Three things.
Baseball
1. I just finished the Ken Burns documentary Baseball and, honestly, I think it may be the best thing I've ever watched. And I say that as someone who has seen 99 of AFI's 100 greatest movies and does not follow baseball. However, from beginning to end, it's perfect. The original nine-part documentary is 18.5 hours long and I just watched the four-hour follow-up, The Tenth Inning. The story of baseball is told as the great American opera, with its heroes and villains, its triumphs and tragedies, its action and adventure. It's beautiful, glorious and unrelentingly interesting. It shows how baseball has endured wars and epidemics. It's the unstoppable history of Americans. I've always loved old baseball movies and haven't followed the sport since the 1990s, but, hot damn, this documentary was spectacular.
Rain
2. I went to Big Bear this weekend. On Saturday morning, we drove deep into the woods, parked and made it over boulders and fallen trees. Once we made it to the rock-climbing spot, the sky rumbled and movie set rain came flooding from the sky. The seven of us ducked into a small shelter of rocks. We were going to wait it out, but then we wondered if the roads would flood. So, we ran through the woods shirtless in the pouring rain with thunder rolling and lighting screaming. Finally, we made it to the cars. The lightning cracked louder than I've ever heard it, like it was a monster coming for us. We yelled for each other to get in the car and we sped the hell out of there. It started to hail on our way back down a different road, so we listened to old punk songs. The parking lots and streets were devoured by water, so we ate grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Then I took a nap. Then I drank all night.
A New House
3. I'm moving out this week with Grant, Rich and Jason. It's a huge house with a gardener and a big backyard. It also comes with a basement that seems straight out of the '60s, complete with a legit bar and a pool table. I imagine that we'll end up spending an alarming percentage of our time down there, growing delusional as we pose ourselves as "swingin' cats." Stoked.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Rough Water
This heart is a lantern.
This body is an ocean.
This love is a submarine.
This metaphor is terrible.
This metaphor is terrible.
Friday, August 19, 2011
I Gave Myself A Haircut
I cut my own hair last night, which I believe is often a sign of mental instability. If it had turned out poorly, I would've blamed curiosity. My grandma would've somehow blamed Obama.
I haven't been to a barber for years. I have my own system now: when I start twirling my long hair like I'm some gum-popping skank trying to sleep with the local high school football team, I take a buzzer to my head in every direction that week.
This week, my hair was just starting to get to twirling length and, instead of risking the affectionate here-and-there family nickname of "Patches," I decided to challenge myself. I was going to do overtime for my job, but I was burned out on work and my wrist hurt. So, amped up on gettin' something done, I asked myself, "Could I cut my hair with scissors and not look like an escaped patient and/or hipster douchebag?"
The answer is apparently, "Hell yes."
Cutting your hair is easy as a guy who ultimately doesn't care about his hair. It's like one playful mess up there. Consider the act to be the safest form of self-mutilation. All I did was run my hands flatly through my hair and cut whatever was above my fingers. And I had a great time. I may never even do the buzzer again. Next time, I'll probably try something wild. Who knows? Andy Warhol had stupid haircuts all the time. Worse case scenario, I'm like Andy Warhol.
Just by saying that, I instantly became my favorite barber.
In fact, nobody whose cut my hair professionally has ever been what I wanted, and I've had all sorts of people. I've had the Rosie Perez lady tell me about her shitty ex-boyfriend, I've had the older Chinese woman ask me questions I didn't understand, I've had the white hot-shit sorority girl tell me about her whole stupid career as a stylist and comment on my apathy. I've even had the guy from Up buzz the side of my head and then ask, "Hey, wait, so what'd you say you wanted? Just a trim?" FUCK YOU, SPENCER TRACY. I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE AND YOU TOTALLY SCREWED ME.
As a kid, my dad would cut my hair in the kitchen, like we were raised in the goddamn Dust Bowl. I liked it though. It was my first understanding of saving money. Did you know that a standard haircut at Supercuts is, like, thirteen bucks? I did what they did last night on a whim and a beer. Suck it, tentacles of this never-ending awful economy! Also, there's a lot of cool magazines in my bathroom. Do you really need five different magazines in the waiting area with Jennifer Aniston on the cover without owning up to a single issue of National Geographic? Jesus, Supercuts, people who like the rainforest and lion cubs need haircuts too.
This all works for me because I've never done anything especially edgy with my hair. I've just had different lengths. Once, I had a mohawk. Another time, I did spray-on dye for Halloween. Other than that, it's been natural brown and styles that have ranged from "spiked punk" to "Russian assassin." So, for me, cutting your hair is easy. If it goes terrible, all you have to do is wear nice clothes for a while and nobody will even notice your botched lobotomy.
I haven't been to a barber for years. I have my own system now: when I start twirling my long hair like I'm some gum-popping skank trying to sleep with the local high school football team, I take a buzzer to my head in every direction that week.
This week, my hair was just starting to get to twirling length and, instead of risking the affectionate here-and-there family nickname of "Patches," I decided to challenge myself. I was going to do overtime for my job, but I was burned out on work and my wrist hurt. So, amped up on gettin' something done, I asked myself, "Could I cut my hair with scissors and not look like an escaped patient and/or hipster douchebag?"
The answer is apparently, "Hell yes."
