tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41257799934340476262024-02-19T04:42:18.205-08:00The Cobblestone Addressthe closest thing in existence to me having a diaryJake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.comBlogger638125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-47857473477683941562022-04-23T13:24:00.002-07:002022-04-23T13:24:36.562-07:0012/50: Inherent Vice<p><b style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Inherent Vice, by Thomas Pynchon</span><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>5/5 stars<br /></b></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">This is my 12th book in Rex & Jake's 50-Book Reading Challenge,<br /></i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">which is now tied 12-12. Full list can be found <a href="http://thecobblestoneaddress.blogspot.com/2012/07/rex-jakes-50-book-reading-challenge.html" style="color: #999999; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></p><p><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I honestly don't know if I've read a more fun book. The language of this book is arguably the only time, definitely the best use of it, that jive/slang has worked as true as it sets out to in narration. In the same way prophetic philosophy can make you rethink your thoughts and angle on life, the tongue of this thing made me rethink writing and how language could and should be used. It comes across as natural as it does bonkers. It's a trip and a half, and it's just a downright blast. I for sure had reread entire sections at times because it's so wildcard, but even that was a joy! I just dug the wild craftsmanship of wording here. The plot is psychedelic noir, as goofball as it is grit, sure, and I was delighted by the inanity of points and characters, but that's something I've felt with other rides. The big difference here was I was stoked on pages of narration and action detail. I tend to lean keen on dialogue, given the concern that the exposition will drown out the pace, but this book, in all its 1970 glory, coming decades later with assassin-like precision of madness, was such a triumph of gleefully knowing how to deliver the wilderness of culture back then. Los Angeles was a labyrinth of change with weirdness filling up the cracks. I just enjoyed the absolute shit out of this.</span></span></p>Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-89782778207647993792018-12-10T13:38:00.001-08:002018-12-10T13:38:18.249-08:00"measure the tyrant"“measure the tyrant” written with strings for nerves by jake kilroy. jesus is buried somewhere, everyone seems to forget; he’s as ripe and gruesome as anyone dead can be — an offering to grave robbers, a box where animals can piss, a plot in heaven’s basement, a dim skylight in hell’s attic. he wasn’t cremated; he wasn’t displayed. even lenin, a communist, got an art installation. even snow white, also a communist, got windows. meanwhile, the only wingless heaven-sent crashed to earth and spent less time alive than me out of the rubble. i honor him in swears because i never got along with his dad; the preacher’s preacher’s son and his criminal father — responsible for all, accountable for none. a jeopardy answer to “who will save us” somehow not rhetorical but with too much rhetoric; good enough for a last name but not good enough for a lifetime - every star of the night sky spinning for papa’s headache. what a world it must be to be born a mafia prince without want of the empire, the poor artist without the tycoon’s love, sharon’s rosebud to denizen kane, industry over art, time and again, an old master a new tricks. so in the end, memory proved best, the present too real and the future too big; god unable to remember the hymns written about his son and not him. tired of the bottle episode, god slung up his his garden in a bindle, leaving his son’s bones to the vultures, each batshit bird worse than the next a circle jerk as violent as they come a pen in one talon, sword in other, and thus god wandered off into the blurry heat of the horizon, never to be seen again. but still we wait. still we hunger. be still my heart for death is what he always wanted. measure the tyrant and never take the weight. be free, my son. escape the totality of what you were meant to be. do not die. do not ever.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-5098624315211782192017-05-30T09:06:00.002-07:002017-05-30T09:06:13.292-07:00"blonde after blonde"<b>"blonde after blonde"</b><br />
<i>written with guilt in the blood and shame in the muscles by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
shake the earth and find that nothing came loose,<br />
somewhere between the ocean and the downtown bars<br />
you wrangled and then slaughtered without reason or mercy,<br />
hungry for home or at least something that tastes like it.<br />
a long weekend is too much time away from your desk.<br />
brutalized and hulking,<br />
a mass of regret<br />
hastily assembled,<br />
you march to the beat<br />
of the same drummer<br />
you always have,<br />
the one who says you'll do better,<br />
laughing because you haven't ever,<br />
after a blonde who reminds you of a blonde<br />
you always wanted a second chance with.<br />
pour it on thick and then slip in it<br />
and smash your hands<br />
trying to catch yourself<br />
in a graceless fall from grace<br />
bouncing off the ground like it swung at you<br />
hours before you were forced into a parking lot<br />
for brawling in an arcade.<br />
wait out the moon<br />
to see the sun<br />
and not recognize it,<br />
reborn without forgiveness<br />
never forgotten,<br />
disgusted this time again.<br />
go home to nothing.<br />
promise change.<br />
see if it happens.<br />
write this poem again.<br />
<br />Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-43303236704196409882017-02-20T18:17:00.004-08:002017-02-20T18:18:06.095-08:00"muse at the museum"<b>"muse at the museum"</b><br />
<i>written after an afternoon of paintings and conversation by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
broken neck swinging<br />
like my head's garbage lit,<br />
which ain't far off;<br />
been out to sea in the exhibit,<br />
drowning in a symphony swell,<br />
panic swimming through a crowd,<br />
each having brought an opinion as a plus one.<br />
grace in a silhouette floating through,<br />
the crowd buckling without knowing why,<br />
and here i am, spinning and cutting,<br />
trying to be front page news;<br />
but a college degree and a handful of trips<br />
ain't enough to sweep spirit off its feet.<br />
<br />
i came here to roll my tongue,<br />
not weave it into a mouth,<br />
but at least my shirt buttons up,<br />
so i got a chance to buy time<br />
though i won't spend it well.<br />
she's in one eye and out the other,<br />
as i try to remember what little i knew<br />
about magritte so i don't default to<br />
"this is not a pick-up line."<br />
<br />
if art has gods and goddesses,<br />
for isn't that why we do anything -<br />
for the lord of media praise,<br />
for the queen of group of love -<br />
then they're draped over each other<br />
laughing and yelling obscenities<br />
at this poor schmuck of a writer<br />
who's never used self-deprecation<br />
for anything more than small talk.<br />
how much can a man take<br />
if he never gives himself credit?<br />
<br />
shoulders round by pedestrians,<br />
as i can't keep a steady hand on the present,<br />
coming up for air amid stuffy dialogue<br />
about when the modern era started,<br />
but the shine doesn't die in the distance;<br />
it only glitters a little less.<br />
<br />
when she finally stops in front of a film<br />
about picasso and rivera,<br />
about 'guernica' and 'pan american unity'<br />
is where i catch my breath and lose it immediately.<br />
i adjust my hair in the shine of a vase<br />
from a century of violent empire<br />
and look deep into the eyes of a farmer<br />
made of oil paint and romanticism.<br />
<br />
when her hair sweeps by,<br />
i catch the wind<br />
and i'm faced with the future -<br />
the lust, the love, the heartbreak, the return.<br />
where has this music been,<br />
hidden away in the curvy figure<br />
of a human i debate undressing<br />
before i can even remember my own name?<br />
<br />
our eyes lock like firing squads<br />
with matching assignments.<br />
mine are using muskets,<br />
heres are using tanks,<br />
and i feel naked breaths<br />
gleefully sunbathing in my lungs.<br />
i'm fresh out of mania,<br />
i've lived too long as a wreck,<br />
my art is forfeit without truth,<br />
and i could go home tonight<br />
to write the masterpiece<br />
if only this one was in my bed<br />
in the other room, reading<br />
and periodically asking<br />
when i'd be done with it<br />
so we could make love.<br />
i could have this life.<br />
i could be this man.<br />
i could die the hero.<br />
i could be a name<br />
in the end.<br />
<br />
she says hello<br />
and i realize all we've ever done is build women into the impossible.<br />
<br />
the truth strangles itself out of me,<br />
a snake looking for a home<br />
that's less of a sham.<br />
we only have muses to buy time.<br />
we exaggerate women to be alone.<br />
we can't tell if these wounds<br />
we go on and on about<br />
are martyr minimums<br />
or friendly fire.<br />
<br />
in the museum,<br />
where all the muses live<br />
where all the artists died,<br />
the only thing that matters<br />
is that you can go home<br />
at the end of the day.<br />
<br />
nobody earns a name<br />
by overstaying their welcome.<br />
they find their work on the wall<br />
because somebody else put it there.<br />
even with an army of muses,<br />
you have to be the one to end the war.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-10090304117207792562017-02-14T15:57:00.002-08:002017-02-14T16:16:11.159-08:00The Best of What I Read in 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rfvc2YSXmUZTs-D-2ATY7KM4Mvci_WOlQbjFYr9tWgtKCO_a_KV3o1JqBPLjIEw0tgPlZwJGIPqxgY7AO1EvLy5d_wFFKdiIKO96rM6CA8SWnXskuQ0oVjdQGUM9UfNQqf5-dwXf8q1x/s1600/IMG_5197.JPG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5rfvc2YSXmUZTs-D-2ATY7KM4Mvci_WOlQbjFYr9tWgtKCO_a_KV3o1JqBPLjIEw0tgPlZwJGIPqxgY7AO1EvLy5d_wFFKdiIKO96rM6CA8SWnXskuQ0oVjdQGUM9UfNQqf5-dwXf8q1x/s320/IMG_5197.JPG.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">I love books and I love ranking things, so here's this for another year. If you've never read a list of my annual favorites, it should be noted that these are of what I read for the year, not what was released. I for sure do not have that kind of time.</span></i><br />
<b><u style="background-color: white;"><br /></u></b>
<b><u style="background-color: white;">BEST NOVELS</u></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b style="background-color: white;"><u style="background-color: white;"><br /></u></b><b style="background-color: white;">1. <i>The Circle </i>by Dave Eggers</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This book messed me up, and not just because it's a thoroughly engaging warning of social tech's dangerous potential. I recognize my place in the story as someone enamored by the capabilities of social media. Yet, if Facebook, Google, and Apple were to emerge as one company, we have to wonder at what point would we ultimately become the most invasive and self-absorbed versions of ourselves. Honestly, this thing should be required reading for millennials, if only to prompt a dialogue about what lays ahead in social tech, what we want from it, and what we expect the ideal balance to be.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">2. <i>Breakfast at Tiffany's </i>by Truman Capote</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">First of all, oh my god holy hell, Holly Golightly should <i>not</i> be glamorized. The woman is an entitled loon who uses everyone for everything and then loses her shit when she doesn't get her way. She deserves total loneliness...even though she's, like, pretty endearing and...<i>*sigh*</i>...no, deep down, I guess I don't want that for her...but goddamnit, she's so frustrating...and lovely...<i>UGH</i>. Alright, maybe I get it; I don't know. She's awful and alluring. Anyway, secondly, and more importantly, this novella is fantastically written. I can't believe some of the sentences Capote can string together. His writing has a musical quality to it. It's not exactly sing-song, but it's truly rhythmic and wonderful and, as a writer, it beats syrupy in the nerves. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">3.<i> A Game of Thrones </i>by George R.R. Martin</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">For a series I expected to be action-packed like previous medieval fantasy I've read (which, granted, isn't much), the reliance on characters and conversations is gorgeously rewarding here. I haven't watched the show, but this does a superb job of sprinkling in personal violence alongside the epic battles in the fight for the strange future of the kingdom. Each character is sharp without everyone playing too smart. Characters have their own voice and even the rogue brutes have a say worth hearing. With each chapter, a character develops a little more and you watch them grow. Seriously, few books take as good of care as Martin does in such a wild setting and he does it with so much detail and appreciation for them as fictional characters who want a great deal from the world.d</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: yellow;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">4. <i>A Clash of Kings</i> by George R.R. Martin</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">See above. It definitely kept its pace in the second book, my goodness.