Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Happy Halloween!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
"kissing her was like coming home"
"kissing her was like coming home"
written after time and time again by jake kilroy.
what do you give a man who has everything?
godhood.
what do you give a man who has nothing?
religion.
try saving grace when there's blood to be had,
smeared like warpaint on the statued idols
that look over the islands like hungry crows.
this was a good joke we had on ourselves,
somewhere beneath the skin, with rage pulsating,
with stars glowing, with mesmerizing lips,
with the hair on our neck standing up as straight as soldiers.
and i was supposed to be made a joker in church,
holding coffins that looked like works of art
while telling widows that there's a better place than their hearts.
i write and write and all that comes out is spittle.
this should be lion roars with breaths of fresh air.
this should be cries for help in a city of saviors.
this should be the long monologue in a taxi cab,
but finally with something to say amid terrifying blood-loss.
"kissing her was like coming home,
and i've wandered like a carpetbagger,
but all i want in this world that never stops
is to sleep in on a sunday morning with her next to me,"
comes the rattling chain of a backseat death march.
now that wasn't so hard, was it?
written after time and time again by jake kilroy.
what do you give a man who has everything?
godhood.
what do you give a man who has nothing?
religion.
try saving grace when there's blood to be had,
smeared like warpaint on the statued idols
that look over the islands like hungry crows.
this was a good joke we had on ourselves,
somewhere beneath the skin, with rage pulsating,
with stars glowing, with mesmerizing lips,
with the hair on our neck standing up as straight as soldiers.
and i was supposed to be made a joker in church,
holding coffins that looked like works of art
while telling widows that there's a better place than their hearts.
i write and write and all that comes out is spittle.
this should be lion roars with breaths of fresh air.
this should be cries for help in a city of saviors.
this should be the long monologue in a taxi cab,
but finally with something to say amid terrifying blood-loss.
"kissing her was like coming home,
and i've wandered like a carpetbagger,
but all i want in this world that never stops
is to sleep in on a sunday morning with her next to me,"
comes the rattling chain of a backseat death march.
now that wasn't so hard, was it?
Doug Wright's On It
"I wish my moderate Republican friends would simply be honest. They all say they’re voting for Romney because of his economic policies (tenuous and ill-formed as they are), and that they disagree with him on gay rights. Fine. Then look me in the eye, speak with a level clear voice, and say, 'My taxes and take-home pay mean more than your fundamental civil rights, the sanctity of your marriage, your right to visit an ailing spouse in the hospital, your dignity as a citizen of this country, your healthcare, your right to inherit, the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.' It’s like voting for George Wallace during the Civil Rights movements, and apologizing for his racism. You’re still complicit. You’re still perpetuating anti-gay legislation and cultural homophobia. You don’t get to walk away clean, because you say you 'disagree' with your candidate on these issues."
- Doug Wright, Pulitzer and Tony-winning playwright
Monday, October 29, 2012
Spicy Black Bean Patties, Motherfucker!
I like cooking a lot, which you would never guess by how little I cook. Also, by cooking, I of course mean looking over a recipe with thin eyes while wiping your hands on a towel and mumbling seasoning ingredients as if you’re trying to recite the incantation that brings back the dead.
But I don't cook extravagant meals for myself. When I come home from work, I’m tired and I don’t feel like spending two hours in the kitchen when I could be reading/writing/doing anything else. I’m fine with a less intricate meal and I’ve long given up trying to impress myself (I know my every move!). This is why I make tacos three nights a week (and because, holy shit, tacos are the best, people). Other nights are sandwiches or some rice thing, or, if I’ve had a rough day, maybe breakfast for dinner (I like to think I can change time to reverse my earlier mistakes).
So I should probably rephrase. I really like cooking for other people, specifically a woman, since if I cook, say, the dankest French Onion Soup ever made, I can show up tipsy to her niece’s birthday party the following week and still get off with a simple eye-roll and not a lecture (SORRY I HAVE A LIFE OUTSIDE OF YOUR ENTITLED NIECE, LAURA).
