OH LORD THE SUBURBAN ANGST
Your eyes are not deceiving you. I'm once again writing in this oft-neglected portion of webspace, spilling my brain onto prefab templates.
The last entry was back in August. Things were very different then. I won't bother to fill anyone in.
Is it for nostalgia? Is it for gratuitious self-promotion? Am I just full of shit and wasting time?
All three?
So essentially nothing remarkable happened on this January muddlepuddle of a day. Two nights ago was partially spent at what was once Coffee Talk with the twelvestring, and I sang songs that meant esentially nothing and were lifted from bits of conversation as my fingers froze. A man apporoached us, spouting his enthusiasm for impovised singsong until he realized the vaguely-creepy context of the nothings I was singing and vanished. There was also one about pronouns and pronouns wishing myself and those around me [all of whom took reluctant turns] were dead. Seb delighted in the fact that "dead" rhymes with "head".
There was a threat of a noise complaint, and we were shooed away. As if anyone actually lives in downtown Mesa...
...besides Ricky Watson. He's the only one, though. I'm pretty sure.
Tomorrow is a good day for music. New Menomena [which, as several months of listening have proved, is fantastic], Deerhoof, Of Montreal, and the Shins [not as much] are scheduled and have me fairly tingly.
I'm wondering what a particular girl thinks of myself.
Ah yes, the suburban angst is chewing my heels bloody.
I didn't get any snow last night!
The last entry was back in August. Things were very different then. I won't bother to fill anyone in.
Is it for nostalgia? Is it for gratuitious self-promotion? Am I just full of shit and wasting time?
All three?
So essentially nothing remarkable happened on this January muddlepuddle of a day. Two nights ago was partially spent at what was once Coffee Talk with the twelvestring, and I sang songs that meant esentially nothing and were lifted from bits of conversation as my fingers froze. A man apporoached us, spouting his enthusiasm for impovised singsong until he realized the vaguely-creepy context of the nothings I was singing and vanished. There was also one about pronouns and pronouns wishing myself and those around me [all of whom took reluctant turns] were dead. Seb delighted in the fact that "dead" rhymes with "head".
There was a threat of a noise complaint, and we were shooed away. As if anyone actually lives in downtown Mesa...
...besides Ricky Watson. He's the only one, though. I'm pretty sure.
Tomorrow is a good day for music. New Menomena [which, as several months of listening have proved, is fantastic], Deerhoof, Of Montreal, and the Shins [not as much] are scheduled and have me fairly tingly.
I'm wondering what a particular girl thinks of myself.
Ah yes, the suburban angst is chewing my heels bloody.
I didn't get any snow last night!