Check out Robert Woolley's stuff. He understands. Fantastic pictures. See, like I don't know the conventional wisdom for photography. I might understand what makes a picture better than another picture, but I can't express it.
However, he can.
**
Welp, you can also check out this. You can't fake this shit. You just can't. Especially around the two-minute mark. J. Mascis' guitar goes church choir during the sermon. Eyes straight forward, hands on the lap. But the rhythm section plucks along, negotiating around the pocket of nothing.
Absolutely epic piece. Top 10 song ever. Period. Tear the genre walls down, this song is king. It's school house bully dominating the monkey bars.'
**
Probably the best thing I've read today can be found here. In case you didn't hear, or just don't care about sports (and if that's the case, I've got a giant fuck you sitting between my legs), Mark Buehrle pitched his second career no-hitter. Oh, and this one just happened to be a perfect game, only the 18th time this has happened since 1900. Yup, there've been a lot of baseball games played between then and now.
Phew. I still DO want to know how he does it. I will definitely say this: if Mark Buehrle pitches at this consistent level for another 6-8 more years, he definitely deserves real consideration for the Hall of Fame, and I'm not talking Brady Anderson or David Justice consideration.
**
Way too much going on. Not enough words to explain it. I move Saturday. Updates will probably come sparingly or even in great waves, depending on the internet situation. I feel like internet should've been capitalized. Oh well.
My job does have its perks. You know, like being able to fashion a fantastic black/white picture of Tom Waits and mount it on black foam core, with a quarter inch boarder.
Mmmm. This needs to be framed. Red frame, maybe? I think so. Remember how I shit talked Bob Dylan and said there were better song writers? Ahem.
Man, I always want to be the tallest one in the group. Think of it: you'd be able to see over everyone, so if something cool was happening at the end of the block, you'd be the first to tell everyone. If you ever went to a hot dog stand, you could be like "Shawww, POW," and reach over a few heads to grab your dog slathered in cheese sauce and mustard.
Uh, so ignore the fact that this guy looks pretty annoyed. It's cool. I definitely dig his sweater and tie combo. Green/red is always righteous, even without the yellow to complete the stoplight.
**
I'd also like to be able to run long distances. Can't though. We'll I guess I could. I think the longest I had ever ran, even when I was in fantastic shape in high school, was like two miles. I was never much of a distance runner, which means I'd be terrible in a horror movie if my character had to high-tail it through the woods or around a lake that stretched off the screen.
Can't help it though. I have bad posture. Feet roll outward, my strides put me on the balls of my feet, I move gimp-footed. It sucks, can't stand it. Running, to me, would be the quintessential getaway. I could always ride a bike, see, but I don't want that kind of help. I'd like to just go. I don't even need a fly pair of shoes (lied, yes I do. I have a closet full of them).
I also don't think I have the lungs for it. Breathing is key, I'd imagine. There's a right and a wrong way to execute it. Maybe when I move, I'll try this.
**
If Jimmy John's has gift cards, why not send me one before I move? That'd be great, friend. Thanks. Do it.
Oh yeah, moving. 8 days. Christ almighty. What a ride I'm about to take. This man did say it best, after all:
I'm going to sit here in the dark and tell myself that every little thing is alright.
I'll fashion a big black rocking horse and ride it with a smile on my face.
I'll drink water until my stomach bloats, then eat bread to soak it up. I'll go hungry for days and be full.
I hope to God there's not a sinkhole that swallows my car while I'm driving to a new home.
When I wake up tomorrow, my entire body is going to feel like it's filled with sand. I'll walk with a hitch. I'll take eight steps to the bathroom, relieve myself, and stare into the mirror wondering why I never notice the hair on my face grow.
When I look outside, I wish the moon was close enough to touch then push away whenever it made me feel uncomfortable. I feel the same way about you.
There are times when I'm at work and I coil. Freeze, lock up. Stop thinking and just exhibit motions.
Right now I wish Sunday nights were a house so I could burn them down then drive away in a fishtailing car.
I want to go to sleep not knowing if I'll wake up. But when I do wake up the next morning, I can whisper finally to myself and breathe in until my chest hurts.
I wish I had this kind of flow and this kind of mind:
There's something going on up there. Sure, a jam session. Maybe a concert. Something else though. I feel like one of those loonies on TV who can sense ghosts.