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">5. <i>Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever?</i> by Dave Eggers</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I read this start to finish on a flight home and I kind of wish more books were written like it. This is a fun, frantic, and fast read—all dialogue, no action—and it reads like a millennial indie action movie that was penned at the last minute. It also touches on contemporary entitlement in ways that both intrigued and infuriated me, with our generation having spent the entirety of adulthood seeking purpose in the oddity of a post-9/11 digital-heavy world. This lone wolf Thomas just took matters into his own hands to, once and for all, figure himself out in a most unexpected way, by kidnapping an astronaut.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">6. <i>The Casual Vacancy</i> by J.K. Rowling</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">This is the first non-<i>Potter</i> book I've read of hers and it was delightful. She created real characters in their own little world, a small town where everything feels bigger than it is. In certain instances, it feels like her own personal evaluation of human nature, often reveling in pettiness and mean spirits. At first, I believed it to be a comedy of errors, but the tale eventually evolves into real people with real problems, mostly with each other. Centered around an open seat on the local council, the problems of local adults and their teenage children clash and overlap with each other, ultimately piling up. It never goes into truly devilish, uncomfortable territory</span>—<span style="background-color: white;">a la Franzen</span>—<span style="background-color: white;">but it gets under your nerves without cheap bandages.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">7. <i>Drown</i> by Junot Díaz</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">While some of the narrative voice here is silly</span>—<span style="background-color: white;">almost perplexingly so</span>—<span style="background-color: white;">this collection truly gets at you. It's young lothario fiction with all of the realism, grit, self-loathing, and wonder that comes from strength and weakness formed with the same intensive force and bond. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Díaz presents a youthful wasteland that's explored with a peculiar balance of screwball spirit and gut-wrenching tragedy.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b><u style="background-color: white;">BEST GRAPHIC NOVELS [Ongoing Series]</u></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b><u style="background-color: white;"><br /></u></b><b style="background-color: white;">1. <i>East of West [Volumes V-VI]</i> written by Jonathan Hickman with artwork by Nick Dragotta</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This series makes me feel like a kid reading comics again and I never bounced through anything half as simultaneously out there and sane as this festival of genres. Western in tone, fantasy in premise, sci-fi in execution, historical in vibe, this is the tale of The Message and how the seven territories of the fictionalized United States — a nation as grounded in the 19th Century as it is the 22nd— deal with completing the religious doctrine, which can only mean the Apocalypse. Not everyone agrees if it even should be done or how it would be, but three of the Four Horsemen aren't having it, all while the literal pale rider of Death has gone rogue for love and in search of his son. Everyone's headed to war, whether they like it or not.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">2. <i>Saga [Volume VI]</i> written by Brian K. Vaughan with artwork by Fiona Staples</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Never before has a comic book so very thoroughly satisfied both my inner child and adult self so precisely. It is honestly everything I love in a narrative told exceptionally well with glee. It's pure devotion to its characters, its readers, and its story. It never compromises and yet somehow delivers so very in full. Each new volume arrives to one lanky idiot who can never get enough. I fan boy out every time. But, seriously, how could you not when two soldiers on opposite sides in an indefinite intergalactic war fall in love and have a kid (who's also the narrator) and sometimes get separated and try to keep their shit together while they're being pursued by both sides who want them dead as traitors?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><b>3. <i>Black Science [Volumes IV-V] </i>by Rick Remender with artwork by Matteo Scalera</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">For starters, this includes one of the most astounding meditations on regret, reflection, and getting your shit together I've ever read. Secondly, the rest of it is sci-fi action, so, hey, best of both worlds. After selfish and abrasive scientist Grant McKay, once of the Anarchistic Order of Scientists, triggers the peeling of overlapping realities, he has to find his remaining family, crew, and way back home. It is not easy and he's more lost than ever. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">4. <i>The Wicked + The Divine</i> [Volumes I-IV] written by Kieron Gillen with artwork by Jamie McKelvie</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Colorful, contemporary and calculated, the series follows the 90-year return of a dozen gods and goddesses who possess college-aged youths to be akin to pop stars, except their "concerts" alter people's minds and souls. Alas, the gang rarely gets along with each other and one huge fan finds her way into their inner circle, only to witness the beginning of their mysterious, murderous demise.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">5. <i>Paper Girls [Volumes I-II] </i>written by Brian K. Vaughn with artwork by Cliff Chiang and Matthew Wilson</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This has all the makings of a classic youths-experiencing-the-supernatural-on-bicycles-in-1980s-suburbia. A group of paper delivery girls get wrapped up in a crashing of realms and realities, and they're suddenly time-traveling and dimension-hopping. Big, crazy, and wild things are happening and they're flying by the seat of their pants.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">6. <i>Hellboy in Hell [Volumes I-II] / Hellboy and the B.P.R.D. [Volumes I-II] </i>by Mike Mignola</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I will miss you, Hellboy. You were consistent and grand and all your stories were wonderful horror pulp romps. You were an honorable hero who was as much worn out by the evil of the world as you were delighted by its good. I very much appreciated the entire fantasy of apocalypse harbinger turning out to be a badass who is a friend to all. Now, Hellboy is laid to rest, after being dragged to Hell and wandering its empty forever streets. A moment of silence for Right Hand of Doom.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">7. <i>Low [Volumes I-III] </i>written by Rick Remender with artwork by Greg Tocchini</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The best way to break a reader's heart is to establish a dying world's most hopeful woman and then keep trying to take everything away from her. Told with a purposefully messy retro-future watercolor style, this tells the story of Earth billions of years from now, when the sun is on the verge of devouring our planet. Mankind has thus lived underwater for centuries and is now running out of oxygen. After the once-perfect Caine family was torn apart years and years ago, mother Stel has learned that one of her probes in space has discovered an inhabitable planet far beyond the depths of their ocean. Now she must save humanity—or at least her remaining family.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">8. <i>Nailbiter [Volumes I-V] </i>written by Joshua Williamson with artwork by Mike Henderson and Adam Guzowski</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Given my apprehension to engage any literature focusing on serial killers, this was a surprising delight. It's cartoonish enough stay mischievous and evil enough to give weight to the characters and overall risk. A town has produced 16 brutal serial killers, each with a strange specialization either in victims, process, or execution, and no one knows why? That's some seriously mysterious shit and I'm gonna get to the bottom of it! Ugh, this sounds like I'm rounding up my neighborhood friends to ride bikes with flashlights in the dark. I sound like a nerd with that closing. But I love mysteries! Ugh, I did it again.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">9. <i>Descender [Volumes I-III]</i> written by Jeff Lemire with artwork by Dustin Nguyen</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">A sci-fi adventure with a tender beating heart, this thing's a good reminder that humans are rarely the smartest or most compassionate entities they naturally assume themselves to be. Sometimes, a robot can be the best there ever was—or someday anyway. The central character, an empathetic android child named Tim-21, is sweet without overdoing it and the story is emotional without sacrificing chaos and violence. One day, giant machines attacked the solar system. Ten years later, we still worry about their return, even though we never un</span><span style="background-color: white;">derstood them in the first place. But a child robot built exclusively for companionship may be the key to everything. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><b>10. <i>Criminal [Volumes I-V]</i> written by Ed Brubaker with artwork by Sean Phillips</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This is such sharp writing for the love of pulpy noir. Nobody's to be trusted and everyone gets theirs. Somehow, over the course of five totally different stories, the lives of those in the not-so-underworld weave throughout each other's world. Put together, it practically reads like a Coen Brothers script if they left out all the humor and quirks. It's straight to the point with just enough bells and whistles to dance.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">11. <i>Bitch Planet [Volume I]</i> written by Kelly Sue DeConnick with artwork by Valentine De Landro and Robert Wilson IV</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Well, hot damn, feminist meditation by way of sci-fi satire is one hell of a thing. I can't think of anything I've read like this. In this timeline's future, women who aren't "compliant," which could be anything from murder to being generally disappointing, go to a correctional facility on another world, the one nicknamed Bitch Planet. There, it takes on a Death Race action tale where a team of female prisoners play a violent sport against men for what's supposed to be their hopeful release. All the while, you learn how bonkers the patriarchy has become institutionalized, almost similar to <i>V For Vendetta</i>, but way more patronizing and available. It's a hell of a read, especially with the fake ads and missed connections in between the issues, all biting mockery of patriarchy and how it informs every facet of society. Damn.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b><u style="background-color: white;">BEST GRAPHIC NOVELS [Closed Narrative]</u></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b><u style="background-color: white;"><br /></u></b><b style="background-color: white;">1. <i>V For Vendetta</i> written by Alan Moore with artwork by David Lloyd</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">What a beautiful story, and it's not because it romanticizes anarchy. It's beautiful because it doesn't rely on or even aim for beauty. It goes for blood, simply put. This is a stunningly comprehensive story that shows the flaws of mankind without dragging them through the mud. Government officials will be corrupt because they can be and people will grow tired of it because it is inevitable, but only if they know such a thing is even possible. Moore's ability to construct ruthless inspiration in the form of its two main characters is daunting. He makes fascism a terrifying prospect rather than a villainous opponent or obstacle. It is a tidal wave of bricks, ready to box you in, but if you have a martyr who is more idea than man, there is nothing to stop the revolution.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">2. <i>Airboy</i> written by James Robinson with artwork by Greg Hinkle</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Sort of like the comic book world's answer to the film <i>Adaptation</i>, this tells the story of a self-loathing writer—a Hunter S. Thompson type if he ever saw himself as way past his prime—and naive artist having the block of a lifetime adapting the old-timey character of Airboy to modern works. Then said heroic comic book character—basically Captain America if he was a Boy Scout mascot—comes to vibrant life. It's madcap and silly while achingly genuine and self-critical at the same time. It's basically two lost souls lamenting "I wish I could get better" and "I wish I could be better" until everything goes insane and they have to figure out everything even though nothing makes sense, all with the help of booze and drugs.