Saturday, March 27, 2004

WHY.

modest mouse, i love you, and all your idiosyncratic, barren, delicious guitar renderings. but dudes. what's up with the new single. you are making me cry. right now. swear to god.

'float on', might be one of the best examples of what i was bitching about yesterday. take a really decent band. add an ass-fucking producer. presto=crap.

'float on' out of my life mo-mo. and take all your epic-nazi money with you. you disappoint me. for serious.

Friday, March 26, 2004

life,

or nothing like it.

lately, the planetary bodies orbiting my mortal coil have been sporadic and random, as pertaining to my inability to predict, with any accuracy, what they will do next. each day is a new and interesting study on what will cause me to soil myself.

i am ill at ease.

Thursday, March 25, 2004

...whatever happened

to sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll,
now we just have AIDS, crack, and techno...

~laughing colors

or,

people used to make records
as in a record of an event
the event of people playing music in a room
now everything is cross-marketing
its about sunglasses and shoes
or guns and drugs
you choose.

~ani difranco

dear music industry dudes,

there are way too fucking many 'artists' that need to be euthanized for making my ears bleed. top of my list right now. evanescence. please make them go away.

this is what happened: a couple dudes got together and were like, 'hey, guys, lets get this band together. our image can be totally gothic-punk in nature, yet unabashedly bland and brain-numbingly boring.' and so they did. and then they got this chick, who's voice is amazing, in the sense that it is so fucking forgettable and average, so as to not offend the target market of adolescents with nervous soccer moms who wont let them listen to 'korn' or 'staind' or 'limp bizkit' or 'sum blinkin 182 with a system of 41 downs'. and then you executives were like, 'eur-fucking-eka! this is the answer to all our rap-metal prayers! praise be the gods of suck! down with napster! down with kazaa! viva la musica for which the production acrobatics make it difficult to distinguish where the actual song begins and the mutt lange influence ends.'

'i know what lets do. instead of taking time to develop new ways to profit from internet downloading, which would require actual thought, lets prosecute a shit-ton of 13 year-old music lovers, whom we know have no money, and make examples of their parent's bank accounts.'

so. record label monkeys. ever stop to think that this bitch-slap to the music industry known as 'file-sharing' might be indicative of the general public's distaste at having to spend $18 for the new crap-tastic britney spears lp? because, obviously, this isnt going away. the napsters you get rid of merely create a fertile power vacuum for the kazaas and bear-shares and a million other sites to thrive merrily until they too, are prosecuted into oblivion.

and so. in summation. let the artists do their thing. less production, more creativity. if the music is good, and the artists know what they are doing, there's no fucking need for some really expensive producer to come in, fuck everything up, and drive up the price of the cd so that it costs more than my right kidney on the black market.

*hugs and kisses* ~leduse

ps- dont even try to fuck with the hackers that are stealing all the music, and making the lot of you look like the last computer you maybe touched was a commodore 64. the more you attempt to thwart them, the more amused and dedicated they become. these people have nothing to lose. they live to fuck with The Man. you are The Man. heed me. i pray you.

Sunday, March 21, 2004

löwenbräu humor.

i should probably be embarrassed by the bloated volume of 'dick 'n' fart' jokes i find amusing. i should also be appalled by the high percentage of which i recount, with relishmentation, on this site. the word 'excrement' should not cause seizures of hilarity to convulse my black little heart. but im not, and i won't be, and it does.

it's not a partime gig either. i dont, like, seek out phone booths for which to transform myself into an evil internet sociopath. everywhere i look and everything i see is a potential fun-filled foray into bad taste. this morning: i am taking a shower. i notice i'm running low on shampoo. fuck it, im out of shampoo. so i steal some of my roommate's.

'mmm...' i think to myself, as i lather my hairs, 'this smells totally good. i wonder what it is'.

suave. with apple excrement & vitamin E.

the FUCK?

oh.

apple extract. oh.

ö

fuck, dude. i fucking hate this fucking shit. is it time for me to get the fuck out of here yet? fuck this job.....
fucking fuckfuckfuck.
b.