Cutting your hair is easy as a guy who ultimately doesn't care about his hair. It's like one playful mess up there. Consider the act to be the safest form of self-mutilation. All I did was run my hands flatly through my hair and cut whatever was above my fingers. And I had a great time. I may never even do the buzzer again. Next time, I'll probably try something wild. Who knows? Andy Warhol had stupid haircuts all the time. Worse case scenario, I'm like Andy Warhol.
Just by saying that, I instantly became my favorite barber.
In fact, nobody whose cut my hair professionally has ever been what I wanted, and I've had all sorts of people. I've had the Rosie Perez lady tell me about her shitty ex-boyfriend, I've had the older Chinese woman ask me questions I didn't understand, I've had the white hot-shit sorority girl tell me about her whole stupid career as a stylist and comment on my apathy. I've even had the guy from Up buzz the side of my head and then ask, "Hey, wait, so what'd you say you wanted? Just a trim?" FUCK YOU, SPENCER TRACY. I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE AND YOU TOTALLY SCREWED ME.
As a kid, my dad would cut my hair in the kitchen, like we were raised in the goddamn Dust Bowl. I liked it though. It was my first understanding of saving money. Did you know that a standard haircut at Supercuts is, like, thirteen bucks? I did what they did last night on a whim and a beer. Suck it, tentacles of this never-ending awful economy! Also, there's a lot of cool magazines in my bathroom. Do you really need five different magazines in the waiting area with Jennifer Aniston on the cover without owning up to a single issue of National Geographic? Jesus, Supercuts, people who like the rainforest and lion cubs need haircuts too.
This all works for me because I've never done anything especially edgy with my hair. I've just had different lengths. Once, I had a mohawk. Another time, I did spray-on dye for Halloween. Other than that, it's been natural brown and styles that have ranged from "spiked punk" to "Russian assassin." So, for me, cutting your hair is easy. If it goes terrible, all you have to do is wear nice clothes for a while and nobody will even notice your botched lobotomy.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Two Lovers In A Field
His fingers sailed across the great plains of her back with the breathy wind of her body's hum carrying his touch from the arch of her neck to the curves of her thighs. The girl's tongue creaked and the boy's eyes swayed. The flowers around them sighed and he whistled a sailor tune. She grinned a masterpiece. The sky was blue, the world was warm and he felt the great shakes within him. The boy trembled with wonder.
"What if this is all there is to it?"
She rolled her brown curls down her head and kissed his bare arms.
"Then I say we did alright," she cooed.
"What a pageant it is to be in love," he quietly told his beloved girl in the field.
"Hail, hail," she mumbled, already drifting off to sleep again, "one float after another."
"The best parade in town," he remarked, as the long, slow pull of the world turned around them, softly pushing them towards sunset.
"What if this is all there is to it?"
She rolled her brown curls down her head and kissed his bare arms.
"Then I say we did alright," she cooed.
"What a pageant it is to be in love," he quietly told his beloved girl in the field.
"Hail, hail," she mumbled, already drifting off to sleep again, "one float after another."
"The best parade in town," he remarked, as the long, slow pull of the world turned around them, softly pushing them towards sunset.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
My Grandfather's History
My grandfather took our family out for dinner Tuesday, and, as we sat in the restaurant, for whatever reason, history aggressively caught my attention. Maybe it was because I had just finished Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated that day or because I've been watching Ken Burns: Baseball and just made it to the 1900s, but I stared at my grandfather as he told a story about his last trip to Vegas and all I could think was, "How the hell are you not bored right now?"
I thought about his personal history and how it intertwined with everyone's history. As he made a life in the foreground, what was blasting behind him in the background? He was born in the spring of 1928, so let's just consider a few things...
His first crush came during the Great Depression, his teenage rebellion came during World War II, he became an adult and served in Korea, bought a house when America built the suburbs, raised kids in the wild times of the '60s, watched his oldest son get married during the disco era, grew old in the most obnoxious decade ever and feared the technology breakdown of the next century as someone who had seen most of the 20th Century.
I mean, it was some muggy-weather summer evening in 2011 and we were in some tacky lounge eating steak (well, I had a potato) with cheap mirrors and some leftover "happy birthday" sign on the wall. This place was beneath him! Shit, the man was alive when the stock market crashed! He was born before Hemingway said a farewell to arms! He saw the first mushroom cloud and voted for Truman! He already knew how the world worked when Kennedy was shot!
When I was 13, the biggest deal was Clinton getting head in the oval office by a frumpy intern. When he was 13, fucking...Hitler was in power and trying to take over the whole goddamn world!
And I wondered if my grandkids would stare at me one day. I wondered if, as I'm trying to explain to them something as remodeling a swimming pool, they'll stare at me and wonder how I'm not bored. They'll write some dumb shit online (or whatever they have then) about how I got my driver's license around the September 11th Attacks or how I was taking a nap in a park when I heard Michael Jackson died. They'll freak out about me seeing Avatar twice in theaters, 2D with my brother and 3D with a pretty girl. They'll want to hear about my entire elementary school listening to the OJ Simpson verdict on boomboxes during lunch time. They'll talk about how I was barely getting into music when Tupac, Biggie and Kurt Cobain died. They'll have me explain to them time and time again how I did any homework before the internet, how I remember my family's first computer and how I couldn't think of a single thing to do the first time I signed online.
They'll want to know about my history, and they'll stare at me like I've gone through hell, and all I'll want is for them to pass me the goddamn salt and pepper.