Anyway, as cliche as it sounds, my mother is the best cook I know. The lady can make everything from a quesadilla that a pothead would worship to a gourmet pear crisp that would fuck up some socialite’s tea party brain. Also, my brother recently took a turn away from a history degree to move swiftly into the culinary arts. He’s been making everything around my parents’ house from scratch, including bread and mead. And, me, well, I just like shit-talking.
So the three of us, over afternoon beers at Haven in Orange, decided to do a cooking competition. The challenge: veggie burgers.
Well, finally, last night, I went to my parents’ house and the five of us ate what three of us cooked. My mother did a bean-oatmeal-carrot combo patty and my brother did a sort of potato cake with tofu tartar sauce. Me, I did spicy black bean patties with queso fresco. And guess what? I'll give you (my version of) the recipe right now.
WHAT YOU NEED:
1. Drain and rinse a can of black beans (with similar care as if you were wiping your fingerprints off a gun). Mash them into a paste like they were eighth grade bullies. Does it look like you just beat the shit out of some black beans like some mouthy cartoon? Great. Put it, like your differences, aside, because it’s not over and you’re pretty goddamn stupid if you thought it was.
2. Chop the hell out of the bell pepper, the onion, and them three cloves of garlic. Put that shit in a food processor. Blend on pulse to a hip-hop beat. Is it finely chopped but not yet a weird sensual liquid? Good. Take that delicious smelling jumble of peppers, onions, and garlic, and stir it right into those fucked up black beans. Blend until their tasty flesh becomes one.
3. Fill a bowl with one tablespoon of cumin, one tablespoon of chili powder, and then add one teaspoon (or more) of hot sauce. Personally, I went with a chipotle pepper sauce because I don’t play by the rules. If you don’t add hot sauce here, you’re kind of a bitch and you should feel bad about it.
4. Get an egg out. Or, if you’re me, stir together 1 teaspoon of egg replacement powder and stir it with two tablespoons of warm water. Now that you have whatever the hell you have, mix it into the bowl of spices and hot sauce. Make that a loosey-goosey paste and promise yourself that you'll never use the phrase "loosey-goosey" again. With said paste, stir it right into the pepper/onion/garlic black bean mix. Stir it like you’re getting to second base for the first time.
5. What’s that? It smells fucking delicious? You’re goddamn right it does, but it’s not over (though this time it’d be acceptable to think you were close to the end). Now that you're freaking out about how great everything is going, drop in that thing of bread crumbs and pulverize it until you feel emotionally stable again.
6. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees and lightly oil a baking sheet, or use PAM to spray it down like you’re doing a quick graffiti.
7. Take the bowl of terrific-smelling nonsense and form some patties with your hands. Place it on the baking sheet and put it in the oven. Bake each side from 10 minutes (making it 20 minutes in total, Einstein).
8. Once done, while still hot, add some queso fresco on top and let it melt just a bit. Do whatever the hell you want now. This could be adding it to a bun with hamburger ingredients, or it could mean getting freaky with mad hot people because you just made something truly delicious and mad hot people love when you do that. Seriously, you better find a place for all those party invitations you're about to get, ya handsome/beautiful chef.
So that's it. I made that, and it was delicious. Also, the patties my mother and brother made were downright incredible. We ended up deciding against winners. We're just going to do a Sunday evening cooking competition every three weeks or so. And I never thought I'd say this, but watch out for more recipes on this blog. It's going to be like Pinterest with a drinking problem up in here.
But I don't cook extravagant meals for myself. When I come home from work, I’m tired and I don’t feel like spending two hours in the kitchen when I could be reading/writing/doing anything else. I’m fine with a less intricate meal and I’ve long given up trying to impress myself (I know my every move!). This is why I make tacos three nights a week (and because, holy shit, tacos are the best, people). Other nights are sandwiches or some rice thing, or, if I’ve had a rough day, maybe breakfast for dinner (I like to think I can change time to reverse my earlier mistakes).
So I should probably rephrase. I really like cooking for other people, specifically a woman, since if I cook, say, the dankest French Onion Soup ever made, I can show up tipsy to her niece’s birthday party the following week and still get off with a simple eye-roll and not a lecture (SORRY I HAVE A LIFE OUTSIDE OF YOUR ENTITLED NIECE, LAURA).
