavy and low as in Ireland
as at the foggy tip of the English emperor's reign
old New England in muted color
and Dickensian quiet beauty
miles away.
Friday, April 16, 2010
and when i say devil, i mean the manifestation of doubt.
yeah I know, I have a renewed musical obsession and won't shut up, I'M SORRY. but:
words in Ted Leo songs I have had to look up in the dictionary:
- ossify (to become rigid or inflexible in habits, attitudes, opinions, etc.)
- apostasy (a total desertion of or departure from one's religion, principles, party, cause, etc.)
- fungible (being of such nature or kind as to be freely exchangeable or replaceable, in whole or in part, for another of like nature or kind.)
- abjure (to renounce or give up under oath)
...and others I can't remember right now. question: do you know what is more awesome/hotter than a punk boy with a good vocabulary? answer: NOTHING. nnnghgadsjfajskdfasdf.
words in Ted Leo songs I have had to look up in the dictionary:
- ossify (to become rigid or inflexible in habits, attitudes, opinions, etc.)
- apostasy (a total desertion of or departure from one's religion, principles, party, cause, etc.)
- fungible (being of such nature or kind as to be freely exchangeable or replaceable, in whole or in part, for another of like nature or kind.)
- abjure (to renounce or give up under oath)
...and others I can't remember right now. question: do you know what is more awesome/hotter than a punk boy with a good vocabulary? answer: NOTHING. nnnghgadsjfajskdfasdf.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
cambridge common, 2 PM, 4/14/10
Old red brick and new gray stone
monuments and cherry trees stand alone
Christmas lights still wink in the trees
tangled in winter, now set free
by the midday sun, the Cambridge breeze
the miracles in the new green leaves
As I walk on to Harvard Square
The clash of years, it meets me there
the Oxford streets, the anytown stores
the singer standing in the door
and seven nations pass me by
underneath a perfect sky
If I should stay here for the night
I think I'd wake to see the light
everything loosened by the sun
I move easily on along
through wide streets and blue skies
through the people's town with the sun in my eyes
if I should stay here for tonight
I think I'd wake to see the light
[it's stupid how pretty Boston is sometimes. what a city. also, cheers to Ted Leo for inspiration for the "Harvard Square" line - he writes the best songs about Boston, I'm just trying to catch up.]
monuments and cherry trees stand alone
Christmas lights still wink in the trees
tangled in winter, now set free
by the midday sun, the Cambridge breeze
the miracles in the new green leaves
As I walk on to Harvard Square
The clash of years, it meets me there
the Oxford streets, the anytown stores
the singer standing in the door
and seven nations pass me by
underneath a perfect sky
If I should stay here for the night
I think I'd wake to see the light
everything loosened by the sun
I move easily on along
through wide streets and blue skies
through the people's town with the sun in my eyes
if I should stay here for tonight
I think I'd wake to see the light
[it's stupid how pretty Boston is sometimes. what a city. also, cheers to Ted Leo for inspiration for the "Harvard Square" line - he writes the best songs about Boston, I'm just trying to catch up.]
Monday, April 12, 2010
so I asked a Mr. Mellor how to get to where one's going...
it turns out most of the musicians I love dearly have tremendous hero-worship crushes on Joe Strummer, the most notable one right now being Mr. Ted Leo. guys, if you don't listen to him, you SHOULD. and if you have never seen him live, YOU REALLY SHOULD. dude has so much energy, it's essentially impossible not to dance and jump and basically have a fantastic time while he's playing. I saw him by himself at this teeny little venue at my school in September and fell in love (and met him! he's wicked nice and apologized for being all sweaty when my friend and I sort of hugged him, ahaha). saw him again on Saturday night with his full band and had a big stupid grin on my face the entire time.
I'm not going to ramble on about songs and setlists because nobody but me listens to him anyway. but I attempted to post videos because this man is a) talented, b) hilarious, c) brilliant and d) adorable, to be quite honest, and it really comes across best when you see him sing, but alas, my internet connection starts going berserk every time I try to upload videos, so, FAIL. you'll just have to take my word for it.also, during "Ballad of the Sin Eater," which I did not get a decent video of because I'm an idiot, he did a legitimately awesome Joe Strummer/Johnny Rotten-crazy-spastic-mad-frontman...thing. he put down the guitar and was just all over the place with the mike stand going crazy. it was awesome. my words do not do Ted Leo justice. GO SEE HIM. LOVE HIM.
some fragments
last night I had a dream that I was feeling so self-conscious about being fat that I felt physically compelled to buy a cupcake to make myself feel better even though it made me sick. I can't make this shit up. apparently my subconscious is...quite self-conscious.
unrelatedly, drinking coffee wakes up my writing brain. I LIKE IT. I also like Walt Whitman. he was the man.
unrelatedly, drinking coffee wakes up my writing brain. I LIKE IT. I also like Walt Whitman. he was the man.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
i'm worried, i'm always in love.