Saturday, March 20, 2004

things i am not going to worry about.

1. the raging lump in my boob.
2. the fact that i am not doing with my life, all the shit i supposedly should be.
3. paying attention to the age of the red-headed monkey that i love hanging out with.
4. how much aforementioned boob hurts, and how much i should be maybe not ignoring it.
5. how fucking horribly scared i actually am.
6. the stupid ignorant part of me that still wants to make friends with the fuck-tard that always managed to make me feel like a shit-bag. (fuck YOU).
7. mi madre.
8. mi padre.
9. mi hermano.
10. my new sister. i hope you like me as much as i like you.

Thursday, March 18, 2004

the first time.

i went to ohio. i went on vacation. i went to get the fuck away from, whatever.

i wanted to jump out of my skin. or my body. whichever came first. this is hard. hard like a week without sleep. which i would know all about. hard like a broken bone. hard like a broken mind.

i used to plan around these things. i had a schedule. work like a ritalin soaked toddler for two weeks. take the next off. lay in bed, contemplate life, ignore geometry homework.

it stopped working. i stopped pretending it ever had.

we went to the lake house. it was beautiful. i think. but i couldn't, right just then. the colors were too bright. the corners were too sharp. everything was taking on that clarity that is horrifying.

when you get inside that place in your head, that makes you see the world in all it's awful grandeur, it becomes almost impossible to remember the blurred pictures that aren't hurting your eyes all the time.

so i did it. right in the middle of all the fun happy times i was supposed to be having. visiting my friends. that i love. that don't know anything about me. which is usually the way it is. i was thinking...is this was rock bottom feels like?

i didn't ever want to be afraid of jumping off some asshole cliff again. into the lake and the rocks at the bottom of it. i didn't ever want to lay in my room, prostrate on the floor, phone ringing, me not hearing at it. staring at the cracks in the ceiling hoping they would tell me something i didn't already know. so i did it.

all the thinking and planning and hating. all the not sleeping and the sleeping too fucking much. all the avoiding of normal human life for entire weeks at a time. i was tired.

it is tiring. so i did it.

paddy-wagon time2.

this one's better.

Wednesday, March 17, 2004

paddy-wagon time.

best st. paddy's quote ive heard yet today. and ive only been conscious for 2 hours. so it can only get better.

"you know, if im not too drunk tonight, i might swing by the Leafe and get drunk."

Monday, March 15, 2004

just lop that fucker off.

boobs.
boobs are not important. mine are very humble anyway. as well they should be. there's certainly nothing going on to get upity about.

i think one of them is broken, so i might as well trade up.

this could be the best thing that ever happened to me. i could transport some of the ample expanses of my ass, and have it crafted into a stunning rack. ive never really wanted a stunning rack, but im certainly not opposed to the idea. and ive always wanted a smaller ass.

instead of looking like a chubby pear with two squat legs poking out, i could achieve the elusive ideal some people refer to as 'proportion', or 'symmetry'.

so. boob. do your worst. freak out and start growing weird little appendages. start twitching independently of my will, in time with any music you choose. start talking shit to other boobs as they walk by. whatever you want, man. keep antagonizing me. see what happens.

i suggest you take a little time to ponder pamela anderson's 'before' picture. fucker.

Sunday, March 14, 2004

december

friends drop by,
cloudy breath beneath itchy scarves,
bottles of schnapps in hand.
a low hum quickens, of people jumbling conversation and liquor,
tongues thick with drink and sleep.
strands of christmas lights burn coldly outside,
as orphaned cups accumulate on tables, counters, the floor.
bottles empty and the crowd thins by twos and threes.
the windowpanes blur and grow dark.
climbing the hundred year-old stairs to my room,
the wood groans.


-winter, 2000.

love poem

10:30 a
ringing in my ears.
insides warm and liquid
still.
we sit and slur.

swaying towards home,
i lean on your shoulder.
the trees surround us coldly.

we leave the dark,
moths to a candle.
light slivers out the doorway and on
closing,
retreats like it never existed.

i slip in the backdoor uncomfortable as silence.
you hand me a tennis ball from god knows where.
i still have it.


