Denton Hates Me

I have two damn weeks left in this state, and you give me nothing that beats out Talib Kweli?


Geez.

Why Studying Abroad Fucks You Up:

I can't seem to listen to anything but The Strokes.

...which is completely Interpol's fault for making a shitty new album.


Thanks.

/Edit: Would anyone like to go camping in Tyler around Friday? Much recreation is ensured.

Return of the Mac

(Tell me you remember that song.)

I AM BACK!

I have never loved Texas so much. I have a room, and a bathtub, and no flourescent lights, and a motherfucking bed. And puppies.
What the hell.

Oxford was many things, especially Oxford-loving. And scholarly. And suffocating, and amazing as well.

So I feel rather like a new person. However, my mother is already freaking-the-fuck-out about preparations for Iowa, so there is a latent fear inside me that this feeling will not last. Let's hope it does.


Call me.

The Necessity of Change

In less than a week, I'll be leaving for the lush green lawns of St. Hugh's College in Oxford, England.

I don't feel ready.
I may just be stressing, but it feels at this point as if I'm feeling the opposite of how I should. My best friend is visiting from Arizona, and we're having a great time. But it's now almost escapism from the constant nagging and reminding and questioning and listing and fact-spewing of my mother. The combination of being always on the go and always having just one more thing to do is driving me up the wall and into the corner. I'm dreading leaving my friends, which I'll only have for such a very short time anyway. I'm dreading the return to required readings and forced comraderie of classmates. I'm already dreading Amy leaving, too.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's that recently missed opportunity, or that not-yet forgotten death in the family, or that very, very overdue phone call. It could even be lack of sleep.

Whatever it is, I need a release.

Oh Danny Glover, You So Crazy

Today I experienced the all-american pastime of going to the Ballpark in Arlington to see the Rangers play against Detroit. It was supremely satisfying to eat a hot dog in a plastic seat and observe the nice surprise of Texas beating the Tigers to a pulp while Sammy Sosa smiled. Suffice it to say several movies popped into my head throughout, but hey-- that's America.




Lately, I've been discussing the many subjects encompassed by 'America' with some uber-conservative Frenchman in California over the internet. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why we don't hate each other yet. We speak (debate) nearly every day, and I still do not know his name. It's strange, but I enjoy it in a sort of maddening way.


At least I know I can hold my own in debate for Oxford. My fear of the place is essentially rooted in:

1. The latent idea that I won't be able to adhere to Oxford educational standards enough to really get anything out of it
2. Everything about my tutorial with a full-fledged Shakespearan scholar
3. The isolation that constantly existed for me around groupings of people in high school, and whatever assumptions of the majority went with them
4. That everyone will be like Lisa Lenard (A girl from my class who's going with me on the trip. She got kicked out of private preschool for beating up classmates with a sterling silver rattle. Let's just say she hasn't progressed much.)


Of course, everything will be fine and I'll have the time of my life. My brain knows this, so most of the time, it convinces the rest of me to have a sturdy assertion of confidence in the entire matter. But the fear gets paralyzing at times.



What I am actually not fearing is my University of Iowa orientation, which I leave for on Sunday. I'm excited.

It's late at night, so apologies if I sound like a pretentious bastard in an attempt to be articulate through the haze of sleep. I need some melatonin, and something to write that isn't bitchy.

WHAT IF

Linda Perhacs is recording an album. Just like Vashti did, except ex-nay on the Animal Collective-say.
Instead, apparently Devendra Banhart is bein' her baby. I'd post a link or something, but I'm lazy, which is beyond obvious since I haven't posted a blog in 50 years.

(By the way, am I the only one in the universe that's realized Devendra Banhart totally stole his voice from Marc Bolan? I mean, come the fuck on.)

Whatevs.

I have been gone with all the going-ons and have-beens and has-whats and such.
What?

But I suppose I'm back, since I'm sick of looking at anything I write that's a rant. I actually haven't been truly angry in ages-- that is, up until today. I've discovered that being genuinely pissed off makes me somewhat of a badass, even if that just means listening to Doolittle way too loud in my car.