Anyway, as cliche as it sounds, my mother is the best cook I know. The lady can make everything from a quesadilla that a pothead would worship to a gourmet pear crisp that would fuck up some socialite’s tea party brain. Also, my brother recently took a turn away from a history degree to move swiftly into the culinary arts. He’s been making everything around my parents’ house from scratch, including bread and mead. And, me, well, I just like shit-talking.
So the three of us, over afternoon beers at Haven in Orange, decided to do a cooking competition. The challenge: veggie burgers.
Well, finally, last night, I went to my parents’ house and the five of us ate what three of us cooked. My mother did a bean-oatmeal-carrot combo patty and my brother did a sort of potato cake with tofu tartar sauce. Me, I did spicy black bean patties with queso fresco. And guess what? I'll give you (my version of) the recipe right now.
WHAT YOU NEED:
- 1 can of black beans
- 1/2 green bell pepper
- 1/2 white onion
- 3 cloves of garlic
- 1 egg (or 1 box of egg replacer)
- 1 tablespoon of chili powder
- 1 tablespoon of cumin
- 1 teaspoon of hot sauce
- 1/2 cup of bread crumbs
- 1 package of queso fresco
1. Drain and rinse a can of black beans (with similar care as if you were wiping your fingerprints off a gun). Mash them into a paste like they were eighth grade bullies. Does it look like you just beat the shit out of some black beans like some mouthy cartoon? Great. Put it, like your differences, aside, because it’s not over and you’re pretty goddamn stupid if you thought it was.
2. Chop the hell out of the bell pepper, the onion, and them three cloves of garlic. Put that shit in a food processor. Blend on pulse to a hip-hop beat. Is it finely chopped but not yet a weird sensual liquid? Good. Take that delicious smelling jumble of peppers, onions, and garlic, and stir it right into those fucked up black beans. Blend until their tasty flesh becomes one.
3. Fill a bowl with one tablespoon of cumin, one tablespoon of chili powder, and then add one teaspoon (or more) of hot sauce. Personally, I went with a chipotle pepper sauce because I don’t play by the rules. If you don’t add hot sauce here, you’re kind of a bitch and you should feel bad about it.
4. Get an egg out. Or, if you’re me, stir together 1 teaspoon of egg replacement powder and stir it with two tablespoons of warm water. Now that you have whatever the hell you have, mix it into the bowl of spices and hot sauce. Make that a loosey-goosey paste and promise yourself that you'll never use the phrase "loosey-goosey" again. With said paste, stir it right into the pepper/onion/garlic black bean mix. Stir it like you’re getting to second base for the first time.
5. What’s that? It smells fucking delicious? You’re goddamn right it does, but it’s not over (though this time it’d be acceptable to think you were close to the end). Now that you're freaking out about how great everything is going, drop in that thing of bread crumbs and pulverize it until you feel emotionally stable again.
6. Preheat your oven to 375 degrees and lightly oil a baking sheet, or use PAM to spray it down like you’re doing a quick graffiti.
7. Take the bowl of terrific-smelling nonsense and form some patties with your hands. Place it on the baking sheet and put it in the oven. Bake each side from 10 minutes (making it 20 minutes in total, Einstein).
8. Once done, while still hot, add some queso fresco on top and let it melt just a bit. Do whatever the hell you want now. This could be adding it to a bun with hamburger ingredients, or it could mean getting freaky with mad hot people because you just made something truly delicious and mad hot people love when you do that. Seriously, you better find a place for all those party invitations you're about to get, ya handsome/beautiful chef.
So that's it. I made that, and it was delicious. Also, the patties my mother and brother made were downright incredible. We ended up deciding against winners. We're just going to do a Sunday evening cooking competition every three weeks or so. And I never thought I'd say this, but watch out for more recipes on this blog. It's going to be like Pinterest with a drinking problem up in here.
Friday, October 26, 2012
New Song: "Olly Olly Oxen Free"
I took a sick day last Friday and spent the entire morning and early afternoon in bed, which is something I tend not to do on sick days. Usually, I end up roaming around the house or running errands. But I decided to really treat myself to a sick day of reading in bed. Needless to say, by late afternoon, I had gone fucking insane. Sometimes, that's just way too much time to spend in bed by yourself.
