call it a day already (written last year drunk and disorderly while on the seven year anniversary of my little brother's death. it's 8 years today.)

its a hole in my chest. a cavity empty and blank. its a hole in my chest and my stomach. its my whole goddamn torso. a vacant lot telling me to go fuck myself. A monster eating away, creating a crevice that knows no limits. the flood lights are on and the sirens are going strong. its a warning, listen intently and please take precautions. build up ones control before you lose it. its a hole in my chest and my stomach and my heart. Its a hole in my goddamn heart. its whispers discouraging whispers and it stomps its feet when it walks. heavy footed, itll keep moving from morning to night but never goes anywhere. its a fucking badger with claws. claws that are sharper than sharp. sharp like broken glass. but stronger than glass. like steel. a badger with claws that are very sharp and stronger than glass. its a window that is now broken. once a beautiful wall to wall bay window, its been shattered by a brick. now the brick lays on the hardwood floor, amid shards of broken badger claws with a note attached telling me to go fuck myself. wait, no. its not a beautiful bay window, but a beautiful mansion up on the hill. a beautiful mansion up on the hill that was swiftly demolished, it’s occupants now living in a small tent beside it. cold, wet, desperate. Its a hole in my goddamn heart. wide and yellow eyes stare into my own. its a wolf, like the nothing and im atreyu. milky yellow eyes penetrating everything i’ve built and sees right through the transparent defenses. today is empty and blank, a perfect day for a bananafish. today is cold and bare. chicago is futile. chicagos a hole in my chest and in my stomach and in my heart and in my life. its been eating away for seven years and doesn’t show any signs of fatigue. its appetite is unbelievable and its grown to an unbelievable size. behind the desk and next to boxes of old rollingstones and boys life. it’s gotten so big, too fucking large and cant stay there no more. it cries louder than loud. the black bandana tied around it’s mouth, it does nothing to muffle the obscenities. it hates me. its one massive, colossal fucking hole. its AT&T destroying the concrete at milwaukee and western. its the intersection of dug up wires, cutting eight lanes down to four. its a seven year pledge drive on national public radio. its annoying and all encompassing. its goddamn terry gross babbling 24/7 and my car radio just wont turn off because the knobs are broken and the cd players busted. its a hole in my goddamn heart.

cool the jets, family is important. friends are too. friends are important but tend to fade like black jeans. family is like white jeans, they dont fade, just wear thin. they stay intact unless some jackass decides to slice through the fabric and make then shorts. but summer only lasts so long. june, july, august. perhaps theres an indian summer. but you’ll need pants again, sooner than later and winter can be fucking rough. and unlike friends, you cant go out and buy new family.

sorry, im wrong. they’re not like jeans.

member when i got drunk and wrote this last year? it's funny how a year can change things.

Please Act Your Age and Not Your Height. Sept. 11 2009

The best little bookstore in the Bright Lights is lined wall to wall with great works. Come one, come all. Unlocked at 10AM, the door is propped open until one in the morning. Floor to ceiling, used and resold, given as gifts, then either read and enjoyed or unread and ignored. The staff, usually two girls and one guy, sometimes one girl and two guys are friendly enough, even when their comments concerning my latest purchase lean towards dismissal of taste. New-to-you hard and softcovers come in constantly. It is this reason I cross the threshold two times a week. The brunette who bags the books, the one with the boxy figure and standard issue army frames, knows my face and my fondness for Faulkner well. She doesn’t even make me check my Jansport anymore.

The new arrivals cart, promising hours of diversion, is a straight shot from the storefront door and just beyond the elevated counter where the staff likes to perch.

Insert random vulture image here please. Preferably one portraying a condescending expression.

Besides the four shelf area housing local authors, it is the only section my dirty fingers consistently claw through. Along with books, two guarantees are rolled out daily on the four wheeled wonder.

First, there will be at least two copies of The Secret, accompanied by various other titles from the big O’s book club, which is fortunate or unfortunate depending on the eager beaver patron. I mean, even I have read the delightful one about the deceitful addict. You know, the one who lied and then got cussed out by God on her mid-morning syndicated talk show.

Second and most important, plastered across the northern side (or southern for that matter, depending on which end leads) is a large, white sticker. Roughly measuring three by ten inches, it reads in bold black lettering, “remember what you wanted to be growing up.”

My eyes never fail to fall upon the sticker and I read it every time. Like the green ring indicating the water line in my toilet or the wretched herpes simplex virus, it’s always there. Despite the amount of salve you use. The constant, the steadfast, the loyal. The phrase never fails to raise my arm and neck hair. Goosebumps. R.L. Stine, you got me again you son of a gun.

