28/06/05
Bike on that bike that makes the skeleton do what you do
Injuries (minor) sustained this past weekend:
Right shin and calf- severe bruising; some skin loss
Left hip- severe bruising; minor restriction of movement
Right knee-see above
Left wrist- same
Right shoulder- all of the above
Left temple- bruised lump that's inexplicably turned into the hugest honking zit ever
Pretty much everywhere else- gross cuts and scrapes
Oh, and ice cream headaches in both feet.
I'm walking around all ramshackle, but it's shit like this that makes me feel alive. I wish I had birthdays like that.
I gotta stop making out with people in public. And jerking off with sand in my pants. It's just bad form.
I'm not even going to try telling you about today. Things are afoot. Maybe. I took my foot outta my mouth for a second, and somebody shoved it in a door.
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Injuries (minor) sustained this past weekend:
Right shin and calf- severe bruising; some skin loss
Left hip- severe bruising; minor restriction of movement
Right knee-see above
Left wrist- same
Right shoulder- all of the above
Left temple- bruised lump that's inexplicably turned into the hugest honking zit ever
Pretty much everywhere else- gross cuts and scrapes
Oh, and ice cream headaches in both feet.
I'm walking around all ramshackle, but it's shit like this that makes me feel alive. I wish I had birthdays like that.
I gotta stop making out with people in public. And jerking off with sand in my pants. It's just bad form.
I'm not even going to try telling you about today. Things are afoot. Maybe. I took my foot outta my mouth for a second, and somebody shoved it in a door.
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24/06/05
If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.
My mom never actually said this to me, although I'm starting to wish she had. Her thing was always "The squeaky wheel gets the grease," which, given some thought now, seems like something of a deathwish piece of advice for one to give one's own little slightly fucked-up kid. I cursed at my mom an awful lot from the age that I discovered cursing was a non-issue. Age six, to be exact, and I'm pretty sure it was October because I remember what the weather in the sky looked like at that exact moment, and exactly where we were and exactly what I said and exactly why I said it. And I looked so sheepish for it that she just burst out laughing, and after that I cussed like a little sailor along with her and her friends, always trying to be apt about it; never excessive, and always knowing never to speak that way to a teacher (unless she was being a total cunt) or in other such formal settings.
And then things got hard, in ways that I'm to this day only just beginning to understand and come to grips with, and I turned into some asshole teenager, and cursed that woman up and down in every vile and vicious new way possible. It is a testament to her sanity that we ever made it through.
When I was 19 or 20 or so, after things had simmered the hell down and some kind of order had reinstated itself, we both made vows to stop cursing and drinking. At least one of us succeeded.
But holy fuck do I digress. I don't know what compels me sometimes to just say every goddamned asshole thing that runs through my mind. I think I feel at the time that there is a certain courage involved in saying things I know would be better left unsaid. But I'm far from understanding what the fuck my own thought processes are half the time. It's almost definitely more courageous to not say these things, but if you don't, who'll ever know? I'm just not that stoic. I have to say the things I think, because I'm scared to say the things I think. It's pretty classic overcompensatory type shit, I suppose. I overshoot candour and hit "jerk" square in the forehead.
I can't with any sense of, well, sense, judge a band by some special set of criteria because it's composed of a bunch of cute chicks. That shit is just insulting to all parties involved, and I won't cater to it. But I sure feel like an ass for coming across like such a needless, unsolicited prick about it. And after some of them being so needlessly nice to me. I was really looking forward to this show, and now I just want to hide under a rock for a couple months.
What goes through my head?
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My mom never actually said this to me, although I'm starting to wish she had. Her thing was always "The squeaky wheel gets the grease," which, given some thought now, seems like something of a deathwish piece of advice for one to give one's own little slightly fucked-up kid. I cursed at my mom an awful lot from the age that I discovered cursing was a non-issue. Age six, to be exact, and I'm pretty sure it was October because I remember what the weather in the sky looked like at that exact moment, and exactly where we were and exactly what I said and exactly why I said it. And I looked so sheepish for it that she just burst out laughing, and after that I cussed like a little sailor along with her and her friends, always trying to be apt about it; never excessive, and always knowing never to speak that way to a teacher (unless she was being a total cunt) or in other such formal settings.