I go a week between updates a lot.
I miss hockey intensely. playing, that is. I went to the women's hockey banquet today - the coach invited us sportswriters, he is the nicest human in the world - and I miss my team. It's kind of surprised me how many of them have said they miss me too. Love those bitches.
I watched most of two baseball games last night. I think I love the Oakland A's, for a variety of mostly stupid and mostly personal/interpersonal reasons. I'm also certain that I love the Boston Red Sox, but that isn't news. Dustin Pedroia stole my heart two years ago at Fenway.
I want to live in Northern California for at least a year. It's been decided. I think I might work for the San Jose Sharks. Or the A's. Or freelance write for whoever wants me to.
I might be going to Minneapolis this summer. It's hard to articulate how fucking excited I am about that.
I am seeing Ted Leo in three to four hours. I have a huge musical crush on him and kind of just want to sit and talk to him about the Clash and living in Boston and Bruce Springsteen.
I don't know why I never listened to Wilco before this point but I kind of love them.
Pens' last regular-season game is tomorrow night. I hope so hard that they're still playing when I get home in May, that's all I'm saying.
I can't wait for it to be May, and to be home with my car and my favorite people and my TV and my bed, and my couch. There is a serious lack of couches in my life at school.
I also think this last month in Boston-town could potentially be really great. I've sort of found a home at the newspaper office, which I really should have known would happen all along. I'm still in transition, still in progress, but I'm eighteen and that's how I'm supposed to be.
I'm listening to a lot of old, and new, Green Day lately. Comfort music, but also The Greatest Music.
I miss hockey intensely. playing, that is. I went to the women's hockey banquet today - the coach invited us sportswriters, he is the nicest human in the world - and I miss my team. It's kind of surprised me how many of them have said they miss me too. Love those bitches.
I watched most of two baseball games last night. I think I love the Oakland A's, for a variety of mostly stupid and mostly personal/interpersonal reasons. I'm also certain that I love the Boston Red Sox, but that isn't news. Dustin Pedroia stole my heart two years ago at Fenway.
I want to live in Northern California for at least a year. It's been decided. I think I might work for the San Jose Sharks. Or the A's. Or freelance write for whoever wants me to.
I might be going to Minneapolis this summer. It's hard to articulate how fucking excited I am about that.
I am seeing Ted Leo in three to four hours. I have a huge musical crush on him and kind of just want to sit and talk to him about the Clash and living in Boston and Bruce Springsteen.
I don't know why I never listened to Wilco before this point but I kind of love them.
Pens' last regular-season game is tomorrow night. I hope so hard that they're still playing when I get home in May, that's all I'm saying.
I can't wait for it to be May, and to be home with my car and my favorite people and my TV and my bed, and my couch. There is a serious lack of couches in my life at school.
I also think this last month in Boston-town could potentially be really great. I've sort of found a home at the newspaper office, which I really should have known would happen all along. I'm still in transition, still in progress, but I'm eighteen and that's how I'm supposed to be.
I'm listening to a lot of old, and new, Green Day lately. Comfort music, but also The Greatest Music.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
do you believe in something beautiful? then get up and be it.
"Me and Johnny sittin' in the green grass -
I don't remember too much from that far back in the past,
But man, oh man, was Johnathan a laugh
In those days.
Apparently he was my very best friend -
We spent warm summer days wishing they would never end -
But I only know from photographs I look at
Every now and again.
And J-J-Johnny -
Ooh, ooh, all he left us was an apple tree,
And ooh, where'd he go, and ooh, why'd he leave,
And ooh, why do I grieve?
Now I don't ever see Johnathan no more,
But my life rolls on just like it did before,
And I only wonder what it is
That I even miss him for.
Me and Timory holdin' hands -
I was shakin' hers, cause she said she was a fan,
There was an awkward pause, and something that should've began
Just passed us by.
But I watched her sing along with every word,
In the prettiest voice that I never heard,
And I still see her dancing, wearin' my shirt:
Right there.
And t-t-timorous me -
All Timory left me was a memory.
And ooh, I was blind, and ooh, now I find
That I can't see.