Look at that picture. It's metal. Form, content and function. Also, the bassist kinda' looks like Joe Betz, a college friend. I did a double-take and laughed for a good five minutes. Joe never came off as a metal guy, but rest assured, if somebody handed him an axe, he'd cleave some trees. Maybe an entire forest.
Thing is, music does stuff folks. You need to be taking it seriously. Maybe not like Mom's birthday or the termites that're eating through the kitchen baseboards. Pretend it's an ocean and you've never swam before. Walk in up to your ankles. Kick around. Splash some. Dig your hands into the sand and pull up a clump of loose soot so that all the water around you gets cloudy for a minute.
Think. Hum some bars.
Go out a little farther. Like up to your chest. What's scary is that you're going to be wading around. Floating on your back a bit. Spitting out mouthfuls of water that tastes like the dentist's office, and you'll look back. The ocean's carried you out quite a bit father than expected. You're scared sure, but what's the difference between five feet? If you get pulled under, you get pulled under. Regardless of how deep you're out, you don't know how to swim so why not just enjoy it?
**
My insides burned yesterday. Something happened with a wedding that I was supposed to take part in. Now I'm no longer invited. I don't want to get into details. In retrospect, I've actually just wanted to write down that something happened. Welp, so I did.
Yup. It's out in the open now. Let's marinate on that one for a while. I still don't know how I feel. Hurt, yes. But anything else? Who knows? I'll have an eight hour car ride in a few weeks to think or completely forget about it.
**
I was actually about to post up a really funny clip, but in the process, I got Rick Rolled.
I guess that's probably the best way to sum up my vacation in one word. Ribs. Like the polar opposites of the rib universe coming together (like Congress is supposed to be, right?), to form this numbing sensation in your mouth. First the rub, a lake effect drubbing of spices, powders and crimson dust on the slab. Smoked, cooked for what seems like eternity.
Then the sauce. My God, the sauce. Sweet, pasty, a light glaze. Habenero, maybe? Sour nook? Tomato based or vinegar based? Doesn't matter folks. Throw it in front of me at a table, give me some wet towels and I'm gonna go to work. Around 6:30, I'll have the tip of my tongue buried beneath my nail beds trying to extract every last molecule of sauce.
Need proof?
Bam. I murdered that slab without batting an eyelash. Excuse the poor lighting. That restaurant was dim. Like catnap eyes. Like TV glow from the hallway (Gates' is said restaurant, by the way, if you're ever in town. Place was righteous.)
**
Trust me, it wasn't just about barbecue (kinda'). I signed an apartment lease. I got my promotion at work and start at the end of the month out in Kansas City.
So, I'm moving? Yeah. It's official. And there's no anxiety. No stress. Not a sliver of it. What gives? This either means I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life or go out there, and tear the city apart, super-nova 50 billion miles away style.
I mean, I've made lists. Everyone does it. You better believe Kansas City's writing community is near the top. Oh yeah, did I mention UMKC has their MFA program? And I've been talking with literary agents?
Hmmmm, are you catching on yet? Doubt it.
Let's try again.
He's a beast, he's a dog, he's a mother fuckin' problem. Okay, you're a goon. But what's a goon to a goblin? Nothin', nothin', nothin, You ain't scarin' nothin', on this faggot bull shit so let's call 'em Dennis Rodman.
Ding. Ding. Just let that marinate/fester/stew/whatever else. Think whatever you want, but you cannot sit there and tell me that cadence doesn't pummel you in the face for three straight minutes. He's on top of the world and I'm jealous. Every magician needs props, and he's got a full closet.
**
I'm hoping that Vitamin Water is cheap in Kansas City. Like those 10 for $10 deals. I can already tell my diet will regress back to noodles, Vitamin Water, cereal, crackers and sandwiches with a few pieces of cooked chicken thrown in for good measure. Honestly, I'm perfectly fine with that.
Another list:
Things I need when I move to Kansas City
A couch (definitely looking for a Cragislist or Goodwill special)
Flat-screen (I've seen some decent deals at Best Buy. Keepin' it below $500)
Some kind of chair/loveseat thing
Turntable
Futon/bed (see 'a couch)
Luckily I've already hit up Ikea once. Cue the Flight Club reference.
