(no subject)
I've just spent the past while skimming the annals and bowels of this awful thing I call a Livejournal. I've been very consistently full of shit all of these years, haven't I?
Pretentious a claim as this may be, I feel a coming-of-age slowly creeping upon my shoulders. Here's hoping it's as non-Caulfieldesque as possible.
An interesting discovery, to be sure.
Also, in skimming the annals and bowels of this awful thing, I noticed a disturbing trend that I will henceforth dub the "Confounding Curse of April the 26th".
It seems that every year for the past couple of years, I've desparately anticipated attending a show on this very date, and, until the fateful last second, the situation appears to be pretty promising. Last year, the act in question was TV on the Radio, and Kevin Kamp and I found ourselves locked in a nasty transportation conundrum that was never quite solved. This year? Explosions in the Sky.
You see, although I practically bleed music blathering, I'm not much of a concertgoer, and being as such, or, I guess, not being as such, I'm endowed with a certain naivete that allows common sense to pass over my head until it's far too late. This year's naivete came in the form of a total disregard for ticket preorders. Upon checking the showtime, I was greeted with a crushing "SOLD OUT".
Bleh. Good going, Captain Excellent.
There's always next time! Lesson learned, Beaver Cleaver. Peaceful optimism. Moral Standards. The American Dream. Poptarts. Confetti.
I've been listening to Leslie Feist's newest album, and...and, to quote a long-ago and slightly far-away source...hot shit. Being this impressed is a nice feeling.
So are nocturnal treks across the valley's surface streets when next to no one is occupying them. Those won't be possible very soon, though. I'll be without a car, a collegiate slave to complimentary public transportation, perched against a wide window as toothless hoodlums ramble sweet nothings the driver's way. At least they stay behind the yellow line.
Off to Slumberland.
The next few weeks couldn't end sooner.
The...the end.
Pretentious a claim as this may be, I feel a coming-of-age slowly creeping upon my shoulders. Here's hoping it's as non-Caulfieldesque as possible.
An interesting discovery, to be sure.
Also, in skimming the annals and bowels of this awful thing, I noticed a disturbing trend that I will henceforth dub the "Confounding Curse of April the 26th".
It seems that every year for the past couple of years, I've desparately anticipated attending a show on this very date, and, until the fateful last second, the situation appears to be pretty promising. Last year, the act in question was TV on the Radio, and Kevin Kamp and I found ourselves locked in a nasty transportation conundrum that was never quite solved. This year? Explosions in the Sky.
You see, although I practically bleed music blathering, I'm not much of a concertgoer, and being as such, or, I guess, not being as such, I'm endowed with a certain naivete that allows common sense to pass over my head until it's far too late. This year's naivete came in the form of a total disregard for ticket preorders. Upon checking the showtime, I was greeted with a crushing "SOLD OUT".
Bleh. Good going, Captain Excellent.
There's always next time! Lesson learned, Beaver Cleaver. Peaceful optimism. Moral Standards. The American Dream. Poptarts. Confetti.
I've been listening to Leslie Feist's newest album, and...and, to quote a long-ago and slightly far-away source...hot shit. Being this impressed is a nice feeling.
So are nocturnal treks across the valley's surface streets when next to no one is occupying them. Those won't be possible very soon, though. I'll be without a car, a collegiate slave to complimentary public transportation, perched against a wide window as toothless hoodlums ramble sweet nothings the driver's way. At least they stay behind the yellow line.
Off to Slumberland.
The next few weeks couldn't end sooner.
The...the end.