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?

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

- - - -

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.

Disregard This

I'd like to first establish a frame of reference. I don't know exactly how long it's been since I last wrote something, but I'm going to call it a week. Now, I know it's been much more than a week (or I at least think so) but I don't get weekends off at either of my jobs, so everything kind of melts together. It's summer, I think today is Sunday. I don't remember the last day I had off (which was yesterday) and the distance to my next day off (wednesday) seems interminably long.

Erica is visiting on Thursday, Devon is home for a couple of weeks, I have to figure out how I am going to attend college in September.

I think what I'm trying to say here is I'm very tired and my stomach is flipping around a little bit.

I was a but unnerved by the one run wins over the KC Royals, but this thrashing of the A's is making me feel a bit better.

Whatever.

There isn't much else to say. I've been trying to write a story, but I can't come up with any good ideas. I've been having some bizarre dreams, but I can't really remember them. I've been writring the occassional successful e-mail, and I just mowed my lawn.

This has taken me about a week to write completely, so a lot of the notes about what day it is and how I'm feeling are no longer applicable.

I have, for a long time, been considering getting into weather. I mean really getting into weather. Barometric pressure, radar loops, the whole thing. It's so cool. I'm sick of watching the weather and relying on their analysis. I want a fucking command center in my backyard, and I want to do the predicting myself. I don't think that it's all that difficult to do. So I'll let you know how all that turns out.

God, just forget this post altogether, my back is killing me and I don't have anything I want to talk about.

I've Been At Home For Two Days, And I've Seen Superman Returns In 3D Twice.

Watching the news today, I got really down. Lebanon did something awful, or maybe the Israelis did something awful to Lebanon, one or the other, but now they're pissed at each other, so, by default, the Palestinians are going to pick up arms (read: rocks) again.

But I don't want to make political banter here, you've got hundreds and hundreds of guys out there writing about this stuff, touching themselves and thinking about Jon Stewart, and I really don't think you need another one.

So I'm just going to suggest a way to feel better when this kind of thing kicks you in you're already apathy-shrunken testicles. I put TNT on, and I watched Law & Order.

Now, it starts off just being a good show. Regular, mom n' pop Law & Order is always good watching because it inevitably brings you back to those middle school strep throat weekdays spent on the couch. You could watch the SciFi channel and get the same result, but not with the frequency that this show delivers.

If there is a cure for political apathy ity is Jerry Orbach's cynicism and frequent quips referencing one of his three, yes, three divorces.

And if you need a stronger dose, I recommend Ice-T on Law & Order: SVU. Yes, you'll have to deal with stories about sex offenders, rapists, child molesters (you know, the boring stuff), but with the possibility of Ice-T taking out a perp, it's well worth the risk.

What was the name of that big hit song that Ice-T put out again? Was it "Cop Killa"?

Why the hell is the news so damn depressing? It seems like even when they try to make it positive these days it's still pretty sad. I saw some dude in a hawiian shirt rescue his pet parrot out of a tree in Somerville on the news sometime last week and I was really struggling to see the humanity (or humor) in his actions. His eyes were just so dead and soulless. He may have been a drug addict.

Now that's the kind of news we need:

DRUG ADDLED SOMERVILLE MAN RESCUES PARROT FROM TREE, VOWS TO CONTINUE TO 'KEEP IT REAL.'

- - - -

It's been raining most of the day, and it's weirding me out. Time has been passing strangely all day because I didn't sleep at all last night, and when you can't even follow the somewhat familiar path of the sun across the sky, things get weird. There's definatlely a total lack of motiovation in a lot of ways-- take for instance the fact that I didn't take a shower until about 6 pm today, this, after staying up all night and working from 8:30 am until about 3:00 in the afternoon at the Swan Boats.

I fell asleep sitting down on the train this morning and my head slammed into the pole in front of me going around a turn or something. It was pitiful.

- - - -

Listen to Justin Roelofs' new album, White Flight.

It is a celebration. One of the best I have heard in a long time, it's like listening to Neutral Milk Hotel for the first time, all over again.

3D Superman is also pretty sweet, by the way.