Speaking of my car...



Yeah, it rules.

Tomorrow will be a day full of ceremony and hogwash, but it is okay. Why? Because I was smart and, unlike you, went and saw Animal Collective on Saturday. They were brillllliant.

I almost forgot the subject line. It is referring to this, as a questionable possibility for a new haircut:


But maybe with bangs, like:


Not that I look like either of them, but glue my face on it or something.



The strange thing about this blog is that the 2 people who read it are so damn similar and will never know it.

/I'm out.

In Case You Weren't Aware...

...Filter Magazine really blows.

It used to be my favorite. Not because I was balls-crazy about Coldplay or anything, but because it was so damn well-written, well-researched, and sincere. But now with its increased popularity, Filter's attempted to do the opposite of its name, and in doing so has become the Newsweek of music magazines (stop reading this now if you don't recognize how shitty Newsweek is, please). Everything and anything that could possibly fall into the category of "indie rock" is represented, and because it's such a moronically wide scope, every single damn article is not only the same, but also just as optimistic as the last. That pretty singer-songwriter who isn't doing anything special? She gets 4 pages, 2 of which contain full-page photographs. That new album by an old favorite that really just sort of sucks? It makes the cover (Hey Wilco). Those once-entertaining and intelligent tyrades between writer and fan alike, criticizing with the utmost love? Replaced with either blind enthusiasm (OMG I LOVE YOUR MAG SOOO MUCH I'M SO HAPPY ITS IN VIENNA OR WHEREVER THE FUCK I'M FROM NOW) or semi-criticism (Um, pretty sure that one article was blatant plagiarism, did you guys know that?). And, as just mentioned, the long list of hipster references, some of which are misquoted/wrong anyway. Shall I list them?

1. Tactfully mentioning suicide at least once in an article concerning Elliott Smith (yeah, we get that you know he's dead)

2. Blatantly ripping off the lines from not-that-obscure movie/book (i.e., Fight Club) in an unrelated (and shitty) article about the Swedish music scene (and just paraphrasing too; not even respectful plagiarism)

3. Starting your interview article with something along the lines of "Sitting in back of the (insert name of chic cafe), Charlotte Gainsbourg / Beck / Mick Jagger / Pop artist No-One's-Heard-Of smooths his/her hair and pulls out his/her (insert brand of cigarettes)."

4. Referencing The Velvet Underground at least 70 times per issue, once accompanied by the false remark that John Cain and Lou Reed just picked up Nico for a singer at Warhol's one night because she was hot, whiuch explains her unconventional voice (actually, they paid for her flight from Germany because they liked her album so much).

5. Giving no less than 85% to any album reviewed, ever.

6. Describing someone's sound as "art rock" or referencing The Jam when not completely necessary.



Someone revive my flailing and sputtering faith in music journalism, and fast.

It is Due Time

for a jet plane to hit Rick Perry in the face.


No news about Clark yet, though I'm not optimistic. After all, he'll be #152 to be executed under Perry, which will match Bush's streak.



Edit:

They did it. He's dead.

Fuck

On April 11th, the state of Texas plans to execute James Clark, a man found to be mentally retarded.

When the psychoanalysis was completed, the prosecution promptly found another psychologist to determine he was "faking," thereby allowing a sentence of death to be passed.

This will be (I believe) the 23rd execution in Texas this year.
There has only been 1 outside Texas.






I hate everything.

Something to Look Forward to

I am going to the Mavs game tomorrow!


I'm so excited.

I think I'm going to go grocery shopping as well. Monday might not suck so terribly bad.



Also, I desperately need to stop being allergic to kittens.

Words I Like

thunderclap
sesame seeds
duomo
cataracts
tintinnabulation
ocelot
wicket
mascara
plum
regalia
puddles
pet
teeth
clunky
arithmetic
meeble
muppet
obelisk
russet
idle
mania

They are so hard to think about directly.

