Thursday, February 23, 2017

The Wildnerness Years - Fruits of Thy Labor

And now back to our show... so i was doing alright and of course it can't be all work and no play in the land of milk and honey and though most people don't take the attitude that slinging is a job it most definitely is, problem is that the average half ass hood is spending his money before it's made and while the appearance of success is there it doesn't take a close inspection to see it's all ruse, a ruse that usually runs a good number of the so-called players right out of the game in one way or another, but for those of us doing it right the trick is to keep a handle on all the moving parts and if you can do that then you give the aura of one of the most sought-after guys in the game, meaning you are a stable planet in an unstable galaxy... and while it won't turn you into Brad Pitt it will make you a bit more attractive to the women in said orbit...

So i moved a good deal of smoke for Hippie Jack and my customer base expanded and some of those customers were young ladies and some of those young ladies could take a shine to the guy weighing out their gear, of course studies show being 6'4 helps and the rat's nest of dreads on my head didn't hurt either, i was a walking, talking middle finger to all those good and pure things out there in the lily white where a good number of these young ladies grew up, they didn't want to take me out of my transient hood and home to mom and dad but they weren't adverse to other things and their "connection" wasn't exactly naive to the fact that there was a certain allure to the art of dealing, didn't matter if they were seeing someone or if i was what mattered was the trophy, they bagged a hood/dealer and me? well let's just say i enjoyed the temporary company of women, in the end the young (much like the old) just want to fuck...

Part of my job was delivering party goods to party stores so that the world would never run short of disposable shit, and of course these stores were located all over the suburbs (except for the one warehouse and the store above it, the one located a scant city block or so from my apartment at this time), now one nice thing about the dreads back then (95-96) was the fact it was damn near a calling card, a big lighted billboard with the words "I know how to get weed!" flashing in a neon technicolor, it's also the reason i very rarely left the hood except for work, besides there was no reason to leave the hood with it's dive bars and strip clubs and rock and roll bars, way down low where the streets are littered/ i find my fun with the freaks and the niggas...Perry Farrell once sang those words, long before he began shilling for John Varvatos, back when Perry wasn't a dick, we burned brightly in our little corner of the universe because we didn't know what else to do and we had our fun regardless of race, color, creed, sexual preference etal... and so it was on one of these delivery runs that some skinny fucking nitwit named Shady Sean, a guy who was already on the payroll, introduced me to Winnie...

Winnie was a classic dishwater blonde, she had long stringy hair and had a penchant for wearing hippie skirts and corduroy and clogs, she reeked of potential customer and one fine day her and Shady Sean stopped over after i got off work and scored their gear and we sat and bullshitted and Winnie spent a lot of time smiling and gazing intently at me while Shady Sean rambled on about Dead shows and what not, you see it wasn't lost on Sean that Winnie had taken a keen interest in me and since i was not a Deadhead but a dreaded-out punk and indie kid he wanted to establish an advantage, he felt the vibe, the man dance had started except in Pennsyltucky parlance i was a big old bad-ass 14 point buck and he was fuzzy-nubbed Bambi, when Winnie stepped out to use the bathroom Shady leaned in and intimated that we was hoping to get over on Winnie, i smiled and patted him on the back and told him good luck, when she got back they got their shit together to go and we chatted for a few minutes, then as Shady Sean stepped into the hall Winnie stopped and smiled and asked if she could have my number so she could call me herself, of course i said and smiled back, the hissing sound i heard was the air bursting out of Sean's bubble...

And so within a week she was back over to get another sack, an eighth, being the gentleman i knocked five bucks off her price and we sat and conversed and smoked a joint, i was being felt out and i knew it, not pointed questions but specific enough... when i delivered to the store she would volunteer to help unload the van, a job most store employees loathed, we'd stand and chat and every week she'd ask what day would be good to stop over, she'd giggle her boyfriend was smoking all the pot and he really liked it, how she had such a great connection, even said he asked if he could come too but she told him no, good answer i grinned and it went on like that for a few weeks...

