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dear lord, i just watched part of the worst film i have ever seen.

knowing it was the worst film i have ever seen, it still left me in a temporary state of near-heaving sobs.

i tend towards the romantic comedy genre after a late night, if i can find myself in front of the television for long enough to find one.

enter “marley & me,” a meditation on a bland, lifeless, yuppie family and their labrador that takes ignorance toward caring for a dog to a near criminal level. I actually read the book this film was based on once on a series of cross country flights several years ago … i never bought a copy, but i read it in airport bookstores over the course of a long day and found it to be a highly sentimental tear-jerker, yet one you really wanted to finish.

i was probably hung over that day, too.

the film is an abomination, what i saw of it anyway, but by the end of it when the dog started to decline it fucking got to me, man. owen wilson sitting next to an aging marley telling the dog to let him know when it’s time to put him down. marley getting too old to walk up the stairs in the house … at the end they actually take the camera into the vet’s office and film the administering of the kill shot to marley while strings play in the background as marley’s eyes slowly close. by this point, things had gotten so outrageous that i had composed myself, but there were a good fifteen minutes during marley’s slow fade that fucking broke me up. uugh.

anyway, late nights … they get to me the next day. and i wasn’t all that drunk last night, but it was way late (at least i didn’t have to drive to austin at 8 am this morning like some poor souls …)

and way late can still affect a brother, especially since i’ve been rather austere lately by my historical standards.

great night, though … and during james mcmurtry’s astounding set at spanish moon, i witnessed one of the most stunning practical jokes imaginable.

my old friend dillon’s best friend kristin (new friend to me) was in town.

dillon gets up from the bar to take a piss. kristin, without hesitation, picks up her phone. types “i want to make the anal to you” into the text app and starts firing it off to random people. funny enough. she’s firing along, “this is her brother,” send, “this is her ex-boyfriend,” send, etc. etc. then she holds the phone up to me and i just see the recipient as, “Dad,” and before i can even react, she sends it off. doesn’t break stride … “oh, this is her boss!” send. and on, and on …

pretty happening broads, those two. good times.

damn this summer class, man. i could be en-route to los angeles right now …

***

take one minute and listen to this. you will find peace.

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still bumming about the big man … his passing did, however, really soften the blow of ryan dunn dying in a twisted mass of burning steel. jackass till the end …

remembering dunn’s genius:

***

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i always thought clarence clemons was gonna shag robin quivers one day. they had heat, those two, every time he visited the studio. legendary heat. never happened, though. always playing it careful …

there’s a lesson in here somewhere.

and i never saw the e street band neither. and if i ever do, it’ll have to be without the big man.

ain’t gonna be the same, friends.

big man was the only guy who could get the sax to always sound hip in rock music.

fattest, biggest, thickest, strongest, meanest, most muscular, soulful tone ever.

unmistakable.

and bruce and the big man were madly in love with each other.

so clearly.

they were madly in love.

rough night for the boss, i reckon.

so … so long, big man. i love you.

you were a man so big, it takes two parts to say goodbye … (and if these clips don’t make you wish you were old enough to get nice with the e street band in the 1970s, there’s something seriously wrong with your natural …)

from the LA Times …

The following is a list – though far from complete – of the many ways that Springsteen has introduced Clarence Clemons in concert over the years:

“Master of the universe.”

“Master of all things.”

“Master of all worlds.”

“Master of disaster.”

“King of the world”

“King of the entire known universe, including Hoboken.”

“Emperor of the North Pole.”

“Prince of the city.”

“Eight wonder of the world.”

“Best-selling author.”

“Man of letters.”

“Star of stage and screen.”

“Sexaphonist.”

“The Duke of Paducah.”

“The next king of England.”

“The next senator of New York.”

“The next president of these United States.”

“The secretary of the brotherhood.”

“The minster of soul.”

“The Socrates of the saxophone.”

“Bigger than Shakespeare.”

“The Big Kahuna.”

“The biggest Scotsman you’ve ever seen.”

“The biggest man you’ve ever seen.”

“The Big Man.”