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">3. <i>Seconds</i> by Bryan Lee O'Malley</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I'll read anything Bryan Lee O'Malley does forever. Like his past work (<i>Scott Pilgrim, Lost at Sea</i>), this is as self-aware as it is fun as it is emotional as it is light as it is tender. It's a delight to behold his work. In this, second chances play a huge role alongside time-altering, as chef Katie aims to move on with her life, only to stumble upon the opportunity to "fix" things, which will always be a selfish hopeful's undoing. From start to finish, it's wonderful.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><b>4. </b><b><i>Alex + Ada </i>written by Jonathan Luna with artwork by Sarah Vaughn</b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Artificially created love doesn't seem so surreal when the world has a tendency to be bleak. Such is the case with Alex, a quiet young man who has lives clean and just shy of content. When he reluctantly accepts a lifelike female android named Ada for companionship, he realizes that he isn't sure what counts as consciousness, morality, or independence anymore. He essentially decides to jailbreak Ada with free will and things don't go as planned. Rather than bucking wild with sci-fi action, however, the story is done with so much heart and patience that the focus on characters feels like a meditation on human interaction and expectation.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>5. <i>Tokyo Ghost</i> written by Rick Remender with artwork by Sean Murphy and Matt Hollingsworth</b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">If <i>Bladerunner</i> was the relevant, defining, and semi-campy dystopia tale for Gen X, this one suits Millennials pretty hard. A luddite named Debbie Decay patrols the streets with the only (violent shell of a) man she ever loved, but he's these days he's a one-man, tech-spaced wrecking crew named Led Dent in the wasteland where distraction is a drug. But there's rumor of a verdant and fertile garden paradise in Tokyo, but escape from the badlands of metro</span><span style="background-color: white;">polis ain't easy.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><b>6. <i>The Fade Out</i> written by Ed Brubaker with artwork by Sean Phillips</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Bless the Golden Age of Hollywood for the weird way it operated and allowed for grime and grit in the cracks of its glory. Here, a nervous writer gets tangled up in the murder of a starlet, one that the studio seems to be covering up. Everyone on set or around town is either asking questions or dropping hints. Noir always feels more sinister when the surroundings have a shine to them.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">7. <i>How to Talk to Girls at Parties </i>written by Neil Gaiman w</b><b style="background-color: white;">ith artwork by Fábio Moon and Gabriel Bá</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">This thing reads like a journal entry/fantasy from a young tee</span><span style="background-color: white;">nage boy who grew up reading too many books. Two teenage boys go to a party and soon discover the girls are more powerful than they could possibly have imagined—one's cocky, one's shy. Truly, though, w</span><span style="background-color: white;">hen you're that age, attraction can pretty much melt your brain. Here, the fantastical daydream-like courting process of teenage boys gets proper mystic treatment in its glowing colors of pages as the supernatural comes 'round.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">8. <i>The Sandman: The Dream Hunters </i>written by Neil Gaiman with artwork by Yoshitaka Amano</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">What a fantastic read. Such old-world mysticism is at play here with a contemporary voice that understands the strengths of bard storytelling and modern pacing. It sharpens the whimsical tale, where the first half takes its time, but once the story comes into focus, the narrative confdiently strolls, knowing it has you. Nothing is rushed and everything is given its due. Wonderful.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><b style="background-color: white;"><br /></b><b style="background-color: white;">9. <i>The Secret Service</i> written by Mark Millar with artwork by Dave Gibbon</b><b style="background-color: white;">s</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Adapted into the film <i>Kingsman: The Secret Service</i>, this ends up being a case of the movie being better than the book. Still, the source material is a whole lot of fun. The story of a troublemaking youth in Britain becoming a smooth-as-hell spy under the wing of a loyal older guide is all there; it's just more rushed and less refined. You're left wanting more.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">10. <i>The Nobody</i> by Jeff Lemire</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">This had my full attention within two pages. Lemire's ability to give so much with such little dialogue or narration is profound. This is like a good pulpy short story, offering enough to be curious but not promising too much to expect more. It's a brief tale, but a rewarding and surprising one with a minimalist lean on regret, loneliness, and hope. It all starts with a mysterious man covered in bandages rolling into a quiet town.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><b style="background-color: white;">11. <i>Lost at Sea</i> by Bryan Lee O'Malley</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Man, O'Malley can capture what it means to be 18-20 years old damn well. Here, a tale weaves young spirit without defining it. Teenagedom can be articulated, even if the narrative is supposed to be chaos, but that strange gap between youth and adulthood is so perplexing, because it jumps between sides. You have enough to look back on with new eyes, but that's what makes it all the more baffling. In this tale, an 18-year-old girl finds her very shy, quiet self on a road trip with sorta-friends from school, heading back home. She misses what she had and who she was and doesn't know how to handle or even explain the change. But the thing is, at that age, everyone's kind of like that, dealing with their own identity crisis with brief instances of sanity and insight and briefer moments of total calm and confidence. In this, you watch a girl exist, trying to make sense of her world, even in its most mundane of surroundings.</span>Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-36051775820373268522016-09-10T12:00:00.003-07:002016-09-10T12:01:00.737-07:00"you"<b>"you"</b><br />
<i>put down at what feels like the end by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
you know such truth in a hot shower after a long flight home.<br />
back in the arms of your family, as whole again as you can make it,<br />
you breathe as if memories and hopes and schemes sludge out of you<br />
only for stronger daydreams and harsher regrets to push their way in,<br />
making you a silo of more than what a human is in appearance.<br />
<br />
you think of how your bones sit inside you,<br />
slumped over after dropping a duffel bag<br />
to the floor of a bedroom you don't recognize.<br />
you think of how your sleeping bag of a body aches<br />
from a different kind of exhaustion than usual.<br />
<br />
you dwell on how the years got away from you,<br />
how they get away from everyone,<br />
and how you let everyone get away regardless.<br />
<br />
you think of the woman you exhaled for a year.<br />
you think of the woman that was better in letters than practice.<br />
you think of the woman that worked marriage into your lips.<br />
you think of the woman that made love to the future<br />
when she put on her records and read poetry in her underwear.<br />
<br />
your muscles, more familiar in wear, creak these days<br />
as loud as your grandparents floorboards<br />
back when you’d tip toe out of bed<br />
to find your grandfather making warm chocolate pudding<br />
from a recipe his mother learned when she came to america.<br />
you knew which planks would wake your grandmother<br />
and you knew how you’d make it for your own kids.<br />
but that was long before you learned how the world worked,<br />
eons before you discovered how you really worked.<br />
<br />
but you had to see the world.<br />
you had to drive your spirit into the unknown<br />
to live like the greats—or their editors at least.<br />
you had to eat, drink, and be weary.<br />
eventually, you'd come home<br />
and your friends, they figure you must be lovely with bartenders.<br />
you laugh it off, because no one believes you don't talk to anyone<br />
and soon you realize you were better at small talk<br />
when you were a teenage waiter<br />
rather than an aging writer.<br />
<br />
so you think of your early college years<br />
when everyone was an artist<br />
and realize you sharpened a skill<br />
that was only a hobby for others.<br />
and you tumble down your heart like stairs.<br />
you miss everyone being in bands.<br />
you miss everyone working on a book.<br />
you miss everyone confessing their feelings<br />
in rainbow splatters and dancing them off.<br />
<br />
but in moments like these, you can feel every jukebox song, every pint toast,<br />
every carnival kiss, every cigarette on the road, every handwritten letter,<br />
every summer night swim, every holiday fight, every morning-after bruise,<br />
every birthday wish, every dogeared page, every promise broken true,<br />
all of that which has brought you up like guardians<br />
who expect nothing but give everything<br />
and wait to see what you do.<br />
<br />
and so you write in the second person,<br />
because it's easier to give advice<br />
than take responsibility.<br />
and you know that<br />
better than anyone.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-22385726402257284042016-06-20T17:40:00.000-07:002016-06-23T17:41:00.365-07:00"a year of christmas lights"<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>"a year of christmas lights"</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>written with teenage daydreams playing by jake kilroy.</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">in that year of christmas lights,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">back when i had fevers,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">my heart swelled</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">for any girl</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">that would</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">quote dylan.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but that was only until</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i learned parrots don’t make love</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and realized even i botch my favorite lines.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">sex is universal, but it ain’t everything,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i was told by an english teacher</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">who didn’t care enough,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">back when i didn’t know better.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">disappear into feathered skin all you want,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but you won’t find enlightenment in motion alone.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">truth carried by fingers,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">truth woven by tongues,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">truth built by anarchists</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">posing as merchants</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">posing as priests;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">it all means you get yours eventually.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">nights last longer than clocks given them credit,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">no matter how much you bless a bed with holy water</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">you sweat when your own heart makes you dizzy.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">so the years came</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and i welcomed them.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">they became a part of me,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">sinking into teenage skin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and curdling the fibers;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a recipe spoiled by</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">its very ingredients,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">served hot for every meal</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">until the last one is poison.