It was a gray and damp fall afternoon, not a month had passed from her maiden visit with Shady Sean, a guy she laughed off as she told me how he tried to kiss her in the car that day and how she backed away and asked what the fuck he was doing, i laughed, she was wearing brown corduroys and a fuzzy striped sweater, she smelled of the finest hippie fragrance, she sat on the mattress tossed on the floor, i packed the bong and we took a few hits, i weighed out her bag, gave her the usual discount and tossed a fat bud on top so she could see the triple beam rise well north of the even point, bagged her gear and handed it to her and then took a seat in my beat up chair, swigged my beer and asked her if she wanted one, she declined and i passed her the bong and she took a hit and  passed it back and i set it down, she then smiled and said there was one thing she wanted to do and i said what's that? and she got up and straddled me while i sat in the chair and began kissing me...

It didn't take long for us to get our clothes off and move to the bed, she had been thoughtful enough to bring condoms with her and so we nibbled and licked our way around each other, she had almost non-existent breasts, basically large nipples and nothing more, soon she was astride me again and as i lay there and stared up at the her and the ceiling she kept telling me about some special trick she had but the bed was to soft  for her to pull it off, we moved to the floor and it was too hard, it was getting a bit Goldilocks when i told her it was okay, i'm sure there would be other times to show me, she smiled and we went about our business... of course there were a few more times for her to show me but i never got to see that magic trick...

It was a short lived little fling and who knows how long it could have gone on, it ended a bit abruptly and on good terms... she got pregnant, not be me fucking mind you but by her boyfriend, of course there was still that shiver that runs up the spine when a woman you've had sex with tells you she's pregnant but she confirmed i was in the clear, we'd been the responsible type while her and her boyfriend had not, i told her jokingly you better hope they kid doesn't have light skin and blue eyes, her boyfriend being a black dude, she laughed again and gave me a hug, not long after she quit the party store... and that was the last i'd see of her...










Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Clods and Tods

I am a lazy motherfucker... i say this unequivocally and without malice, there is no hope that someday i will not be a lazy motherfucker for a lazy motherfucker is what i am and i much prefer it that way.  I haven't looked at the typer for weeks, maybe it's some sort of melancholy resignation that loons have taken over the asylum and maybe it started around the 20th of January though i'm sure it started before that... Kurt was right you know, humanity is an utter fucking disaster and a detriment to everything else on this lovely blue orb but so it goes and just when i think there is no possible way that my opinion of humanity can get any lower a special group of homo sapiens will go out of their way to prove Darwin quite wrong by being so ass-fucking-backwards that it damn near makes me believe in some higher power because Mother Nature would have eliminated a species this stupid long ago if it was up to her, i vacillate between caring very deeply about the issues of the day and not giving a rat's fucking left hind teat about them because we'll just fuck it up anyhow, the apathy and nihilism usually increasing or decreasing by the amount of gear i'm toking at any given moment but away we spin as some F-list boob (Tila Tequila) tells us she has verifiable proof that the Earth is flat... i shit you not...

And so that cocksucker Zuckerberg is now demanding ID in order for me to berate people online, a hobby that was quickly becoming boring and passe, akin to pissing into the wind without the satisfaction of pissing on oneself, if there is any satisfaction in that, and so fuck it, they can delete my invaluable data from their data base, i'm sure my 38 friends will be crushed, if i can't use my nom de plume i can't be arsed, the last thing i need is fucking family members or in-laws or long lost acquaintances tracking me down and pretending like we actually give a shit about each other, we don't or at least i don't... and all the time i used to waste scrolling through alt/fake/real/news can be put to better use... doubleplusgood!! i say, things like getting really high and blabbering away in my own little corner of Cyberia, and i'm getting back to the stories, the world needs stories as they say or at least i do when i'm listening to me records and daydreaming away the afternoon with cuppa tea and cat purring next to me...

You see while i was having my 723 existential crisis of this current physical incarnation and trying to drudge up any old reason why i should be arsed to type out anything, i began dwelling on the rich people who seem to inhabit all these news programs that they show on the telly and that someone around here is always watching (not me mind you), and with all that money and power and what not they all looked fucking miserable as fuck, oh sure they smiled for the cameras the same way a spoiled and pampered child does and it was in that moment that i began laughing and patting my belly like the Buddha, these sad and pathetic people had never enjoyed a thing in their fucking lives, oh they'd claim they did and prattle they enjoy all kinds of things but it doesn't take an expert bullshit detector to know they're full of shit, you see in order to enjoy something you have to appreciate it, what it took to attain it or make it or cook it or steal it, when the world is handed to you on a shiny platter you can't truly grasp the fact though you've got a Michelin starred private chef you've never tasted anything as delicious as the spaghetti i used to eat every Thursday night down at the mission, and you either understand why or you don't... how those cut rate noodles and sauce tasted more delectable than any goat's milk and whole grain raised Foie Gras that Ms. Betsy ever tasted...

