(no subject)
Today on my drive home to my parent's house, on Lee Road, I caught a quick glimpse up ahead that there was a Crown Victoria parked on the side of the road. My inner punk screamed "Cop! Cop! Slow down! Don't get fucked!" And so I did. Yet upon closer inspection, I learned that it was just two old ladies. Though it was not just two regular old ladies. One was in the seat of the driver, sitting frigid and confused, and one was hanging out the passenger side, puking her guts out. I could almost feel her vomit hit the dusty pavement. For once, I felt one with the world. With the wind in my hair and skepticism massaging the knots out of my shoulders.. It was truly a time to be alive.
I woke up in my bed this past Saturday mourning with the distinct taste in my mouth for marijuana. I proposed the idea to John to go seek some out, and he wholeheartedly agreed, separating himself from a mixtape. Before the hour could pass, we found ourselves swimming in the soft front seats of his Saturn. On Washtenaw Avenue, we saw young Dave Gahan (not to be confused with old Dave Gahan) and Hollis driving in a minivan beside us, obviously in a collective effort toward the same goal as our own. With Cotton Museum violently parading out of the car stereo speakers, and with the windows down to let the cold breeze tickle each and every hair on my head, I honestly could not find the words to say anything other than stuttered scrutiny and blatant bad jokes. In reaching Ann Arbor, we bought a fat bag of weed and quickly ran into Tim (while he was eating a sandwich on a stoop). If there are any ingredients that a good dream needs to come to surface, it includes both of the aforementioned items. After all of the bullshit, we meet back at our apartment. Dave Armitage, Thelonious Bone, J-Tho, myself, and later Joe Dzuirman, rolled two spliffs and went forth to watch 'Hard Rock Zombies'. Afterward, we listened to the new Wolf Eyes record while watching the Alien DVD on mute. The rest of the night is a blur. I guess the rest of the weekend is a blur.
Our landlord is a crack head. He is unavailable. He is a drunk. He doesn't pay attention to his responsibilities at all. His personal hygiene is something to be argued. He has a moustache. Sounds like me almost? Just kidding? It is near mid-October, the first day of Fall marked upon the calendar as weeks ago, and yet we still remain without heat. It's getting cold at night. Thirty degrees and/or below. Luckily, I have a sleeping bag (Thanks John!) and headphones. If I wasn't lucky enough to have these favours, I'd be knocking down the son of a bitch landlord's front door with machine guns for hands. Not really. I'd probably just attempt to snuggle up tighter against my blankets and let my baby tears turn to ice. I'm no good in dealing with social situations.
This morning I was brought out of a deep sleep in tune to the sore note of the recent passing of Rodney Dangerfield. NPR can be a blessing and a curse, and this is an obvious example. I love to awake to the current mishappenings and fouls of America's politicians and other world leaders.. but this is just something I really wasn't ready for. The true comedic underdog finally bit the bullet he so sarcastically referenced throughout his career. And with this, I'd like anyone reading this to take a second of their lives to pretend like it's a moment of silence for someone who no longer has the opportunity to be with us. "I went to the doctor because I'd swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. My doctor told me to have a few drinks and get some rest.."
Ypsilanti bears itself as a beast I know no definition for. There is something in the night air every time I walk the brisk path home from the liquor store. There is a faint and shallow echo that attempts to remind me of my faults and fractures. It trails at the heels of my feet as I walk through parking lots, and it is coloured over the sight of ever nosey skunk. There is a certain bleakness/blankness that seeps through the seams of the dilapidated windows of my house every night. Despite how much warmth I collectively gather, and despite how tired I push myself to be, I just cannot seem to fall asleep like I used to. As if I ever could so easily, I just have no reason nor rationality to explain this. I blame it on fate, I blame it on the landlord, I blame it on imbalances, I blame it on myself, I blame it on the system... Nothing works. What's left? The fault seems to truly lie at the foot of nothing but a ghost. Nothing but Ghost Dad, settling his squat spot as the dark of the apartment below ours, slurping up Jello shots and freebasing cocaine over the kitchen sink.
Currently recommended new releases; Bjork 'Medulla', Wolf Eyes 'Burned Mind', the Paper Chase 'God Bless Your Black Heart', Tilly and the Wall 'Wild Like Children', Isis 'Panopticon', Neurosis 'The Eye of Every Storm', Saturday Looks Good to Me 'Every Night', Ted Leo & the Pharmacists 'Shake the Streets'.. I can't think of anymore. I'm pretty drunk...
The other day I was driving on US-23, and as I kept a somewhat constant pace with another commuter who inhabited the lane beside my own, I caught a sight that was quite obscure. In this particular memoir, my fellow travelers were a full-sized white van full of Aryan youth. All teenage girls, all as gorgeous as the rising sun. The driver? None other than Marshall Applewhite, leader of the posthumous Heaven's Gate cult. I will not even attempt to explain nor satire this observation. I'll honestly leave it up to the idea that there's a Norse God up there somewhere and just say "Kill 'em all." I also saw some dude playing a trumpet while he drove on the freeway. Fucked up.
In skinning the flesh, you must be careful of the muscle. You must not ruin the muscle, for it keeps the structure of a lampshade or a quilt. If you have any interest in keeping a well-kempt household, you must know these facts. Curly hair makes nothing but an itchy bed. Oily skin helps it to feel like a water slide. In murder, you must understand who has the ability to benefit you postmortem, physically or mentally. Her skin must be like a recherché silk, her mouth must moisten like Midwestern rapids. The scent, the smell.. These are the most relevant bearings of all.. A fragrance can rear or ruin a savage rape. The trick is to not be sloppy, the trick is to not be sloppy..
As I previously hinted, I've been spending a lot of time with 89.1 WEMU. It is the only radio station I can pick up in my bedroom, and I couldn't be happier with this fate. In recent months, I have been completely (and somewhat intentionally) denied access to any facet of media. And so the experience of listening to radio signals feels kind of new to me. A refound juvenile lust almost. Since I only have the opportunity to deal with this specific airwave occasionally, and I majorily listen to the broadcast while lying hidden beneath bed sheets, you can guess what my sleep is made of. Steve Inskeep filters through every dream, and there is always a somber jazz playing as the score to my nightmares. The only other subject I have to balance these sounds out are the constant recordings of anonymous mixtapes. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. It may not be perfect.. but I guess, at least, it's me..