The World means You to me

Adrian is graduating college: nice job! CalBap won't be the same, nor should it be, without you. I miss you, and will try and make it out asap.

Coocher-chella is going down. I'm over it--sounds like a bunch of lame crap this year anyway. Sorry to the fans of Arctic Monkees and Bratmobile or whoever's playing. Yeah, Bjork's played-out, too, so skratch that one. What music is good anymore? I'm probably too old to know, but I have to say that many things mid-'90s were fine, fine musically. I've been thinking about this, about why this is, and I've narrowed it down to something. (I think what I'm about to say is one of my main looked-for things in music now that I've nailed it down.) I don't really think I like music that's ironic. That's why I was so into hardcore and all that midwest indierock from back then. That's probably why I've been less into the northwest music, traditionally: it had a bead on the culture, and the culture was ironic. For a long time I thought that my mid-'90s faves were looking back to non-ironic times, but now I'm beginning to see that they were really avant-garde in their tone. It's too bad that they all tired to court the mall-punk clique and had to pay the morgage with fluff. My favorite Joan of Arc stuff isn't the weirdest, or most normal-sounding: I can trace my favorite to least-favorite directly through the levels of irony in each album. Maybe that's a lie. Offically, this post marks my irrevokable foray into the land of has-beens (or never-wases). Sad day, sad day.

I know a woman (who loves me).

Ah, the postmodern fractured self. Polaroid had it down in '67.

One of the dudes in my program is having a story published in Playboy here pretty soon, and he wants to tell you all about it, all the time. The program has a listserv and he ab/uses that crap to the death! I've taken the only contra-measure possible: listserving insults back his way. I'm not alone; a funny/tuff chick in the program recently photoshopped his face onto some gay porn alligator wrestler and sent it 'round. Man, I like that.

For the first time in my life I feel like I'm openly trying to deny feelings I have. It doesn't feel good. That's probably both contradictary and obvious, but if you can't be honest for the swiftly dwindling readership of your obscure blog, then who can you be honest with. At least I'm abiding by the Baptist rule of thumb: if you're being honest, be sure that you're as vague as possible. Cliche: I feel like the knuckles that have "love" and "hate" tattooed on them are pummeling my head.

I'm really getting more and more into the polaroids these weeks. When you've got a daughter that's damn cute and (don't) have a love that's damn into polaroids, that always helps. "You're ready for a flickr account." Eh, I'd rather be ready for you, you.

"How do you want to motivate that in terms of speaker?"

Man, the ovester's almost over. While Paul Chapman has been lamenting AIMS because he's a teacher, and that test is really a test he takes twice-removed through his students, the same test keeps me out of schools, giving me a (semi-)break. It's, like, totally that ying-yang thing or something.

I've started swimming laps again. And by swim laps I mean try not to embarass myself in front of the unreasonable amount of attractive college gals with only one of two strings tied to their bikini top who happen to be greased down and blondie by the pool at school. I think the farmer tan and tattoos end up working against that purpose, unfortunately.

Polaroids: they're making a revival in Josephland. Onnavah is a good model, and magic hour in spring proves condusive to my schedule, so thus and thus it goes. There's some nature crap I've been taking, too, but that's because Tucson's pretty pretty. It never stops killing me how much different Tucson is from Phoenis. The cooling at night-thing that most deserts do so well is in effect here, and I can't believe how much more beautiful that makes the desert. Even when it's asphalt-hot during the day (especially in my uniform: black t-shirts--deep v-neck granted--), at night it's still jacket time. And there's something to be said for feeling hot-in-the-cowboy boots and cool wind in the hair at sunset while looking at the--whatever gay shit I was about to say...--those hot girls at the pool.

I can't wait for school to be out. I'm dying in there.

There's no 666 in outer space

Greetings from the underside:
Saw Hella play last night. I am suprised and saddened to report back to home base that the show sucked: they sounded unlike two-person Hella that I've come to love; they sounded unlike five-person Hella (which is to say 2nd rate Mars Volta, or Mars Volta with jobs (maybe that's 1st rate Mars Volta and Mars Volta's been Volta'd)). Instead of any of those acceptable outcomes from their expensive amps and mutilated drums, I got crappy sound and a bunch of small-town American Apparel employees leaning tuff against the wall trying to figure out why just because everything '80s is new again doesn't mean you dress as though you're actually still live in the '80s. (Hate those guys.)
I'm dying to get tattooed again. The me in the crow's nest spots some dates in late July for a new sleeve, but I don't think I can wait that long. It's too long, right?
It's been so long since I've posted on here. I bet my readership of four has dwindled to me checking back on my own blog to see if anything's happened since I've been away. Sadly, nothing usually does.
I bet Matt Salusky has had a kid by now. Mark Thorsby, too. Drop me a line, anyone, if you've got a minute between term papers and doinkin' that special someone.

J