Mood Surgery

There are things that I'd like to say
But I'm never talking to you again
There's things I'd like to phrase some way
But I'm never talking to you again

I'd put you down where you belong
But I'm never talking to you again
I'd show you every way you're wrong
But I'm never talking to you again

I'm never talking to you again
I'm never talking to you
I'm tired of wasting all my time
Trying to talk to you

Talking to you
|

If I don't break a string halfway through a show, I break an amp. Fuck you, life.
|

"New Success Suite" by Roberto Sebastian Echaurren Matta:




|

I want to learn to better channel my subconscious. It seeps and leaks and trickles. If it's gotta come out anyway, I'd rather it piss-pour down the gates than incontinently make mud puddles. Y'know? At least the mess would be be concerted.
|

With the emergence of final and incontrovertible photographic evidence, we may now proceed to destroy the specimen with extreme prejudice.

On a note unrelated to my dumb moustache, Divorce weddings are the best weddings:



All my sincerest best to two of my favourite people in the world for many, many years to come.
|

I don't know what the word is for this mood I'm in. It's not really bad, but it bugs me that I can get weird like this. It's like, calmly irrational. I guess it's good at least that I'm capable of recognizing this kind of thing in myself these days.

I had set this time aside for catching up on some much-overdue correspondence, but considering that I woke up on the weird side of the bed I think it's probably better that I hold off on that. Sorry. I think I'm gonna take Java for a ponderous nighttime stroll around the Citadel instead. Maybe later I'll listen to more Echo and the Bunnymen and rearrange my apartment. I've had this gargantuan wooden floor-model television that my boss gave me for free taking up most of my kitchen for over a month now. I don't even know why I took it; I don't watch television.

I just realized last week that I haven't changed my pants since December. Now it's become sort of a "Well it's been this long, I might as well keep with it" sort of thing, similar to why I don't shave this moustache or quit smoking, or why I haven't watched a movie in four years. If you leave things long enough, with the right kind of consideration and conscientious neglect, "accidents" become "projects." Consider that today's analogy for life on my part. If there is artifice to be found in procrastination, I will cultivate it like mouldy tupperware in the back of yr fridge.

I wonder if I can go a full year in these pants.
|

Tonight! Free-form shitstorm at the batcave of crazywave.



Come watch, come participate, come throw the horns and blow the whistle.
|

Remember when my house almost burnt down? Not sure if I wrote about that here or not. Anyway, I live next door to what used to be the Creighton Street "Roach Motel" that was popular in the papers last year. I actually got along really well with the people who lived there, and never once thought of them as sketchy neighbours. I still miss the elderly couple with the perpetual yard sale.

So yeah, that place got firebombed or something about a year ago, and I've lived next to a lot full of rubble and sundry waste ever since. That was, until Sam and the People's Republic of Agricola folks decided to turn it into a giant installation of crazy interpretive inukshuks. You've gotta check this thing out.

But I'm trying to tell a story.

A bunch of us were walking back to the North End after the Akron/Family show a couple weeks ago (meh), and just as we were about to round the corner onto Creighton we stumbled across DMC, who was in the process of photographing the whole inukshuk thing. It seems like every time I run into that guy these days I end up coverered in fake blood, and this was no exception. Stacey and I took our jackets off and slathered ourselves in the stuff, and David took a few pictures of us posing as corpses amidst the crazy awesomeness. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time. Hey David, show us the pictures already.

Fast-forward a few nights to "Rockin4dollar$". With $600 on the wheel and a stateside tour coming up (remind me to possibly delete this shit later), Be Bad couldn't afford not to play. We tried something a little different and just did one song with an extra improvised ten minutes of middle section. We no win.

But I'm still wearing the same shirt, right? Plain white teeshirt spattered with fake blood. I thought it looked cool. At some point I end up in a conversation with two women, one of whom is a friend, the other a casual acquaintance. What's up with my shirt becomes a topic, so I start riffing (out my ass) on how it's deeply symbolic. Of what I don't remember now. The conversation ended with me saying, "Look, my shirt is making an important statement here. The only statement you guys' shirts are making to me right now is 'Tits.'"

Well frig.
|

In contrast to popular theory, I'd like to say that sometimes you don't know what's been gone until it comes back.
|