me: if boo was a human would you date him?
pearl: god, what a question.
i honestly don’t know
he is kind of a dick, so…yes!
me: ha
i was just having one of those conversations w/oui where i tell her i don’t need a real girlfriend, and then i started wondering…
this is not the first time i’ve wondered, either.
pearl: so…you would date oui (if she were human)?
me: i dunno.
she is nice and curvy
and she likes to eat
and biting
all those are in her favor
pearl: what about dragging her butt on the carpet?
me: yes, the personal hygiene aspect is somewhat lacking.
pearl: ha
is that a deal-breaker?
me: it may be.
she does have good taste in music.
pearl: not a heavy metal fan, though, right?
me: true
but that’s ok
she likes weird english folk a lot
and psychedelic music
pearl: both good things
me: yes




Following up on my last post, this (NSFW).



Some insults I have made up:


Like most of my creative output, it sometimes seems, these all developed in various chat sessions. The first two are about a year old, and they come from a conversation that also spawned the question “is there any communion wine left motherfucker?”

“Assradish” happened today. I like it because it seems like it ought to be a reference to something, but it isn’t.

Another recent favorite insult is “big girl’s blouse,” as in “Oh, Mr. Byron, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse!” I realize that I strongly disapprove of feminization as an insult, but this phrase is just too silly to not make me giggle. Subtract the problematic aspect and it reminds me of Neil exclaiming “Oh, floppy disks!”

Speaking of The Young Ones, this.

Quoting myself


Tuesday, June 29, 2004

It’s somehow less surprising to me that I survived all those years of being single than it is that I survived them without a cat.

I ain’t been doin’ shit.

That is, I’ve been reading but not writing, and also not much of anything on my list. I’ve been enjoying the books I’ve been reading but have been lacking much of anything to say about them. So in the interest of completeness, I will replace several well-crafted medium-length entries with one long dashed off one, thus clearing the decks and letting me start stockpiling more themes for engaging entries I will replace with long unsatisfying summaries.

Farren, M. (1981). Phaid the Gambler. New York: Ace.
Farren, M. (1987). Citizen Phaid. New York: Ace.
Not particularly ambitious and thus more or less successful chronicle of a rambling gambler. The post-apocalyptic setting is pretty interesting, but I wanted more background. It’s strange to see a “series” consisting of two books, rather than a trilogy (or more). Still, it killed some time.

Licht, A. (2002). An emotional memoir of Martha Quinn. Chicago: Drag City.
This one’s a reread, inspired by the fantastic Robyn Hitchcock show at Coolidge Corner a few weeks ago. In this more or less latter part of his career, Hitchcock is consciously locating himself as a bit of a historical relic, at the end of one line and grappling ambivalently with the beginning of the next; yet his music remains consistently innovative, challenging, and enjoyable. Why do some established musicians (Nick Cave is another example) manage this transition whereas others (Pete Townshend, Lou Reed) fail? Licht spends a lot of time talking about this:

I truly believe that Pete Townshend and Lou Reed have as much talent today as they did in the Sixties — but the lives they lead as established rock stars aren’t as interesting as the lives they led as young writers and performers, which is why their music isn’t as inspired or interesting.

This little book from Drag City is out of print but easily found online (I bought another copy because I thought I’d lost mine; now it turns out I have two). Worth checking out for any rock fan or cultural critic. (I may do an entire post inspired by this show and book; then again, maybe I won’t).

Tarrant, S. (2009). Men and feminism. Berkeley: Seal Press.

I read this on the bus to and from NYC. Basic but useful, as it discusses the relationship between men and (you guessed it) feminism. It made me start thinking really actively about certain passively-held principles, and the difference between passively-held principles and action. Several weeks later, I’m still thinking about it, and taking small steps toward implementing some of these thoughts. It feels good.

There was something I didn’t like about the book, but I can’t remember what it was, and I can’t find my copy at the moment, so it probably wasn’t that important.

Olin, J. (2010). Hold tight: The Truck Darling poems. New York: Hanging Loose.

So far this is the only book of poems I’ve managed to make it through this summer. Jeni Olin is fast becoming one of my favorite poets: gorgeous, harrowing, raw, and tender. Here’s one:


As an insomniac compulsively flips a pillow
to cool the cheek, I turn you over again & again
& again in my mind when I need the cold side
of the said affair to rail against
“the ruinous work of nostalgia.”
If life imitates art, then each stillborn
has its own mucus-bright Blue Period.
Sharks keep moving to prevent dying.
People keep moving too, unwittingly staving off
the comfort of stasis, the virility of expiration, blah, blah…
But Death, the great highlighter, makes us all shine
a bit more dearly. I’m a widowchild who needs sunblock
against your blinding legacy. I used to get my cardio up
by just sleeping next to you. In a sane world,
I’d be bumped off to warn the others of a sky
so blue at the end of the working business day
if your veins hadn’t stolen the purest
Pearl Paint blue first. A broken thoroughbread –
I need a passport & vertigo pills to reach you.
Godspeed, galloping into your Misty Blue
OMG I miss you.

