Weepy Wednesday
Congrats to the Phillies for winning the NL pennant. Even when my sorry ass sox are out of the picture there are few things as cool as watching a team clinch in October.
I voted yesterday. I know, I'm a total sellout. They made it too easy! I voted for the black guy.
I did an in-studio with Brighton, MA last night. They're really awesome guys that I'm always excited to hang out with and see perform. Also, their new LP smokes ( www.myspace.com/brightonma ) We did one with Annuals on Monday which I booked. I've booked one for next week with Fucked Up. I like my radio station job a lot.
School has become such a periphery matter to me, and I couldn't be more apathetic about that. There are so many (SO MANY) things more important to me than literary theory and history. Sorry academics, I've got a life to live.
Party #3 at 402 Ronalds this Saturday night. Come, tell all your friends. I'll probably be the cup guy again because everyone has to talk to the cup guy. And as always, anyone caught fucking with the music will be severely reprimanded.
I will never drink PBR again. Well, I probably will, but I'm making it a point not to. PBR is a status beer. Hipsters and those they swim with make the PBR logo into their own social badge. It's not righteous, ironic, or in any way virtuous to drink PBR over other beers. In fact, quite the opposite. Hipsters have fetishized this beer so heavily in Iowa City that bars like Deadwood, The Picador, and The Mill are able to get away with ripping them off by selling cans (that's right, canned beer) of PBR as drink "specials." A can of crappy beer for a dollar (three dollars for tall boy PBR's every Tuesday at The Mill) is not a special. Two dollars Guinness on tap every Tuesday night at Joe's Place is a special. Congratulations hipsters, you've fallen victim to the idiotic capitalist trap that you so hate. You're giant hypocrites.
I may seem like a huge lush for knowing all of these drink deals so readily, but I've actually cut down on drinking quite significantly as of late. I've given thought to going on an indefinite drinking hiatus, but I always run into that wall of having a weakened social life.
Today I applied on a whim to the brand new Creative Writing Undergraduate English Major track here at UIowa. I saw a sign in the EPB saying that applications were due in an hour, so I went to the nearest ITC and (without editing) printed off a fiction writing sample and filled out the application. I guess it's highly selective, something like a dozen undergrads taken for Fiction. Since I didn't get to edit and I wouldn't even be able to finish the track, I'm not expecting to get in. But it would be nice.
I haven't thought about what I'm going to do after this year for what seems like at least a week. Hmmmmmm. If there's anything this semester has done for me, it's made me more sure that I want to work in music. There are tons of labels and record stores all over this wonderful nation, and tons of employment opportunities within them. This is not a pipe dream, especially given the experience I have and am gaining with this world. Production, Promotion, Management, it's all pretty sweet. One thing I'm not too gung-ho on is touring: the potential for depression in the realm of touring is massive, no matter who you are. Some of the most depressing albums I've ever heard have been largely inspired by said depression (of these I recommend Summerteeth and Pet Sounds).
Yesterday I was at my University job when I was asked to join one of my bosses, Bill, to go to do this thing. Bill is an older guy, probably in his fifties. He's not in great shape. The thing we had to do (just Bill and I) was drive to some distribution center about twelve miles from campus (which-for those of you unfamiliar with Iowa City-means Bumblefuck, the middle of nowhere) and move boxes from the back of a semi into the van we took out there. Watching Bill lumber into and out of this huge semi and moving these heavy boxes in the middle of nowhere, away from everything familiar to me about this state, was really surreal and depressing. I couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to let my life slip into something like that, and it irked me. The second Bill dropped me off at the pentacrest I wanted to call all of my friends and re-engage in my life with its feeling of progress and meaning, to forget that alienating episode.
Tomorrow I get to sleep in, it's going to kick ass.
I voted yesterday. I know, I'm a total sellout. They made it too easy! I voted for the black guy.
I did an in-studio with Brighton, MA last night. They're really awesome guys that I'm always excited to hang out with and see perform. Also, their new LP smokes ( www.myspace.com/brightonma ) We did one with Annuals on Monday which I booked. I've booked one for next week with Fucked Up. I like my radio station job a lot.
School has become such a periphery matter to me, and I couldn't be more apathetic about that. There are so many (SO MANY) things more important to me than literary theory and history. Sorry academics, I've got a life to live.
Party #3 at 402 Ronalds this Saturday night. Come, tell all your friends. I'll probably be the cup guy again because everyone has to talk to the cup guy. And as always, anyone caught fucking with the music will be severely reprimanded.
I will never drink PBR again. Well, I probably will, but I'm making it a point not to. PBR is a status beer. Hipsters and those they swim with make the PBR logo into their own social badge. It's not righteous, ironic, or in any way virtuous to drink PBR over other beers. In fact, quite the opposite. Hipsters have fetishized this beer so heavily in Iowa City that bars like Deadwood, The Picador, and The Mill are able to get away with ripping them off by selling cans (that's right, canned beer) of PBR as drink "specials." A can of crappy beer for a dollar (three dollars for tall boy PBR's every Tuesday at The Mill) is not a special. Two dollars Guinness on tap every Tuesday night at Joe's Place is a special. Congratulations hipsters, you've fallen victim to the idiotic capitalist trap that you so hate. You're giant hypocrites.
I may seem like a huge lush for knowing all of these drink deals so readily, but I've actually cut down on drinking quite significantly as of late. I've given thought to going on an indefinite drinking hiatus, but I always run into that wall of having a weakened social life.
Today I applied on a whim to the brand new Creative Writing Undergraduate English Major track here at UIowa. I saw a sign in the EPB saying that applications were due in an hour, so I went to the nearest ITC and (without editing) printed off a fiction writing sample and filled out the application. I guess it's highly selective, something like a dozen undergrads taken for Fiction. Since I didn't get to edit and I wouldn't even be able to finish the track, I'm not expecting to get in. But it would be nice.
I haven't thought about what I'm going to do after this year for what seems like at least a week. Hmmmmmm. If there's anything this semester has done for me, it's made me more sure that I want to work in music. There are tons of labels and record stores all over this wonderful nation, and tons of employment opportunities within them. This is not a pipe dream, especially given the experience I have and am gaining with this world. Production, Promotion, Management, it's all pretty sweet. One thing I'm not too gung-ho on is touring: the potential for depression in the realm of touring is massive, no matter who you are. Some of the most depressing albums I've ever heard have been largely inspired by said depression (of these I recommend Summerteeth and Pet Sounds).
Yesterday I was at my University job when I was asked to join one of my bosses, Bill, to go to do this thing. Bill is an older guy, probably in his fifties. He's not in great shape. The thing we had to do (just Bill and I) was drive to some distribution center about twelve miles from campus (which-for those of you unfamiliar with Iowa City-means Bumblefuck, the middle of nowhere) and move boxes from the back of a semi into the van we took out there. Watching Bill lumber into and out of this huge semi and moving these heavy boxes in the middle of nowhere, away from everything familiar to me about this state, was really surreal and depressing. I couldn't help but think of how easy it would be to let my life slip into something like that, and it irked me. The second Bill dropped me off at the pentacrest I wanted to call all of my friends and re-engage in my life with its feeling of progress and meaning, to forget that alienating episode.
Tomorrow I get to sleep in, it's going to kick ass.