Tags:   big man · clarence clemons · robin quivers · rosalitaNo Comments.

just finished a helluva wacky read.

house of leaves by mark danielewski. 2000-ish.

a postmodern experimental novel with a hook:

mid-twenties troubled hipster living in l.a. enters the apartment of a neighbor who recently died. the place is pitch dark, no light bulbs anywhere, and completely sealed off to the outside world. we then learn the dead neighbor was blind.

in the apartment a chest is found filled with papers. the papers – written by the dead blind man (zampano) – are a scholarly treatise about a documentary called the navidson report. it is alluded to that there isn’t any evidence anywhere that this documentary actually exists, so what the guy is holding is a dissertation on a non-existent documentary film written by a blind man. plato is shitting himself somewhere.

the dissertationn (a text that is heavily footnoted by both zampano and johnny, the mid-twenties troubled hipster who found the text and reassembled it in the form that we are now holding) tells the story of the navidson report which goes something like this:

will navidson is an award winning photojournalist. he moves out of the big city with his smoking hot ex-model wife and two children to an old farm house in the country with the intention of documenting their transition. he wants to make a simple, personal film about his family’s experience in the move, so he sets up cameras all over the house.

one weekend they go away, and when they return, they notice a small closet under a stairwell that wasn’t there (they’re pretty sure, anyway) before they left. in an effort to see what is happening, will begins a measurement project of the house in which the troubling discover is made that the inside measurement of the house is – in fact – 1/4″ longer than the outside.

and shit goes bonkers from there …

you get lost in the footnotes and appendices and the form of the text starts to require you to read upside down and spin the text and you get disoriented that way as well. totally playing with all notions of representation throughout, yet it’s all hung together around a pretty compelling and weird and sexy and – at times – pretty disturbing narrative.

anyway, proper fun, weird, stimulating read. it’ll keep you up at night …

***

Tags:   house of leaves · lake charles4 Comments

Tim O’Gara writes songs like secrets. They live in fragments and flashes, tucked away inside, like the ghosts in an old cigar box – first grade valentine, fake ID, broken necklace, foreign coins – the things you keep. They are poetry. Gone away images hung on fragile frames that bend and sway and play in and out of time with an underlying frailty and a tender valor. They are tales of nights on Henry Ridge, of demented elves and pink lemonade skies, of papyrus stuffed crocodiles, of rye whiskey and falling mountains. They remind us that life is magically slow and still when we listen closely. To share Tim’s music with another is an intimate exchange that, like the best of secrets, requires a partner with a sincere ear and an open heart. They are the sounds of love and trust. So watch yourself … these songs swim with nothing on. Consider this a warning. A secret. From one friend to another.

***

so tim calls me a few weeks back. a friend is starting a zine and some kind of production company and wanted me to write something about his music for her.

‘sure,’ i said. ‘when you need it by?’

‘oh,’ says tim – still on topanga time – ‘you know. a few, weeks, you know … a little while. you got awhile.’

‘cool man. got it. i’ll get right on it.’

completely forgot about it.

two nights ago, i get a text from tim.

‘did you ever write that thing?’

fuck.

‘no timmy, i’m an asshole and i forgot. i’m good for it, though. when you need it?’

‘oh, well, you know. tomorrow would be good,’ he says.

***

we are in a full blown drought down here. strange that the river is about to burst through the levees while the land around it turns to dust. we are also breaking heat records, which doesn’t seem like it would be possible, but, who knows?

anyway, i’m turning to tim to conjure up some rain for us. i know he can do it.

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***

here’s tim and sean and renne and amelia playing scarlet mccreary under the lovely grey topanga canyon fall skies. god that looks nice. i used to get to play drums with these folks. science needs to figure out this whole you-can-only-be-in-one-place-at-one-time hindrance. it’s a real drag sometimes.

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white asked me yesterday if i had any pictures of the great christopher sine when he was in town for jazz fest.

white likes to keep tabs on christopher sine.

i think he’s interested in how much hair chris is retaining.

but i could be wrong.

anyway, shots from the jazz fest visit (weeks late).

***

here’s some photos that ryan gibbs took of us at jazz fest.

here’s ryan gibbs. he knows his way around a camera.

here’s me talking to a mardi gras indian. take a good look at this fucking photograph.

this guy told me, ‘watch your shit. just cause these people work here, they steal.’

i like this one.

fender.

clyde’s violin.

rocks off.

