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My Pleasant Afterlife
'Zine Notes
I write about music.
IMAGES / AUDIO
©2009 Impasse Living Solutions, Ltd. All rights wronged.
"Are we friends or something?"
Theme by nostrich.
Audio with 13 plays with 1 note
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]The Gin Blossoms - Hey Jealousy
I’m okay with The Gin Blossoms. It’s true.
Audio with 22 plays
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]Patsy Cline - She’s Got You
This song, no matter how many times I listen to it, is guaranteed to push me from “kind of sad” to “crying for no reason.” I don’t know what it is. If I’ve had more than two ounces of whiskey (or if it’s overcast) I will just start blubbering, or sit there with those big, fat tears swelling on my eyelids. It’s terrible when I’m biking and it comes up on shuffle. I have to pull over and smoosh my eyeholes dry with my sleeves. I have always loved her, ever since I heard ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ when I was ten or eleven, and as I have grown into this shambling man-creature that lives and loves and works in the Loop and is sometimes petty and other times fiercely loyal or giving, who knows the definition of ‘consomme’ and ‘pulchritude’ and who occasionally weighs his regrets against his progress and wishes that you could trust the math, I only grow more fond of miss Patsy Cline, and my respect for her grows accordingly.
Woman had the experiences to fill those songs with genuine understanding and emotion, and the pipes to back it up.
Plus she called everyone “Hoss,” and that’s just great.
Text
Analog l(i/o)ving.
“What kind of magician is he?” she asked.
“He does disappearing acts,” he replied.
And the stage lights dimmed to an ocean of applause.
Audio with 321 plays reblogged from unpaid intern #1 with 18 notes
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]Modest Mouse - Perfect Disguise
You cocked your head to shoot me down and I don’t give a damn about you or this town no more.
Text with 2 notes
Old notebooks, older ideas.
There’s this thing that happens, independent of my attempts to control or contain it. There is a brightening of the edges of objects. A photo filter for my retinas which may from time to time apply itself, turning everything mundane slightly magical, or at least unoppressive.
Sometimes, I am in love. It makes me childish, in the good way. I become silly with love. Stupid. I become ten years old, only I know what sex is and it’s not illegal for me to have it. I become a man of Post-Its and piggybacking. I sing songs about the food I cook. I cut my hair. I write notes a lot.
I have an entire file folder full of notes that got coffee on them, or a spot where the ink smeared. Notes and sticky notes and love notes and grocery lists and little pictures of robots for no reason. Some are wrinkled. Most are stained here and there. Imperfections that sent them to the recesses of my desk drawer.
I went looking for an old story outline and they got me like fishhooks.
There’s the other kind of photo filter that happens. The watery one, where the edges of things blur and warp. It comes with an accompanying feeling like a strong weight on your sternum and ragged breathing.
Then it subsides, and you go make provencal chicken with olives and capers.
Or maybe that mustard chive sauce with the bourbon and shallots.
Or whatever.
Video
Despite falling asleep to Simon Joyner’s Out Into the Snow and spending my morning omelette-time tabletop drumming to Modest Mouse’s The Moon and Antarctica, and despite the 30 minute bike ride to work (hello Latina gal at Wells and Division, I love you) where I listened to The pAper chAse at a deafening volume, I have had BeBe and CeCe Winans’ ‘Up Where We Belong’ completely stuck in the gooey, useless coils of my brain all day.
It’s embarrassing and weird.
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