Dwayne Johnson and Roll

July 6

Why Won't Vishal Go To Lucas Pasta With Me?

Especially after this delightful correspondence.

cousinbeevo23 (2:13:50 PM): hey fuckhead wanna get some food?cousinbeevo23 (2:15:23 PM): you dickcousinbeevo23 (2:15:26 PM): look at your computervishal (2:15:32 PM): whatcha got in mind?cousinbeevo23 (2:15:35 PM): lucasvishal (2:15:37 PM): I just ate GS rationscousinbeevo23 (2:15:37 PM): PASTAcousinbeevo23 (2:15:40 PM): fuck that noisecousinbeevo23 (2:15:43 PM): we need sustenancecousinbeevo23 (2:15:48 PM): in the form of delicious pastavishal (2:15:55 PM): I’ll go if you can wait an hourcousinbeevo23 (2:16:03 PM): i cant, i’m famishedvishal (2:16:16 PM): understood, we were never meant to sync :(cousinbeevo23 (2:16:24 PM): two houses dividedcousinbeevo23 (2:16:32 PM): it’s like montagues and capulets…but for foodcousinbeevo23 (2:16:33 PM): and not gayvishal (2:16:35 PM): hahvishal (2:16:43 PM): where you living in the fall?cousinbeevo23 (2:22:51 PM): DELICIOUS. FILLING.  PASTA.cousinbeevo23 (2:22:57 PM): in your belly.cousinbeevo23 (2:23:11 PM): i heard my bloody valentine loves lucas pastacousinbeevo23 (2:23:21 PM): the original name was cacophonous noise rock pastavishal (2:23:25 PM): I heard the hold steady is playing a live set there right nowvishal (2:23:27 PM): you better get therecousinbeevo23 (2:23:46 PM): pitchfork wrote about lucascousinbeevo23 (2:23:49 PM): they gave it an 8.4cousinbeevo23 (2:23:57 PM): merriweather post pavillion has better pasta apparentlyvishal (2:24:50 PM): how was europevishal (2:24:51 PM): ?cousinbeevo23 (2:24:54 PM): tiringcousinbeevo23 (2:24:54 PM): drunkcousinbeevo23 (2:24:56 PM): expensive
April 1

Rachel Getting Verbally Assaulted

Rachel operates the Grooveshark Artists facebook.  I saw that GSartists was online, so I took to insulting her, as is my wont.  Here’s the text.  I lost with my inability to spell marmoset.

Jack

i hate you

you love anberlin

shut up

you want to have like 10 million of anberlin’s babies

4:52pmGrooveshark

hahahaha

you’re anberlin’s dummer

drummer

but youre dumb too

4:54pmGrooveshark

so you are their dummer

4:54pmJack

you’re not even smart enough to be in copeland

4:55pmGrooveshark

go pray to your michael stipe shrine

4:55pmJack

go suckle at the teet of your ironic jonas brothers obsession

4:55pmGrooveshark

i wouldnt touch you with a Ten Foot Pole’s version of Love Song by The Cure

4:56pmJack

you got thrown out of Foghat

miley cyrus just sneezed, shouldn’t you be blogging about it?

SO HOW IS THE CANAL THESE DAYS?!

4:57pmGrooveshark

hey wait did ryan adams just release an unreleaesed bside vinyl split demo single

are you going to go masturbate to it

i think i hear The Hold Steady

singing about something really new like beer

and sex

ph wait

oh*

4:59pmJack

i think i hear the sound of a dying marmacet—is cocorosie in town?

4:59pmGrooveshark

marmoset

4:59pmJack

shit

March 23

Henry Chinaski

So apparently this Thursday was “Evoke Charles Bukowski Day” at The Atlantic.  Through the fog of Pabst Blue Ribbon, it was revealed that my erstwhile roommate and frequent quoter of Albert Camus had not read anything by Charles Bukowski.  When we got home I immediately ran to my room and unearthed “Ham on Rye” and demanded that he read it by morning.  Because we were both inebriated to the point of thinking that watching The E True Hollywood Story of NKOTB was a good idea, it didn’t happen.  I’m still waiting patiently for his report, as it’s probably my 2nd favorite Bukowski work (behind Hot Water Music, and, no, I don’t like the band).