Tags:   flatbed honeymoon · jazz fest2 Comments

had one of those rogue drunks last night that sneak up behind you and kick you in the soft stuff.

i blame a dinner of brown rice and thai basil eggplant that i made. it was tasty, and i ate a lot, but the longer this life goes on, the more you realize that a night of drinking requires a dinner like you’d get on the farm. hearty and strong. something able to go toe to toe with those beers for many rounds.

schmitty came over and we had a few on the couch and watched the end of the bulls game. they were up 12 with just under four to play.

‘i’d say it’s looking pretty good for the bulls,’ schmitty said.

‘lotta time left,’ i said.

four minutes later the bulls’ season was over.

not that i really have an emotional connection to that team, but, you know, chicago and all. hooch and todd were into it, which was fun as they usually don’t get too into the nba, and i lack people to really talk sports with.

thank god for christian on this front. sometimes when we talk, we immediately get into the warriors or the giants and talk until one of us has to go and we never get to anything else.

funny how two people can connect over things.

anyway, schmitty and i went up to chelsea’s and had some more beer (only beer last night, too, and nothing heavy or fancy. budweiser all night. sneaky, that shit sometimes.) and watched this girl named jody james play. she was something. kind of a sweet little southern redhead who came across as very young but humble and sincere. turned out she was actually 32. i love it when that happens.

her set had a few moments that really got through to me. i remember one line, something about i’m not a beauty queen, but i’ve got soul, and i’ve got rock and roll.

amen, sister.

at one point, schmitty turned to me and said, like he’s really just figured something out, ‘man, you oughta try and get with her.’

‘funny, i was just thinking the same thing,’ i said.

chicks, man.

there’s always something going down with them. this one thinks she’s really fat and brings it up all the time when she’s really fucking beautiful and dynamic and vibrant. another one can’t decide what it is she wants to believe in. another one’s drunk, and that’s it. it’s all a big cluster fuck. or so it seems …

the most popular dance that we do these days, though, is to act like we don’t need each other. that’s the flavor of this historical moment. gotta stir up interest by not talking, not returning communication, blowing off engagements. but it’s the oldest game in the book, i guess. and i play it without even thinking about it, mostly. it used to be exciting. maybe even a little romantic at times. but it’s so fucking boring at this point. really. and sad.

i guess the fact is that the players in these dances don’t really want what the other has to offer, but you want to, you know, seem connected to something, to feel like you’re involved. and there’s the things that we all need now and again to get through. from someone.

you get to the point, though, when you’re hung over some days and it’s hot and you think about those times when it’s easy and there’s no games and the channels are just opened between two lonely creatures in a world that doesn’t care and it’s just inspiration. not even love or romance or passion, necessarily, but just a heightened feeling that you want to live a little bet bigger, deeper, braver at those moments. want to be better because of that person. and then you remember, ‘fuck. most of this is just fucking the fuck around waiting for a bus that might never come.’

it’s 8 pm and i still can’t shake this fucking hangover.

***

***

i did get a new camera.

olympus e-p1.

spent a few hours today trying to figure out how to use the damn thing. how to customize its settings. mostly, i found myself turning features off. these god damn things do too much, too much, too much.

but it’s cool. built like a fucking tank. gonna be fun to have a nice camera again.

get ready for lots of shots of our kid lefty.

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the summer is here.

hot.

could be a good one.

interesting, at the very least.

lots of music on the books.

played in lake charles last night.

lake charles … the enigma of east louisiana.

‘it ain’t cajun,’ says schmitty,’ but it’s not texas, either.’

this is a festival crowd.

this hot tub is ice fucking cold.

this is hospitality.

this is a band called something like fresh nectar. i know …

this is late night nuggets.

this is … what is this?

***

anyway, summer.

lots of friends changing positions. going away. maybe not coming back. moving on in different ways … always kinda sad.

or weird.

three years down here, though. that’s a lifetime in a college town.

you notice things like completely new cycles of waitresses. that’s when you know you’re a veteran.

but when you’re someone with a history of needing a regular scenery change, and lots of friends and neighbors change positions, it’s kinda like changing scenery from the comfort of your own home.

and i guess it’s good.