But this post cant' just toddle around in it's own pish and moan i mean what's fucking good these days maaaan? and what's fucking good are the soothing sounds of rock and roll and the happy accidents the universe will play on you,  to wink and nudge and say don't let the assholes get you down man... and so it was with wicked head cold and all i ventured out into the February night to see my man Hamilton Leithauser, former lead singer of the Walkmen and writer of the brilliant song the Rat which came out a year or so after i said goodbye to the game, a song which struck those lovely chords and uttered the words about "going out and knowing everyone you saw" but "now going out alone if i go out at all..." Ham with a voice that runs from suave crooner to a cigged-out, whiskey soaked, rock and roll howl, in short a beautiful fucking voice in the most non-beautiful sense...

And with each passing year the legend of Kono fades more and more into the smoke of a North Oakland bar, a lot of those people are ghosts, some figuratively and some literally, but there was a day when i was as fucking hood famous as you can get and so when i walked into the show and saw my old friends lovely wife i smiled, accepted my hug and asked where he was and he wasn't far away and so i accepted another hug and though i didn't plan to drink my old mate (who's about 7-8 years younger than me) stood me a couple of Guinness and we watched the gig and talked the old days and the new days, he's making a pretty good name for himself in the brewing business and i laughed as we swapped stories and talked shit, he once told me that i was the Sensei, that a lot of what he knew about the game he learned from watching me operate out of the bar he worked in, it's one of the best compliments i've ever gotten, we came out the other side, some didn't... the geezer with the head cold even got to flirt a bit with a woman who plowed into him, sharp leather jacket and gorgeous lips, some wit and flash... sometimes that's enough, particularly when you've got a wicked head cold... now on with the show...





Monday, January 23, 2017

One Year Later - Ziggy in the Subway

So Dave has been gone a year (when i started this) and i've spent many hours over that past year thinking about what Dave has taught me and thinking about what Dave has made me think about, because over the last year i've listened to Blackstar a lot, it's a brilliant record without the juxtaposition of his death but with it i've argued to anyone who'd listen that combined with the visual images it's nothing short of a work of high art in the highest order, i don't give a fuck what anyone says... but enough of this staid academic shit let's get on with the story here...

Many moons ago i attended Podunk U. in the backwoods of western Pennysltucky, it's the kind of place where the local residents are stuck in a time warp, like modern day Indiana (sorry Kurt), to put it mildly they are not the most open-minded of folks... it was also a shit state uni commuter campus with a good portion of the student body shuffling off to Pittsburgh or Cleveland or the surrounding areas while us hardcores with nowhere to go and nothing to do would somehow get fucked up on anything and everything that came our way and wander from shit house to shit apartment until we passed out on the floor sometime long after the three shitty town bars had closed...

And so it came to pass one fine Saturday afternoon that i ingested a rather large amount of hallucinogens, i was on my own and wandering when i stopped by a friend's place, the apartment of two girls i knew, one the good Doctor's lady friend and the other a chubby girl with flaming red curly hair who i'd occasionally screw just because i'd occasionally screw anyone who asked me at the time, and so i walked up the steps and knocked and smoked some grass and had a beer and oddly enough was hungry and asked what they had to eat? of course they ran down the usual shit poor college students have and i checked my pockets and realized i had enough for a sub and then the drugs kicked some more and i forgot about the sub for a minute and as i walked around the apartment i picked up a Ziggy Stardust wig, well maybe not the officially licensed version but close enough and soon i had it on and was looking in the mirror and giggling and Shag, the curly red haired girl, started laughing and said wait, let me put some make-up on you, and then we both laughed and i sat down...