I recognize the banality of the order. Terribly cliche I must admit. Really, it’s the cherry on the sundae full of shit. I am absolutely positive the sticker was one of many found in the bottom of an oversized tote bag that was happily handed out during the exit of a three hour self-help seminar, complete with a silk screened profile of Tony Robbins adorning the side. Then afterwards in the parking lot, a pastel cardigan recently unbuttoned with unbridled confidence and unlimited power, most certainly had his knees planted in the pavement ready to smother the hell out of his aging Toyota Corolla’s fender with said sticker. Abruptly, a powerful and fantastic gust of wind came along. Courtesy of Alan Silvestri, the wind probably plucked the sticker swiftly out of pastel cardigan’s grasp. Sorry Bob, it wasn’t carrying answers, just a bunch of plain, unfussy white feathers conducting many first rate loopty loops.

Following the long or short flight, I’m quite certain “remember what you wanted to be growing up” landed at the Converse donned feet of the brunette with the boxy figure who bags the books in the best little bookstore in the Bright Lights. Who then like me, disregarded it’s origins of pressed curds and actually took it to heart. Plastering it on the new arrivals cart for me to eye up twice a week.

Here lies the short list. Presented and ranked as my body grew in height and my age in numbers.

1. animator for Disney (now a defunct position, yes?)
2. right fielder for the Chicago Cubs, then as I moved north, the Milwaukee Brewers.
3. cartoonist for Northwest Herald (I had no idea what syndication was).
4. special agent for the CIA.
5. special agent for the FBI (sadly, my father’s footsteps never quite fit my sole or soul)
6. leader of a successful punk band.
7. leader of a successful ska band.
8. rock’n roller.
9. folksinger, humdinger, dead ringer.
10. lawyer.*
11. travel writer.
12. writer.
13. lawyer.*

I grew to look rather funny in a baseball cap and my artistic ability was limited. “Here Mom, I traced this for you. What? Garfield? No, its Mickey, you can tell by the nose. I don’t know. I’m not quite sure why I colored him orange.” I attended college between numbers four and five. My brother died during the latter and I dropped out of school. Flipped to number six and I grew angry, then full of good spirits. Blacked out. Got somewhat sober. Re-enrolled at number nine and graduated prior to ten. Got a backpack and travelled the world extensively for a few years before hitting twelve. Sat on this for awhile. Needless to say, incidents occur from time to time.

“Son? I dropped my fork. Fetch me a new one.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“I know you listed the specials twice, but I was too busy ignoring you to listen. Could you be a dear and repeat them?”
“Really, how hard is your job?”
A bloated man’s greasy fingers pronounce ‘snap’

various responses, not specifically in response to requests listed above.

“My apologies for the wait.”
“Yes sir, right away sir. Of course I will wipe your mouth for you. You’re right, the New York is full of gristle. Just let me know when you need to use the restroom and I’ll wipe that for you as well.”
“I must have misspoken the three times I confirmed your pinot noir ma’am. I should have known you really wanted grigio when you said pinot, my mistake.”
“What are my career plans? Oh right, because I’m the waiter and you’re in a position to judge me. Well you’re looking at it. Twenty-four and just like TI, I’m sitting on top of the world.“
“No, I went to college.”
“Yeah, two degrees.”

I didn’t plan this. It wasn’t on my wish list. Years ago I wasn’t in Farley’s lunch lady land sliding my tray, periodically lifting it up and down and over the sneeze guard for a sloppy joe fixing or a ladle full of not-quite mashed potatoes, only to turn to my buddy and proclaim, “This is it Jay. This is what I want to be! Well, not this specifically, no offense Lorianne, I just wont look good in a hair net. But I do want to serve shitty food to ungrateful customers. I want to be a waiter. Give me a pen and paper and give me your order. I gotsta start practicing!”

So with some reluctance I turned the page to lucky number thirteen. Although, much to Barry Bond’s annoyance, some things deserve asterisks.

I could get into good law schools because I had good grades. The LSAT, though taken twice, proved to be very manageable. When I talked about future plans my parents seemed proud. When they talked about their son’s future plans they were proud. Although strenuous, three more years of schooling would be nice. I love academia. Some financial security would also be welcomed. Dental and health? Yes and yes. My family’s now defunct yearly newsletter, could be revived with the headline reading, ‘Young Fuck Up Done Good.’ Like a white Judge Mathis. Unfortunately I love the law, but I’m not in love with the law.