The 2nd Bukowski reference came when a girl I’ve only recently met started telling me about a short story she had been writing.  I went into uber-condescending dickhead mode almost immediately after she told me the plot, and I think I drunkenly mumbled something about it being a “watered down Pahlaniuk story”.  I really suck sometimes when I drink exorbitantly, but I really hate Chuck Pahlaniuk when I’m sober so maybe it evens out.  She then explained the story a little better and it got progressively cooler until she mentioned that it was kind of Bukowski-esque and then the story idea became infinetly more awesome.

Talking to people about writing things is really fun.  It can also really suck.  I once dated a girl who wrote preposterously serious fare and it made me feel unbelievably uncomfortable.  Namely because she wasn’t terribly subtle about some of the poems’ actual subject ( a tall curly haired youth who has a tumblr with a bad pun involving The Rock). When I write things (very rarely now), they’re either autobiographical and self deprecating (it’s impossibly not to write a story about losing your virginity and not make jokes at your own expense) or unabashedly silly.  The last thing I wrote was called “Epilogues to Disney Animated Classics” where Gaston slays the Beast, Scar and Simba join forces and take over the world, and Eric cheats on Ariel because his occupation is that of a sailor and they aren’t exactly known for their fidelity.   Weird stuff.

Anyway, I don’t like writing poetry.  It makes me feel like Chris Carraba, because you know that fucker has like 1200 notebooks full of poetry.  I do like this poem though, probably because I didn’t write it and Charles Bukowski did.

One for The Shoeshine Man

One For The Shoeshine Man

The balance is preserved by the snails climbing theSanta Monica cliffs; the luck is in walking down Western Avenue and having the girls in a massage parlor holler at you, “Hello Sweetie!”

the miracle is having 5 women in love
with you at the age of 55,
and the goodness is that you are only able
to love one of them.
the gift is having a daughter more gentle
than you are, whose laughter is finer
than yours.
the peace comes from driving a
blue 1967 Volks through the streets like a
teenager, radio tuned to The Host Who Loves You
Most, feeling the sun, feeling the solid hum
of the rebuilt motor
as you needle through traffic.
the grace is being able to like rock music,
symphony music, jazz …
anything that contains the original energy of
joy.

and the probability that returns
is the deep blue low
yourself flat upon yourself
within the guillotine walls
angry at the sound of the phone
or anybody’s footsteps passing;
but the other probability—
the lilting high that always follows—
makes the girl at the checkstand in the
supermarket look like
Marilyn
like Jackie before they got her Harvard lover
like the girl in high school that we
all followed home.

there is that which helps you believe
in something else besides death:
somebody in a car approaching
on a street too narrow,
and he or she pulls aside to let you
by, or the old fighter Beau Jack
shining shoes
after blowing the entire bankroll
on parties
on women
on parasites,
humming, breathing on the leather,
working the rag
looking up and saying:
“what the hell, I had it for
while. that beats the
other.”

I am bitter sometimes
but the taste has often been
sweet. it’s only that I’ve
feared to say it. it’s like
when your woman says,
“tell me you love me,” and
you can’t.

if you see me grinning from
my blue Volks
running a yellow light
driving straight into the sun
I will be locked in the
arms of a
crazy life
thinking of trapeze artists
of midgets with big cigars
of a Russian winter in the early 40’s
of Chopin with his bag of Polish soil
of an old waitress bringing me an extra
cup of coffee and laughing
as she does so.

the best of you
I like more than you think.
the others don’t count
except that they have fingers and heads
and some of them eyes
and most of them legs
and all of them
good and bad dreams
and way to go.

justice is everywhere and it’s working
and the machine guns and frogs
and the hedges will tell you
so.

March 16

What I’ve been listening today.  It’s a lot easier to listen to music on Grooveshark than it is to just constantly listen to the one cd that has been floating around the cavernous abyss of my car for the past two weeks.  I love MGMT, but if I hear “Time to Pretend” one more time then people are gonna die.  Not just from my porous driving, but from delightfully snarky synth pop overload.

I hate synthesizers though.

I wish Simba’s Pride was actually called The Lion King 2: Scar’s Ressurection.

