This Week In Inexplicable Weirdness

It’s been a weird week. This could be partly accounted for by the fact that I’ve spent most of it sitting in my house, staring at the screen of this machine, writing things I do not want to write. The weather’s been warm and gorgeous–perfect for sitting on a park bench reading a novel of little to no literary merit; I, however, do not have that luxury. Being imprisoned as I have for the last week in my dark little garage, I’ve begun to understand why inside cats tend to hurl themselves through any open door and then stand in the yard, stunned, not knowing what to do next.

This morning I dreamed that I was attacked by an opossum in my grandmother’s house. Only it wasn’t just any opossum, it was a giant one, the size of a large tiger cat, with big bulbous eyes like a lemur. The thing came charging through the screen door and into my grandmother’s kitchen (the house was sold years ago, after my grandmother died). It stood there looking at me and the other person in the kitchen (no idea who it was), then it lunged at me and, not knowing what to do in case of a random opossum attack, I ran. The thing ran after me, jumped up, and bit onto my lower back. Of course, it was in that place on my back that was impossible to reach–it was a bad dream, after all, and those are always ruled by Murphy’s Law. I shook and shook, and it didn’t come off. Finally, I woke up.

In another dream, also this morning, I removed some sort of covering–I think it was a cast–that had been on my right calf for a VERY long time (like five years or something) and discovered that I had a bunch of really bad tattoos that I didn’t remember having gotten. A couple of them were not so bad–they were star charts; constellations–except the one that I’d labeled was spelled wrong: “OREON.”

Speaking of tattoos, most of my nearest and dearest know that I recently got a new tattoo–it’s an armband around the top of my forearm that’s made up of a musical staff with the first line of Aretha Franklin’s song, “Angel.” Last night, I was at a friend’s house, and his roommate was watching “I’m An Alcoholic,” one of those terribly voyeuristic recovery shows on cable TV. Onto the screen comes this tacky, overly made-up and puffy girl–with MY tattoo. Granted, it was surely not the same song. And it was not in the same location–this girl had the band around her bicep, which I considered–but still, the girl had my damn tattoo. That someone so… icky… would have the same idea for a permanent marking of their body as I did, was downright apalling. The one thing that was comforting was the fact that her tattoo artist was appropriately terrible, while mine had immaculate precision, so my tattoo looks way fucking better.

And I keep dreaming about my dad. I keep dreaming that he’s still alive, living in West Wareham, and that I’ve got something important to tell him. I wake up almost every morning desperate to talk to him, and I realize every morning, all over again, that it’s totally impossible. But at least in my dreams, I get to hear him laugh every so often, and I get to see him smile.

Blather Making Fun Of People Music Observations Pointless Narcissism Pop Culture Rant School Think

“Molly’s Lips” Are Still Sweeter Than Dave’s “Halo.”

…or, A Big Fat Raspberry For Dave Grohl, And Other Irrelevant Thoughts.

I’ve just finished a thirty page project in which I had to write about people writing about music. For my magazine publishing class (from last semester, I’m that far behind), we each had to choose a magazine to do a final project on, and since Rolling Stone was not one of the acceptable choices, I chose SPIN. I’ve read SPIN from time to time since I was a teenager, and have enjoyed it, albeit less than I’ve enjoyed Rolling Stone. Doing this project made me realize several things:

1) I hate SPIN magazine. The articles are too short, the subjects are too mainstream, and the writing is unexciting. And the design is absolutely atrocious. Having done my research, I know that this is because there was a major overhaul in 2006, when the magazine was sold. If I knew where Nion McEvoy (the buyer) lived, I’d slap him in the face for ruining a good magazine.

2) I love music (this is not something I’d forgotten, but it was reinforced). While working on this project, I thought it would only be right to listen to music I hadn’t listened to in a long time, thereby resurrecting the music in my own collection the way I wished that Bob Guccione Jr., or someone else who cared, would resurrect SPIN. Because the project took longer than I anticipated, I rediscovered Nirvana’s Incesticide, the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Mother’s Milk, Frank Zappa’s Lather, The Pixies’ Doolittle, Pink Floyd’s The Division Bell, Helmet’s Meantime, Black Sabbath’s We Sold Our Soul For Rock N’ Roll, The Ramones’ The Ramones, and about a dozen others. In addition, I also listened to a CD from a friend of mine’s band, Counter Clockwise, as I would listen if I were a critic–I played it at least six times during the time I spent on this project–and it turns out I quite like it (big shocker there). I also pulled out one of the two Foo Fighters albums I’ve owned for some time but never listened to. It’s on my stereo right now. I haven’t thrown it across the room yet, but I’ll get back to you after I’ve heard the whole thing.

3) I love writing about music. In picking apart the articles I was reading about the music, I found myself weighing in on it, tearing apart the writers’ assertions or areas of neglect while filling in my own opinions and trying to back them up enough so that they were interesting to other people. One of the most satisfying blog pieces I’ve ever written was a post called “Saving Grace,” and writing for this project made me nostalgic for [[I have to interrupt here to say that song #2 on the Foo Fighters album is tempting me to chuck it at the double door]] the feeling I got while writing that post. I can’t put my finger on exactly what that feeling was–I guess the idea that I had something to say about that particular album that other people might be interested in reading.

4) I can’t wait to get back to writing for my own reasons. Although what I’m doing right now is technically “writing for my own reasons,” it’s something I rarely have time to do, and I’m doing it now only because I’m too inspired not to. I miss the freedom of not having schoolwork hanging over my head, telling me that I have higher priorities than babbling on and on about the petty little things I give a shit about, like why Grace is an album that every human being with a heart should listen to at least once all the way through, and why I just might snap a CD I paid for in half in about two minutes.

5) I want to have my own radio show. It’s something I’ve thought about before, but the desire has been cemented by spending the better part of a month closely reading successive issues of a music magazine and realizing that I care about music enough to want to spend the time and energy to expose other people to the music that I love. In coming up with ideas for potential stories for SPIN as part of the project, I started thinking about the demise of radio, and how much I actually care whether or not independent radio–and the possibility of learning about new music from listening to the radio–survives. I care a lot, and I want to be part of it.

6) I really wish Dave Grohl would go back to reaping the profits from the untimely death of the creative powerhouse behind the band that made him famous. Or maybe fire his entire band and start over from scratch–as the drummer. Having now listened to four songs off of the aforementioned neglected Foo Fighters album, I’m ashamed to admit that I paid four dollars for it in 2003. Yes, it was a clearance sale at my college’s bookstore, and yes I got the CD, brand new and sealed, for only four bucks, but I still want to hide my face in embarrassment because it’s garbage and I should have known that before shucking out my hard-earned $4 for it. Boo, Dave. Boo. I think I might have to listen to Incesticide again just to rid my head of the catchy but obnoxious melody of song #2.