Mood Surgery

It pleases me that Will's taken an interest in Fugazi. I barely even ever listen to them anymore, but that band was like the beckoning open door into the universe I now find myself still happily lost within. The first time I listened to Repeater I knew within seconds that those guys were the embodiment of every poorly-articulated little idea I had about music. It's weird to think that they're old now, and probably done with. It daunts me a bit, just having turned 30 and having basically fuckall to show for it. Whatever though, this game is not about those kinds of rewards. I probably have about the same amount of problems, if of a different sort, as an average 30-year-old, and way more fun.

Still listening to the Sloan. I'm thinking I should download some of their earlier stuff to get a better-rounded idea of their shit, but all I seem able to find on slsk is One Chord to Another. This is a good album, but some of it's a little too precious for me, and I don't think there's a song on it that I'd, like, put on a mixtape or anything. I've also been on a huge Dog Faced Hermans kick for the past couple months. Hey, my tastes make sense to me. I'm surprised this band isn't way bigger with the whole newfangled artnoise kids. They have a fucking tuba. And never for a second is it gimmicky. Genius fucking band. Hoping I can find some of their albums on tour. Them and the Ex. This stuff should totally not be so difficult to find. Not like I try very hard though, I guess.

Last-minute tour tensions mount. They are not mine. For once. I'm finally getting good at not even raising my voice when I once would've smashed the telephone reciever into the wall until one or the other broke. Age has its benefits, I suppose. Anyway, this kind of thing is to be expected, and we are all cool and pumped to hit the road. I'll post the dates later, when I have more time and mental energy. We will have t-shirts for sale on Friday. Help finance our vacatio... er, tour!
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I'm listening to Sloan. Drock is asleep on my floor. He does not approve. It's funny because I've lived in this town -hell, I moved here with a band because of the hype- for seven or eight years, and never really listened to this band. Y'know, they're really not so bad. I might go be argumentative about it on the punk board later. From what I've downloaded though, their radio songs seem to be all you need to hear. Singles band, I guess. But goddamn if I don't get this weird nostalgic feeling when I listen to Coax Me. Nostalgic about what? It takes a good song to do that. It gives me a rush of local mythology, something I never was around to grow cynical to.

I read this book when I was dating Radio Girl, called Have Not Been the Same, and it really got me thinking about all this seminal Canadian independant music, and how all the networks that shit little bands like my own rely on were really formed by these tiny and disparate and unlikely communities of campus radio and punk rock. It really is its own kind of mythology, and if you aren't prepared to buy into that, then perhaps rock 'n' roll is not yr game. I'm all about cutting the crap, but if there are ghosts these days I want to channel them. All of life is myth. Have a head -heads up- but don't ever not run with yr ghosts. Take mythology as something to be added to. Let's write fables.

I've lost focus lately. I need to trim some fat. Girls: cut. Scene politics: cut.
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Purple monkey dishwasher.

Passive aggression.

Punk rock?
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I just saw a chihuahua in the commons. I'd never seen one up-close-and-personal like that before. I knew those things were small... but goddamn, those things are small. I needed to see something just that ridiculous and cute today. I drank too much coffee and my nerves are shot, and I'm alienating people at a distressing rate. Ah, the drama you've been craving, I should not be so eager to provide.

I never intend to be hurtful. I think my problem is that, in trying to cut through the bullshit, I somehow always manage to just create a whole bunch more super-escalated bullshit. I really need to figure out how not to do that. "If you hit me, I will hit you back harder" sounds great on paper, but it rarely solves anything, and never does it resolve.

I should probably be on some kind of pills or something, but I will fuck my life into the dirty, dirty ground before I go that route. I need to learn to be strong, to lock things up and stamp them out on an internal level, and not just shit-sling them out at whoever may be their provocation. I need to learn karate of the mind, wherein violence is always a last resort. It takes more strength than you might believe for me to be passive, to let things slide. I think I'm gonna join that Tai Chi club around the corner from here when I get back from tour. Anybody who thinks this is not-entirely-ridiculous should join with!
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Oval sky. Fisheye lens. The stars I can't explain. This is the night I choose to mark this time.
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So let's see. So far, for my thirtieth birthday, I've gotten:

- A box of chocolates. These were eaten by my dog.
- Bedridden with the flu.

Helluva way to kick off a decade.
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I'm going to do one nice thing for you every single day until you let me make you mine. Or tell me to fuck off.

I'd better get thinking.

I almost bought a Meters album today, but it was like fifty bucks. I thought I'd buy myself a birthday present, but I'm just not that extravagant.
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SHIT COOK
HOOKER BLOOD

FRI DAY
22
@

ONE WORLD

BE BAD
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Ah well. I tried to keep my mouth shut. I really really did. Once you get me started, though, I'm relentless. That is, until I run out of energy and stop giving a shit. Like... now, f'rinstance. It's a hard life sometimes, y'know, being a sensitive art-rocker. I am so totally on jerk alert this week.

I got my driver's licence renewed! And the picture doesn't suck! Ah, the comic mishaps of the driver's-licence-picture-taking procedure, the sort of which those DMV (or whatever the fuck it's called now) ladies (and that one obnoxious fag) probably stopped finding funny around the time of the Model-T Ford. Anyway, I think for all intents and purposes I am a real-deal Nova Scotian now. Goodbye weird holographic New Brunswick I.D.. Goodbye terrible shot of me with a soul-patch (1995, what were you thinking?). Goodbye Attic bouncers wanting to gang-probe me out of spite after breaking their brains viewing my strange, alien identification. Hello simple, legible Nova Scotia driver's licence, and not-terrible picture!

Last night I found an empty LifeStyles "luscious flavours" condom box in my preferred bathroom stall at work. I am so never jerking off in there again.

ADDENDUM: Phillip Clark is my fucking idol.
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Apparently I'm the only guy on the entire Mexican internet with "bangsquash" in his vocabulary.
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But y'know, to revisit an earlier theme, when it comes right down to it, I'd rather be an honest asshole than a dealer in backhanded compliments and snarky innuendos. That, in the interest of not embroiling myself in the wholly-ridiculous, it is all I will say about that.

I can't believe Sleater-Kinney is coming here, only to play for a bunch of fucking Pearl Jam kids. I don't even hate Pearl Jam; I'm just sorta vaguely nostalgic/indifferent, and I actually sorta find it hilarious how this band is STILL the target of so much derision with the punks. Punks occasionally have a hard time keeping up with the ol' relevancy thing. Like, when was the last time nazi skins tried to take over yr streetcorner? Go rail against... uh, whatever shitty popular band is sucking all over the place RIGHT NOW. Sorry, I don't have cable anymore, so I'm not hip to this shit. Anyway, whatever, buy me a ticket to this and kick me out of punk. I don't give a shit. In fact, I dare you.
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Holy fucking grass stains on my grass stains. This shirt is ruined. Fuck thirty, I think I just hit teenage proper. I'm a little slow like that. What an inspiring night.
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