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">yet in that summer of unexplainable heartache,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i remember black and gold</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">sparkling throughout the city</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">like jewels thrown from getaway cars,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">sticking to the velvet that pops purpose.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but it was a darling poet's bedroom in old town,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">with every color of a melting rainbow aglow,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">tacked to the wall, snaking through the bookshelf</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">that was home away from home,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">somewhere i could fall asleep in daydreams,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">even when i couldn’t stand</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">what we talked about in the kitchen</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">as unpaid philosophers against blue and white country print,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">each of us killing time before the world became a stage.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">here we were in rehearsal for the roles we were born to play,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">finding it impossible to remember our lines</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">while pointing out the cues of other performers.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">later, in what rolled like a century,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i discovered women passed on me</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">because i couldn’t quote plath</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and the best i could do was spark didion</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but that wasn’t exactly it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and that was the trouble.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">nothing was close enough.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">nothing was good enough.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">nothing was “it" enough</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">nothing was.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and that’s all we want now,</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">the beautiful freedom to lose.</span></div>
Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-6374624853790148652016-06-20T17:39:00.000-07:002016-06-23T17:39:56.627-07:00"better luck"<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>"better luck"</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>written with a drunkard's hope by jake kilroy.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">with barely a scratch</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">on this double-headed coin i call a conscience,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i bounded through the south like a carpetbagger</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">back for forgiveness with an insider tip-off about the rapture.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i bought low life and sold high praise</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">before returning home to a wife</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">who thought i was only </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">gone for the weekend.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">you could be loved anywhere, i tell myself,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">shaving and dabbing blood</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">in a ramshackle cottage</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">my grandfather built</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">with hands that worked the war machines.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">meanwhile, you could be a god</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">if your hands and moral compass</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">weren’t shaky from drink.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but that takes courage.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">that takes honesty.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">that takes away from a spirited demise</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and you’ve only got one life to ride into the wilderness.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">better luck next time.</span></div>
Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-91780773970173023492016-06-20T17:38:00.000-07:002016-06-23T17:38:45.862-07:00“blues in a heatwave"<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>“blues in a heatwave"</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>written with a wild new orleans in blood by jake kilroy.</i></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">when my head swam through that sapphire bar in new orleans,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">my spirit dragged light behind me;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a glowing wake</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">from a star-shouldered stumble</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">awash in a pollution of hope,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">proud but not perfect,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">more gonzo than groucho,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">with senses spun,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">shaken not stirred,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">dragging lines so trite you could walk ‘em back twice,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">before finally getting the rug pulled out from under me</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">so i could fly.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“say, what’s in this whiskey?”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“i don’t understand.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“me neither.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">fine conversation skills for a talker</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">who smuggled in a mouth keen on its bourbon scrub,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">selling a smile as brittle as an upstart’s ego,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">as loyal as a long shot, as crazy as washing machine eyes,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">as moving as a poem read in an earthquake.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">still, it kept pace in a nosedive tailspin,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">head over heels for a drunker redhead in glasses,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">snapping fingers to remember why she’s familiar</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">before realizing she reminds anyone of everyone</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">this married to the road.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">glory be mayhem and music</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">when it’s this hard to tell the difference;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">all of us with songwriter business cards</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">though we only got karaoke in our bones.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">all of it blasts like background noise,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">adjacent to the dying wish of a night,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">booming love songs crashing through smoking patios,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">hearing mockingbirds hum lovebird tunes,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">knowing what women are in season,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">promising heaven in an alleyway</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">delivering hell in a relationship,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and here i was talking up the waitress</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">about what shelters she works on weekdays.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">what would you have from us beyond youth?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">it’s the only thing we’re good at.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">it’s the only thing we love.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">it’s the only thing, some say,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">begging god to go from death bed</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to hospital bed to "your own bed"</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to some girl’s bed you can’t name.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">hot damn on the hottest night,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">this bar crawl could last all life.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but here, hear a marching band interrupt the jazzinites,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">old friends trying out new jokes,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">always adored, always with rhythm,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">them cats cut their veins by way of brass</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to pour out a blue only known by</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">how we abuse depression for glory;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">promoting the broken artist battle</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">while swinging the profits to get help.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">so i watched hands curve around hips</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">like ten snakes taking post-adam eves</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">to the dance floor of a wilder jungle,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and i couldn’t recall how i used to</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">write more little black books than poems.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but then the band stopped to drink</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and a blues song strutted out of the speakers</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and i was suddenly home</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">without knowing any of the words.</span></div>
Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-36523014276672645972016-06-20T17:37:00.000-07:002016-06-23T17:38:55.604-07:00"funny"<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>“funny"</b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<i>written on a plane by jake kilroy.</i></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">blowing through town as mad as wind on a bender,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">heels up on the rails of a city-wide waiting room,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">where every artist lets the skyscrapers talk down to ‘em, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i found myself waiting on women to touch my skull like a piano;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a cave-like church where soft presses on thoughts count</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">like rock art dolled up as a rare jackson pollock of daydreams.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">colorful spirits still die here, don’t worry.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">we just have better money for graves these days.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">funny i don’t remember the funerals.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">oh, what a breathtaking mausoleum for us to dance inside!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">a carnival ride, the two of us, spinning colors</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">only seen when you get up too fast to see someone new,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">here we come at the world like a tidal wave we sewed ourselves.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">destiny was never only for ancient warriors.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">it just makes for a less jealous audience.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">all while wildflower crowns make for better use of battlefields,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">we sneer at decaying lovers we only cherish</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">for the weapons they made us.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">see, when i was young, i could hardly keep my eyes tucked in</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">for any new bedtime story that cracked ear to ear beyond</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">the two dozen good lines about an empty bed in flames.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">funny i never saw any sequels.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but then my bones wore down</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and my fingers slowed down</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">when finally i powered down,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and memories were no longer string theory.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">hell, they were hardly even decor.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">they became a stockpile,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">making me a survivalist</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">in a one-man show.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">funny way to throw a party.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">even in another country,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">alone in a splintering tavern,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">i could say life came at me quick</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and i held on for as long as i could</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">before it threw me into the sea</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">where i found the coast guard</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and thought it was a pirate ship of mermaids.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">funny way to exit the world, i imagine, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">curious, cackling, and crazy;</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">but always relentless,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">forever sweating the truth.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">at least do that.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">at least die truthfully.</span></div>
Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-3847236014780579032016-06-13T00:16:00.001-07:002016-06-13T00:23:14.102-07:00"pulse"<b>"pulse"</b><br />
<i>written after the worst by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
one evening,<br />
after the day<br />
(so broken<br />
in color)<br />
climbs<br />
into bed,<br />
heartbroken<br />
and lonesome,<br />
you'll watch<br />
the news<br />
with eyes<br />
wet and still<br />
and shower<br />
to get clean.<br />
it won't be the last time,<br />
and it won't be the worst one.<br />
but you'll shove fingers in your throat<br />
unready for how good it feels to take action.<br />
sounds you don't recognize will pulsate in your bones and beyond,<br />
as razorblades pump through your veins and arteries—<br />
because it's something, goddamnit!<br />
and then you'll go to a comedy show in l.a. where everyone's as sick as you;<br />
the only people left alive, all with the diagnosis and a cure so far away,<br />
in a country nobody can name, in a village nobody can love.<br />
we'll ask for deliveries instead of deliverance<br />
before finding god in the same line for handouts.<br />
we can no longer write tragedies<br />
because truth is meaner than fiction.<br />
what a world.<br />
what a time to be alive.<br />
what a way to go to sleep.<br />
how do you rise in the morning<br />
when your heart feels like the shattered moon?<br />
beat on.<br />
that's all you can do.<br />
in your tiniest of moments,<br />
while the world haunts its patrons,<br />
after years of polluted hope,<br />
hot air so thick you can't see right,<br />
you'll start to cry.<br />
it'll be hopeless then.<br />
it'll be hopeless for a long time, you figure.<br />
drool will come.<br />
tears will rot.<br />
you'll dry-heave until even sanity leaves you.<br />
you won't consider character.<br />
you won't understand time.<br />
you won't remember anything<br />
but this, your weakest moment,<br />
your most exact nothing.<br />
and you'll find steam,<br />
a pulse somewhere,<br />
motion adrift,<br />
a fire incoming,<br />
and you, a lighthouse<br />
suddenly aglow for any transport;<br />
once as feckless as ambient storm,<br />
now light in every sense.<br />
the world waits,<br />
and you stand,<br />
100 lifetimes ready.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-64190578505410144082016-05-03T16:52:00.004-07:002021-01-23T16:54:53.429-08:0011/50: The Casual Vacancy<p><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">The Casual Vacancy, J.K. Rowling<br /></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>4/5 stars<br /></b></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">This is my 9th book in Rex & Jake's 50-Book Reading Challenge,<br /></i><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">which Rex leads 12-11. Full list can be found <a href="http://thecobblestoneaddress.blogspot.com/2012/07/rex-jakes-50-book-reading-challenge.html" style="color: #999999; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></p><p><span id="freeTextreview1482705394" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">This is the first non-Harry Potter book I've read of hers, and it was delightful. She created real characters in their own little world, a small town where everything feels bigger than it really is. Or that's the case at times. In some cases, it becomes true to human nature, and that's the worst of anything. At first, I thought it would be a comedy of errors, but it eventually evolves into real people with real problems with each other. Centered around an open seat on the local council, adults and their teenage children have their own issues with each other and they begin to pile up and overlap. It never goes into truly devilish, uncomfortable territory (like Franzen), but it gets under your nerves without cheap bandages.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span></p>Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-35149857548551488162016-01-11T10:42:00.002-08:002016-01-11T10:42:56.594-08:00My (Brief) Eulogy for David BowieHonestly, "Bowie" is practically an adjective to me. It summarizes a nebulas of hyper-aware mystery that I otherwise have no words for. You have rock stars that beam and want you to know they're glowing, and sometimes you have rock stars that are dim as shit and still want you to know they're glowing. What I got from David Bowie was that he shined like an alien spacecraft and shrugged it off. The dude understood identity. Bowie was a presence in the very least and a goddamn genius otherwise. And it's not just because he wrote at least a dozen songs that make my lips move before my brain even knows what we're doing. It's not just the music. It's that the dude fucking got "it." How I see things is that the world was an entirely different masterpiece to David Bowie.<br />
<br />
He had the confidence of someone who a god explained the universe to, and he carried himself like the friend of a friend at a party. I mean, shit, I obviously didn't know the man, but I remember thinking once, "What kind of world would it be without Bowie?" Honestly, consider the fact that he wrote "Young Americans" for his ninth album. He was that good for that long, and now have you heard Blackstar? It's his 25th album and it just came out to critical acclaim. Do you understand how insane that is? He was in the music game for 50+ years and still writing on his deathbed, never repeating himself and still good at it while trying out fresh tactics. That's artistic integrity that should make your heart explode and your brain melt.<br />
<br />
You get good music every year, but a David Bowie only comes around once in a lifetime. I feel like we lost the only alien visitor we've ever had. Bless David Bowie for being the most David Bowie he could've David Bowie'd. He made the world more curious that way.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-26388581069575241592015-11-09T19:04:00.003-08:002015-11-09T19:11:03.328-08:00re: Starbucks holiday cup design...<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><b>For Visuals: </b></span><a href="http://time.com/4105283/starbucks-holiday-cups-evolution/" style="font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" target="_blank"><i>TIME</i> - "See How This Year’s Starbucks’ Holiday Cup is Different From the Past"</a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="line-height: 19.32px;"><b>2009</b> - Includes "wish" and "hope," two words that belong to birthdays, dating, and bad nights of miserable drinking more than the holiday season.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2010</b> - Includes the phrase "stories are gifts." Christmas doesn't own the idea of gifts or stories. In fact, 28% of U.S. citizens think Bible stories are technically journalistic pieces anyway.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2011</b> - Includes dog riding person as a sled. Is this in the Bible? Legitimately don't know. Only really know enough to argue with people about things that shouldn't matter.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2012</b> - Includes winking snowman. Possibly erotic intentions, possibly pansexual. Not sure how snowpeople work. Pretty sure they're not prophets.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2013</b> - Includes ornaments. Fine, that's Christmas-related, since it goes on a Christmas tree, but if we're talkin' secular here, that's just some dope tree jewelry.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2014</b> - Includes...I don't know, bows? Snowflakes? Not really sure, but totally confident that no religion owns winter or sassy dolled-up handouts.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<b>2015</b> - Reflects popular return to flat design. Keeps bold color palette, loses busy iconography. Some batshit former pastor decides he wants attention and fails to realize that Starbucks has more or less been moving toward simpler design.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-top: 6px;">
Anyway, the phrase "War on Christmas" is dumb, the idea of "War on Christmas" is stupid, and Christmas exists because of a war on pagans' winter solstice back in the 4th Century.</div>
Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-50484561724400091202015-10-06T12:26:00.000-07:002015-10-06T12:31:07.241-07:00Meet Debbie Springe-Kilroy<a href="http://www.blendsus.com/blogs/journal/45855041-debbie-springe-kilroy" target="_blank">READ: "Meet Debbie Springe-Kilroy" (a BLENDS interview with my mother about beating breast cancer)</a><br />
<br />
Last year could've gone much differently than it did, and it's very peculiar to dwell on a time when my mom was at her weakest, since it never really felt like that (though she certainly looked the part). The good lady was bald and too tired to do anything, which is all very strange for a woman who usually gets up at, like, 4 a.m. to get things done, enjoy the sunrise over coffee, and then tackle projects throughout the day, ultimately rewarding herself with pints and a burger at Haven come Saturday afternoon (and forever testing my father's observation skills whenever she's added so much as a single streak of color to her hair).<br />
<br />
So, anyway, Mama Bear got a write-up for Breast Cancer Awareness Month (courtesy of <a href="http://www.blendsus.com/" target="_blank">BLENDS</a>, by way of the grandiose spark that is Jenn Romero). Debbie's been cancer-free for a good score now, but only recently wrapped things up in celebration. It's a wild spell for her to throw down as such, and the interview works as a exceptional eulogy for a bum year that could've gone devastating. My mother does a grand job summarizing her attitude, but, really, her jivey spirit, even in the weirdest, darkest moments, was fucking unreal. It was like witnessing someone on an emotional marathon, just calmly and casually with a shrug, "Well, I'm obviously not turning back or standing still. What sense does that make?" She even turned her year of cancer into a gigantic art project (including legitimately taking a portrait picture of herself every single day, because where in the hell would the world be without scrapbooks?).<br />
<br />
As a whole, the article can be summarized by her closing remark: "I went on an amazing journey, and the people in our lives were right there with us. I thank all of you for being there for me during my journey. It was a roller coaster ride of emotions with multiple side effects, some of which I have already forgotten, thank goodness. I was absolutely overwhelmed and blown away by the love, support and extreme generous acts of kindness from those around me. I believe all the thoughts and prayers, along with a good attitude, helped me fight. I love you all for being there for me."<br />
<br />
Thumbs up.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-2543659691676170172015-08-29T00:45:00.001-07:002015-08-29T00:45:16.696-07:00"the time in between"<b>"the time in between"</b><br />
<i>a poem from a boat and a good place by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
i was a wrecking ball once,<br />
every man says,<br />
when he finally sleeps<br />
without women<br />
beside him<br />
or in his head -<br />
a loft of a brain,<br />
stylish and overdecorated;<br />
what good life becomes<br />
once former flames die out,<br />
this time with no phoenix<br />
napping beneath the ash.<br />
what mud courses through you,<br />
natural and slow, like molasses,<br />
without the sweet taste of nostalgia.<br />
you've given up blood.<br />
you've given up poems about blood.<br />
you've given up biting in kisses,<br />
for the most part.<br />
you see the world for what it is:<br />
