February 2012

How was your Halloween? Here was mine:

gimme a hundred mc, gimme a hundred mc, gimme baby, gimme baby, quail man needs money for prostitutes!!!”

Here are some pictures to explain everything.

Three modifiers to describe the night: loud, quaily, fresh.

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Abrasive – adj. 1. Causing abrasion: scratched the stovetop with an abrasive cleanser. 2. Harsh and rough in manner: an unpleasant, abrasive personality.

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so i’m cruising the internet fairly innocently at work and manage to stumble on a site with lots of ironic and fairly cool tshirts…
Busted Tees

and right on their main page theres a mediocre shirt with a rendering of billy shakes and under it, the sacred phrase, “prose before hos”

the description follows, click the link for the pic, which won’t last for long once we sic our crack team of lawyers on them, which i’m too disgusted to post (why i can deal with the text version is beyond me at this point, notice intoxicated/rant flags):

And here’s another thing. Ya know that cute girl in your english class that you’ve been trying to impress? This shirt should do the trick. It shows you’re smart and clever while making sure she knows you’ve got a sense of humor too. Place your order on a Monday, get the shirt on a Thursday, wear it to class on Friday and ask her out for Saturday. After that, welcome to Pantyville, population: you.

so basically our catch phrase has been turned into a pickup trick for hipsters who have no real game. unimpressive. well i bet those guys were too anti corporate america to trademark such a beautiful thing so that will be taken care of on monday. in any event, they got the entire spirit wrong. this is prose before hos, not prose to get hos.

i believe my crew of friends, i can’t remember which, or even if it was me, coined this key selection of verbiage. but its ours dammit. ours!

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So after years of liking dark, maudlin. whiny-boy music like the Cure, Nick Cave (in all his incarnations) and the Smiths, and loud loud post-punk stuff like Fugazi, the Hospitals, etc, not to mention my white-boy blues phase (the White Stripes, Captain Beefheart, Mr. Airplane Man, the Gossip), my musical taste has totally changed. I’m totally uninterested in hipster music now. My last hipster-approved purchase was The Decemberists’ latest album a few months ago and I listened to it all of once. Ooh, you guys are so WHIMSICAL, yet FULL OF PROFOUND, QUIRKY MEANING. I’m SO IMPRESSED. Groan. All I listen to anymore is rap and classical music. In my stereo right now is Chopin’s Nocturne’s, Beethoven’s 2nd and 4th symphonies, and an Aesop Rock album.

The only thing that I can think of that these two genres have in common is that rap artists and guys like Mozart all probably got laid a lot more than weirdo grungy punk guys. Guy from Fugazi, for instance – great musician, but he’s all awkward and spastic and looks like Where’s Waldo with a unibrow.

Also, I had a pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks today, and I’M NOT SORRY!!!

The End.

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If you ever discover that what you’re seeing is a play within a play, just slow down, take a deep breath, and hold on for the ride of your life.

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I was half in love by the time she sat down and her smiled sealed the deal.
I remember sunlight.
The birds were flying over head when she said good bye, turned her head, good bye.
I remember the rain.

How’s about we blow this joint, head to the point
get drunk and naked, wake up sleepyhead
I’m so in lovefool, it’s a wonder I don’t drool
when you walk in the room, your smile hints of doom
beautiful fantasies, foreshadowed miseries

Her name was Anne, Annie can you speak to me?
I believe in you, I believe in we
smiled, lit up like a pinball wizard
no more no more, fantasies pile up like corpses from the battles lost
my mind can’t beat my heart can’t beat my brain
i call him Willie the one eyed wizard

don’t be a fool, stay cool
nervously laughing, you’re a charming bastard
lost in my own narcissistic self-pity
frowning beyond the edge of reason
Bridget stares back, oh Annie!

Up and down the halls of my mind
so are we going to, you know, date?
snuggle with me, I lost my teddy bear
when I was 10 to a cheap whore called mosaic

your kisses validate me and my existence
did you know you had that effect?
I might otherwise fade away
fade into the background noise

Jesus was a martyr

I wish we were better.

can we stop feeling bad? I’m stuck on this painful moment, the rest swirls around like a snow globe
and I’m all shook up for you my sweet haired, red hearted girl. or does your blood beat blue now?

lost my cool lost it twice
fool fool dared dares describe!
a love letter lost, the poem I wrote destroyed
time is a fucking bitch

I want to be old and bitter
to yell at your kids when they stumbled past my yard
I’ll beat them in my sweet dreams
in nightmares I’m their father

hitler haiku doll
she smiled and I saw the fires
(of) homicidal heartache

I’m a ghost you see right through me
but did you see the smile I laughed in anger
I just find it all so funny laughing laughing
I can’t stop thinking of the knife I slipped on

but you sat down and I was in love
you said your name like it was a sin
my dream I had fallen in
one day we kiss and kill a star

supernova burned out bright

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Coitus – n. physical union of male and female genitalia accompanied by rhythmic movements leading to the ejaculation of semen from the penis into the female reproductive tract
edit: who ever mentioned rhythm?

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