-winter, 1999.

Saturday, March 13, 2004

a busy, drunk bee.

my hobbies are valid. they are good, wholesome hobbies. i create things. i don't watch much t.v. i totally enrich my life and the lives of those i touch.

but.

with the exception of the running thing, most of these hobbies can be enjoyed with a simultaneous consumption of alcohol. this is no good when you're in the middle of band practice and everything starts sounding, like, really wicked. even that discordant shit someone just played. and the cats yowling in the background are laughing with you, not at you.

ten miller lites later, someone is expressing the desire to smoke the hippie lettuce and watch 'fear and loathing in las vegas'. with the sound off. and that signifies it's time to go home. band practice is over. though, getting toasted, nicely toasted, isn't over.

then you wake up the next 'morning' and it's 2 in the afternoon. you're brain feels like a gigantic cotton ball and you have a shitload of things to do. as the day goes by, the formerly innocuous cotton ball brain turns into the gently, but gently, pulsating hangover brain. and then you eat grape-nuts. and then it is all, fucking, over.

Tuesday, March 09, 2004

grape nuts

the most prolific, farting-est fruits in the cosmos, that aren't actually fruits.

i dont know what they are. i dont think anyone else knows what they are. i dont even believe the people that produce them fully understand their mystical, fart-inducing product. grape nuts are neither grapes, nor nuts. discuss.

all i know is they have a shit-load of iron in them. a shit-load of iron that my anemic, vegetarian ass muchly needs. and so i eat them. and so i fart.

grape nuts make broccoli their bitch.

the impressionable years: Part 2

my best friend the dog

the dog and i were evil partners in crime. or, really, he was my minion. i was clearly the brains of that outfit. we would play in the backyard for hours, and i would make up songs to sing to him while he would put his paws over his ears and be really bummed out. he would be minding his own business, sunning his ass, and i would creep up behind and scare the living bejesus out of him. dogs dont like that shit. especially dogs that think they're guarding their master's sanctum, and go ape-shit when the post-man shows up. and the mail guy totally hated the dog. he would have phantom dog-bite pains in his butt when he had to deliver our mail. that's how badass of a guard dog he was.

my favorite phrase became, 'the dog did it'. i think i learned to say that before 'momma' or 'dada'. priorities and such. and that ridiculous huge garden in our backyard became our playground of mischief. the dog was the epitome of all that is cool. so i wanted to learn how to dig just like him. i got on my haunches and started clawing at the ground, much like dogs do. this totally incited the dog to start digging like a bastard, and so we spent the day merrily digging away, until the backyard and garden looked like mutant gophers had had their way with it. parents: so not pleased. me: 'the dog did it'.

ever the insomniac, i would wake up in the middle of the night, not tired. of course, the dog would be more than ready to play. and play we did. i would climb on the dog. he would get pissed and shrug me off. i would climb on the dog again. he would gently and doggily remove me in his shrugging 'leave-me-the-fuck-alone-don't-you-ever-sleep-god-it-sucks-be-a-dog' way. totally patient and loving that dog was. especially since the game of 'climb on the dog' never, ever got old. he couldve totally wailed on me too. being that he was a larger than normal dog, of the 130 lb variety. 'climb on the dog' would inevitably last until some parent heard my high-pitched little girl giggles, and made me go back to bed.

the best part. the dog would totally murderdeathkill anyone who even thought about thinking about hurting my family. slay. maim. yet, was a cuddly little doughnut of dog when curled up on the end of the bed at night.

and when he got in the car, he would wait for us to strap the seat-belt around him. and we would be like, 'aaawww. he thinks he's peoples.'