anything.<br />
and you wonder why you always<br />
barreled through it like you didn't have time,<br />
now, here, resting easy in the quiet of a night<br />
when the moon hangs, and your neck rolls,<br />
and you're down to water over wine,<br />
for the most part,<br />
and you ready yourself to be wilder than ever.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-19643503292741438962015-06-26T13:16:00.001-07:002015-06-26T13:16:17.968-07:00When Love is Finally on the Table for AllWhen you're young, love is this overly abundant resource that can be mined, harvested, and absorbed from every possible space. You pluck it out of the air, you drink it in gulps, you practically breathe in the sensation of adoring the world at a constant. You "love" your parents, your friends, your dog, recess, cake, balloons, summer, toys, that park down the street—everything. Then you meet your first crush that stirs up the pretty butterflies with prettier chainsaws and suddenly "love," in all its new variations with all its new complexities, is the craziest, most absurd thing to ever befall Earth.<br />
<br />
Love is still pure then. It's basically like your heart is always spinning in a meadow. It hasn't been chastised, corrupted, or completely undone. It's just more in your sinuses, your gut, and your dreams now than it is in the world around you.<br />
<br />
Then you get a bit older and you realize the good love is the hard love. It's the kind that demands your attention, that asks questions of your inner-workings that you never even wondered, and the poundings in your heart begin to battle the throbbing in your head. You can't explain shit and you're already recognizing the strange habit people have of barging their way into your love. People want you to know what you're doing wrong, how it can be helped, and why there's another way. Even people who don't know you now have opinions. Everyone wants to tell everyone else what love "is" or "should be." But to you, it's still philosophy, not mathematics.<br />
<br />
And then you get older still, and you get your love picked apart, reassembled, and gorged upon by government and religion. Even as a concept, they want to run it through machines. They want to evaluate and discuss it like you're not there, perpetuating the idea that, sometimes, a beating heart ain't worth as much as the next one. You get weirded out by it. You get sickened by strong opinions of bodies, no longer just people.<br />
<br />
Finally, after everything, years of watching "love" go from dreamscape to science experiment—in exaggerated theory, of course, since love in its purest form is the indefinite mainstay of decent folk everywhere—all you ever want to fucking hear is some powerful group that has some leverage in this slip-n-slide of a society say, "All love is on the table for whoever wants it," and you wonder how in the world anyone ever doubted their initial gut reaction in the first place. Damn.<br />
<br />
Glad to see some kid hearts in the Supreme Court these days. Good work.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-36937106931320723342015-06-19T12:02:00.003-07:002015-06-19T12:02:34.851-07:00Jon Stewart's Speech about Charleston<div style="background-color: black; width: 520px;">
<div style="padding: 4px;">
<iframe frameborder="0" height="288" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/embed/mgid:arc:video:thedailyshow.com:50b53227-d968-4804-b5a3-365d06fa016d" width="512"></iframe><div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-top: 4px; padding: 4px;">
<b><a href="http://thedailyshow.cc.com/">The Daily Show</a></b><br /><a href="http://thedailyshow.cc.com/full-episodes/">Daily Show Full Episodes</a>, <a href="http://thedailyshow.cc.com/videos">More Daily Show Videos</a>, <a href="http://www.cc.com/full-episodes">Comedy Central Full Episodes</a></div>
</div>
</div>
When the same piece of content shows up in a social feed, it's very easy to get sick of it and react to abundance rather than content. And it's very easy to be the person who smugly LOVES typing "slacktivist," when sharing an opinion piece online is very clearly not the same thing as participating in a live protest. The point is, this is a 5-minute speech that articulately observes the total sadness of what may be an endless, worsening cycle. Liberal, conservative, whatever—it would be nice to stop hearing about Americans killing Americans in great numbers. Hell, it'd be nice to stop learning that Americans are killing Americans in small numbers. Even more so, it'd superb to hear about people killing people beyond borders, but that's why world peace makes the most timeless toast, because evil will always exist. There will always be horrifyingly violent lunatics. But if there's a chance to at least converge and discuss what is an institutionalized problem of racism, there is potential action. Stopping global terrorism may be a fight without end, but domestic terrorism offers steps, even if it's as simple as changing street names and flag policies.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-72218621117246244142015-06-05T10:40:00.000-07:002015-06-05T10:57:14.385-07:00Caitlyn Jenner<b><u>Caitlyn Jenner</u></b><br />
<b><i>an essay/rant after taking in a week of social media</i></b><br />
by Jake Kilroy<br />
<br />
I absolutely wasn't going to comment on Caitlyn Jenner, but, goddamnit, after taking in social media this week, I feel like I gotta.<br />
<br />
You see, there's been a problematic attitude of "that isn't bravery, but this is." The trouble here is that it's limiting. In my opinion, there are many, many, many types of heroes. I don't believe we should see bravery or heroes as exact. It's an essay, not an equation.<br />
<br />
Take that whole meme that Snoop Dogg posted where he hyped Akon for bringing electricity to 600 million Africans. That is a HUGE deal. But the cheap shot at Caitlyn Jenner was unnecessary at best. If you're upset about media coverage, take a shot at the media. Both are heroes for two entirely different reasons in two entirely different causes. It's not a scale. Akon isn't going to lose funding because Bruce Jenner is now Caitlyn. Media coverage is totally a scale, however. But Caitlyn Jenner didn't run the meetings on this week's broadcast programming or newspaper layouts. Take it up with the media, ya big jerk. Plus, you kind of smear Akon's damn respectable efforts with a mean-spirited meme.<br />
<br />
Heroes work toward the greater good of the world or a community. My father is a hero to me and my family because the dude works six days a week without slacking, so he can do right by us. Bravery comes down to courage and/or noble qualities. My mother's in the brave category, to my family, for the way she barreled into cancer treatments with an attitude I couldn't muster on a good night. The lady was fearless.<br />
<br />
Caitlyn Jenner is a hero because she showed people who feel a whole lot differently than you and me that it's acceptable to consider those dark feelings and move toward joy. And she did so without any idea how things might go when she did. She's an inspiration because, hey, that's not the standard magazine cover. Hell, it'll be the first time ever someone like me is pleased to see anyone associated with the Kardashians on the cover of a periodical while I stand in line at the grocery store.<br />
<br />
Ellen DeGeneres caught backlash for coming out as a lesbian in 1997. That was less than 20 years ago and Ellen's obviously one of the most charming people to ever exist. Again, that's just my opinion. But while we've watched gay rights evolve significantly (Matthew Shepard was as recent as 1998), this country only crossed the 50% approval line for same-sex marriage in 2013. It took us a while to get there (a subjective term, really), and it will likely take us a while to get there with transgenderism acceptance. Jenner knew that when she agreed to the <i>Vanity Fair </i>cover. That's why it was brave. That's why she's a hero.<br />
<br />
But it doesn't lessen the bravery of other heroes. There was coverage this week about people downplaying Jenner in trade for soldiers on Facebook. I get it, but I think the comparison is unfair to both. They're not close to similar and shouldn't be evaluated on the same terms. They take two supremely different spirits and resolves. It's more understandable to make points about one instance requiring more of a person, but I still find it to be a strange attitude. One doesn't negate the other. They're two wildly, vividly different worlds.<br />
<br />
I, for one, cannot even fathom the terrifying depths of war. Not even a little. The fact that I can hold normal conversations with someone who has endured one of the most unimaginable things in existence will never cease to floor me. There are men and women who are willing to throw everything on the line to protect this country's citizens and way of life. It's absolutely commendable. It's total bravery. Soldiers whole-heartedly risk body and mind at a constant for months or years at a time. How in the holy hell could I even do that for a day?<br />
<br />
However, social heroes exist as well. I don't see heroism as a selection of either/or and I don't see why it has to be.<br />
<br />
And then there's this whole shit about "God made him a man" and "God doesn't make mistakes." You're seriously telling me you believe in a supernatural entity that has the power to create EVERYTHING, but you find it impossible to even consider the notion that the same being gave this man the idea and capability to become a woman? Heaven and Hell are more possible than this individual's thought process and identity crisis? Also, if you want to make the case that God is infallible, there are centuries of world history that can be thrown at the immediate mouthing off of "God always has a plan." And that's just assuming His/Her plan didn't include total free will for all humanity anyway. We're talking about an impossibly gigantic spirit you've never so much as even met and you're speaking for the lord like a coked-up PR agent with such impulse, fury, and arrogance, all because one person you don't know took the steps to be happy and comfortable with who they are.<br />
<br />
What pissed you off, that Jenner landed a magazine cover? That insane family's built a media empire out of being bozos, airheads, and losers. This is the first thing I've found interesting about the lot of them and you're suddenly leaping off your high horse with a megaphone.<br />
<br />
Also, the media was pretty good about this one, but they can be cruel. They can be senseless. They can be ruthless. They can be feverishly starved for conflict. Jenner went into the photoshoot unsure what the other side would look like. Yes, there's been some real hateful shit dropped, but what I've seen between social and media has seemed close to 50/50, maybe beyond that in favor of positive. That could've turned out totally different. That's what made it brave, the fact that maybe this country as a collective whole was going to shame the shit out of her, viciously, publicly, and without remorse.<br />
<br />
So, again, I don't think it at all takes away from the many other, very different kinds of bravery. Soldiers, parents, activists, any variety of hero - bravery is a widespread and noble feat, regardless of where it takes place. It's a concept, not an exact portrait. It always takes a lot, whether physical, emotional, or both.<br />
<br />
We don't need people that say, "This and only this is bravery." That will cost this impressive nation a lot of progress.<br />
<br />
Personally, I have a real hard time being me sometimes. Everyone does. And that's without the wild, heavy weight of gender dysphoria. I can't imagine what it must be like to feel a million miles away from my own body or assigned to skin that ain't mine. Laura Jane Grace summed it up with this: "The cliché is that you're a woman trapped in a man's body, but it's not that simple. It's a feeling of detachment from your body and from yourself. And it's shitty, man. It's really fucking shitty."<br />
<br />
I don't know how I'd keep things in order with that and neither do you. Just let Caitlyn Jenner be or contribute something meaningful to the dialogue. You're obviously welcome to say whatever you want or feel, but my final thought is this: Don't boil a complicated issue down to some cocky sneer of a poorly worded negative status update. It almost never helps. It's usually just you being shitty.<br />
<br />
And finally, if you're hyping the first amendment to stand by those bogusly misspelled opinions on social media, just read the fucking first amendment already. It only prevents the government from passing censorship laws. It doesn't in any way, shape or form stop your peers from slamming you for your bullshit. It's so, so crazy that you don't know this by now.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-66933356094753122642015-05-18T21:36:00.000-07:002016-05-17T21:41:44.565-07:00"an ojai kiss"<b>"an ojai kiss"</b><br />
<i>after a nerve crawl at a wedding by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
out in the empty beauty of ojai,<br />
i farmed my heart at a wedding<br />
where half the guests were guitars.<br />
<br />
storm clouds rolled in worse than the drunks<br />
and i felt youth leave me that night,<br />
somehow feeling heavier under a brittle moon.<br />
maybe i was finally noticing the new burdens<br />