I thought about his personal history and how it intertwined with everyone's history. As he made a life in the foreground, what was blasting behind him in the background? He was born in the spring of 1928, so let's just consider a few things...
His first crush came during the Great Depression, his teenage rebellion came during World War II, he became an adult and served in Korea, bought a house when America built the suburbs, raised kids in the wild times of the '60s, watched his oldest son get married during the disco era, grew old in the most obnoxious decade ever and feared the technology breakdown of the next century as someone who had seen most of the 20th Century.
I mean, it was some muggy-weather summer evening in 2011 and we were in some tacky lounge eating steak (well, I had a potato) with cheap mirrors and some leftover "happy birthday" sign on the wall. This place was beneath him! Shit, the man was alive when the stock market crashed! He was born before Hemingway said a farewell to arms! He saw the first mushroom cloud and voted for Truman! He already knew how the world worked when Kennedy was shot!
When I was 13, the biggest deal was Clinton getting head in the oval office by a frumpy intern. When he was 13, fucking...Hitler was in power and trying to take over the whole goddamn world!
And I wondered if my grandkids would stare at me one day. I wondered if, as I'm trying to explain to them something as remodeling a swimming pool, they'll stare at me and wonder how I'm not bored. They'll write some dumb shit online (or whatever they have then) about how I got my driver's license around the September 11th Attacks or how I was taking a nap in a park when I heard Michael Jackson died. They'll freak out about me seeing Avatar twice in theaters, 2D with my brother and 3D with a pretty girl. They'll want to hear about my entire elementary school listening to the OJ Simpson verdict on boomboxes during lunch time. They'll talk about how I was barely getting into music when Tupac, Biggie and Kurt Cobain died. They'll have me explain to them time and time again how I did any homework before the internet, how I remember my family's first computer and how I couldn't think of a single thing to do the first time I signed online.
They'll want to know about my history, and they'll stare at me like I've gone through hell, and all I'll want is for them to pass me the goddamn salt and pepper.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Dear Anonymous Girl
Dear Anonymous Person,
I got your anonymous comment on one of my poems (from a bedroom window, the sea) and it's baffled the hell out of me since. It reads:
You hurt me. And I can't yet forgive you for that. Get out of my head.
Look here, anonymous person, this isn't the forum for whatever the hell you want to talk about (as I assume it's not about something fun, like high-fives, video games or candy). Also, I can't think of any dudes I know that would write a quick bite that. If a guy did that, it would be, "You were a dick to me. Fuck you forever." Also, they'd still include their name, I bet. So, naturally, I assume you are of the female variety, and a passive-aggressive member of your gender at that.
Well, listen, lady, I've been hurting girls for as long as I've understood them as people, creatures, things and dreams I've wanted, so you're going to have to be more specific. Sure, it's more emotional hurt now, since we're very much adults at this point. But, when I was younger, it was physical hurt. I mean, I threw dirt clods and rocks at my first crush in third grade and she probably still wasn't entirely sure who I was.
"Why is that tall kid throwing stuff at me? Also, why is his shirt tucked in? Why does he wear such abnormally long socks?" I can only assume she wondered.
I swear, all that shit made sense to me in third grade, everything from the rocks to the socks.
However, I didn't hurt my second crush. But all of that bottled up insanity had to go somewhere, right? Right! So, instead, I just stared at her like some young serial killer (with a better fashion sense gained in the two-year gap) and just made fun of other girls in our class. So I suppose I hurt her by hurting her friends. I guess it wasn't physical. Also, I don't know if I really hurt her friends. I think it made me more popular with her friends actually. Fifth grade was pretty weird, now that I think about it.
In junior high, I threw paper airplanes at the girl I liked while also relentlessly making fun of her, so it was physical and emotional, I imagine. Well, guess what, everyone? That was middle school. Everything sucked and everyone hurt. My proudest moment then was when I flipped out and poured a full can of soda on some bully, and even that was closer to instant death than actual momentary hurt.
In high school, I just sort of collapsed as a person when I saw my teenage crush. I just spat out insane gibberish about the romantic poets and plays I wanted to see. I lied about musicians I enjoyed and what I wanted out of life. Under the pressure of not being who I thought I should be, I disappeared from her phone bill, but reappeared over and over in her diary, probably in furious cursive. I hurt her. But, hey, we were teenagers. Everything hurt and we sort of loved the agony. Every teenager is a masochist and a sadist. That's no excuse, but at least she had just cause for leaving an anonymous comment on a blog...if they even existed ten years ago.
My early college years was just one long wake of the wrecking ball. People got hurt, but everything was happening too fast too notice. Sorry. If you're from that era, I'm going to need your name, number and wherever the hell we met just to have a starting point of clearing this shit up.
And, if you're from my adventures in adulthood and you want to tell me what this is all about, contact me like a normal person. We're engaging mature people with livelihoods and well-developed communication skills. If I hurt you, then you obviously have an e-mail address or phone number of mine. I've learned a thing or two in the last handful of years. If we didn't talk things out, then there was a miscommunication. Maybe you weren't listening to me. I've been very clear as of the last two years, but I'm willing to admit that I didn't understand you or maybe misheard you. Also, let's not rule out the possibility that you were spouting off some nutty bullshit (though I am, of course, biased in the matter). I love trying to figure out the dynamics of relationships now. It's like a game. Shit, it's like Operation and I'm trying not to touch the sides while I remove your broken heart.