Now me and Jodi spend a lot of our time
Just sittin' in silence, driving late at night,
And maybe even wonderin' what's on each other's mind
This time.
But I know she's like me, so I let it ride -
She's dwelling in that quiet space left behind,
Where only peace can answer why,
And you abide
The birds must fly."
- "Timorous Me," Ted Leo & the Pharmacists
going to see Ted Leo again next weekend. CAN'T WAAAAIT :D
I don't remember too much from that far back in the past,
But man, oh man, was Johnathan a laugh
In those days.
Apparently he was my very best friend -
We spent warm summer days wishing they would never end -
But I only know from photographs I look at
Every now and again.
And J-J-Johnny -
Ooh, ooh, all he left us was an apple tree,
And ooh, where'd he go, and ooh, why'd he leave,
And ooh, why do I grieve?
Now I don't ever see Johnathan no more,
But my life rolls on just like it did before,
And I only wonder what it is
That I even miss him for.
Me and Timory holdin' hands -
I was shakin' hers, cause she said she was a fan,
There was an awkward pause, and something that should've began
Just passed us by.
But I watched her sing along with every word,
In the prettiest voice that I never heard,
And I still see her dancing, wearin' my shirt:
Right there.
And t-t-timorous me -
All Timory left me was a memory.
And ooh, I was blind, and ooh, now I find
That I can't see.
Now me and Jodi spend a lot of our time
Just sittin' in silence, driving late at night,
And maybe even wonderin' what's on each other's mind
This time.
But I know she's like me, so I let it ride -
She's dwelling in that quiet space left behind,
Where only peace can answer why,
And you abide
The birds must fly."
- "Timorous Me," Ted Leo & the Pharmacists
going to see Ted Leo again next weekend. CAN'T WAAAAIT :D
Friday, April 2, 2010
do you dream too much? do you think what you need is a crutch?
Oakland. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of…what? The loudest guitar chords you can manage and the most honest punk-rock shout you’ve got, it seems.
“you taught me how to live” – breaks my fucking heart. Billie Joe, the lost boy, for just a second before this army of stomping boots comes in behind him – Billie, vulnerable, show me how to live, tell me you know something more than I do.
The Northern California rain, desperate at the far end of the continent, intensified and blazing the way everything seems to be out there. Saint Jimmy frantic and wavering, going up in one last towering inferno (I don’t mean to foreshadow) for all to see and marvel over. He may not have been right but he was honest, for a brief flashing second he was beautifully, violently honest about what he believed was the truth.
Lost without that furious driving force, now, where to go where to go? Onward, of course, always onward. Does anyone care if nobody cares? This generation, you hear it all the time, no cause to rally around, like every other group of kids who came before lived and breathed worthy causes.
Such a wonderful image – “Jesus filling out paperwork.” Fucking literary, Billie. And the underbelly, that loose confederation of shady characters we all think we could hang out with, if maybe we were just a little cooler.
ANYBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE.
Picking up the pace, raging and stumbling onward through the cracked streets (and the broken homes?). Four chords and then all of a sudden we slow, and stop. It’s Sunday morning coming down and the church bells are singing out over a deserted town; our hero wakes up on the couch, disoriented, sore, hopeful for a second till he sees, “you’re still not here…and you can’t tell anyone, cause no one’s here.” What a gray, dismal morning, should have stayed home after all, and what in the world are you doing here? The loneliest, most pathetic way to wake up, in yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s hopes.
WHERE’D YOU GO?
…Jeez. Get over it, man, we’ve got places to go shows to see things to do all over the place, a ROCK AND ROLL LIFE TO LIVE. If you can play the shit out the drums, the guitar, you’ll be fine after all, kid, let go. Get on the wagon with me and we’ll make it just fine.
You can feel the change here; you can feel the streets shake and the key change upward one more time. Upward, higher, pure musical hope (the Ramones might do it best) like the desperation murmur of a heartbeat. Nobody ever said that life was fair, hey, but we’re not through yet. We’re fucked up, we’re not the same, but in the end we’re still here, and we’re the ones going home.
Home, what a thought, after all you’ve been through, to go back to the place where you used to be so different. What a thought, and what is this that happens when you think about it – you started fucking running as soon as your feet touched ground, hey, something in you wants to be there. In the end, you come back. You come full circle. Home, we’re coming home again, and you don’t have to be told to know where that is. You can see it. Maybe you’ve got this rambunctious punk-rock army you can hear behind you, maybe you’re all alone but you’re just fine either way – you are going home.
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