And then things got hard, in ways that I'm to this day only just beginning to understand and come to grips with, and I turned into some asshole teenager, and cursed that woman up and down in every vile and vicious new way possible. It is a testament to her sanity that we ever made it through.
When I was 19 or 20 or so, after things had simmered the hell down and some kind of order had reinstated itself, we both made vows to stop cursing and drinking. At least one of us succeeded.
But holy fuck do I digress. I don't know what compels me sometimes to just say every goddamned asshole thing that runs through my mind. I think I feel at the time that there is a certain courage involved in saying things I know would be better left unsaid. But I'm far from understanding what the fuck my own thought processes are half the time. It's almost definitely more courageous to not say these things, but if you don't, who'll ever know? I'm just not that stoic. I have to say the things I think, because I'm scared to say the things I think. It's pretty classic overcompensatory type shit, I suppose. I overshoot candour and hit "jerk" square in the forehead.
I can't with any sense of, well, sense, judge a band by some special set of criteria because it's composed of a bunch of cute chicks. That shit is just insulting to all parties involved, and I won't cater to it. But I sure feel like an ass for coming across like such a needless, unsolicited prick about it. And after some of them being so needlessly nice to me. I was really looking forward to this show, and now I just want to hide under a rock for a couple months.
What goes through my head?
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21/06/05
I read what you wrote about hatred and hope
And it rang true, in spite of you
I know what you said about freedom and friendship and trust
And you fail
But we all must
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And it rang true, in spite of you
I know what you said about freedom and friendship and trust
And you fail
But we all must
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For fuck's sake, why are you contacting me again if you have nothing to say? Don't look to me to re-initiate this. We've already been through it too many times, and it never ended in anything good. Time and distance have softened any animosity on my part, and I'd like to keep it that way. I was never good to you. Is that what you want me to say? You weren't real great to me either. And you must've known that I'd dramatize this to the universe before I ever said it to you again. Let's just remain fond memories, ok?
I can feel the latent mystery in these cold summer nights. I walk around alone, and I don't feel alone. Things are happening in the air, and I'm supposed to avoid that, but I don't. It's like when I was a kid staying out too late walking around the barren neighbourhoods of my hometown, always twenty feet behind, always linked to the group by a thread, always implicit in everything but always apart. Always an observer. Always a third party.
They aren't all dead, but I can feel the ghosts of those kids still walking twenty feet ahead of me on nights like this. I'm just there. Just a witness. I'm part of the scenery. You don't actually interact with me; I'm a door or a lamp or a garbage bin or something, and you just walk through me or turn me on or off or throw waste in my general direction. Sometimes you stop and wonder why exactly I'm there, and I do that too. But it doesn't really matter because life is just absurd, and try as I might to be active I am just an observer, and try as I might to be passive I am part of it all, and then I just worry about my hair.
I don't want to be alone right now. It's getting really hard again. But I can't be right there for anyone. It's too much to ask, I know, but I need someone to just walk those twenty feet ahead of me for a little while. I need new ghosts. I need new paths. And I need it to not be intentional, so this is all moot anyway.
What a dramatic load of crap. I should tell more jokes or something.
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I can feel the latent mystery in these cold summer nights. I walk around alone, and I don't feel alone. Things are happening in the air, and I'm supposed to avoid that, but I don't. It's like when I was a kid staying out too late walking around the barren neighbourhoods of my hometown, always twenty feet behind, always linked to the group by a thread, always implicit in everything but always apart. Always an observer. Always a third party.
They aren't all dead, but I can feel the ghosts of those kids still walking twenty feet ahead of me on nights like this. I'm just there. Just a witness. I'm part of the scenery. You don't actually interact with me; I'm a door or a lamp or a garbage bin or something, and you just walk through me or turn me on or off or throw waste in my general direction. Sometimes you stop and wonder why exactly I'm there, and I do that too. But it doesn't really matter because life is just absurd, and try as I might to be active I am just an observer, and try as I might to be passive I am part of it all, and then I just worry about my hair.