So, hey, anonymous girl, hit me up like how we were whenever the heck whatever the hell happened and we'll figure things out. I assume. I still have no idea who you are, what I did or why you're still so mad about it. Furthermore, you're just feeding my ego by telling me I'm still in your head. That's like...the worst combination of three sentences. All you did was build me up from terrible to great.
1) You hurt me - I feel guilt, as I don't want to hurt anyone.
2) And I can't yet forgive you for that - I feel indifference, since it sounds like you'll just let me know when you come around.
3) Get out of my head - I feel pride, for being thought about so often by someone who doesn't want to like me. Maybe sort of like a Sam and Diane thing, eh...?*
So, thank you, uncommunicative girl that I may or may not recall, your comment has left me aglow. I wish you the best of luck in your wild endeavors and look forward to one day discovering what exactly you're talking about or referring to. I'm a huge fan of mysteries.
This is all, of course, if I do actually know you. If that comment was left by just some random nobody, as a joke or whatever, well...ok, that's pretty goddamn funny. I'm probably going to start doing that on other people's blogs. Thanks for the idea.
Love,
Jake
*If you haven't done so already, check out Cheers on Netflix's Instant Stream. It has all 11 seasons and it's seriously the best show.
I got your anonymous comment on one of my poems (from a bedroom window, the sea) and it's baffled the hell out of me since. It reads:
You hurt me. And I can't yet forgive you for that. Get out of my head.
Look here, anonymous person, this isn't the forum for whatever the hell you want to talk about (as I assume it's not about something fun, like high-fives, video games or candy). Also, I can't think of any dudes I know that would write a quick bite that. If a guy did that, it would be, "You were a dick to me. Fuck you forever." Also, they'd still include their name, I bet. So, naturally, I assume you are of the female variety, and a passive-aggressive member of your gender at that.
Well, listen, lady, I've been hurting girls for as long as I've understood them as people, creatures, things and dreams I've wanted, so you're going to have to be more specific. Sure, it's more emotional hurt now, since we're very much adults at this point. But, when I was younger, it was physical hurt. I mean, I threw dirt clods and rocks at my first crush in third grade and she probably still wasn't entirely sure who I was.
"Why is that tall kid throwing stuff at me? Also, why is his shirt tucked in? Why does he wear such abnormally long socks?" I can only assume she wondered.
I swear, all that shit made sense to me in third grade, everything from the rocks to the socks.
However, I didn't hurt my second crush. But all of that bottled up insanity had to go somewhere, right? Right! So, instead, I just stared at her like some young serial killer (with a better fashion sense gained in the two-year gap) and just made fun of other girls in our class. So I suppose I hurt her by hurting her friends. I guess it wasn't physical. Also, I don't know if I really hurt her friends. I think it made me more popular with her friends actually. Fifth grade was pretty weird, now that I think about it.
In junior high, I threw paper airplanes at the girl I liked while also relentlessly making fun of her, so it was physical and emotional, I imagine. Well, guess what, everyone? That was middle school. Everything sucked and everyone hurt. My proudest moment then was when I flipped out and poured a full can of soda on some bully, and even that was closer to instant death than actual momentary hurt.
In high school, I just sort of collapsed as a person when I saw my teenage crush. I just spat out insane gibberish about the romantic poets and plays I wanted to see. I lied about musicians I enjoyed and what I wanted out of life. Under the pressure of not being who I thought I should be, I disappeared from her phone bill, but reappeared over and over in her diary, probably in furious cursive. I hurt her. But, hey, we were teenagers. Everything hurt and we sort of loved the agony. Every teenager is a masochist and a sadist. That's no excuse, but at least she had just cause for leaving an anonymous comment on a blog...if they even existed ten years ago.
My early college years was just one long wake of the wrecking ball. People got hurt, but everything was happening too fast too notice. Sorry. If you're from that era, I'm going to need your name, number and wherever the hell we met just to have a starting point of clearing this shit up.
And, if you're from my adventures in adulthood and you want to tell me what this is all about, contact me like a normal person. We're engaging mature people with livelihoods and well-developed communication skills. If I hurt you, then you obviously have an e-mail address or phone number of mine. I've learned a thing or two in the last handful of years. If we didn't talk things out, then there was a miscommunication. Maybe you weren't listening to me. I've been very clear as of the last two years, but I'm willing to admit that I didn't understand you or maybe misheard you. Also, let's not rule out the possibility that you were spouting off some nutty bullshit (though I am, of course, biased in the matter). I love trying to figure out the dynamics of relationships now. It's like a game. Shit, it's like Operation and I'm trying not to touch the sides while I remove your broken heart.
So, hey, anonymous girl, hit me up like how we were whenever the heck whatever the hell happened and we'll figure things out. I assume. I still have no idea who you are, what I did or why you're still so mad about it. Furthermore, you're just feeding my ego by telling me I'm still in your head. That's like...the worst combination of three sentences. All you did was build me up from terrible to great.
1) You hurt me - I feel guilt, as I don't want to hurt anyone.
2) And I can't yet forgive you for that - I feel indifference, since it sounds like you'll just let me know when you come around.
3) Get out of my head - I feel pride, for being thought about so often by someone who doesn't want to like me. Maybe sort of like a Sam and Diane thing, eh...?*
So, thank you, uncommunicative girl that I may or may not recall, your comment has left me aglow. I wish you the best of luck in your wild endeavors and look forward to one day discovering what exactly you're talking about or referring to. I'm a huge fan of mysteries.