Years ago, before the great flood of tears, my entire family had gathered for Christmas dinner. The majority of the glazed ham was finished and the dishes were being cleared. Some pie was being picked at and my brother, age 16, was being questioned by my aunt.
‘So, do you plan on going to college?’
‘Probably not. Haven’t really given it much thought though.’ His head was down and focused on the imprints his fork made on his melting ice cream. He liked his a la mode.
‘Well, if you aren’t planning on going, what do you plan on doing after you graduate?’
‘Im not sure. Probably something creative, music maybe.’ He set down his fork and looked up. ‘I’ll figure it out. I couldn’t care less what I do, just as long as I’m happy.’ He smiled a big toothy grin and leaned back, placing his hands behind his head. Satisfied, my aunt responded with her own and concentrated on cleaning the rest of her plate. He died ten days later.

The sticker reads, ‘remember what you wanted to be growing up.’ Did I ever truly want to be a lawyer? Probably not. If I did, I’d be finishing up my first year as I write this. Who knows what the future holds? Maybe I’ll end up going after all. But I’ll figure something out in the mean time and it’ll be fine just as long as I’m happy.

14. bum.

Tribulations of the Young (Man) & Restless or SHOW REVIEW: Young Man / YAWN 10.12.10

Four or seven HD cameras strategically placed throughout the room. Near the ceiling, near the floor. On dollies (maybe), on cranes (most definitely). Probably a couple of Columbia AV nerds pitching a tent, finally getting the chance to flex an overpriced tuition. And for what? To image capture the hasty house that buzz built.

Unfortunate for Young Man, the fitting moniker of popular YouTube indie-imitator Colin Caulfield, that house is made of cardboard. Not even the high-grade, sturdy shit either. And at least in this writer’s eyes, whatever structural solid once promised by online murmurs has sadly already begun its break down. Swinging and a swaying, weakened by reality. Like if reality was Calvin (minus Hobbes) and Young Man was the Chevy symbol the mischievous cartoon kid was eagerly pissing on.

See, for the past week my inbox has been getting vigorously fisted by various PR e-blasts informing me about Young Man’s record release. A good amount of press blurbs, cut and positively edited down, accompanied by a list of CMJ showcases. That, along with a few reminders urging me to attend Young Man’s forthcoming Boy EPrelease show at Chicago’s Schubas Tavern.

Well that show was Tuesday night. And I went. Not reluctantly either. A yellow sticky with ‘Schubas, October 12th’ had been on my desk for a minute. It was all about two birds, one stone; gauge Young Man’s previously untested product while catching a set byYAWN, the stellar Chicago outfit with a soft spot for tom toms and pop-laden tribal beats.

And I did my damnedest to keep my subjective-thong from riding high. I really did. Other than a few, admittedly high-quality clips I ran through of Caulfield (the most notable being a stellar cover of Deerhunter’s “Rainwater Cassette Exchange”), I kept a blank slate going in. Never streamed an original, never downloaded a track. I wanted Young Man’s performance to explain what all the fuss was about. Proof in the public pudding and all that crap.

So how was Young Man’s show? Well, it only took one song. One lousy, jerk of a song. Just a single damn number for thoughts to gather and opinion to form. It was a real doozy of an opener too. Not bad, but not good either. Just nothing to cream your pants about. Which is what I expect from groups and their assembled buzz. Out of the bedroom and up on stage, Caulfield’s got the ever-so timid singer/songwriter schtick down pat. Right down to the bashful bangs obstructing his shaky eye contact with the crowd. The reluctant performer, brushing hard up against the hesitant-to-speak nickel and dime act. It was a shit-ton of “gee-golly” and “ah, shucks” bookmarked by a dozen or so mild, reverb-soaked cuts.

Upon first contact, bands-of-the-moment should grab hold and give listener’s bones/boners a quick shake. Even if it’s just for a tiny buzz-band pinch and tickle, their sole job is to impress. That’s it. Solidify the forever shaky pedestal of hype before it’s inevitably bum rushed by the next P4K eager beaver. Because people have short attention spans. The internet? Even shorter. And positioned at Schubas, amongst the somewhat timid Tuesday night crowd, surrounded by a slew of video-capable DLSRs, the room swimming with undecided atmosphere (aided by the venues’ bulky candles burning bright), Young Man was just plain boring. Boring like a Nicole Kidman movie. Or boring like waiting for your girlfriend’s period to pass. Sure there’s 8th-grade shit to keep ya busy, but nothing’s as fun the real deal.