March 15

GOD: I own you like I own the caves.
THE OCEAN: Not a chance. No comparison.
GOD: I made you. I could tame you.
THE OCEAN: At one time, maybe. But not now.
GOD: I will come to you, freeze you, break you.
THE OCEAN: I will spread myself like wings. I am a billion tiny feathers. You have no idea what’s happened to me.

February 3

I got the handshake under my tongue

Great lyric from MGMT about how signing a record deal is a lot like being a mental patient putting pills under your tongue.  Pretty much exactly how I feel right now.  Except I can’t play an instrument and I’m prone to making weak analogies.

Selling things makes me feel dirty.

February 2

Meg Conversating

Jack

nerd.

12:16pmMeg

poop

12:16pmJack

marmacet!

12:17pmMeg

lap dance

12:17pmJack

stinkbug

12:17pmMeg

polly pocket

12:17pmJack

David Hasselhoff

12:17pmMeg

filter bag

12:17pmJack

chalupa!

12:17pmMeg

yo quero

12:18pmJack

ok. have a good day meg

12:18pmMeg

you can’t do that!

12:18pmJack

but it would have been such a great way to end the conversation!

we’re not going anywhere but down after this point

January 27

Diamonds and Sandwiches

Because I not so secretly miss filling out surveys on myspace bulletins and I very much not so secretly enjoy discussing my life.  Here’s 23 random fact type things I don’t think a lot of people know.  Unless you’re Devonda.  Because she’s probably done her research.

1. I didn’t have any alcohol at all until I was 19.

2. I’ve never been to church ever.

3. Almost every conversation I have that appears spontaneous is completely calculated and the odds are good I’ve been agonizing over it for hours.

4. I’ve never missed a question on the Friends Scene It Game.

5. I make sure people know that I love sports as much as the arts partly out of a fear of not wanting to appear one dimensional, partly because it’s a little more masculine than discussing R.E.M. b-sides, and also because college football is fucking awesome.

6. I once had a cd with 17 different versions of “Thunder Road” on it.

7. I shaved off the hair on one half of my head when I was 11.

8.  I had a dog between the ages of 1-2 named Megan.  She ran away.  I made “Lost Dog” signs and posted them until I was 12.

9.  I once snuck into a Gator football game with my friend Devin by sleeping inside the stadium the night before.

10. My top 3 fears include: painted nails (sometimes generally cosmetics), inferiority,  and going to parties without people I know.

11.  I really, really wish I could play an instrument.

12. Malls make me have debilitating panic attacks.

13.  I have to be wearing something blue at all times (I think all but one pair of boxers I own are blue)

14. I vastly prefer sleeping on couches than beds.

15. I haven’t cried from physical pain since I was 4 years old.

16. My mom and my grandmother are my heroes.

17. I once cracked a bone in my leg jumping off a bench at the Gainesville mall.

18.  I’m pretty sure that I really want to move out of Gainesville but know that I’ll immediately hate whatever city I choose to live in regardless.

19. I fucking hate to dance.

20. I’m really supersticious.  I don’t step on cracks at all because I don’t want to be responsible for my mother’s potential spinal trauma.

21. I think my current occupation will probably be the only form of employment I ever enjoy.

22. Every time I get a new record that I really want to hear I get in my car and drive down one specific road just to listen to it.

23.  If I mispronounced a word when I was 8 and I hear it today I still feel really embarassed.

January 20

cousinbeevo23 (1:24:07 PM): the words awesome and tim and terry’s should not be used together unless describing how awesome it is to leave there and not get bombarded by some neohippie douchebags playing sublime songs on a mandolin