This is all, of course, if I do actually know you. If that comment was left by just some random nobody, as a joke or whatever, well...ok, that's pretty goddamn funny. I'm probably going to start doing that on other people's blogs. Thanks for the idea.
Love,
Jake
*If you haven't done so already, check out Cheers on Netflix's Instant Stream. It has all 11 seasons and it's seriously the best show.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Mix Memories: Volume Two
"So Much For The Afterglow" by Everclear
This may have been the first song where I could cite influences. I heard the opening forty seconds of this song and thought, “These guys must have been influenced by the Beach Boys,” and thought I was a goddamn musical genius. I mean, this was in eighth grade when it was an absolute miracle if I could think about something other than boobs and vandalism for more than ten seconds.
"Flat Top" by Goo Goo Dolls
The Goo Goo Dolls' album A Boy Named Goo represents a specific time in my life. It was the summer before seventh grade, I think. I'm not sure. I just remember either playing video games at Jeff's house or having bunk bed wars with my brother. I also remember thinking this song was a wonderful social criticism. Leave it to a sheltered 12-year-old to think that the Goo Goo Dolls were the new Black Panthers.
"Alex Chilton" by The Replacements
When I accidentally discovered The Replacements in second grade by rooting through his cassettes, I thought they were a secret. It was like this fun little punk band that only my dad knew about and had unknowingly bestowed upon me. Then, years later, he bought their later albums for the family and I realized that The Replacements evolved into one of the most influential bands of the 1980s. Then all my family did was listen to this song in the car, making The Replacements our family's band. It was nice of my dad to share.
“The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth” by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
In the summer of 2007, I was doing my first internship at the magazine and it was my first adult job and I was starting to feel like a real sell-out asshole. It was summer and friends were on road trips and I was working in an office building. I would end up staring at my computer or staring out the window contemplating just why the hell I was trying to grow up. To combat such feelings, I listened to this song every day in the elevator and would rock the hell out. So, with just a big moment of silliness before working, I felt way better about it all.
"I'm A Flirt (Shoreline)" by The Hood Internet (Broken Social Scene vs. R. Kelly)
Bret put this on at Chris and Rich's Christmas party one year and then everyone talked about how R. Kelly should just join Broken Social Scene and make us all really happy. Seriously, any mash-up with an R. Kelly song is almost immediately everyone's favorite jam.
"Debaser" by The Pixies"
If I had to choose one band to be remembered as the soundtrack of my high school weekends, it would undoubtedly be The Pixies. I feel like that's almost the only band my friends listened to in their cars. When I think of all the weekends spent at Julia's, I can almost always hear The Pixies on in the background. However, it was my dad who told me that the song was about a film by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí called Un Chien Andalou. I thought it was just about randomly slicing people's eyeballs.
"Only Got One" by Frou Frou
I got really obsessed with this song right before leaving for Australia. I was 19 and I had been wanting to go to Australia since I was in grade school. My grandmother and I arrived in Sydney and she took a nap after the 15-hour flight. I, on the other hand, took an hour-long bubble bath in the only tub to ever fit me. It was like three feet deep and six feet in length. I had all the bathrooms lights off except for one soft night light and, with the Sydney skyline out the window and this song playing, I honestly don't know if I've been so goddamn delusionally happy since.
"Buggin" by The Flaming Lips
I remember listening to this song after doing yard work at my grandparents' house with a stupid amount of bugs around me. That's about it. Also, this song isn't very deep, but it's really, really cool.
"Like I Needed" by Rogue Wave
I stole this album from my school newspaper. It references Star Wars. It combined two of my favorite things: Star Wars and stealing.
"Pictures Of Success" by Rilo Kiley
I have no idea how many times Rex and I listened to this song when we drove out to Arizona, but it was a shit-ton. The time was June 2005, I was barely 20 years old, Rex was 19 and each of us had way too much free time. So, somewhat on a whim, we road-tripped it to visit Ashley, who was staying with Eileen for the summer. We got there around midnight and it was still hot. Within minutes of arriving, Rex and I were swimming in the backyard pool and cackling our lungs out, all while some crazy storm started up and lightning was cracking above us. Both girls watched us swim like drunk little kids and then the four of us drank more beer together, sitting around Eileen's bedroom listening to music. I don't remember when, but sometime that weekend, we were all passed out, spread about Eileen's bedroom and this song came on again, and it was so ungodly perfect.
"Penelope" by Pinback
When I discovered this song, it became the only song I listened to for, like, two weeks. I came into the school newsroom one afternoon wearing an Explosions In The Sky shirt with doodlings of cavemen on it. Katy said it looked like the shirt ripped off her brother's band. I told her that the shirt was for a band that's been around for a while and asked what band her brother could possibly be in. She said Pinback. I was quite speechless. I then told her to tell her brother that this song was incredible. Her response: "You know that song's about a pet fish, right?" I did not, and it suddenly made the song seem less beautiful.
"Painter Song" by Norah Jones
During my first year of college, I fancied myself a painter. And guess what? I can't paint, and I knew it within minutes of trying. But that didn't stop me from listening to this song shirtless in my garage while messing up some canvases with paint for a few months.