While sweating out some shakes toward the end of the disease, I picked up my guitar and started recording a song that sounded like a bastardized garage buzz version of "La Bamba." Determined to do at least one thing that wasn't laying on my back and letting the aches sweep over me like an air raid, I wrote some lyrics too (and sang them with my very bogus sore throat). Anyway, this is the song that up until the very last second was actually called "Sick Day," because, hey, sometimes, I'm the laziest idiot alive.
Also, days later, I wrote more words to the chorus so that it wasn't just "hey you" (though, again, I must stress that I can be the laziest idiot alive). There was also a whole crazy thing of me yelling a few more sentences and then "olly olly oxen free" over and over at the end, but none of it was turning out and I got fed up with it. Whatever the fuck ever, song. You win. I either work on a song for months or I do a song in its entirety in a few hours. This jam very quickly proved to be the latter. Maybe I'll come back to it and add those other words when I understand how to actually play guitar or how to sing like a real human being. Until then, I'm just going to keep making music that sounds like noise because I have a shit-ton of fun doing it. Enjoy!
"Olly Olly Oxen Free"
by Jake Kilroy
Roll out the red carpet tongue to lick wounds,
filled to the salt-encrusted brims with doom.
I've got a mouth of hot teeth laced with swears,
a throat graffitied with words like a junkie prayer.
But, you, you were gorgeous,
whistling dixie on the porch of America,
and me with my fever,
it just wasn't enough to remember you.
No more barley wine or royal bloodlines.
She told me that I had a smile like a jack knife.
I said, "Your black dress keeps me honest."
She said, "You act like you could keep a promise."
Hey, you.
Debutantes in mini skirts
that want to take a thrashing and give a beating,
they put their lips together and they whisper,
"Every charming man's renaissance is fleeting."
I'll never forget when I dressed well
and posed as a pioneer out on the rails.
When spring came, I pulled out my heart
and drank its insides so I wouldn't starve.
Hey, you.
Are we really looking for Christ at night
or do we just want a drinking partner that'll tip right?
Sing me a tune, precious atrium rib cage,
because we can't sleep and we won't change.
Hey, you.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
"jive talker"
"jive talker"
written with a cough you wouldn't believe by jake kilroy.
the jive musings of a manic impressive,
speaking like a trumpet
and drinking like a problem;
sleeves rolled like tidal waves,
jeans as worn as a romantic's heart,
but the grin can't ever be swiped,
no matter how often he drags his arm
across his mouth after a helping.
fog curves around the city
like a cuban dancer's hand
on a beauty that has hair like fire,
and from there, he disappears -
into cars! into lofts! into sheets!
mesmerized by the world,
with wanderlust as a madness,
he sinks into his own words
with a heavy conscience
that even a bartender couldn't save.
what became of day?
he remembered it tasted like mint
and felt like a warm towel
after a shower
somewhere else.
his skin soaks up the night
and it pulsates through his earth,
as he quakes and shivers,
waiting out breakfast for a business lunch
that he can't afford,
so he takes blood marys out for spins
and ends up in long hallways,
spitting poetry like he doesn't need to,
but he does or he'll die of grief.
what became of mourning?
he asks in between mouthfuls of eggs.
nobody answers.
he must have slept through it.
written with a cough you wouldn't believe by jake kilroy.
the jive musings of a manic impressive,
speaking like a trumpet
and drinking like a problem;
sleeves rolled like tidal waves,
jeans as worn as a romantic's heart,
but the grin can't ever be swiped,
no matter how often he drags his arm
across his mouth after a helping.
fog curves around the city
like a cuban dancer's hand
on a beauty that has hair like fire,
and from there, he disappears -
into cars! into lofts! into sheets!
mesmerized by the world,
with wanderlust as a madness,
he sinks into his own words
with a heavy conscience
that even a bartender couldn't save.
what became of day?
he remembered it tasted like mint
and felt like a warm towel
after a shower
somewhere else.
his skin soaks up the night
and it pulsates through his earth,
as he quakes and shivers,
waiting out breakfast for a business lunch
that he can't afford,
so he takes blood marys out for spins
and ends up in long hallways,
spitting poetry like he doesn't need to,
but he does or he'll die of grief.
what became of mourning?
he asks in between mouthfuls of eggs.
nobody answers.
he must have slept through it.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
1/50: The Lost Symbol
The Lost Symbol, by Dan Brown
which Rex leads 7-1. Full list can be found here.