Before I withdrew from Young Man both mentally and musically, I listened to a few more competent minutes. Then exited the room and bellied up to the long bar located in Schubas’ front-house. Drank two IPAs and watched the Rangers toss the final shovel of AL dirt on the Rays’ hopes of snagging a pennant.

The easiest place to point the stink finger is at Young Man himself (Caulfield is the one performing after all), but fault or blame can just as easily be placed on the industry, the public, whatever you want to call it. In rushed attempts to capitalize on unrefined talent, a kid and his guitar are swiftly scooped up and forked over to wolves disguised as writers. And of course bedroom dream-pop kid Caulfield is more than willing, he’s the one who sat in front of his Macbook and played in the first place. Ready or otherwise, who wouldn’t get on their knees if Frenchkiss (the label in charge of Young Man’s debut) came a calling?

In the end, I arrived as a junkie looking to score a needle full of choice smack. But instead of buzz-band bliss, I got the classic bait ‘n switch. A quick hit of not-quite-street-ready junk passed off as high quality, Grade-A skag. Young Man needs to head back to the bedroom. Forget the cameras, forget the industry’s well-versed rimjob. Grow a bit more. You only get one first impression and unfortunately, Caulfield’s came with a bit of hype.

As for openers YAWN, the quartet of psychedelic wunderkids that generate some of the best tribal-pop around these days, well, they “effin killed it” per usual.

CAFE DISCO

After the rain stops, the wind picks up. Forest brush, normally blocked by the towering old men of valley, gets up to stretch. I hear it hitting my tent, but I'm still fucked up from the night before. I can't really remember how many pills I took, the liquor I drank, the story I told (the dirty one with the dog that's not really true or the clean 7-liner that involves a can of Coke and basketful of soft-smelling laundry). It hurts to recall. Like a screwdriver digging into my left temple. The shit is making it difficult to recall how many tongues I had in my mouth last night or the number of times I took a piss (and the fact that I have a full bladder right now only adds emphasis). What was that blue pill again? Sheena, who I should say isn't a punk rocker and really is quite bland, dropped it into my palm after I complained about monotony. She said it's left over from her trip to Brussels and that if I wanted to shake things up, I'd swallow it. I remember thinking how fucked up it was. This bitch, the girl with the oily brown hair (and not oily in the dirty sexy kind of way, but more so in the library bitch that doesn't realize social norms, (and my God and for christ's sake, dye your hair. it should be, no, it HAS to be black if you want any sort of sexual recognition!) is giving me recreation advice by-way-of narcotics. The blind is giving me directions based upon visual landmarks. Got to be goddamn kidding me. Either way like an idiot, I geared up enough saliva, just enough to halt any gag reflexes, and took the goddamn blue pull. I think it had a happy face imprinted on it's rounded side. but as it approached my gaping face hole, it looked like a frown. Think I had it upside down.

Dude had a Jew-fro. Not sure about his religion, but if i ever saw a jew-fro, he was sportin it. Tight and curly with ray-bans inside. Inside? Yes, indeed, it was 2 in the afternoon. Big hair, shades indoors, and a tight purple, maybe pink, tank top. Oh and some sort of jangly metal contraption that hung loose and low on a chain around his neck. Like near his belly button. Just chilling above his belt (actually, where his belt would have gone if he was wearing one). He talked fast and loved the sound his own mouth made. Voice like annoyance. If annoyance talked, it’d be this necklace wearing jew-fro bro. Cutting clear through the stuffed up air. Cut straight through and hit me. Every fucking word he said. Who did this guy think he was? I met him, I met her. Dude had lunch with Kanye. Or maybe he just saw him perform at an intimate, but formal mind you, late night jam session. John Legend apparently accompanied yeezy. Name drop, name drop, John Legend on piano, Kanye on the mic. Mother fucker with da curly hair wearing shades, just bragging. All day everyday. My new nemesis.

new post new post new post. 4 drinks in, I watched the television radio all night. Blurred vision and the warnings of a headache. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. This life is far from perfect. chalk problems up to money and women and lack of both or lack of stability or overdose of each. Different times of course. So many shitty bands cross my curvy path all day. So many. Like you can take a lot, then add a lot more. That's how many. And every goddamn one of them still habitats myspace. that and asians. there are so many on myspace. im not writing for my own purpose. shit overlaps shit i suppose.