"Two Janes" by Los Lobos
This song was my absolute favorite song off the album Kiko, which, even in my twenties, I still consider to be a flawless album. When I would snag the cassette from my dad's glove box to listen to it in my room, it was the first time I thought I was really expanding my musical horizons. Keep in mind I was in, like, third grade, so my horizon was pretty much my front yard.
"Atlantic City" by Bruce Springsteen
I remember showing this song to Rex in my Oldsmobile on our infamous drive to San Diego for a party that most definitely wasn't happening. I told him how Bruce Springsteen recorded the entire album locked up in a bedroom in some old country house with just an acoustic guitar and a four-track recorder. When we showed up to the Mira Mesa House and found out that there wasn't a party, we just drank a bottle of whiskey and a jug of wine out in the garage and recorded songs on acoustic guitars we found.
"Mine Tonight" by Lucero
When you're driving down the California coast for any stretch at night as some undergraduate who hasn't figured things out...you have a lot of time to figure things out. I don't know how many times I drove down to the Mira Mesa House with Rex, Jeff and Matty Punk, but it felt like a whole lot and this song always seemed to be playing on those night drives down the coast and it put me in the weirdest mood.
"I Still Miss Someone" by Johnny Cash
I got really into to this song at the wrong time. This melancholy tune is about missing someone in autumn. Well, it was summer and I didn't miss anyone. I was just getting drunk in people's jacuzzis and stuff. Johnny Cash and I don't always see eye-to-eye.
"Epistrophy" - Cootie Williams
I listened to this song a lot when I'd smoke cigarettes at the Chapman parking garage behind the law school when I was a senior in high school. I think I'd narrate random stories over it. I don't know why. I was just looking to get out of the house on school nights and the beginning of this instrumental almost invites narration.
"Kingdom Come" - Coldplay
This song was playing when I dropped Sam off at their airport when she first left for Spain. I couldn't listen to this song for a year without feeling sick to my stomach. Now, I just wonder why the hell Coldplay doesn't write more quiet epic acoustic jams instead of the same twinkling falsetto arena rock hits.
This may have been the first song where I could cite influences. I heard the opening forty seconds of this song and thought, “These guys must have been influenced by the Beach Boys,” and thought I was a goddamn musical genius. I mean, this was in eighth grade when it was an absolute miracle if I could think about something other than boobs and vandalism for more than ten seconds.
"Flat Top" by Goo Goo Dolls
The Goo Goo Dolls' album A Boy Named Goo represents a specific time in my life. It was the summer before seventh grade, I think. I'm not sure. I just remember either playing video games at Jeff's house or having bunk bed wars with my brother. I also remember thinking this song was a wonderful social criticism. Leave it to a sheltered 12-year-old to think that the Goo Goo Dolls were the new Black Panthers.
"Alex Chilton" by The Replacements
When I accidentally discovered The Replacements in second grade by rooting through his cassettes, I thought they were a secret. It was like this fun little punk band that only my dad knew about and had unknowingly bestowed upon me. Then, years later, he bought their later albums for the family and I realized that The Replacements evolved into one of the most influential bands of the 1980s. Then all my family did was listen to this song in the car, making The Replacements our family's band. It was nice of my dad to share.
“The Skin Of My Yellow Country Teeth” by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
In the summer of 2007, I was doing my first internship at the magazine and it was my first adult job and I was starting to feel like a real sell-out asshole. It was summer and friends were on road trips and I was working in an office building. I would end up staring at my computer or staring out the window contemplating just why the hell I was trying to grow up. To combat such feelings, I listened to this song every day in the elevator and would rock the hell out. So, with just a big moment of silliness before working, I felt way better about it all.
"I'm A Flirt (Shoreline)" by The Hood Internet (Broken Social Scene vs. R. Kelly)
Bret put this on at Chris and Rich's Christmas party one year and then everyone talked about how R. Kelly should just join Broken Social Scene and make us all really happy. Seriously, any mash-up with an R. Kelly song is almost immediately everyone's favorite jam.
"Debaser" by The Pixies"
If I had to choose one band to be remembered as the soundtrack of my high school weekends, it would undoubtedly be The Pixies. I feel like that's almost the only band my friends listened to in their cars. When I think of all the weekends spent at Julia's, I can almost always hear The Pixies on in the background. However, it was my dad who told me that the song was about a film by Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí called Un Chien Andalou. I thought it was just about randomly slicing people's eyeballs.
"Only Got One" by Frou Frou
I got really obsessed with this song right before leaving for Australia. I was 19 and I had been wanting to go to Australia since I was in grade school. My grandmother and I arrived in Sydney and she took a nap after the 15-hour flight. I, on the other hand, took an hour-long bubble bath in the only tub to ever fit me. It was like three feet deep and six feet in length. I had all the bathrooms lights off except for one soft night light and, with the Sydney skyline out the window and this song playing, I honestly don't know if I've been so goddamn delusionally happy since.
"Buggin" by The Flaming Lips
I remember listening to this song after doing yard work at my grandparents' house with a stupid amount of bugs around me. That's about it. Also, this song isn't very deep, but it's really, really cool.
"Like I Needed" by Rogue Wave
I stole this album from my school newspaper. It references Star Wars. It combined two of my favorite things: Star Wars and stealing.