Fuck you, Dan Brown. Fuck the dimpled smug shit-eating grin that drapes your soft New England skin every time you think you've just shoved what you think is a twist inside an already capable story. I just want you to get to the sawing a lady in half trick and you keep pulling quarters out of my ears and gasping surprise as if I should be letting you put your fingers in my mouth while I struggle to announce, "My god, have you seen this wizard inside my face? He's amaaaaaaaaaazing!"
Dude, I may have been down for the thrills with The Da Vinci Code (Jesus bloodline?!) and Angels & Demons (the return of the Illuminati?!), but I need more than a pyramid being rumored about local feds and conspiracy theorists to get my literary boner at full sail. Do you know why those books worked and this one didn't in the end? Because you didn't write The Hours or Revolutionary Road or some other honorable human drama that made me feel like killing myself because the weight of existence is too much. NO. You wrote a thriller, which means the payoff better be goddamn supreme. I should throw this fucking book across the room because, holy shit, that's what this entire genre that you've been exploding on for years now is based upon almost solely and entirely. I should be visiting a doctor to see if I'll ever feel anything again or maybe Dan Brown finally ravaged my nerves once and for all with his unbelievable action plots and curious revelations and wild twists and unforeseen turns and oh my fucking god whatever else is necessary to be a modern-day thrill writer who doesn't want to be stomped out by the critics who can very easily rip you to shreds.
You're supposed to be a firework show with a grand finale, not some hot mysterious babe who kisses your ear a few sensual times and promises you sex that sounds like it's for demigods and sadists but then bails early because, whoops, she forgot it was her brother's birthday at Red Lobster.
"Oh shit, everything's happening," I said at the beginning of this book when, lo and behold, a mad man had done something mad and Robert Langdon, everyone's favorite tweed-wearing yokel swimmer symbolist, was called to the nation's capitol to save everything. Hey, I have a question. WHY THE FUCK DOES HE NEVER BELIEVE ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE? He had to fight the entire Catholic church in his first adventure, save the entire Catholic church in his second, but, oh bloody dicks, he can't possibly imagine that the Freemasons could build a fucking pyramid.
"How could that clown possibly make a puppy dog out of balloons? It's so unfathomable," your central character probably mumbles to himself but loud enough for everyone at the children's party to hear. Oh, what's that, Robert Langdon has an opinion? Grand, grand! Tell us what's so impossible now, you charming but cynical yet somehow optimist elitist schmuck.
"No, that's ridiculous," Mr. Langdon cheerfully/dickishly scoffs at a constant, wishing he could somehow make yet another Harvard-Yale rivalry joke to impress babes that aren't there and wouldn't care anyway. Robert Langdon is like Indiana Jones with erectile dysfunction and we're all just supposed to pretend this guy is popular with every person ever. No, dude. That's not how it works. The ending of this book was literary erectile dysfunction, and you're prancing around like you just got the entire book world pregnant.
Meanwhile, the first and second acts of this book were tremendous. Hell yes, I said to the book on several occasions. What's that, a hidden passage? What's this, a secret order? Well, that's great, because I love everything about that shit. "Not so fast," Dan Brown tells me around the time my adventure through Washington, D.C.'s hall of secrets should be wrapping up, before quietly adding, "I'd prefer it if I just sucker-punched you and left you wanting."
Thanks, Dan Brown. Thanks for giving me hope that Robert Langdon could yet again reveal some insane ancient mystery that should blow me away so hard that I land in the adjacent room weeping with teenage joy and spinning with senior citizens delusions, unable to talk about anything else with my barber that barely speaks English except for knowing the high tales of your adventures. Instead, I have to be reminded that I read a Dan Brown book. Thanks for giving my heart and soul blue balls, you literary equivalent of college grad dry-humping. Ugh. GOOD DAY, SIR.