Now don't get the idea that i had a lightening bolt drawn onto my face or anything, it was much simpler than that, mainly it was some silver eye shadow and eyeliner, some mascara, some lipstick and the orange Ziggy wig, all the kinds of shit that could get a red-blooded American boy's ass kicked in a small town... and so Shag applied the make-up and her breasts were rubbing against me and i pondered the chance of fucking later and i finished a beer and she finished painting my face and then i remembered i wanted a sandwich and so off to Subway we went, a mere 5 or 6 blocks of the 8 or 9 that roughly made up my own private Idaho...

There are those occasions (or all) under the influence of acid when you feel as if nothing can harm you, or what Chavez y Chavez called the spirit world for all you Young Guns aficionados, and so i walked through the gloaming in search of my sandwich with Shag and another lost weekender named Harry, it was one of those cool but humid spring nights and by the time i got to Subway the drugs were in full swing and i ordered my food oblivious to the looks of consternation and confusion of the poor townies working the counter (there seemed to be an unwritten rule of not hiring college students in the little town) i ordered and sat in the window while Shag and Harry laughed at the passersby doing double takes at the tall guy in a Ziggy Stardust wig and wearing make up serenely eating his sub and watching a light show only he could see...

It was a fine time and we finished our dinner and walked back through town to the big pink house and up the three flights of steps to the top floor apartment where Shag lived, Saturday nights were a vast wasteland, even more so if you were not yet legal drinking age, but somehow we had procured more beer and a couple joints, we opened the windows and turned on the stereo and played records and tapes and watched shit movies on a VCR and when the time came Harry made his gracious exit and so i began to grab my stuff to go as well when a hand grabbed mine for a moment, i sat back down, i had taken off the wig long before but had forgotten about the make-up, Shag lit up the last half joint and we smoked and kissed and then she led me into her bedroom where we did the requisite giggling and nibbling and fucking...

It was in the wee hours when i donned Shag's big pink bathrobe and made my way to the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, Shag sprawled out naked in her bed and snoring lightly, i sat in the window and looked out over the sleepy little town and drank tea as the acid wound it's way down, i sat there for a couple of hours through the deep black night and into the lightening dusk and listened to the sounds and then i crept back to Shag's room and got dressed and crept slowly to the door, made my way down the steps in the chilly dawn air and walked the couple blocks back to my place, just a boy who keeps swinging, a boy trying to work it out...


Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Ten

In true lounge fashion yesterday was 10 years to the day of the first post i ever hit publish on, of course being a fucking stoner i missed it, well maybe not missed it i just thought it was the 17th, maybe i was distracted in the last days of the Republic by the gigantic shit show that i can't seem to get away from... or maybe i was just really really high... i guess a lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same over the last decade in my own cold little corner of Cyberia, fuck if i know, it's been a right laugh and it entertains me so i guess i'll just keep doing whatever it is here i do, i have no delusions of grandeur, i've never tried to win an award or expand my "brand" or whatever the fuck it is that goes on here with these things, apparently there's a whole cottage industry and conferences and what not, i don't understand it or pretend to want to, i prefer the solitude and some good tunes, fucking people get on my tits if you know what i mean, and so without much (or more correctly no) fanfare we're a decade in, the lounge roughly six months younger than the I-mac and 2 years and change older than Nick Disaster, how's that for perspective old man, i've kicked old habits and started new ones and kicked those and quit smoking cigs and learned how to booze and discovered what the kids call vaporizers and though i could go on i won't, it's the lounge for fucking christ sake, we've never tried that hard and we're not about to start now dammit... and so i'm gonna pour a Guinness and have a toke, ten years of this shit, i shake my head, i must be a fucking nutter...

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Suburbia - Casual Party

Due to the environment in which i live, (the suburbs), i am sometimes forced to leave my house and interact with other adult types in a social aspect, i managed to avoid if for the first few years but then the boyos got older and started doing shit and sometimes this shit leads to parties and since i feel it my responsibility and shit to make sure they're happy i subject myself to these functions, functions were disparate people are thrown together and forced to converse, of course some people know each other better than others and in this my theory of the suburbs being nothing more than a (sorta) grown up version of high school only with balder heads, saggier boobs, beer guts, and flabby asses comes to fruition...