"Pictures Of Success" by Rilo Kiley
I have no idea how many times Rex and I listened to this song when we drove out to Arizona, but it was a shit-ton. The time was June 2005, I was barely 20 years old, Rex was 19 and each of us had way too much free time. So, somewhat on a whim, we road-tripped it to visit Ashley, who was staying with Eileen for the summer. We got there around midnight and it was still hot. Within minutes of arriving, Rex and I were swimming in the backyard pool and cackling our lungs out, all while some crazy storm started up and lightning was cracking above us. Both girls watched us swim like drunk little kids and then the four of us drank more beer together, sitting around Eileen's bedroom listening to music. I don't remember when, but sometime that weekend, we were all passed out, spread about Eileen's bedroom and this song came on again, and it was so ungodly perfect.
"Penelope" by Pinback
When I discovered this song, it became the only song I listened to for, like, two weeks. I came into the school newsroom one afternoon wearing an Explosions In The Sky shirt with doodlings of cavemen on it. Katy said it looked like the shirt ripped off her brother's band. I told her that the shirt was for a band that's been around for a while and asked what band her brother could possibly be in. She said Pinback. I was quite speechless. I then told her to tell her brother that this song was incredible. Her response: "You know that song's about a pet fish, right?" I did not, and it suddenly made the song seem less beautiful.
"Painter Song" by Norah Jones
During my first year of college, I fancied myself a painter. And guess what? I can't paint, and I knew it within minutes of trying. But that didn't stop me from listening to this song shirtless in my garage while messing up some canvases with paint for a few months.
"Two Janes" by Los Lobos
This song was my absolute favorite song off the album Kiko, which, even in my twenties, I still consider to be a flawless album. When I would snag the cassette from my dad's glove box to listen to it in my room, it was the first time I thought I was really expanding my musical horizons. Keep in mind I was in, like, third grade, so my horizon was pretty much my front yard.
"Atlantic City" by Bruce Springsteen
I remember showing this song to Rex in my Oldsmobile on our infamous drive to San Diego for a party that most definitely wasn't happening. I told him how Bruce Springsteen recorded the entire album locked up in a bedroom in some old country house with just an acoustic guitar and a four-track recorder. When we showed up to the Mira Mesa House and found out that there wasn't a party, we just drank a bottle of whiskey and a jug of wine out in the garage and recorded songs on acoustic guitars we found.
"Mine Tonight" by Lucero
When you're driving down the California coast for any stretch at night as some undergraduate who hasn't figured things out...you have a lot of time to figure things out. I don't know how many times I drove down to the Mira Mesa House with Rex, Jeff and Matty Punk, but it felt like a whole lot and this song always seemed to be playing on those night drives down the coast and it put me in the weirdest mood.
"I Still Miss Someone" by Johnny Cash
I got really into to this song at the wrong time. This melancholy tune is about missing someone in autumn. Well, it was summer and I didn't miss anyone. I was just getting drunk in people's jacuzzis and stuff. Johnny Cash and I don't always see eye-to-eye.
"Epistrophy" - Cootie Williams
I listened to this song a lot when I'd smoke cigarettes at the Chapman parking garage behind the law school when I was a senior in high school. I think I'd narrate random stories over it. I don't know why. I was just looking to get out of the house on school nights and the beginning of this instrumental almost invites narration.
"Kingdom Come" - Coldplay
This song was playing when I dropped Sam off at their airport when she first left for Spain. I couldn't listen to this song for a year without feeling sick to my stomach. Now, I just wonder why the hell Coldplay doesn't write more quiet epic acoustic jams instead of the same twinkling falsetto arena rock hits.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Holy Hell, Vegas
Well, I just returned home from my first ridiculous Vegas trip and it was...ridiculous.
I've been to Sin City many times, though only twice since turning 21. The last time was a year and a half ago when three friends and I stayed at a timeshare and mostly just hung around roulette tables and giggled a bunch.
This time, however, was for a bachelor party and now I get all that "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" stuff. It was hundred dollar dinners in suits and sleeping on the floor in a bathrobe. I don't remember a whole lot of our last night there, but I do vaguely recall us going to a club with some girls until 8 a.m. and then walking the entire strip back to our suite. Also, this morning, I found a note in my pocket written in Spanish from a girl apparently named Bri saying she misses me and wants a beer. There's also some mention of kisses. Hope I made good on that one.
Thanks, Vegas, for letting me touch grim death for a brief moment.
I've been to Sin City many times, though only twice since turning 21. The last time was a year and a half ago when three friends and I stayed at a timeshare and mostly just hung around roulette tables and giggled a bunch.
This time, however, was for a bachelor party and now I get all that "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" stuff. It was hundred dollar dinners in suits and sleeping on the floor in a bathrobe. I don't remember a whole lot of our last night there, but I do vaguely recall us going to a club with some girls until 8 a.m. and then walking the entire strip back to our suite. Also, this morning, I found a note in my pocket written in Spanish from a girl apparently named Bri saying she misses me and wants a beer. There's also some mention of kisses. Hope I made good on that one.
Thanks, Vegas, for letting me touch grim death for a brief moment.
Friday, July 15, 2011
"lists"
"lists"
done in contemplation by jake kilroy.
and i pack my bags.
i pack them with lists.
lists of relatives.
lists of friends.
lists of enemies.
lists of lovers.
i'm taking them with me.
and i'm out the door.
one bag is going in my car
and the other's going in the river.
i swear to god.
who ain't on any list.
done in contemplation by jake kilroy.
and i pack my bags.
i pack them with lists.
lists of relatives.
lists of friends.
lists of enemies.
lists of lovers.
i'm taking them with me.
and i'm out the door.
one bag is going in my car
and the other's going in the river.
i swear to god.
who ain't on any list.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
I Wrote A Novel
Well...it's finally done.