2/5 stars
This is my 1st book in Rex & Jake's 50-Book Reading Challenge,which Rex leads 7-1. Full list can be found here.
Fuck you, Dan Brown. Fuck the dimpled smug shit-eating grin that drapes your soft New England skin every time you think you've just shoved what you think is a twist inside an already capable story. I just want you to get to the sawing a lady in half trick and you keep pulling quarters out of my ears and gasping surprise as if I should be letting you put your fingers in my mouth while I struggle to announce, "My god, have you seen this wizard inside my face? He's amaaaaaaaaaazing!"
Dude, I may have been down for the thrills with The Da Vinci Code (Jesus bloodline?!) and Angels & Demons (the return of the Illuminati?!), but I need more than a pyramid being rumored about local feds and conspiracy theorists to get my literary boner at full sail. Do you know why those books worked and this one didn't in the end? Because you didn't write The Hours or Revolutionary Road or some other honorable human drama that made me feel like killing myself because the weight of existence is too much. NO. You wrote a thriller, which means the payoff better be goddamn supreme. I should throw this fucking book across the room because, holy shit, that's what this entire genre that you've been exploding on for years now is based upon almost solely and entirely. I should be visiting a doctor to see if I'll ever feel anything again or maybe Dan Brown finally ravaged my nerves once and for all with his unbelievable action plots and curious revelations and wild twists and unforeseen turns and oh my fucking god whatever else is necessary to be a modern-day thrill writer who doesn't want to be stomped out by the critics who can very easily rip you to shreds.
You're supposed to be a firework show with a grand finale, not some hot mysterious babe who kisses your ear a few sensual times and promises you sex that sounds like it's for demigods and sadists but then bails early because, whoops, she forgot it was her brother's birthday at Red Lobster.
"Oh shit, everything's happening," I said at the beginning of this book when, lo and behold, a mad man had done something mad and Robert Langdon, everyone's favorite tweed-wearing yokel swimmer symbolist, was called to the nation's capitol to save everything. Hey, I have a question. WHY THE FUCK DOES HE NEVER BELIEVE ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE? He had to fight the entire Catholic church in his first adventure, save the entire Catholic church in his second, but, oh bloody dicks, he can't possibly imagine that the Freemasons could build a fucking pyramid.
"How could that clown possibly make a puppy dog out of balloons? It's so unfathomable," your central character probably mumbles to himself but loud enough for everyone at the children's party to hear. Oh, what's that, Robert Langdon has an opinion? Grand, grand! Tell us what's so impossible now, you charming but cynical yet somehow optimist elitist schmuck.
"No, that's ridiculous," Mr. Langdon cheerfully/dickishly scoffs at a constant, wishing he could somehow make yet another Harvard-Yale rivalry joke to impress babes that aren't there and wouldn't care anyway. Robert Langdon is like Indiana Jones with erectile dysfunction and we're all just supposed to pretend this guy is popular with every person ever. No, dude. That's not how it works. The ending of this book was literary erectile dysfunction, and you're prancing around like you just got the entire book world pregnant.
Meanwhile, the first and second acts of this book were tremendous. Hell yes, I said to the book on several occasions. What's that, a hidden passage? What's this, a secret order? Well, that's great, because I love everything about that shit. "Not so fast," Dan Brown tells me around the time my adventure through Washington, D.C.'s hall of secrets should be wrapping up, before quietly adding, "I'd prefer it if I just sucker-punched you and left you wanting."
Thanks, Dan Brown. Thanks for giving me hope that Robert Langdon could yet again reveal some insane ancient mystery that should blow me away so hard that I land in the adjacent room weeping with teenage joy and spinning with senior citizens delusions, unable to talk about anything else with my barber that barely speaks English except for knowing the high tales of your adventures. Instead, I have to be reminded that I read a Dan Brown book. Thanks for giving my heart and soul blue balls, you literary equivalent of college grad dry-humping. Ugh. GOOD DAY, SIR.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Let's Do This, Cold Seasons
Sometime over the course of the last year, I came to really like being a homebody. But it's not the drinking-alone-in-the-closet-and-listening-to-Joy-Division type of homebody. Instead, it's the hey-my-roommates-are-here-and-we-have-a-backyard-for-days-and-a-basement-for-nights-so-everyone-should-just-come-here, and I imagine it'll only become that more so with the cold. This year, the ante's been upped, as my room has a television now and our entryway features a coatrack these days. The basement has been spruced up and we have a drink cart in the dining room. We have fortified ourselves in this home, readying ourselves for autumn and winter fun. But what does it all mean?