I don't want to be alone right now. It's getting really hard again. But I can't be right there for anyone. It's too much to ask, I know, but I need someone to just walk those twenty feet ahead of me for a little while. I need new ghosts. I need new paths. And I need it to not be intentional, so this is all moot anyway.
What a dramatic load of crap. I should tell more jokes or something.
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20/06/05
So all of Gilbert Switzer and Be Bad -1 ended up hosting/crashing the CKDU Smart Patrol on Saturday night. I shaved for the radio and it was a pretty fantastic way to kick off the evening. The sheer volume of music in that tiny station is overwhelming. There were masks and on-air pillow assaults and prank calls, and I mostly just pored through drawer after drawer and shelf after shelf of music.
There was some miscommunication leaving for the eviction party, and we ended up unintentionally ditching Troy, which sucks because his presence would most definitely have been appreciated amidst the throngs of hipsters and dilettantes. Actually, y'know, to be fair -and I find myself having to constantly remind myself of this- just about all of those people are cool, or at least not ragingly-pretentious shitfucks as individuals. It just so often feels like some contemptibly superficial cliche once you get everyone under the same roof. It's a gestalt sorta thing, I guess, and for all I know people lump me in with that same regard. I certainly do nothing to make that seem unjustified, but I fail miserably at hipsterism. If you only knew the punk that haunts me at home. I just think hip girls are hot, and I don't really know how else I might meet someone who thinks Psychocandy is the most important album of the last century. And I am a lonely, pathetic man-boy. And I don't want to go back to celibacy.
The party was good. Brett was peeing on a car when I showed up, and a similar pace ensued for like the first hour I was there.Talked to exes and coulda-beens and might-bes and hey you'd almost think I was a popular guy, but it was getting to the point of overload so I retreated to the backyard and listened to strangers have what was, to them, the most hilarious conversation in the universe. Then somebody dragged me down to the basement for some fairly weak Ouija board action that didn't really result in anything funny or scary, and eldee took what seemed like an awful lot of pictures of me. I guess that's cool, though; maybe one in a thousand won't make me look like a mutated freak.
Headed back upstairs and settled in amongst the Cape Breton girls. They were doing bottle tokes, and this is such a nostalgic experience for me that I couldn't resist. BTs were my teenage breastmilk. I had one. One. And I knew I had to leave. Such a lightweight. Drugs just make me strange now. I went from being mildly and pleasantly drunk to crosseyed staggering nonsense-guy in three minutes flat. Nancy happened to be taking off too, and that worked out nicely. Ostensibly I walked her home, but it was really more the reverse.
Home. Earlier that day I'd cleaned my apartment, and even emptied my fridge. But I'd left in a rush and forgotten to take the garbage bag outside. Hi Java. It was like a garbage bomb had gone off in my apartment. When I say "it looked like a dump" I don't mean it in that insipid "yeah, my apartment's sort of a mess right now" sense, I mean it looked like the fucking city dump. Not an inch of floor was free of carnage. So I did what any sensible person would, and cleared out a little garbage-y nest for myself and curled up into the fetal position on the floor, hoping a fucking meteor would hit this house while I slept.
No dice. Woke up to a phone call twenty minutes before jamming Sunday, and ended up being twenty minutes late. Spent the entire two hours honing a relatively-simple song that I initially wrote which somehow managed to morph into a precision thirteen-headed mathematical bee-spitting monster, and it was excellent because time flew and we were all on the same page for perhaps the first time ever, and what should have seemed taxing just felt like release, and that's the way this shit should be done.
Then we ate at Robie food and I went to work, and now I'm going to bed.
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There was some miscommunication leaving for the eviction party, and we ended up unintentionally ditching Troy, which sucks because his presence would most definitely have been appreciated amidst the throngs of hipsters and dilettantes. Actually, y'know, to be fair -and I find myself having to constantly remind myself of this- just about all of those people are cool, or at least not ragingly-pretentious shitfucks as individuals. It just so often feels like some contemptibly superficial cliche once you get everyone under the same roof. It's a gestalt sorta thing, I guess, and for all I know people lump me in with that same regard. I certainly do nothing to make that seem unjustified, but I fail miserably at hipsterism. If you only knew the punk that haunts me at home. I just think hip girls are hot, and I don't really know how else I might meet someone who thinks Psychocandy is the most important album of the last century. And I am a lonely, pathetic man-boy. And I don't want to go back to celibacy.