that come with shaky hands and a shakier future.<br />
<br />
i thought my nerves would be steel by the time<br />
i was asked by the world to do something,<br />
to be something, to give a damn<br />
about what my mirror thought of me.<br />
<br />
but in the barn, on the dance floor,<br />
swinging my seventh glass of wine,<br />
much like the mistress i should've brought,<br />
the one i left back home,<br />
because i didn't want to kiss her too right<br />
after sneaking into the olive trees<br />
because i had seen too many movies growing up.<br />
so i wondered about the moonlight<br />
and how it didn't hang right.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-47127687785989929802015-05-10T16:59:00.003-07:002015-05-11T10:47:34.069-07:00100 Good Memories<i>I turned 30 today.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And while I treat all my birthdays as days of great, serious reflection, this one especially has sent my mind spinning. So I decided to actually put down what I've done in my 30 years on this planet with this life.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Now, I've had A LOT of good moments in my life with A LOT of good people. This list was just the first 100 that came to mind and I left out any time that wasn't specific enough.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I mean, I've been blessed with recurring episodes of wild laughter at truly terrific hangout venues (Shirley's house, Julia's house, Wall's house, the Mira Mesa house, Chris's apartment, et cetera), and they all sort of blur together as several fantastic parties.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And there's also been A LOT of repeat goodness: barreling through the Sarvas Christmas party, playing "Cliche Guevara" in the garage, cruising in Jeff's old Bel-Air, setting the Christmas tree on fire in Mexico, goofing off atop the parking garage with the Rasta crew, watching Keith turn his order at Jalapeno's into a game show, derber-daying it up with croquet in the Romelle backyard, living through what seemed like every single night at The Madison—the list goes on forever.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This compilation was an attempt to pinpoint certain moments in my life that I look back on and think, "Not many people get the chance to live this good of a life."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So below is 100 good memories.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also, I've left out all the very good memories of romance, lust, and illegal activities, just so it's not strange for anyone to read. There are a lot of those moments that count for a great deal of space in my head and my heart, but putting it down here in the public lineup seemed too oddball.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I loved doing this and will likely attempt "Another 100 Good Memories." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Anyway...here's my existence!</i><br />
<br />
<b><u>100 Good Memories</u></b><br />
<b>a 30-year project</b><br />
<i><b>by Jake Kilroy</b></i><br />
<br />
1. Coming up for summer night air in Eileen's pool in Arizona during a lightning storm that wouldn't quit with the southwest downpour, only 20 minutes after Rex and I arrived, just shy of midnight.<br />
<br />
2. Starting the dance party to "Party in the U.S.A." at the Shattuck House's Halloween party, all of us dressed as the Village People.<br />
<br />
3. Watching Paris light up from our boat on the Seine River. The sky was a dying bright orange, and I was with friends and barely 18. The world seemed gigantic and gorgeous.<br />
<br />
4. Taking a long bubble bath in a fancy Sydney hotel room upon arrival with the skyline out in the window frame, realizing I had finally made it to Australia. One of the surrealist moments I've had.<br />
<br />
5. Giving my speech at graduation. I had spoken in public many times before then, but that was a lot of people listening to what I had to say about the world and I did my best to deliver.<br />
<br />
6. Watching my mom sleep on the family room floor with our new tiny pup Charlie on her chest because he wouldn't stop howling otherwise.<br />
<br />
7. Leading a parade of excited drunks in Vancouver when our hostel's bar closed down and we needed to find a new bar that would have us.<br />
<br />
8. Spending an afternoon lawn bowling at an exclusive social club in Vancouver because an old lady found me, Chase, Jeff, and Ryan so charming and sweet.<br />
<br />
9. Dancing in full rave gear to LCD Soundsystem's "All My Friends" with the Seattle crew at the Anderson family vacation home on the lonely coast of Oregon.<br />
<br />
10. Strutting around the World War II karaoke club in Northampton with Ryan, as we barged fake Boston accents without ever letting up.<br />
<br />
11. Finding the ancestral home in Ireland with the family after a rainy day of scouring the countryside with only two clues: "it's at the end of a road" and "it overlooks the lake."<br />
<br />
12. Playing <i>Grand Theft Auto III</i> for the first time at Shirley's house, and it was like nothing I had ever seen.<br />
<br />
13. Winning a game of foosball because my teammate Rex couldn't stop yelling a girl's name and I had never seen him more awe-inspiringly powerful.<br />
<br />
14. Sitting around the Romelle living room one birthday with a huge gang of goofs singing Name Taken while Blake played guitar.<br />
<br />
15. Jumping off river cliffs with Uncle Fred somewhere in the middle of California.<br />
<br />
16. Getting the news that I won the book-writing contest in second grade when I called the school from a hotel room in San Francisco, there for Erik and Stacey's wedding.<br />
<br />
17. Losing an entire day because of World Cup 2010 with Chase, Dave, Ventura Grant, and Grant's friend Randy. We started drinking at 8 a.m., were tanked by 11, and blacked out by 1. Became such good friends with the bartender in that time that she drove us to her twin sister's bar when her shift ended. The Jen picked me up close to midnight and by then, I'm sure I looked like the destroyed puzzle of a person.<br />
<br />
18. Sitting on an empty beach in Big Sur around midnight with Greg and Scott, sharing a bottle of whiskey, trying to figure out if we could make fire.<br />
<br />
19. Sitting on a beach on Vancouver Island with Jeff, Chase, and Ryan. They played Radiohead, and it looked like we were at the edge of the world.<br />
<br />
20. Tagging Jay's driveway in chalk with the Rasta crew and then cruising through when the cops showed.<br />
<br />
21. Giving Mandy Moore a Del Taco gift card during a school assembly in my communist shirt.<br />
<br />
22. Marrying Blake and Adriana.<br />
<br />
23. Speeding around the Handy Park parking lot one night in the Deathmobile with Duran riding shotgun, as we faux demolition derby'd the other cars of Nicky and Dennis in one of the great pirate vs. ninja night battles.<br />
<br />
24. Playing a drinking game in a cupcake tin at Wall's house as everything around the dining room table spiraled into total madness with people running around half or full naked.<br />
<br />
25. Seeing The Replacements live.<br />
<br />
26. Seeing Against Me! at Chain Reaction in March 2004. Big crew went and the whole place threw arms around each other and knew every word. The band was shirtless and sweaty by the end and the stage was crowded with fans. It felt like a basement show of a friend's band. Still the best show I've ever been to.<br />
<br />
27. The friendly fight tournament at the Mira Mesa House that saw Hendrickson put Chase into a wall, Rex kick a guy's earring out of his head, and Chris repeat yell, "Fight that dog!"<br />
<br />
28. Drinking a beer at Cafe Tutu Tango after the first New Kissing Techniques show. All our friends came to see Chris, Bret, and me perform, and they went crazy, even though it was only a two-song set at a restaurant, which I agree doesn't make sense. It was very good of them.<br />
<br />
29. Seeing the Seattle skyline come up like a beautiful beast in the road after driving up the coast with Chris.<br />
<br />
30. Swimming with a beer in hand, wearing my life vest like a chair, and dodging swaying boats on my first day of Seafair. The whole day was perfect.<br />
<br />
31. Playing dice game with Tony and Rex while wearing Christmas sweaters and listening to Christmas music one rainy afternoon in October.<br />
<br />
32. Playing Super Nintendo for the first time with my dad in lawn chairs in the family room.<br />
<br />
33. Watching Uncle Tim nearly blow off his fingers when he lit up fireworks in our backyard. There was a whole presentation and show with the family sitting around in chairs cackling.<br />
<br />
34. Sitting at the bottom of the under-construction pool at Orange High one Fourth of July with John (A), eating chips and queso while drinking root beer and listening to the world wail.<br />
<br />
35. Sitting at Spoon's writing the script for <i>Sass</i> with John (G) and laughing so hard I'm sure it looked like we were being tickled.<br />
<br />
36. Sitting on the dock at Liz and Colby's wedding reception, watching the moon hang wild over the lake.<br />
<br />
37. Seeing fireflies for the first time while putting up a tent with Grant in Missouri, before leaving to buy Boones Farm at a gas station for dinner.<br />
<br />
38. Cheering as pizza arrived to the Column Five Christmas party with all of us drunk as hell, cozied up in blankets on three-story rooftop, with the twinkling lights of Newport in every direction.<br />
<br />
39. Going on a late-night bike ride with Grant, Matthew, and Devon, exploring the long mysterious path by the Romelle house.<br />
<br />
40. Copyrighting the pilot for <i>Gents</i> with Scott. I've written many things in my life, but I never had the motivation to put a copyright on anything.<br />
<br />
41. Showing up to what we believed was a huge party at the Mira Mesa house with Rex, only to discover that was 100% not true. Entered the house to a very surprised Brian and Brad, both drinking cough syrup, the former because he was sick and the latter because he was bored. Spent the night in the garage playing music and drinking jugs of wine and whiskey.<br />
<br />
42. Playing beer bong in Cameron's backyard with nearly everyone from the college paper. Andrew and Jason were kind enough to drive me home in what turned out to be one of the absolute slurriest attempts at directions.<br />
<br />
43. Playing basketball with my dad and uncles in my grandparents' backyard because I was finally old enough.<br />
<br />
44. Inventing and playing the game William Tell Frisbee at Swaylocks.<br />
<br />
45. Attending a house party in San Francisco with Nevada, who I'd only known a few weeks, and ultimately co-hosting the whole thing in the craziest way before sprinting desperately across town so we could make it back to Isabella's apartment before she locked up.<br />
<br />
46. Sitting on James's patio in the early morning with San Francisco in the distance, laughing hysterically and drinking separate bottles of Jameson like forties.<br />
<br />
47. Waiting in line for the midnight showing of <i>The Dark Knight</i> with what seemed like half the city of Orange. You could roam other lines and just keep finding friends. It was like a huge outdoor party.<br />
<br />
48. Coming home to the Madison, seeing the cars of many friends, only to wander a dead-quiet household, finding my friends all spread out in the interior and backyard reading the seventh <i>Harry Potter</i> book.<br />
<br />
49. Arriving with Sam at the Madison, completely done up as a fake restaurant with friends all working it in full character: Chris as waiter, John as host, Greg as owner, Randy as busboy, Rich as cook, and Rex as the live entertainment playing our song.<br />
<br />
50. Performing "Build Me Up Buttercup" as a slam poem with Lawrence before launching into one of the most obnoxious renditions of that song ever for our high school talent show, ultimately winning us the comedy award.<br />
<br />
51. Spending the afternoon of my birthday in La Recoleta Cemetery with Ryan, totally and absolutely enthralled by the Buenos Aires city of the dead.<br />
<br />
52. Winning our only game in junior varsity basketball. We went 1-21 and only beat a Catholic school. I can tell you this with total confidence though: If whoever had the most fun actually won, we would've gone undefeated and probably have taken state.<br />
<br />
53. Reading <i>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man</i> with my butt on the dock and my feet in the river, breathing in the Indian summer of Austin.<br />
<br />
54. Reading Mark Z. Danielewski's <i>House of Leaves </i>by the Romelle fire alone one winter night when no one was home but Benson the dog.<br />
<br />
55. Discovering jazz when I checked out a Chet Baker CD from the local library.<br />
<br />
56. Hitting a game-winning double in little league.<br />
<br />
57. Seeing the rereleased S<i>tar Wars</i> on the big screen with my family.<br />
<br />
58. Seeing <i>Gone With The Wind</i> on the big screen with Lindsay. Only movie I've ever been to that had an actual intermission.<br />
<br />
59. Playing the first game of croquet in the Romelle backyard for the first time, with all of us realizing we had a new beloved hobby.<br />
<br />
60. Seeing Green Day for the first time in Santa Barbara with Jeff.<br />
<br />
