betcha they'd just nail him up, if he come back again
I think I've complained before of a certain involuntary stoicism on my part. A wish that I should be more easily moved. (unlike a tree that's planted by the water?) Not that I've any particular hardships to be stoic about. Life is a bourgeois breeze. Whatever claims to poverty I had as a student who summered as a construction labourer are gone - now that I'm full time fauxletariat.
I had a temporary crisis of conscience a couple months ago when Alyssa wanted to make use of her dad's Palm Springs property and buy tickets to Coachella and I was contemplating spending a week this summer digging wells in Nicaragua. (The locals have a taboo about shovelling, maybe? Anyways it's no fun to just send money.) I came up with a compromise when I realized that the week after Coachella is a country music festival called Stagecoach, and since country music is more populist... (Besides, Norah Jones will be there for me to swoon over.)
BRB, gotta mix me another Manhattan...
What was I talking about? Fuck I love this song. I wish my name was as alliterative as Kris Kristofferson's is. (My name is Yon Yonson, I work in Wisconsin.) I fixed my turntable on saturday. What a satisfying task that was. I trashed an iPod trying to replace the screen just two days before. But the turntable, a beautiful 40 year old piece of aluminum and plywood - It was running slow and warbly at 33 RPM. After dropping the bottom out I had to remove a single set screw (with a full size screwdriver!) to release the hydraulic bearing. It was gummed up, so I cleaned it, oiled it, and reassembled it. Problem solved. Routine maintenance is fun. I smell the oil every time I flip an album over. The rebirth of vinyl has rekindled my passion for music. I can touch and smell these albums. I can unfold the liner notes in my hand. I can carefully note the absurd complexity of Funkadelic album art and try to decipher the artists signature. What a fucking hipster I am! My wardrobe of flannel and loose, worn out jeans that I've kept up since Pearl Jam's Ten is being steadily replaced by slightly tighter, newer looking jeans and pearl snap shirts.
But back to the point of our story. I was picking and singing some Phil Ochs tunes yesterday. (That bastard hits hard.) It was probably during Love Me, I'm a Liberal I started to tear up. I can't exactly explain why. Whatever particular emotional well I dug into was accessed through several layers of reference. (Better read the footnotes.)
And then today some joggers got blown up in Beantown, I tried to channel the sermon on the mount or something in a facebook status update, and then I started drinking hard. The latter is a rare occurrence lately. (But then again, so is updating my LiveJournal.) This is what I had to say before I got loaded:
31 people were killed in bombings in Iraq today. I'm not saying that should be the top headline here in North America. When violence strikes in what feels like our part of the world, it's more disruptive to our sense of well being. I just hope that today, when tragedy hits home, we can muster some empathy, or even solidarity with those who live day to day in fear and insecurity. I hope it brings us closer to others and encourages compassion and understanding. I fear that the opposite will be true.
Fuck...
I went to a Billy Bragg concert on monday. He talked a lot about Thatcher. My aunt came with me. She was in London during the poll tax riots.
I had a temporary crisis of conscience a couple months ago when Alyssa wanted to make use of her dad's Palm Springs property and buy tickets to Coachella and I was contemplating spending a week this summer digging wells in Nicaragua. (The locals have a taboo about shovelling, maybe? Anyways it's no fun to just send money.) I came up with a compromise when I realized that the week after Coachella is a country music festival called Stagecoach, and since country music is more populist... (Besides, Norah Jones will be there for me to swoon over.)
BRB, gotta mix me another Manhattan...
What was I talking about? Fuck I love this song. I wish my name was as alliterative as Kris Kristofferson's is. (My name is Yon Yonson, I work in Wisconsin.) I fixed my turntable on saturday. What a satisfying task that was. I trashed an iPod trying to replace the screen just two days before. But the turntable, a beautiful 40 year old piece of aluminum and plywood - It was running slow and warbly at 33 RPM. After dropping the bottom out I had to remove a single set screw (with a full size screwdriver!) to release the hydraulic bearing. It was gummed up, so I cleaned it, oiled it, and reassembled it. Problem solved. Routine maintenance is fun. I smell the oil every time I flip an album over. The rebirth of vinyl has rekindled my passion for music. I can touch and smell these albums. I can unfold the liner notes in my hand. I can carefully note the absurd complexity of Funkadelic album art and try to decipher the artists signature. What a fucking hipster I am! My wardrobe of flannel and loose, worn out jeans that I've kept up since Pearl Jam's Ten is being steadily replaced by slightly tighter, newer looking jeans and pearl snap shirts.
But back to the point of our story. I was picking and singing some Phil Ochs tunes yesterday. (That bastard hits hard.) It was probably during Love Me, I'm a Liberal I started to tear up. I can't exactly explain why. Whatever particular emotional well I dug into was accessed through several layers of reference. (Better read the footnotes.)
And then today some joggers got blown up in Beantown, I tried to channel the sermon on the mount or something in a facebook status update, and then I started drinking hard. The latter is a rare occurrence lately. (But then again, so is updating my LiveJournal.) This is what I had to say before I got loaded:
31 people were killed in bombings in Iraq today. I'm not saying that should be the top headline here in North America. When violence strikes in what feels like our part of the world, it's more disruptive to our sense of well being. I just hope that today, when tragedy hits home, we can muster some empathy, or even solidarity with those who live day to day in fear and insecurity. I hope it brings us closer to others and encourages compassion and understanding. I fear that the opposite will be true.
Fuck...
I went to a Billy Bragg concert on monday. He talked a lot about Thatcher. My aunt came with me. She was in London during the poll tax riots.