The party was good. Brett was peeing on a car when I showed up, and a similar pace ensued for like the first hour I was there.Talked to exes and coulda-beens and might-bes and hey you'd almost think I was a popular guy, but it was getting to the point of overload so I retreated to the backyard and listened to strangers have what was, to them, the most hilarious conversation in the universe. Then somebody dragged me down to the basement for some fairly weak Ouija board action that didn't really result in anything funny or scary, and eldee took what seemed like an awful lot of pictures of me. I guess that's cool, though; maybe one in a thousand won't make me look like a mutated freak.
Headed back upstairs and settled in amongst the Cape Breton girls. They were doing bottle tokes, and this is such a nostalgic experience for me that I couldn't resist. BTs were my teenage breastmilk. I had one. One. And I knew I had to leave. Such a lightweight. Drugs just make me strange now. I went from being mildly and pleasantly drunk to crosseyed staggering nonsense-guy in three minutes flat. Nancy happened to be taking off too, and that worked out nicely. Ostensibly I walked her home, but it was really more the reverse.
Home. Earlier that day I'd cleaned my apartment, and even emptied my fridge. But I'd left in a rush and forgotten to take the garbage bag outside. Hi Java. It was like a garbage bomb had gone off in my apartment. When I say "it looked like a dump" I don't mean it in that insipid "yeah, my apartment's sort of a mess right now" sense, I mean it looked like the fucking city dump. Not an inch of floor was free of carnage. So I did what any sensible person would, and cleared out a little garbage-y nest for myself and curled up into the fetal position on the floor, hoping a fucking meteor would hit this house while I slept.
No dice. Woke up to a phone call twenty minutes before jamming Sunday, and ended up being twenty minutes late. Spent the entire two hours honing a relatively-simple song that I initially wrote which somehow managed to morph into a precision thirteen-headed mathematical bee-spitting monster, and it was excellent because time flew and we were all on the same page for perhaps the first time ever, and what should have seemed taxing just felt like release, and that's the way this shit should be done.
Then we ate at Robie food and I went to work, and now I'm going to bed.
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18/06/05
Annabel's moving. She's also got a show coming up.
That's such a cool phone. I miss when phones looked like that.
But yeah, until I actually get around to updating all the links over there that have sluiced their way out of "mod" down into their own forms of antiquity, you can find the deets on the show here.
Although we rarely see each other these days, I feel that this is the end of an era. Friendship with this girl has had way more of a crazy whirlwind affinity affair type vibe than most actual crazy whirlwind affairs ever do. Having Annie upstairs has always kept me from feeling like the weirdo hermit disgusting basement freak of the building. Sitting on the stoop, I'm always gonna be like "uh, sorry there (person) but that's Annie's spot."
She's moving into the pirate house. Creighton mourns, and Agricola just got way cooler.
Oh, and Annie, I took some of yr books. They'd just been sitting around in the front room and the pile seemed to be dwindling more and more, so I grabbed On the Road and something by Margaret Atwood before they were all gone. If they actually were up for grabs I sorta wish I'd taken High Fidelity while it was still there, but only because I like the movie. If you want them back, you know howta find me. Godspeed you Bulgarian Empress.
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That's such a cool phone. I miss when phones looked like that.
But yeah, until I actually get around to updating all the links over there that have sluiced their way out of "mod" down into their own forms of antiquity, you can find the deets on the show here.
Although we rarely see each other these days, I feel that this is the end of an era. Friendship with this girl has had way more of a crazy whirlwind affinity affair type vibe than most actual crazy whirlwind affairs ever do. Having Annie upstairs has always kept me from feeling like the weirdo hermit disgusting basement freak of the building. Sitting on the stoop, I'm always gonna be like "uh, sorry there (person) but that's Annie's spot."
She's moving into the pirate house. Creighton mourns, and Agricola just got way cooler.
Oh, and Annie, I took some of yr books. They'd just been sitting around in the front room and the pile seemed to be dwindling more and more, so I grabbed On the Road and something by Margaret Atwood before they were all gone. If they actually were up for grabs I sorta wish I'd taken High Fidelity while it was still there, but only because I like the movie. If you want them back, you know howta find me. Godspeed you Bulgarian Empress.