- The cold seasons mean sleeping in a bed that I've made almost stupefyingly comfortable. I'm talking a pillow-top mattress with additional padding and some muthafuckin' Egyptian cotton sheets. What's the thread count? Probably a billion. Oh, did I mention I just had my comforter dry-cleaned? I made a bed that Queen Amidala and Tom Haverford could sleep in.
- The cold seasons mean coming home on Sunday nights to all of my roommates hanging out in the family room with the lights off and a fire going. We lay around with the dog and crack jokes while a few of us work on projects (writing, restringing a guitar, etc). We picked up the habit or hobby from gentlemen of the 19th Century. We're like the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, except we're not rapists, drug addicts and murderers.
- The cold seasons mean using the fireplace in general. "Oh, hey there, harem of supermodels, did you notice that I had a fire going?" I'll say in my finest of top hats and longest of tuxedo tails. "Oh, did you care for a drink? We have red wine, good whiskey and fine cigars," I'll laugh, drawing my hand over our drink cart. "Maybe we should take this to the basement where we keep the beer and the secrets," I'll whisper, leading the conga line of babes down the steps to their wildest dream/doom.
- The cold seasons mean I get to make hot cocoa at a constant. It also means I'll spend evenings wondering if I can turn hot cocoa into a legitimate soup, as I do every year. Then I'll consider peppermint the only legitimate ingredient. Then I'll realize more chocolate would be the only sensible move, and then I'll think about diabetes, and then I'll eat actual soup. Oh, fuck, the cold seasons also mean eating more soup!
- The cold seasons mean me having that conversation with myself yet again about buying more jackets but still just wearing a hoodie most days. It also means my typical summer wardrobe of button-up shirts and jeans makes more sense. Everyone looks better/deeper in layers, right?
- The cold seasons mean movie nights bundled the fuck up. I'm talking blankets everywhere, a few sleeping bags tossed around and extra pillows because whatever the fuck ever, you only live once.
- The cold seasons mean long hot showers at night. This could be classed up by booze or classed down by drugs. It's a really user-friendly experience.
- The cold seasons mean Christmas. FUCKING. CHRISTMAS.
At the end of every summer, everyone seems to complain about the heat, and I always feel like the one guy who doesn't want the days of swimming and nights of cruising die out. But there's something about this year (maybe it finally was the heat) that has be all ready to move into crisp afternoons of autumn and the eternal night of winter.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Text Message of the Day
"Well, on my way to a Gatsby-themed party in Connecticut to do drugs and play croquet. I feel like I'm wearing your life's boner, so if you have any requests while I'm there, make them known and I'll make them happen." - text message from a friend this afternoon
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Dreamworld, I: The Blue World
When we fell asleep, the world looked like the inside of a sad waterfront trumpeter's heart. It was pure blue and without reason. It was just wet feet and hot cocoa. It was Christmas in our lungs and white teeth aglow. The water rolled, lifeless and elegant, like the best beatnik could. The waves napped, the fish slid, and we laughed until sun-up. It was glorious in such a sickening way. Darling, if it were up to me, it'd always be midnight, and we'd always be wild.
