2001-07-28 - 2:51 a.m. - the mysterious girl at the bad punkshow and kevin bacon as historian.

patterns of mazes and parallel lines,

picking the petals from lilacs and chewing them, not for the flavor

but for the absurd delight

of chewing lilacs between eyelids;

eyelash teeth dripping

the dew of morning

flowers, a vain attempt to replace

the stars that dissappeared, in silence,

after the flood

of tears from yer eyes.

**************************

starlight.starbright.nitelite.litebrite.

fireflies. fireflies. fireflies. fireflies.

tonight in perrysburg bad punk bands played boring punk music about alcohol and girls and my ears grew bored and so i went outside alot. next door to the fire station where the show was taking place was a police department. i thought only of the stories of people i vaguely remember telling me how the police broke their wrists and locked them in prisons for trying to warn the world that two parties is two too many. and also i remember the underground publishing conference where the hatred for police was so over the top and unwarranted -- most of the people had never even been looked at funny by a cop but still they chanted all weekend "fuck tha police" -- that all i could think was that police were people too and all they are doing is trying to do their job and support their family. its like when we were dropping motherfucking bombs on iraq and killing media personell and utilities workers and janitors and milk men those people were just doing their jobs while we dropped bombs on them in the night so that their families would wake up the next day with their fathers and mothers and husbands and wives and brothers and sisters all dead. and still we watched our green tinted television screens and felt pride for our beautiful country.

but i digress. there was a beautiful girl at the show tonight and i've seen her at a lot of shows around here and it is impossible to pinpoint her age. she looks like she could be anywhere from 17 to 21 and so i am afraid to approach her in avoidance of that awful scene "so how old are you?" "17", "alright then...nevermind." but tonight she had this four or five year old girl with her who she was babysitting and they were so beautiful dancing to the horrible ska music that bounced around the bare walls of the firehouse banquet room. this has been a tren at the last three shows i have been to, young, young kids who seem out of place. tonight's was by far the youngest but still its all so beautiful that mothers and sisters and brothers are exposing their children to such a beautiful world of alternative media where you don't need a record label to be happy when you have a couple hundred bucks, ink, cardboard and a knowledge of the do's and don'ts of silk screening.

and has anybody noticed how the sides of records keep getting shorter and shorter. i am listening to Ella Fitzgerald right now from a record i purchased in Ann Arbor today and it seems i just put the needle down on side one and it is already over and now i just flipped the record and am listening to side two. it seems that time is expanding and everything within the container that is time is shrinking and becoming less significant. today when i listened to The Lightning Bolt record for the first time it was over before i even knew it had begun.

and if anyone in northwestern ohio reads this ever and plays guitar let me know. i want to start a punk band that will turn this fucking stagnant ska/punk scene on its ear. i want to start a band that has something to say and we'll talk about our songs like Cap'n Jazz most have and Lovesick still does and make the rudeboys and bluehairs roll restless with our actual passion and awareness. i don't care if you suck at guitar we can be the worst band ever, just to turn this fucking town on its ear.

and now the wind blows through my window calling my name to a pack of cigarettes.

and now history is repeating itself.

i watched stir of echoes tonight by myself and ate popcorn and drank root beer. is this really all there is? but it is a beautiful movie about exhuming history and the ways in which history is recorded like the slogan on the shirts for clamor magazine: until the lions have historians of their own, tales of hunting will always glorify the hunter. and this rolled through my mind as kevin bacon stood in the basement of his house beating the concrete floor with a sledgehammer as if he were an archaeologist or a gravrobber stripping away layers of now so that maybe the rest of us could know what really happened then. and that is really a totally fucking beautiful scene, you know?

its time to smoke.

don't stop fighting.

don't go out alone.

that last one means more than you think.

xoxo

listen to: The Lightning Bolt, Ella Fitzgerald: "Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most," Wolf Eyes, David Bowie: "A Space Oddity" Bunkbed Nights: "Guns and Roses."

�

previous - next