Watching An Atlanta Braves Game Is Bizarre, Who The Hell Is Charlie Moore, And A Song

So John Smoltz just knocked in an RBI single, capping off a three run seventh inning for the Atlanta Braves to put them on top, 3-1. The crowd is really excited, but I can't get into a National League game, and not just because it isn't the Red Sox. I can get into a lot of AL games, but there's something about the Braves. Why is it that they're so boring, even when they're playing in an extremely entertaining game.

It could be all of the advertisements for diabetes and prostate treatment. That just doesn't go with baseball. Trot Nixon trying to read a cue card for the American Red Cross, or Joe "Professor-From-Back-To-The-Future-Haircut" Sullivan's grandchildren asking Terry Francona to rapidly explain a suicide squeeze.

Here's a funny NESN story. Have you ever seen the advertisements for Charlie Moore Outdoors? Charlie Moore is that sad fisherman guy who calls himself "The Mad Fisherman," making a fool out himself with a camera crew somewhere off the coast of Cape Cod.

So I actually watched this show when I was at lunch today on Beacon Hill and for a long time I thought it must be some kind of an infomercial, because there didn't seem to be any commercials breaking it up.

Then I realized that there were in fact commercials, it was just that Charlie Moore was in all of them.

And I mean, seriously, literally, all of them.

He sold restaurants, auto repair, porno stores, you name it. Charlie Moore was endorsing it.

There were also a few shots of Charlie Moore at home, which was interesting, because his house is resoundingly unimpressive, so he's probably not making all that much money with all of this.

- - - -

I wrote this song last night, and I'd like someone to try to put music to the lyrics. I already had a little melody in my head, but I think other people could do a better job.

"Big Fat Black Guy Sleepin' On The Train"

Big fat black guy, sleepin' on the train
Where is he gonna get off?
It could be downtown or it could be state
But I'm guessing it's central square

Oh central square, central square
That's where all the poor people live.
Poor fat black guy sleepin' on the train.

- - - -

I'm going to the beach.

My Name Is Jason Johnson And I Would Like Someone To Put Me Out Of My Misery

OK. I'm a little irritated, to begin with, because the Red Sox are getting their shins kicked in by one of the worst (on paper) teams in the American League. The Tampa Bay Devil Rays are like the ignorant guy in the movie who's manipulated into killing the hero by the real bad guy. Someone needs to tell them to stop winning because they're likely to screw everything up if they do.

Like I said, I'm irritated, and I just saw about thirty seconds of this show called The Hills. So, in all honesty, this isn't even funny anymore. Let's have a cultural overview here: Snakes On A Plane: funny. The Hills: not funny.

And this is the sort of thing that is completely uncontestable to me. This stuff is mindless, soulless, empty entertainment that pushes all kinds of buttons I don't even want to think about. Are rich Californian teenagers some kind of an idol? They're definately iconic, in both positive and negative lights, but I cannot undertsand this undying fascination with people who live in Los Angeles.

Now, I've never been there, but from what I understand it's just a city filled with really shallow people doing really shallow things. There's the smog thing because everyone drives everywhere, some areas are really dangerous, etc. etc.

Is there anyone else with a total lack of interest in the place? Iceland is on my list at the moment, South Central is not. I've heard people say in the city's defense that there are a lot of people there who are genuinely talented and really involved in their creative industries, but I refuse to believe that you have to live in Los Angeles to be involved in film, music, whatever. When's the last time you heard a good band from LA?

This turned into a big anti-los angeles rant, but I had started with the intention of promoting not watching television. I really think television lowers your standards or something, and I'd like so much to just not have it as a frame of reference. Yeah, in the past few months I've enjoyed a shitty TV show and about eight hundred Red Sox games, but if you sit and watch TV for an extended period of time and you don't completely veg out, you start to realize what a waste of time it is.

Why watch TV when you could be typing inane shit that no one reads online?

- - - -

I started reading Tropic of Cancer and, so far, this is the best passage:

"They have not told me what the new drama is about, but I can sense it. They are trying to get rid of me. yet I am here for my dinner, even a little earlier than they expected. I have informed them where to sit, what to do. I ask them politely if I shall be disturbing them, but what I really mean, and they know it well, is-- will you be disturbing me? No, you blissful cockroaches, you are not disturbing me. You are nourishing me. I see you sitting there close together and I know there is a chasm between you. Your nearness is the nearness of planets. I am the void between you. If I withdraw there will be no void for you to swim in."