January 18
I hate Elizabeth Wurtzel, but I love Bruce Springsteen.  It tends to even out.  She wrote this though and I’ve always enjoyed reading it.  Pulled it off my myspace from like 4 years ago… When I was twelve, and living alone with my mother and her lower-middle-class income and upper-middle-class values on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and was depressed and suicidal and playing with razor blades the way other girls were tossing a ball and jacks, the only thing that mattered to me was Bruce Springsteen. Huge, superpadded 1979 headphones and Darkness on the Edge of Town on the tape deck, with all the sound concentrated directly into my ears like an intravenous drug, and somehow I wasn’t so lonely. Going down to Philadelphia and Baltimore and even (eek!) Passaic, New Jersey, to see Bruce in concert was as romantically entrancing as visiting a long-distance lover and became as necessary as any other fix. I was this private-school girl, a punked-out urban kid with the kind of pallor you get only from brooding while lying on shag carpet, and here I was, just nuts for blue-collar, suburban-New Jersey Bruce. Sometimes I would beg my mother to move us down to the shore, to settle us in Red Bank or Sea Bright or even the As-bury Park of such wistful Springsteen allusion. I’d ask her if maybe she could get a job as a waitress in a diner or as a typist in a storefront insurance office, if we could be rumpled and beleaguered and no longer part of the aspiring bourgeoisie. I’d want her to do anything so that my uninspired, embarrassing white-girl blues could be like the fire and energy and rage that made Bruce run. I wasn’t even in the same league as the preppy stoner kids, the rich fuckups who listened to the Grateful Dead and Bob Marley and other music that worshiped at the same marijuana shrine that they did. Pothead brats tended to dismiss Bruce as mall music, the kind of thing they liked, oh, on Long Island. They thought that Bruce’s songs were actually about driving in cars with girls. They also thought that Moby Dick was just a big, dumb book about a whale, And Easy Rider was about motorcycles. For me, “Stolen Car,” a song that I listened to obsessively while crying profusely, captured the essence of depression with perhaps even more precision than all of Sylvia Plath’s poems combined. “I’m driving a stolen car on a pitch-black night/And I’m telling myself I’m gonna be all right / But I ride by night / And I travel in fear / That in this darkness I will disappear,” That’s how it was — I’d listen to Bruce, and if I sat there calm and quiet long enough, I’d stop feeling myself disappear. Murderers on Nebraska, torn lovers on Tunnel of Love, migrant workers on the recent Ghost of Tom Joad — they are all just fighting against the way they seem to be slipping away. It’s emotional, not automotive. And even now that I’m twenty-eight and Bruce lives in the mansion on the hill (a few of them, actually) and gets his hair cut at John Sahag, just like a supermodel, my awe for him grows only stronger and wilder. I’ve gotta love a guy who left his bouncing, blond actress/model wife for a backup singer from Jersey with a bumpy nose — a move that can be equated with leaving his secretary for his wife. Even today, on the miserably downbound ballads of The Ghost of Tom Joad, Bruce pulls off the difficult feat of singing about how the same system that exploits Mexican mi- grant workers in California is also laying off no-longer-needed coal miners in Ohio. Bruce is a rare thing in this day and age: a man able to be politically correct without seeming like a wimp. He ought to run for president. It’s hard to believe that?s artists like Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan have gotten hipster credibility from alternative types (the Nirvana set, Spin “subscribers), Bruce is still viewed, in some places, as a New Jersey sap, a guy for the stone washed-jeans crowd, for people with big hair and no cool. I think the real reason Bruce turns people off has more to do with his desire, in spite of suffering with the kind of angst and alienation and anger that could make Kurt Cobain look like Mr. Rogers (if you don’t believe me, listen to Darkness again), to reach out to an audience, to always try to stay connected. He dares to be heroic and write about what really matters to him, and by extension, what really touches other people, in complete defiance of the fuck-off attitude that drives rock today. Bruce is the end of the line, the last rock singer who is likely to make music that feels significant. Particularly in recent years, as alternative rock has become alienated and deliberately pointless, it’s clear that someone like Springsteen who, after all is said and done, really is all heart, all blood-and-guts ought to be cherished. He’s all we’ve got left. There will be no Apocalypse Now or Nashville in our future. There won’t be American writers producing novels that dare to go for Pynchon or Proust: And nobody is likely to give the world another Blonde on Blonde, another Layla, another Blue, or, for that matter, another Born to Run. You’d laugh at anyone foolhardy enough to try, to go for that kind of sincerity, to produce something that grooves and spins with effort and inner sweat. Everything has gotten trivial and small and ironic and cynical, and that’s that. Here we are now, entertain us.