Tags:   flatbed honeymoon2 Comments

i was talking to schmitty earlier, and told him that i always thought he’d be the one to take out bin laden. he said, ‘well, kev, i just never got a clean shot …’

on a personal note, i don’t know what i’m going to do with all this looming free time. on top of the school commitments, the band, adhering to a strict regimen of drugs and alcohol, and walking lefty, my jihad was taking up a shitload of time. the calendar has really opened up overnight.

seriously, though, can we end this fucking ‘war on terror’ already? right? we got the ass hole. hurray. everyone agrees this is a good thing. job (finally) done. time to bring ‘em home, big o. $2 billion a week. tens (hundreds?) of thousands dead. enough already with these fucking ridicules wars. tell the boys and girls to start packing their shit, big o. stat.

***

the record release last night was a smashing success:

polly pry was lovely, as always.

kristin foster’s got that something.

schmitty and denise.

jimmy and chris, the proprietor of the red dragon. guy is a fucking legend. one of the most generous people i’ve ever met. he loooooves music and puts his money and time where his mouth is.

we had a great turnout, people bought up the discounted swag, we all caught a pretty good buzz and talked a lotta shit and had a few laughs.

hawg, a regular at the red dragon, greeted me before our first set with, ‘i’m so fucking psyched right now, dude,’ and greeted me after the second set with a, ‘i am so fucking destroyed right now, dude.’ he then went out and fell asleep in his truck for a few hours.

anna byers, polly pry’s guitar player, was feeling under the weather with some stomach problems. i went up and gave her a little hug and asked her if she was pregnant. she said, ‘yeah right, dude. i’d have to get a new belt buckle.’ a pretty killer one-liner, considering her belt buckle reads, ‘LES.’ much later, in the parking lot, anna, wasted, walked up and punched me pretty much as hard as she could in the shoulder, told me she loved me, and staggered to her car.

in addition to anna’s feeling a little off, kristin was having some shoulder problems and carpal tunnel and was in pain. we had a good laugh that polly pry’s women folk are falling apart …

can’t wait for jazz fest and for everyone to come down to the dirty south. it’s gonna go so damn fast. i can’t wait to see y’all and share a lost weekend for the ages!

***

lefty did a funny thing today. we took a walk around 1 pm behind the school across the street. lefty fell well behind and i called him to catch up. he took his time getting up and running to me, as is his way, but as he started running, i noticed he was limping a bit. he sat down and started licking his front paw. i walked up to him and checked it out. couldn’t see anything, so i let him lick for a bit longer and then we continued walking. he kept limping and i could tell it was bothering him, whatever it was, so i picked him up with the intent of carrying him home.

now, lefty is kind of a chunk. he’s 26 pounds of dead weight. awkwardly shaped. hot. furry. i carried him about three hundred yards and started to get tired, so i set him down. (and btw, how to people do this shit with kids? you’re still carrying kids around when they’re 25 pounds, aren’t you? then why are so many parents such flabby fat asses? maybe they never pick up their kids …) anyway, i set him down and told him to walk again. this time … and i know he was faking it a little bit … he starts limping dramatically, walks about three feet, sits down, looks over his shoulder at me, and lifts his paw up in the air. he just held it in the air for about ten seconds and kept looking right at me. fucking hilarious. i picked his sorry ass up and carried him home. once home, he walked with little discomfort to his food bowl.

Tags:   flatbed honeymoonNo Comments.

making these flatbed posters has inspired a bit of a recent obsession in graphic design that has rivaled similar recent obsessions in hip hop and vegetarian food.

these things tend to come in threes …

this zest for design (i have no idea what i’m doing) inspired a font download party the other night during which i installed over 8,400 fonts on my computer. all of them. at one time.

bad idea.

this morning the computer took about 20 minuted to boot. this coming a week after i installed a new hard drive and did the requisite transference of all my shit, etc. thought i fucked up royally, but i just moved the font folder to the desktop and rebooted. voila.

probably could stand to learn to, you know, ease into things one of these days. i’m a deep ender. as a kid, it was headfirst dives into a cold pool rather than easing in thorough the shallow end. just get it over with already. cut the bull shit.

i think this tendency is getting worse across the board with age.

but, hell …

time’s a wasting.

Tags:   flatbed honeymoon · jazz fest3 Comments