Of course if you've ever been subjected to one of these functions you'll find that most of the gibbering is about jobs and careers and the most vanilla of hobbies.  It's one thing to be into gardening and Oprah's book club and quite another to be into various strains of ganja and say, French Existentialism, one could say they are that not far away from each other, both involve cultivation of plants and reading but let's face it among the polite types of the burbs it's a fucking galaxy apart, hell i might as well announce a penchant for ass-less leather chaps and ball gags and ask the hostess to pass the spinach dip... let us also not forget the various houses of worship that crop up in conversation and this strange unspoken knowledge that i'm supposed to know what they fuck they're talking about, luckily i usually get stoned before i show up and make sure to suck down a beer right quick to take the edge off, granted i can talk to anyone, been doing it for years, but the older i get the less i feel like, shall we say, putting forth the effort and would much rather eat my slice of pizza and gobble baked goods while the munchies are still raging...

Oddly enough i've noticed it's perfectly okay to get tanked at these functions but as i've wound down my drinking the past few years and wound up my grass intake i tend to wander from place to place and sort of drift on the periphery of conversations, not that i'm trying to strike up a conversation about French Existentialism because i'm not, i'm mainly just looking to pass the time until i can round up said boyo or boyos and get the fuck outta Dodge.  There is also the drawback of having no career or ever wanting one, my healthy contempt for organized religion and my love of all things perverse, criminal, and for lack of a better word, artistic... yes i sound like a perfect fucking wanker but at least i'm not reminiscing about the glory days of the big game and the tackles and touchdowns that went with it (who knows someday maybe i'll write some posts about the glory days of hot shit basketball player kono), it's damn near the same problem i had in high school it's just none of my old goofy wasted friends are there to get even more wasted with and attempt to pick up girls, seeing that i'm pretty sure it's frowned upon to hit on the housewives while their hubbies are in the same room, then again i could be completely wrong about that...

And so i plan my strategy, i note the exit doors, i avoid the talk of television shows (i don't really watch any) and manicured lawns, of home improvement projects or which country supplies the best Au Pairs (cuz nannies are so passe these days), i was dumb enough to open my mouth once and say that if i got one of those i'd have to get a fucking job, the joke was like that lead zeppelin, blank stares and a stray giggle and then the resumption of affairs at hand while i slunk off to the periphery of some other room, Jean-Paul's No Exit burning brightly on the marquee of my mind, at least this hell is quite clean and with fine pastries and the soft type toilet paper that sticks to my hairy ass, and like most good soccer moms i've learned to look for the imperfections, for the dust in the corners or stain on the floor, not to sit in the pow-wow of the PTA junta and snicker but in order to make me feel better about my lack of domestic prowess... what's a dope-smoking, (occasional) pill popping, Guinness drinking heathen to do? i watch the clock and have a cocktail weeny...

So i stand and watch the upstanding citizens of my community laugh and converse, i nod and arch my eyebrows and smile as if i understand the language, i dream of slipping out the back and heading to the Clubhouse to pull tubes and drink a few beers, to talk the futbol or hockey or French Existentialism or ganja, to debate the merits of records or writers of a decidedly non-mainstream bent, but alas i cannot, i must stay until that first guest leaves, as if there is some unwritten rule that prevents me from making for the door before anyone else, but i bide my time and tip off the boyo(s) and do my best Davey Copperfield when the time comes, a quiet thank you to the host and hostess, "yes a great time, the boyos loved it" and then out towards the car in hopes of dodging any more talk of play dates or "date nights", i can only handle the same conversation so many times, i prefer the quiet nights of my cold room, the company of the page and the typer and the record player, the creak of the steps, the bubble of the bong, these days it's a party of one, i like it more that way,,,











Sunday, January 1, 2017

Heavens and Heathens

There is a road that runs from Pittsburgh to Altoona in the lovely state that i call home, and on this road is seems that there is nothing less than an endless struggle between the forces of good and evil, of course good and evil is a relative thing and what one may consider good another may consider evil and on this road they are juxtaposed in such a way as to make me ponder and giggle the whole drive, you see i've driven this road many times and have watched it change over the years, i often travel this road around certain holidays when in order to keep the peace i acquiesce to something that at worst is Guantanamo like and at best mildly boring, the things i do to keep a roof over my head, let me tell you...