"folk song"
"folk song"
written to put off sleep by jake kilroy.
we traded steamboat shanty sing-a-longs
somewhere between the lines and the drawls,
back when my mouth knew no boundaries
and you carried your debutante heart in a basket
woven with feathers from birds that wailed
like banshees in the sunlight of your skin.
i drew roadmaps home in your freckles,
just like every poet fuck of a man claims
when he wants to seem deep.
sailing, driving, boarding, leaving,
said every twenty-something songwriter
who couldn't shake his own tongue.
this smile is a trashcan at best.
white papers in the red mash of gums,
sparkling because breaths are hotter
than any love notes done on a typewriter
that was purchased at a garage sale
that was found on a laptop.
my barely beating heart started a post-hardcore band
when you left because it could no longer stand folk.
it just wanted nonsense that sounded like guts,
so it went to the city instead of the country,
and it slept on the couch in a former flame's loft.
it gambled away its earnings there,
and it sold all its vests and wide-brimmed hats,
because it wanted to play real music.
my heart had enough of the barley wine,
and it wanted to make my vocal chords bleed
from rotten drink and coke drips aplenty.
so i spent years tasting my own blood
and cutting open my fingers on strings,
huffing metaphors to stay young and free
instead of old and wise and saturated.
but i'll never forget when i dressed well
and posed as a pioneer on the railroad,
all while my fugazi poster sighed, smiled
and told me that every man's renaissance is fleeting.
tucked away there in a bed made of straw,
where my head will forever lay in wheat,
there is you
in your lace dress as white as dirty snow,
twirling in the fields that break open every lover
and let the syrup seep into the soil for a good harvest.
you wanted white porches and fresh fruit,
and i had enough of the twilight brink,
when i knew there was sweat to be had
in the dive bars with rusty knuckles,
where a man could die like a magician,
no faith, no social circle,
just a grin and a wink.
still, as i took in the smoke of the city on a rooftop
and heard a captain call his crew in the harbor,
i thought of what i wanted to see in my crimson eyes
that hadn't been able to place a strong sunset for years.
i wanted to see you.
i wanted my eyes to swallow you whole.
i wanted to wake up one morning
and find you swimming nude in the milk of my sockets.
but the trouble is you'd know how good you'd look,
cause even though you were always the curve of the road
that i thanked god for letting me speed recklessly upon,
you, like a folk song, always thought yourself the perfect melody.
written to put off sleep by jake kilroy.
we traded steamboat shanty sing-a-longs
somewhere between the lines and the drawls,
back when my mouth knew no boundaries
and you carried your debutante heart in a basket
woven with feathers from birds that wailed
like banshees in the sunlight of your skin.
i drew roadmaps home in your freckles,
just like every poet fuck of a man claims
when he wants to seem deep.
sailing, driving, boarding, leaving,
said every twenty-something songwriter
who couldn't shake his own tongue.
this smile is a trashcan at best.
white papers in the red mash of gums,
sparkling because breaths are hotter
than any love notes done on a typewriter
that was purchased at a garage sale
that was found on a laptop.
my barely beating heart started a post-hardcore band
when you left because it could no longer stand folk.
it just wanted nonsense that sounded like guts,
so it went to the city instead of the country,
and it slept on the couch in a former flame's loft.
it gambled away its earnings there,
and it sold all its vests and wide-brimmed hats,
because it wanted to play real music.
my heart had enough of the barley wine,
and it wanted to make my vocal chords bleed
from rotten drink and coke drips aplenty.
so i spent years tasting my own blood
and cutting open my fingers on strings,
huffing metaphors to stay young and free
instead of old and wise and saturated.
but i'll never forget when i dressed well
and posed as a pioneer on the railroad,
all while my fugazi poster sighed, smiled
and told me that every man's renaissance is fleeting.
tucked away there in a bed made of straw,
where my head will forever lay in wheat,
there is you
in your lace dress as white as dirty snow,
twirling in the fields that break open every lover
and let the syrup seep into the soil for a good harvest.
you wanted white porches and fresh fruit,
and i had enough of the twilight brink,
when i knew there was sweat to be had
in the dive bars with rusty knuckles,
where a man could die like a magician,
no faith, no social circle,
just a grin and a wink.
still, as i took in the smoke of the city on a rooftop
and heard a captain call his crew in the harbor,
i thought of what i wanted to see in my crimson eyes
that hadn't been able to place a strong sunset for years.
i wanted to see you.
i wanted my eyes to swallow you whole.
i wanted to wake up one morning
and find you swimming nude in the milk of my sockets.
but the trouble is you'd know how good you'd look,
cause even though you were always the curve of the road
that i thanked god for letting me speed recklessly upon,
you, like a folk song, always thought yourself the perfect melody.
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