61. Organizing and rallying the local crowd for an eating contest at our club rush booth for Scrabble Society, a club I co-founded with David and John A.<br />
<br />
62. Catching my only wave in Mexico one summer after Brook had the patience to teach me.<br />
<br />
63. Getting drunk on Nyquil with Scott while watching <i>Who Framed Roger Rabbit</i> and playing ping-pong on our dining room table.<br />
<br />
64. Hiking the Narrows in Zion.<br />
<br />
65. Floating down the Merced River in Yosemite with my family. I wrapped my toes in the raft's rope and I just let it drag me in a life vest. On one side was forest and the other side was a waterfall blasting out of the mountain.<br />
<br />
66. Learning to drive with my dad in empty business parking lots in Irvine.<br />
<br />
67. Finding old cassette recordings of my great-grandmother telling old stories from Ireland as a kid. I sat there in front of our family stereo and listened in intrigued silence.<br />
<br />
68. Performing "Illkast Endyear" as The Bloodlit Stars at Greg's New Year's party. Jeff took the time to learn it, and it was the only live performance of that fake band to ever happen.<br />
<br />
69. Smoking a cigarette on Kristen's fire escape when I made it to New York City for the first time. I watched and listened to the city in close detail. It was like a dream. I had always seen myself doing that my whole life, and I didn't want to forget a thing.<br />
<br />
70. Laying beneath the gigantic blue whale in the American Museum of Natural History with James, chatting life and philosophy.<br />
<br />
71. Sprinting from the jacuzzi to the house in Big Bear after we got kicked out. Coldest I've ever been.<br />
<br />
72. Recording Jenelle's manic birthday music with Jeff in Farrell's garage.<br />
<br />
73. Taking a break during band practice and lounging about the lawn with Jeff, Chase, and Rex when my mom bought us ice cream.<br />
<br />
74. Listening to Nick get pulverized by fruit at Justin's birthday party in 7th grade. The backstory here is that Justin lived next to a fruit grove and we had split up into teams. The game's objective was simple: peg the other team with fruit. If you were hit, you were out and had to hop the fence back to Justin's backyard. My whole team was out except for Nick. You could hear him get cornered by the other team's remaining three. All of us in the backyard hear Nick drop his fruit and repeat that he's obviously out, so the game's done. But then Justin said something and the firing squad let loose. Periodic sounds from Nick lingered. I'll never forget that sound as long as I live. It was hilarious and terrifying.<br />
<br />
75. Playing neighborhood-wide laser tag at the Madison. All the lights in the house off, all of us running around in laser tag gear. It was dark and the entire cul-de-sac was game.<br />
<br />
76. Running through an entire street of heavy-duty illegal fireworks on the Fourth of July at the Romelle. It was like that scene in <i>The Sandlot</i>, just no Ray Charles.<br />
<br />
77. Attending a 4/20 party of high schoolers on accident as fully grown adults who just wanted to sit in a damn jacuzzi.<br />
<br />
78. Sitting on Sam's patio in Austin in my underwear, watching the craziest late-summer monsoon come and go.<br />
<br />
79. Looking up at the night sky out in the woods with my arm around my grandmother, out along the Great Ocean Road in Australia, seeing more stars in the sky than I ever had before or have since. It was like a diamond quarry above us.<br />
<br />
80. Writing the first page of my novel sitting on a cliff in Mexico while my friends all rock-climbed behind me, except for Greg, who I think was reading a Carl Sagan book beside me.<br />
<br />
81. Crashing a wedding in Mexico with nearly 20 of us because the bartender invited us.<br />
<br />
82. Opening my restaurant eEvita's in first grade. See, I had wanted to turn our home into a drive-thru restaurant, and my parents helped me get the closest I could. They invited my grandparents, aunts, and uncles for a one-night opening and closing. I drew up menus for the customers and recipes for the cooks. My brother and sister were host and hostess, and the relatives paid me actual money. I was the owner and only waiter. My parents made all the food. We all dressed fancy as a staff. I took it very seriously.<br />
<br />
83. Outsmarting crafty Uncle Jim once in a high-low game of poker as a kid. My grandparents, aunts, and uncles went nuts.<br />
<br />
84. Playing the game of Shark while night-swimming at my grandparents' pool while all of the Ohio family in town.<br />
<br />
85. Dancing ballroom in a pool with The Jen as a wildcard teenager.<br />
<br />
86. Kissing a girl for the first time (Sara) when walking her home as a kid on a bike.<br />
<br />
87. Drinking and dancing until 6 a.m. with women we'd met in Vegas one mad night for Louis's bachelor party.<br />
<br />
88. Playing Starcraft with in the Dufaults' garage with Nick, Greg, Rex, Dave, and Grant while an actual cool party happened inside the house.<br />
<br />
89. Smoking a cigarette for the first time with Jeff in front of the pizza place Ray worked at. Julia's older neighbor lit my cigarette for me and I reacted like a nerd in the movie's, coughing like an idiot.<br />
<br />
90. Falling out of Julia's treehouse as a kid because I was trying to impress Mallory.<br />
<br />
91. Playing Jurassic Park at the Browns with Doug and Jeff.<br />
<br />
92. Singing "My Girl" at winter formal with all the Rasta dudes.<br />
<br />
93. Receiving a bicycle for Christmas as a kid. It was blue and had a banana seat, and I lost my mind.<br />
<br />
94. Playing a wild game of truth or dare in the jacuzzi at Amber's house.<br />
<br />
95. Running around the pit at a Tijuana Panthers show with Jeff and Chase, when we felt like the oldest guys at the show who could still run wild.<br />
<br />
96. Getting lost on our way to the Transplants show at the Glass House with Jeff and Chase and parking in the dark to figure out where we were. A train whistle sounded and we freaked out. It turns out we parked next to the tracks, not on them. But, man, that was a scary second.<br />
<br />
97. Eating Cassano's pizza with Rex, Brian, and Dave and sitting on the hill overlooking the San Clemente Beach one Labor Day. Watched a middle-aged couple somewhat discreetly pleasure each other. It was a fascinating experience for all of us.<br />
<br />
98. Giving up meat at the tender age of 10.<br />
<br />
99. Typing the last line of my novel at my desk while the smell of charcoal came through the window along with the summer light.<br />
<br />
100. Evaluating my life and realizing it wasn't that hard to come up with 100 good memories.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-47730567702284130642015-05-04T15:08:00.006-07:002016-05-17T21:25:57.245-07:00"the ode"<b>"the ode"</b><br />
<i>an attempt at honoring a lack of words and character by jake kilroy.</i><br />
<br />
i gave up the art of sex<br />
to give into bulldozing<br />
warning signs<br />
of an unhealthy lifestyle,<br />
night after night,<br />
what felt like<br />
life after life,<br />
barreling through the world,<br />
unstoppable and sloppy,<br />
heroic in force,<br />
barbaric in truth,<br />
taking everything,<br />
remembering nothing,<br />
destroying any way back,<br />
lovely and defeated<br />
only ever momentarily,<br />
caught in the lunge,<br />
stranded in the future,<br />
a martyr for a cause<br />
i couldn't put into words<br />
except for a manifesto<br />
that'd take final strength,<br />
so i give up this,<br />
a lazy nothing ode<br />
to the weakness<br />
of a depressed<br />
human being<br />
(or what's left of him)<br />
and all that he wasn't.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-89482152325639829602015-04-27T16:46:00.001-07:002021-01-23T16:51:21.203-08:0010/50: Stardust<b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">Stardust, by Neil Gaiman</b><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><b style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">4/5 stars</b><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;" /><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">This is my 10th book in Rex & Jake's 50-Book Reading Challenge,</i><div><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13px;">which Rex leads 12-10. Full list can be found <a href="http://thecobblestoneaddress.blogspot.com/2012/07/rex-jakes-50-book-reading-challenge.html" style="color: #999999; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a>.</i><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">This was just delightful. It had the whimsy and fantastical wonder of an old children's tale, but the patience and severity in its prose like a contemporary literary novel. I just wish it had dug deeper into some of the side characters. Keeping it light is what it made this what it was, but I found myself wanting more of an observation of the great darkness in the world created. Regardless though, it was an absolute treat.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span></p></div>Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-53857574304825745982015-03-25T08:56:00.002-07:002015-03-25T08:56:39.225-07:00Quick Thoughts on New York CityWhen I first went to New York City, I had one hell of a time. But I didn't quite get it. I was there for the party, and I didn't understand how people lived there, because it was like trying to read a book or take a nap in the middle of said party. This time, with less lofty touristy aims, it clicked. The town is still a monstrous beast, for sure, but it's so beautiful and wild, and it makes itself stunningly available to you. You sort of create your own New York within the city.<br />
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Anyway, an exceptional amount of gratitude goes to Chris, who put me up for the week and more or less played the role of indefinite tour guide and drinking buddy (dude also slayed his play both nights). Thank you to Chris's friends for treating me like immediate local. Thank you to the whole C5NY crew for welcoming me into their trivia night inner circle. Thank you to Nicole, Wyatt, and Danika for staying out late on a school night. Thank you to Diana for planning a radical night out. Thank you to Kristen for offering up a lazy afternoon of pints. Thank you to Emily, Greg, and Isabella for doing up a dinner of old school catching up. Thank you to Greg and Karissa for letting me crash their lunch spot. Thank you to Kenzie, Castle, and Ashlee for trusting me not to be insane. And my most sincerest apologies for everyone I missed out there in the east.<br />
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If I were to create my own New York, it'd be the High Line, Little Branch, and pizza all the time. Thank you for having me, big city. It was a lovely time.Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125779993434047626.post-21250682076341956802015-03-17T10:06:00.003-07:002015-03-17T10:22:58.360-07:00Happy St. Patrick's Day (Sort Of)!<b>Happy St. Patrick's Day (Sort Of)!</b><br />
<b><i>by Jake Kilroy</i></b><br />
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When I was younger, I, like most Americans with Irish heritage, swore allegiance to the Emerald Isle without ever doing the research. Saint Patrick's Day has become a reminder that I still haven't. I've done the bare minimum of understanding a culture that more or less made me who I am. There's beautiful and glorious Italian, German, Polish, and Luthanian blood in me as well, but I tend to most often identify with the pale-as-a-ghost storytellers who consume grief and celebrate everything. I read Dubliners, but not How the Irish Saved Civilization. I read Angela's Ashes, but not Emigrants and Exiles.<br />
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The Irish, like any culture ever, are complex. But we do a weird thing with stereotypes in this country when we land on celebration terms, where we boil a heritage down to a few marketable items. It can't be avoided. In a time of dwindling attention spans (of which I take part and promote), there's no way in hell anyone can expect an in-depth discussion of the Easter Rising. At large, it's sort of screwball what comes to represent an entire people with eons of history. The Irish have a billion playwrights and artists, and they invented things like the boycott and the tattoo machine, but last night, Midnight had an Irish-themed hashtag, and half the jokes were about the Scottish.<br />
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I don't really have a takeaway with all this, and it's certainly not relegated to this particular culture or holiday. It just struck me funny today, as I saw online photo collections of blackout bros in green throwing down the shaka brah (bless their hearts) and heard radio ads that bordered on lazy with leprechaun impressions hyping a sale that would "make ol' Patty weep" or something even stranger. I just thought, once again, what the hell is today even supposed to be?<br />
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Anyway, I'll close on what remains my favorite joke about the Irish (from 30 Rock): "The Chinese built the railroads, the Irish built and then filled the jails." Happy Saint Patrick's Day, all!Jake Kilroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09729876937737575302noreply@blogger.com0