Other than these, I don’t think I’ve finished any other books, though I’ve started several form my list. Karen Horney’s Our Inner Conflicts, which after a chapter has taught me that it’s really hard to read psychoanalytic theory without people to talk about it with; Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, where I’ve been stalled with exactly 100 pages to go (out of 600), hung up by a combination of timing and a shift of narrative; Eating Pavlova, D.M. Thomas’ fictionalized version of Freud’s final days, which is proving too hallucinatory for me to follow. Also (not from my list) Jack Vance’s The Dying Earth, the first chapter of which I enjoyed fairly well, but which hasn’t proven sufficiently interesting to continue.

And I’ve been watching a lot of TV and movies, mostly via Netflix. House of the Devil, one of the best horror movies I’ve seen in some time; Heat, which somehow I’ve never seen and which blew me away; Arrested Development, for kicks, which I like a lot but has never really grabbed me; and I’ve finally started 30 Rock, after a couple years of resistance. I’m enjoying it immensely.


by Mike Watt (march, 1995)

When I’m either alone or together with my people going through the tunes I call it practice and not rehearsal. Actors rehearse. I practice the songs. I do not play the role of bass player – I am the bass player! I do not have to rehearse my role as bass player but rather I have to practice the tunes for the upcoming gig. I actually have to pluck the bridge cables the bass uses for string and not perform mime. Practice is not rehearsal. The semantics here are important. The wages of this lazy thinking lead me to the defense of my craft.

By lazy thinking I’m talking about riding with the cliché, cooking up the angle, tying in the bllshit, anteing up the bonus-hype – trying to sell something for what it ain’t, in simple words. They got jerks saying “got to go rehearse” so they can somehow see themselves as players in the great rock dream and not as operators of god’s engines, learning the way they work. Engines make sound, be it bass, throat, stomp, jug… whatever! Can you picture this at the practice pad: “ok, let’s play this song and Thurston, when I wink – you do a ‘townshend’ and jump in the air”. Sounds are created and dealt with not that “lights, camera, action!” shit. I mean that’s fine for pictures and theatre but we’re talking about wailing out fucking music! Gigs are spontaneous when genuine, everyone can agree to this, can’t they? Practice for the gig but don’t give in and try to rehearse it – let the gods roll the fucking dice!

But the lazy thinkers have another agenda. They embody the pure spirit of the crap artist. They will try to talk you into salt after selling you canker sores. They won’t let you practice medicine and maybe heal them sores. No, they’d rather have you rehearse your role as christ and after buying their salt (cuz salt is hip this week), cake it up and rub it into your sores. Forget about if it feels right or natural because what you’re here for is to rehearse the great drama! You’re no longer free to practice for your gig.

Once they divorce you from your reality you have nothing left but the role they have for you, born of their lazy thinking, fresh from the cookie-cutter. People, defend yourself first with language. Don’t let them pigeon-hole you – reserve the right to define yourself! Practice playing music and don’t give in and try to rehearse it. Save that for the putzs who work for lazy thinkers! At least wonder about the implications.

So I went out of the Dubious to catch the summer evening breeze. The night was glorious, out there. The air was sweet as a cool bath, the stars were peeping nosily beyond the neons, and the citizens of the Queendom, in their jeans and separates, were floating down the Shaftesbury avenue canals, like gondolas. Everyone had loot to spend, everyone a bath with verbena salts behind them, and nobody had broken hearts, because they were all ripe for the easy summer evening. The rubberplants in the espressos had been dusted, and the smooth white lights of the new-style Chinese restaurants – not the old Mah Jongg categories, but the latest thing with broad glass fronts, and dacron curtainings, and a beige carpet over the interiors – were shining a dazzle, like some monster telly screens. Even those horrible old anglo-saxon public-houses – all potato crisps and flat, stale ale, and puddles on the counter bar, and spittle – looked quite alluring, provided you didn’t push those two-ton doors that pinch your arse, and wander in. In fact, the capital was a night-horse dream. And I thought, ‘My lord, one thing is certain, and that’s that they’ll make musicals one day about the glamour-studded 1950s.’ And I thought, my heaven, one thing is certain too, I’m miserable.

MacInnes, C. (1959). Absolute beginners. London: Allison & Busby.