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17/06/05
So... as if hosting a weekly open mic at a nearly-reputable establishment weren't sufficiently absurd, System Shit is now going to be filming a video. We have eight weeks to come up with a concept and storyboard, but I think Drock's already got something cooking. In his words: "We need the main character MOM N DAD LOTS OF PUNKS A DRUG DEALER 2 THUGS 1 FAGGOT lots of punks n metalheads."
I can just see him ticking these things off in his daily planner, perhaps thoughtfully putting the nib of the pen to his tongue in between items. Yes, Drock has a daily planner. Feel free to apply here.
Take that, the Hold!
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I can just see him ticking these things off in his daily planner, perhaps thoughtfully putting the nib of the pen to his tongue in between items. Yes, Drock has a daily planner. Feel free to apply here.
Take that, the Hold!
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16/06/05
I can feel my face starting to sag. I'm getting old. I have such a fleshy face. If I live so long I'm gonna be one of those old guys with jowels and shit. I guess it's about time I give up on the idea that those puffy bits are just leftover baby fat.
Sleeping with a a girl tonight -"sleeping" being literal, so shut up- I woke up after two hours because hunger wouldn't let me sleep anymore. I remembered that today was payday and got dressed, wrote my number on her sleeping hand, and headed to the corner store where I bought a tiny carton of milk, a quarter pound of butter, and a box of Kraft Dinner. I'm a smoker and a total hypocrite, but I usually try not to buy Phillip Morris products, but whatever. But but but.
So I ate the stupid corporate macaroni and then I was like, "well shit, right now would be a pretty awesome time to just lie down and go to sleep with a pretty girl" because I live alone and I actually say these things aloud to myself and my dog seems to find them funny so I run with it. But I don't actually think girly-girl would be real impressed by this idea. She's probably making breakfast, and I'm just about to go for real to bed.
So home alone it is. In the continued vein of tape revivalism, I've been listening to a tape made by Ubertroysavini, and it's got so much good shit on it. I feel a little bad for having ended up with it; I won it buying Gilbert Switzer merch and later found out that it was made with the idea of turning kids onto new shit. I feel guilty for digging this tape so much. A kid deserves this so much more than I do. But I'm selfish and drunk so it's staying with me for now. It's got the Go-Gos and the Stooges and Glass Candy and if you think that's cool you should make yrself known because people who dig this shit are easy to find in the hipster scene, but they are almost nonexistent in the real-life scene.
So yeah, I should probably go to bed. Mixtapes are better than girls anyway.
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Sleeping with a a girl tonight -"sleeping" being literal, so shut up- I woke up after two hours because hunger wouldn't let me sleep anymore. I remembered that today was payday and got dressed, wrote my number on her sleeping hand, and headed to the corner store where I bought a tiny carton of milk, a quarter pound of butter, and a box of Kraft Dinner. I'm a smoker and a total hypocrite, but I usually try not to buy Phillip Morris products, but whatever. But but but.
So I ate the stupid corporate macaroni and then I was like, "well shit, right now would be a pretty awesome time to just lie down and go to sleep with a pretty girl" because I live alone and I actually say these things aloud to myself and my dog seems to find them funny so I run with it. But I don't actually think girly-girl would be real impressed by this idea. She's probably making breakfast, and I'm just about to go for real to bed.
So home alone it is. In the continued vein of tape revivalism, I've been listening to a tape made by Ubertroysavini, and it's got so much good shit on it. I feel a little bad for having ended up with it; I won it buying Gilbert Switzer merch and later found out that it was made with the idea of turning kids onto new shit. I feel guilty for digging this tape so much. A kid deserves this so much more than I do. But I'm selfish and drunk so it's staying with me for now. It's got the Go-Gos and the Stooges and Glass Candy and if you think that's cool you should make yrself known because people who dig this shit are easy to find in the hipster scene, but they are almost nonexistent in the real-life scene.
So yeah, I should probably go to bed. Mixtapes are better than girls anyway.