The road runs through the Laurel Highlands, so named by the Scottish settlers who ended up here many years ago and who could not believe their luck in finding a place that had even shittier weather than their homeland, a mix of fog and freezing rain and snow and what seems an almost constant grey drizzle, it's a road that runs through nothing or if not nothing very little, a sparsely populated area of rednecks and hill-jacks, of people who like to polish their guns and are afraid of all non-whites, of course in this territory there are very few non-whites but they see the Fox news and know what a dangerous place the world is... and of course the two businesses that dominate the landscape once you are just east of Murrysville are churches and strip clubs/porno shops, (and a smattering of bars)... and therein lies the struggle for the soul of man... or something like that...

Now the churches run the gamut from the mega-church of Cornerstone Ministries, a bunch of fucking con men bilking the elderly and stupid out of what little money they have so they can build gigantic houses of worship and run a television station where they sit around in expensive ill-fitting suits while sporting ridiculous amounts of gold and inform us of all the places the Bible tells us to donate so that we can be saved and become rich just like them, hell it's even tax deductible which is something they seem to mention a lot, sometimes when i'm really good and cooked i'll turn it on just to admire the bullshit they are shoveling, you gotta hand it to these grifters, the way they see it practically every damn verse in that book is a reason to send them money and boy if those phones in the phone room aren't ringing off the hook...

And of course there are other types of churches in this stretch of road... one is in a warehouse, one looks like a tiny one room place which has a neon Jesus Saves sign above the door (something i've honestly thought about trying to heist) and a sign stating that truckers are welcome, the usual average looking joints with white steeples and a school bus or two parked on the side, they are every few miles it seems and of many denominations but with most leaning toward that evangelical style of mumbo-jumbo that seems to be all the rage these days in places not classified as urban, oddly i feel much safer in the ghetto than out here among the devout...

And then there is the other side of the coin, or should i say sticky token, cuz anyone who has ever been in the porno store knows you gotta wash your hands after handling those tokens, the tokens that get you into the little movie booths where one can watch any number of fuck flicks, gay or straight otherwise, a place where our esteemed state legislature of god-fearing types voted to remove the doors and install curtains to protect us citizens from jerking off or making new friends and jerking off or any other number of certain activities they deem unhealthy, you see in a world full of free porn the only reason to be heading to the sex shop is for lube and dildos and what not, all things that could also be bought online in a more discreet and private fashion but yet these stores are still here, a tribute to the perversions of humanity in all it's glory, the fading lights of a golden age where racks of porn magazines and sex toys mingle with the little canisters of nitrous oxide and VCR head cleaner and that weird shit called Rush, the only reasons these places are still here is for the same reasons that the churches line the road as well, people need other people, whether praying or enjoying some porn and a wank...

There used to be a half dozen strip clubs along this stretch as well, the world famous Climax I and Climax II were once located along this strip of road, the first strip club in the country to offer a drive through service, where one could literally pull in as if ordering a fucking Big Mac and watch a woman dance nude, these places were located in the middle of fucking nowhere and i often wondered who danced there? local women? and like the porn shops the doors to almost all these establishments was located around the back of the building, one can't see the entrance from the road, there was thought put into this most likely because some of the same people frequenting the churches were also frequenting .25c Adult Video and News, as well as the Beehive (i used to sell grass to a girl who danced here and her boyfriend) and Cheater's and Streaker's, all fine names for clubs located in the armpit of Pennsyltucky, all places well down the list of swanky strip clubs or even city clubs, this was A-ball not the major leagues...

And so salvation takes many forms on the shit road of state route 22/30, the heavens battle the heathens and you can rest assured that i fall squarely in the latter camp, not because i'm some massive proponent of pornography (though i am merely a sloping fore-headed neanderthal who likes when the frontal cortex lights up with stimuli, ie naked woman) but more so because i don't like church, particularly those of the bible waving, cross wearing, sadistic and cruel god types, to steal a line from a Jewish guy from Long Island singing to his Catholic friend Virginia, i'd much rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, because those sinners are much more fun, quarter nudie flicks and nitrous oxide beats readings and hymns every fucking time, and no worries when the shit gets thick we'll just blame the snake...