I finished writing my novel last Friday afternoon. Two years and 600 pages later, I now feel slightly less full of shit.
This, of course, is a huge relief, because when I start something, there's always a good chance I'm not actually going to finish it. So I did and now I'm reading it from start to finish for the first time and I recognize a huge difference in tone and tempo between the first and last chapter.
I mean, it makes sense. I literally wrote this book all over the place.
I first started writing it on a cliff in Mexico, which turned out to be the prologue. Then I wrote the opening two chapters when we were moving out of our party house in Orange. That summer, I wrote about eight chapters while goofing off in Seattle. I wrote four or five chapters while trying to figure out my life in Austin. Then I wrote ten chapters as a working stiff in Irvine. Finally, I took an indefinite leave of absence and moved onto other projects when I hit writer's block, but I came back this spring to finish the last few chapters in Los Angeles on my corporate lunch breaks.
Though I've been continually working on the book for two years (not consistently or constantly, however), I haven't really mentioned it on too many occasions. Sure, several of my close friends were aware that I was writing a book, but we never talked about it in great detail really (except for Chris, who is sort of my unpaid editor). And, sure, I discussed it with friends that have written or are writing books (Celeste, Non, Jason, Alex, etc) to compare experiences and encourage each other.
But, very earlier on, I felt the risk of becoming "the guy who's indefinitely writing a book" (just like the guy who has a great idea for a movie and will one day write the screenplay and the the guy who is always playing music but not making any). After enough times, someone is bound to say, "Hey, shouldn't you be done by now?" And, naturally, the writer would fly into a blind, murderous rage (even thought people should call you on your shit). So, now that it's done and I've told everyone, I've found myself in conversations about my book recently and it seems strange.
People want to read it, people want to know about it and people want to know what's next. My friends are very supportive, as this could all be one really crazy book of nonsense, like some epic saga about robot gigolos and the fembots who love them.
I've started at least five novels. Most of them didn't make it past the third chapter (though they may one day). Back then, I told people I was writing a book (oh, I was so proud). These days, though, I feel like the reaction should be more "oh my god, finally" instead "hey, congrats, man."
Hmmm.
I don't really know what the point of all this was. It's mostly just to say that I've been lying to you all since I was 16. I've written a lot over the past ten years. But I was in a high school classroom when I told my friends that I wanted to write books. I was in college when I told a friend that I just wanted to finish a book. And it was only a year ago when I told someone that I just wanted to finish this book.
Well, everyone, I'm telling you the truth now. I swear I'm a writer and I've got 600 pages to prove it.
Finally.
I finished writing my novel last Friday afternoon. Two years and 600 pages later, I now feel slightly less full of shit.
This, of course, is a huge relief, because when I start something, there's always a good chance I'm not actually going to finish it. So I did and now I'm reading it from start to finish for the first time and I recognize a huge difference in tone and tempo between the first and last chapter.
I mean, it makes sense. I literally wrote this book all over the place.
I first started writing it on a cliff in Mexico, which turned out to be the prologue. Then I wrote the opening two chapters when we were moving out of our party house in Orange. That summer, I wrote about eight chapters while goofing off in Seattle. I wrote four or five chapters while trying to figure out my life in Austin. Then I wrote ten chapters as a working stiff in Irvine. Finally, I took an indefinite leave of absence and moved onto other projects when I hit writer's block, but I came back this spring to finish the last few chapters in Los Angeles on my corporate lunch breaks.
Though I've been continually working on the book for two years (not consistently or constantly, however), I haven't really mentioned it on too many occasions. Sure, several of my close friends were aware that I was writing a book, but we never talked about it in great detail really (except for Chris, who is sort of my unpaid editor). And, sure, I discussed it with friends that have written or are writing books (Celeste, Non, Jason, Alex, etc) to compare experiences and encourage each other.
But, very earlier on, I felt the risk of becoming "the guy who's indefinitely writing a book" (just like the guy who has a great idea for a movie and will one day write the screenplay and the the guy who is always playing music but not making any). After enough times, someone is bound to say, "Hey, shouldn't you be done by now?" And, naturally, the writer would fly into a blind, murderous rage (even thought people should call you on your shit). So, now that it's done and I've told everyone, I've found myself in conversations about my book recently and it seems strange.
People want to read it, people want to know about it and people want to know what's next. My friends are very supportive, as this could all be one really crazy book of nonsense, like some epic saga about robot gigolos and the fembots who love them.
I've started at least five novels. Most of them didn't make it past the third chapter (though they may one day). Back then, I told people I was writing a book (oh, I was so proud). These days, though, I feel like the reaction should be more "oh my god, finally" instead "hey, congrats, man."
Hmmm.
I don't really know what the point of all this was. It's mostly just to say that I've been lying to you all since I was 16. I've written a lot over the past ten years. But I was in a high school classroom when I told my friends that I wanted to write books. I was in college when I told a friend that I just wanted to finish a book. And it was only a year ago when I told someone that I just wanted to finish this book.
Well, everyone, I'm telling you the truth now. I swear I'm a writer and I've got 600 pages to prove it.
Finally.
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