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15/06/05
Usually I just hate that my job is mindless. It gives me too much time to think, and I already think way too much. That's what people keep telling me, anyway. This usually makes me think that these people could probably stand to think more themselves, but I've yet to think my way out of this job while being afforded all this extra time for thought, so the point is probably in their favour. A lot of thinking has yet to do me a lot of good.
Sometimes, though, I love how my job is mindless. Sometimes I can escape in the drudgery of it. I can go in there in the midst of the worst anxiety, and all I have to do is lift and sort and throw and pile and sort and lift some more. All thought is basic, and all of a sudden I'm sweating too hard to care about loneliness or destitution. It is a sudden, rewarding feeling. And it doesn't feel fleeting at the time.
I'm reading a book right now called the curious incident of the dog in the night-time. It is ostensibly a murder-mystery -and I say that in the loosest of senses- told from the perspective of an autistic child. Being immersed in the thought patterns of this fictitious kid in this dry book is curiously soothing. In complete dischord with popular reality, but somehow tuned better to it than anyone anyway. Things are only literal. I shouldn't like that, but I do.
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Sometimes, though, I love how my job is mindless. Sometimes I can escape in the drudgery of it. I can go in there in the midst of the worst anxiety, and all I have to do is lift and sort and throw and pile and sort and lift some more. All thought is basic, and all of a sudden I'm sweating too hard to care about loneliness or destitution. It is a sudden, rewarding feeling. And it doesn't feel fleeting at the time.
I'm reading a book right now called the curious incident of the dog in the night-time. It is ostensibly a murder-mystery -and I say that in the loosest of senses- told from the perspective of an autistic child. Being immersed in the thought patterns of this fictitious kid in this dry book is curiously soothing. In complete dischord with popular reality, but somehow tuned better to it than anyone anyway. Things are only literal. I shouldn't like that, but I do.
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12/06/05
I was actually gonna fight a guy tonight for shit-talking Meghan under his breath. I still got ditched.
I know I'm only young, but I'm so tired of this life. How d'you make it so the good outweighs the shit? How do people do that? Does that even really exist?
I'm so incredibly lonely. I don't even care that this thing has become a vehicle for my incessant, pathetic whining. Fuck you. Who the fuck are all you people and why the fuck are you reading this anyway?
Whatever, I guess. The show tonight was fun. Can I like, have some food?
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I know I'm only young, but I'm so tired of this life. How d'you make it so the good outweighs the shit? How do people do that? Does that even really exist?
I'm so incredibly lonely. I don't even care that this thing has become a vehicle for my incessant, pathetic whining. Fuck you. Who the fuck are all you people and why the fuck are you reading this anyway?
Whatever, I guess. The show tonight was fun. Can I like, have some food?
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11/06/05
I'm flat-broke, hung over, and I haven't eaten in two days. I have a nagging cough and a dirty shirt.
I'm gonna go play that show now. I don't even think my guitar has all its strings.
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I'm gonna go play that show now. I don't even think my guitar has all its strings.
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09/06/05
I had a real entry all written in my head. It was all long and literary-like and all about how the past week or so was all fucked up but really sort of neat anyway. Then, last night, I blew my amp. Now I'm just fucking angst. This fucks everything. Everything.
When I feel like this I listen to Foolish by Superchunk.
I still have briars in my clothes
Did I lay you down in those?
The names on the stones were all erased
And I thought it was you that I had chased
Driveway to driveway, drunk
I don't remember this too well
Glad I still have the scrapes to prove
Prove it was me who fell
And the names were all we knew
And the names were all erased
From stage to stage we flew
A drink in every hand
My hand on your heart had been replaced
And I thought it was you that I had chased
Don't even fucking talk to me right now. And I'm covered in blood for some reason.
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When I feel like this I listen to Foolish by Superchunk.
I still have briars in my clothes
Did I lay you down in those?
The names on the stones were all erased
And I thought it was you that I had chased
Driveway to driveway, drunk
I don't remember this too well
Glad I still have the scrapes to prove
Prove it was me who fell
And the names were all we knew
And the names were all erased
From stage to stage we flew
A drink in every hand
My hand on your heart had been replaced
And I thought it was you that I had chased
Don't even fucking talk to me right now. And I'm covered in blood for some reason.
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