Monday, December 19, 2016

The Record Collector

There was an article in a UK paper the other day that said the vinyl resurgence isn't being fueled by the kids but was actually the product of middle-aged loners, it said old men were the ones spending the dosh on records and that those of this ilk were usually solitary types, in a way the article was having a laugh at us old men clinging to our youth by searching out the records we loved and filing them on our shelves to be cataloged and treasured, we were officially uncool, i say we because the real shocking thing to my not so delicate sensibilities was that i fell into said demographic, males aged 45-54, i don't feel 46 (except for my aching back and shitty shoulder), i'm quite sure i don't act 46 which could be both an insult and a compliment, i'm told i don't look 46 but at the end of the day i am... i also happen to have a record collection and be more than a bit of a loner these days, even more so than i used to be...

Of course this record collection is both a source of great joy and embarrassment, like John Lennon singing "imagine no possessions" while being filthy rich and living in a Manhattan apartment and playing a grand piano, it's a conundrum, i don't need all these records, they are possessions and nothing more, something i rail against constantly, the accumulation of stuff,  yet what comes from those little grooves does more for my soul, my mental well-being, than any ancient text could provide, like Nietzsche said, "without music, life would be a mistake."  I've commented that one of the best things i ever did was to not learn an instrument, not that i wouldn't like to be able to play something but it takes away any technical or clinical feelings when i listen, i don't care how a musician played this or that i only know and care that the words (or lack thereof) and notes elicit some sort of response, an emotion, a memory, a feeling, it's one of the most intoxicating feelings in the universe... and while the world moves ever faster towards music stored and listened to in bits and bytes the pulling and placing of the record on the turntable is another glorious ritual of habit, a habit that involves the feel and texture of the jacket,  the smell of the ink and paper, it's tactile and olfactory unlike the cool steel world of the ipod...

Oddly enough i was looking at this collection the other day, it sits directly behind from where i type, i i was thinking i needed to get rid of some of these records, that the curse of vinyl is it has to be a good record start to finish, not the world of the compact disc or digital, where repeat or skip is just a button away, one must commit oneself to a record and sometimes, even after multiple attempts, one just cannot do that, be it a matter of taste or style or opinion, there is no love and there will never be, and so that vinyl can sit and collect dust or be moved to a more receptive home... but you'd be surprised how many tubes can be pulled and hours wiled away perusing the art work and liner notes and gazing into space, i have this idea to write my own liner notes for the boyos, so that when the old man isn't around to prattle on about music anymore they might take out a record and have a letter fall out, a story about what this record meant to their old man, a story about anything, the music or a place or the first time he heard it or the person he heard it with, anything...

And even now as a middle-aged loner i believe Rob Gordon was right (see High Fidelity), the records in our crates and the books on our shelves they matter, the movies seen and art digested matter, you could say that they don't but you'd be wrong, these things give us a window into people, they affect how we view them and how they view us, the records that sit behind me are my life story, told song by song and year by year, it's a soundtrack that exists for no one else but me, that is played for no one else but me, rain or sun or depression or joy the music is always there, that Friedrich character may have been mad but he was right... and you may wonder, how does this forty something unemployable loser come up with dosh to buy these things? well, it's tricky...

I am under no illusions around my gaff about what status i am held in by the breadwinner, i am afforded room and board, i have a warm place to sleep and like most soccer mom's i get to eat after everyone is fed, i don't mind, my job entails listening to endless and repetitive tales about the a rotating cast of misfits, buffoons and criminals which inhabit the restaurant industry, i've learned i'm not supposed to respond but more to nod and look concerned and interested, to say i am? well what the fuck do you think? and so i must find revenue streams to help me remain sane, that allow me to buy a ticket to see a band or pick up a record now and then, that allow me to keep a few Guinness in the mini-fridge and the dope jar stocked, i don't have many wants these day, i don't need a lot of cash, as usual dumb luck smiles my way and affords me an easy way to make a little pocket money, there's also selling off the unloved vinyl and the online surveys that pay out in gift cards or cash, with each passing sentence that description up above becomes more apt and pathetic... and that's okay, i don't need to be fucking cool i just need to be and the songs help me do that, i've had that soundtrack going since i was kid in the back of my mom's piss yellow and rusting Olds Cutlass, singing along to AM radio and daydreaming before i knew what it was, i couldn't quit it if i tried... and i don't really feeling like trying anyway...