Monday, March 08, 2004

two blame.

who was wrong. does it matter. i dont think so. i should take some responsibility, i know. but i dont know. i feel a cryptic blog entry coming. because if i haven't learned anything from this experience, i wasted a whole honk-load of time. the meandering thought process of people who have just woken up from a weird dream, or several years of self-delusion, may be hard to follow.

i think it was this; it wasn't that i did anything wrong to him. i never treated him awfully, and if i did, i felt appropriately guilty and tried to make up for it.

i treated myself awfully.

one of those momentous clarifying moments just happened, the kind where everything else you've been blabbering about doesn't really matter. i know it to be true, if that's the only true thing ive ever known. i treated myself like shit, and therefore allowed him to treat me in much the same way. and this sounds like an enormous cop-out from someone who just wants to place the blame elsewhere. its not. right square on my shoulders is my own contribution.

being a door-mat is just as bad as being a shrill, controlling harpy.

Saturday, March 06, 2004

fuck you, birds.

i hope you're all enjoying yourselves. with your tweeting and your not shutting up. apparently, you all got some sleep last night. alas, i did not. but dont mind me. please, continue singing you're merry little morning songs in my fucking ear.

can a person survive on three hours of sleep a night? and what exactly does one do at 4am when there's nothing on tv but infomercials hawking spray-on hair? how many average per night richard simmons sightings constitutes insomnia? is this why i always look hungover? (not so much. mostly, i believe that's due to actually being hungover). i worked out for like, 3 hrs. yesterday, and then ate a gigantorr calorie bomb of an omelet, in the hopes that i would exhaustedly fart myself to sleep. now i'm just really fucking sore and possibly fatter. and birds are laughing at me.

i guess i could clean something. but seriously, i live with two super-fecal slobs of the 20-30 yr. old male variety. anything i clean will be fuck-witted and covered in boy slime 2 hours later anyway. it's all i can do to ensure my room stays an oasis of calm and order, without them infecting it with their beer, ashtrays and/or skidmarks.

nobody's going to catch this cultural reference, but;
in labyrinth, a movie starring jennifer connelly and david bowie, jennifer has to find her little brother because david bowie stole him in order to teach him how to be a sexually ambiguous rock star or something. during the movie, (it's been awhile), jen stumbles upon an exact replica of her bedroom from her world. so she thinks she's home, except that when she looks out her window, the same goddamn landfill she was wading through is still out there. the labyrinth is not a tidy place, and most closely resembles a garbage dump. and some elf is peeing on her door.

and that is what it is like to live in my house. all around you a swirling vortex of slack and entropy. with an elf peeing on your door.



Friday, March 05, 2004

naked vs. nekkid

naked is when you dont have your clothes on.

nekkid is when you dont have your clothes on, and you're doing something you probably shouldn't be. like running 400m around zable stadium. at 3:00am. possibly while drunk. as a goat.

Wednesday, March 03, 2004

the impressionable years: Part 1

parental units

my parents decided to throw good judgment and propriety to the wind, and after having only known each other for two months, got married. they've made it clear that if i ever pull a similar stunt, they will fucking cut me.

about a year later, my mom realizes she has no idea who this person is that she's married. it takes her at least this long to admit to my dad that she has only humored his incessant speakage of machinery and cars, because she thought he was like, so hot. and that she doesn't give a rat's ass about cars and tools and will he please stop.

so then my dad is like 'holy crap. i thought this woman was really interested in machines and tools and cars. what the hell have i married into'.

i guess that's when they finally ended the 'tap-dancing around each other' thing. stopped being polite, and started being real, so it goes. and thank god. my mom ceased pretending she could cook, and my dad stopped pretending to dress himself. my brother and i experienced mercifully few food poisonings, and we never got beat up on the playground for looking like total assholes in our play-clothes. we just got beat up for being total assholes.

unfortunately, they wielded an awesome and unsettling power of intuition, and my brother and i never got away with, one. damn. thing. then came the dogs. and the giant vegetable garden out back. the rabbits and the chickens and the ducks. the ridiculous hippie, happy, menagerie that was the d**** household was not without form, and void; and darkness was not upon the face of the deep.

seriously, it was like ace ventura's apartment.