Dentonia tonight, I think. I am hoping for happy times.

Um...

Talk about crazy weather. Hot, then humid like only Dallas can be, then sudden rain, followed by... marble-sized hail?!

Not that it wasn't entertaining to watch the punked out preteens that hang around downtown Plano scamper around.


I'm at work, amazingly customer-free save the creepy guy in tie-dye who ordered honeydew bubble tea. He is currently reading with intense interest the escort ads in the back of the Observer, so if I don't show up for work tomorrow, you'll know why.


I'm getting my hands on some lab shrooms tomorrow, so I hope Denton's up for a memorable weekend.

A Massive Thanks...

...to everyone who participated in Get-Really-Really-High-And-Listen-To-Sigur-Ros Day.






Best idea in a long, long time.

Free Screening

of Invisible Children tomorrow at 4:45 at the Plano East Senior High school auditorium on Los Rios in Plano.




It's a really eye-opening film; it changed the way I thought about everything.

Go see it. It's good, and if you take some sort of action, you might even feel like a less pathetic human being!

This City

might be killing me.

I'm getting much too decadent. It's just so hard not to be bitter as fuck when you don't have a customer for an hour and antiseptic's eating away at your hands and the last person you talked to about anything substantial just told you Widespread Panic is amazing.

Still, I'm sort of grateful I don't live in Dallas. Suburban Plano may be full of the petty, vapid, rich, and idiotic, but Dallas is so divided against itself. Ever read the comments on WeShotJR? Its like a high school brawl's about to bust out. No wonder the music scene's fucked; no one respects each other's pretentiousness and feigned obscure taste, so the pride and individualism leaves no room for any sort of regional love. It's not enough to just communally bash Austin if you're self-deprecating as well.

I may be a hypocrite by doing nothing to change things, but there doesn't seem to be much I can do. I'm not enough of a musician or critic to have any effect, just some writer not taken seriously because of my age, sex, and situation.

So I go through the motions, dump ashtrays, assure that kid who sits behind me in class that I'll eventually listen to his shitty indie band, let the Observer make me sadder and sadder, and wait until it is time for me to leave.

Orange Things

Cool, eh?
Probably won't go, but have fun.

Work is making me a slave, so I'm now spending my spare time here (: http://crimethinc.com) and reading all their anarchist manifestos, instructions and protest accounts. It's an interesting feeling to have your brain disjointedly attempting to comprehend whether something's hilarious, total bullshit, idyllic, disconcerting, or sort of smart, all at the same time.

But if I do randomly quit my job, I got an offer to help with booking at some gallery in Deep Ellum. It's a good feeling, even if it probably will go out of business in a week or so. Hopefully I can squeeze in a Mom show or two before that occurs.


The weather is making time go by at odd intervals. I can't wait to get some hallucinogenic drugs!

Dear Fishboy:

Please make me your Fishgirl
So we can make lots of Fishchildren
And be happy.


Love,
Me

Exciting; Almost Like a Pulse

With my inability to jet off to Austin to catch all the SXSW shit, I've resorted to a newly-discovered form of entertainment that may be too intensely heartbreaking (or hilarious) for some: observation of the mid-life crisis!

Every afternoon in the parking lot behind Plano Market Square, you can see the hoards that haunt The Dubliner before they were leather-strapped, flag-burnin' badasses. No one is born atop a Harley, and the majority of the newly-inducted AARP generation weren't Hell's Angels at an early age. Therefore, while the less creative 40+ men of the metroplex squeeze their withering sex drives into the cramped quarters of sports cars, I get to watch potbellied guys with cargo shorts and bandanas freak out as they maneuver around traffic cones at 4 m.p.h.


I'll tell ya, it's things like this that truly flush my suburban cynicism down the drain.

The Beginning

So begins the new blog.

Expectations: 0.
I will post what I want, when I want, how I want. Your feedback will be valued.


And now,
I'm going to bed.