I'll Believe In Anything

You should check out Matt Moroz's new video for Wolf Parade's "I'll Believe In Anything."

The song is epic, and the video epic-er.

What's more epic than an eighteenth century duel?

Especially when it involves a chicken.

The Last Twenty Four Hours Or So

I spent the majority of last night drifting in and out of sleep on Rachael's roof deck, half-listening to her little brother tell me stories as only an eleven year old can tell stories, half listening to the Red Sox get their asses handed to them on the radio, which was a floor below, in the kitchen, so it was blasting across Dorchester until about 12:30 am.

I left in a daze, around one o'clock in the morning, and met up with Tim.

I won't bore anyone with the details, mainly because there really aren't many details to be bored with- we stayed up talking about music (and porn) with a few people at an apartment in Brigham Circle, drove back to Tim's, and retired.

I had a great night, fifteen thumbs up, and I don't even know exactly why, but here's the point of the story:

When I got to my car this morning, there was a note under the wiper blade on my windshield that read "THIS IS NOT A PARKING SPACE" on one side and "SELFISH" on the other, in angry, red marker lettering.

Needless to say, I was horrified.

I'm convinced that this guy left the note, but I lack suffecient evidence to prove anything.

Granted, it wasn't a parking space, but people do park in this "non-space" all the time, and I wasn't blocking anyone in, of that I'm sure.

I was left with the impression that whoever left the note was pretty worked up over the whole thing, which doesn't make a lot of sense to me, and, in a lot of ways, worries me.

So the last twenty four hours have been an interesting juxtaposition, considering the tranquility of Rachael's roof and the rage of that note on my car.

The world is a strange place.

Cliche Wasted Hate Taste Test Hell YES!

Listen:

I just finished reading McSweeney's 18, and I have to finish Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer, then I have to read McSweeney's 19, and, if it arrives, McSweeney's 20. That's a whole lot of short stories, plus Dan Kennedy's book, if I manage to come across it, and whatever Believer issues show up in my mailbox in the elapsed time.

Oh, and the Murakami book.

This is more of a list for me than anything else. It's also me letting you all know that I'm the man and I can read like ten books at once.

Did I mention the book of stories by James Baldwin?

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So, while I can never say just what direction this "blog" (stupid fucking word) is going to take, I can guess that, maybe, I'll start throwing in a review or two, just so that I really don't hit too much of a lull while in the midst of this reading binge.

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That being said, Tropic of Cancer is one of the best and (ready for the most hackneyed shit ever?) most important books that I have ever read. If you really want to get a grasp of contemporary american literature, you have to read this. I think it's more accessible than Faulkner or Hemingway, and more overtly literary than Fitzgerald, and it's very art oriented. Miller is really mastering the nothing-is-happening-in-Paris-and-I'm-a-terrible-person vernacular, and the book flows very nicely.

McSweeney's 18 is just another issue of McSweeney's. There are some great stories in there, some big names (some good Joyce Carol Oates, a Convergence by Lawrence Weschler), but overall, it's kind of 50/50.

I didn't like "Deb Olin Unferth," "The Railway Nurse," "In A Bear's Eye," or "Happiness Reminders." Most everything else was pretty good, the two standouts being "Hot Pink" by Adam Levin and "My Hustlers" by Edmund White.

It's a smart looking book too, one that'll definately grab a few looks on the train.

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Dave Chapelle's Lost Episodes gets nine thumbs up, even though it's a bit overpriced ($13.88 for three episodes plus semi-extensive bonuses at Newbury Comics).

Let's face it, we'd spend thirteen dollars on a VHS of Dave Chapelle saying "mother-fucker" for a half hour.

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I'll be attending Lesley University in the fall. Yeah, I got in to a real college again, and I expect fruit baskets from all of you in recognition of my persistence. I have no idea what courses I will be taking, and I think that I might have to go to another orientation, so if that happens, I'm sure you'll be in for a treat. Those things are maddeningly annoying, and I'll be forced to cope by writing about the inane shit they make me do to "better know my fellow students."

When I went to UMASS they had a beach ball. They threw it around and there were questions written on it, and you had to answer whatever question your hand landed on. The problem was that you catch the thing with two hands, and each hand covers between five and seven questions, written in that affected loopy girl handwriting.

I got "Do you have a pet? What is it? What's it's name?"

Now, first of all, that's three questions. Second, the odds of anyone at orientation ever seeing me again (as I later learned) are about 30:1. The odds of them remembering my pet are even smaller than that, and then you've got to assume that they're going to give a shit one way or another.

I should have just said "No," but instead and lied about a dog I had named Eli. The fat girl who was dictating the charade asked what type of dog he was and I said that I didn't know. She laughed at that, and I tried to look offended, but I must not have, because she kept referencing the fact that I didn't know what type of dog I had.

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I'm covered in bug bites and the longer I stay up, the more likely I am to scratch them until I bleed, so, with that, I'm going to bed.

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Keep reading though, and when there's nothing of any interest here, read whatever Dave writes, because we're going to be bigger than Stephen Colbert and Jon "Stewart."

We'll be bigger because we're weirder. We're weirder and we write on the internet. That's essentially what I'm basing that claim on.

Jon is a jew, and that may have somehow helped his rise to fame in a way I cannot understand. So if one of us converts, that's when you know shits going to start flying off heavy. Start buying stock, baby, this one's going google.

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PS: Devendra Banhart's Cripple Crow is getting a good review even though I haven't heard the whole thing yet. It was described somewhere as "Left-field folk," and I think that's pretty accurate.