I hate Elizabeth Wurtzel, but I love Bruce Springsteen.  It tends to even out.  She wrote this though and I’ve always enjoyed reading it.  Pulled it off my myspace from like 4 years ago…

When I was twelve, and living alone with my mother and her lower-middle-class income and upper-middle-class values on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, and was depressed and suicidal and playing with razor blades the way other girls were tossing a ball and jacks, the only thing that mattered to me was Bruce Springsteen. Huge, superpadded 1979 headphones and Darkness on the Edge of Town on the tape deck, with all the sound concentrated directly into my ears like an intravenous drug, and somehow I wasn’t so lonely. Going down to Philadelphia and Baltimore and even (eek!) Passaic, New Jersey, to see Bruce in concert was as romantically entrancing as visiting a long-distance lover and became as necessary as any other fix. I was this private-school girl, a punked-out urban kid with the kind of pallor you get only from brooding while lying on shag carpet, and here I was, just nuts for blue-collar, suburban-New Jersey Bruce. Sometimes I would beg my mother to move us down to the shore, to settle us in Red Bank or Sea Bright or even the As-bury Park of such wistful Springsteen allusion. I’d ask her if maybe she could get a job as a waitress in a diner or as a typist in a storefront insurance office, if we could be rumpled and beleaguered and no longer part of the aspiring bourgeoisie. I’d want her to do anything so that my uninspired, embarrassing white-girl blues could be like the fire and energy and rage that made Bruce run.

I wasn’t even in the same league as the preppy stoner kids, the rich fuckups who listened to the Grateful Dead and Bob Marley and other music that worshiped at the same marijuana shrine that they did. Pothead brats tended to dismiss Bruce as mall music, the kind of thing they liked, oh, on Long Island. They thought that Bruce’s songs were actually about driving in cars with girls. They also thought that Moby Dick was just a big, dumb book about a whale, And Easy Rider was about motorcycles. For me, “Stolen Car,” a song that I listened to obsessively while crying profusely, captured the essence of depression with perhaps even more precision than all of Sylvia Plath’s poems combined. “I’m driving a stolen car on a pitch-black night/And I’m telling myself I’m gonna be all right / But I ride by night / And I travel in fear / That in this darkness I will disappear,” That’s how it was — I’d listen to Bruce, and if I sat there calm and quiet long enough, I’d stop feeling myself disappear. Murderers on Nebraska, torn lovers on Tunnel of Love, migrant workers on the recent Ghost of Tom Joad — they are all just fighting against the way they seem to be slipping away. It’s emotional, not automotive.

And even now that I’m twenty-eight and Bruce lives in the mansion on the hill (a few of them, actually) and gets his hair cut at John Sahag, just like a supermodel, my awe for him grows only stronger and wilder. I’ve gotta love a guy who left his bouncing, blond actress/model wife for a backup singer from Jersey with a bumpy nose — a move that can be equated with leaving his secretary for his wife. Even today, on the miserably downbound ballads of The Ghost of Tom Joad, Bruce pulls off the difficult feat of singing about how the same system that exploits Mexican mi- grant workers in California is also laying off no-longer-needed coal miners in Ohio. Bruce is a rare thing in this day and age: a man able to be politically correct without seeming like a wimp. He ought to run for president.

It’s hard to believe that?s artists like Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan have gotten hipster credibility from alternative types (the Nirvana set, Spin “subscribers), Bruce is still viewed, in some places, as a New Jersey sap, a guy for the stone washed-jeans crowd, for people with big hair and no cool. I think the real reason Bruce turns people off has more to do with his desire, in spite of suffering with the kind of angst and alienation and anger that could make Kurt Cobain look like Mr. Rogers (if you don’t believe me, listen to Darkness again), to reach out to an audience, to always try to stay connected. He dares to be heroic and write about what really matters to him, and by extension, what really touches other people, in complete defiance of the fuck-off attitude that drives rock today.

Bruce is the end of the line, the last rock singer who is likely to make music that feels significant. Particularly in recent years, as alternative rock has become alienated and deliberately pointless, it’s clear that someone like Springsteen who, after all is said and done, really is all heart, all blood-and-guts ought to be cherished. He’s all we’ve got left. There will be no Apocalypse Now or Nashville in our future. There won’t be American writers producing novels that dare to go for Pynchon or Proust: And nobody is likely to give the world another Blonde on Blonde, another Layla, another Blue, or, for that matter, another Born to Run. You’d laugh at anyone foolhardy enough to try, to go for that kind of sincerity, to produce something that grooves and spins with effort and inner sweat. Everything has gotten trivial and small and ironic and cynical, and that’s that. Here we are now, entertain us.