So Cathy regularly sends me stuff from NYmag and various other rag works from NYC and everytime I see it I think, since the Dig went down the shitter and tried to recover its readership by dumping it glossy cover, Boston has been trying to compete with New York like its still 1991. Stuff @ Night (really the “@” who fucking hired these people), Boston Magazine, even the Improper, long a benchmark of how this city could roll has tried playing catch up with magazines attempting to emulate it.
If you’re not from around here, imagine if Cosmo was all about Boston. Those are our magazines.
Dig is the lone wolf left since the Phoenix has spread its wings to other ports. (I was in Portland last month and even they have one now.) but its lost its edge. I think I can count 5 honest articles in there and its bite comes from its sections like Bean Counter, Media Farm and the album reviews more so than it does its scathing right-hook of a writer base. I’m hoping they can pull one out and I wanted to post this for awhile so heres an example of why this close-knit metropolis is desirable sometimes:
Jonas Borther, A little bit longer
GENRE | BROTHERLY BARF
VERDICT | A LOT SHORTER
RELEASE | 8.12.08
LABEL | HOLLYWOOD RECORDS
JONASBROTHERS.COM
Now that every member of Oklahoma's Hanson is married with 10 kids, it's the Garden State's turn to present us with precocious, snot-filled trash. And just like a teenage Jessica Simpson, the Bros all wear abstinence promise rings. I can't wait for one of them to fuck John Mayer.
See, that needs to be everything. Boston is Boston because we’re salty and bitter. Jon always says “Its Boston, we’ll let you do whatever you want, as long as we can make fun of you for it.” People thought we were progressive when we allowed Gay Marriage, it was just a get out of jail free card to use the word “gay” twice as much. To use the old Nixon-era mantra, “Don’t blame mem I’m from Massachusetts.”
“I’m not homophobic, I’m from the Commonwealth.”
The Dig once wrote “we need to drive out all these stoic blonde women in business suits courageously piloting their Jettas around the city. In other words, More Boston, Less Connecticut”
Similarly, we need to drive these Sex and the City-esque Advertisements disguised as Magazines out of the city and get back to real, gritty journalism. In other words, More Boston, Less Vegas.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Weather Report
The well-said emotions of spontaneous conception are sprawled around my floor scrawled on receipts and boxes of pizza. A dime store notepad and an oversized bag they gave me for break sticks. I was drunk on the train and I saw you in the window and I bled onto the bag that sits in the middle of my room and makes it a mess.
I tried to be Blake on an old CD case you’d made from construction paper. Stolen from work, the pad that held a child’s amorphous vision now held a mix disc of songs you thought I’d hate.
I can’t hear it any more because an old bottle of coke once spilled on it and sealed the case to the plastic. I never knew how to tell you that the songs didn’t matter, they were 18 gifts of thought and time and I listened to them all and I could always see your face. I’ve kept the thing through two moves and saved it from the rain and though I can’t hear it any more, sometimes I think I’m waiting for you to make me another one.
I tried to be Blake on an old CD case you’d made from construction paper. Stolen from work, the pad that held a child’s amorphous vision now held a mix disc of songs you thought I’d hate.
I can’t hear it any more because an old bottle of coke once spilled on it and sealed the case to the plastic. I never knew how to tell you that the songs didn’t matter, they were 18 gifts of thought and time and I listened to them all and I could always see your face. I’ve kept the thing through two moves and saved it from the rain and though I can’t hear it any more, sometimes I think I’m waiting for you to make me another one.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Tom Waits - All the World is Green
because Tom Waits + colors = good reading. NP has up a 2 hour concert he did in Georgia for his Glitter and Doom tour. The live version is amazing. Scarlett's version....eh
I fell into the ocean
When you became my wife
I risked it all aganist the sea
To have a better life
Marie you're the wild blue sky
And men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
And beggars into kings
Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
And all the world is green
The fase forgives the mirror
The worm forgives the plow
The questions begs the answer
Can you forgive me somehow
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green
Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
And all the world is green
The moon is yellow silver
Oh the things that summer brings
It's a love you'd kill for
And all the world is green
He is balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our grave(s)
When all the world is green
I fell into the ocean
When you became my wife
I risked it all aganist the sea
To have a better life
Marie you're the wild blue sky
And men do foolish things
You turn kings into beggars
And beggars into kings
Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
And all the world is green
The fase forgives the mirror
The worm forgives the plow
The questions begs the answer
Can you forgive me somehow
Maybe when our story's over
We'll go where it's always spring
The band is playing our song again
And all the world is green
Pretend that you owe me nothing
And all the world is green
We can bring back the old days again
And all the world is green
The moon is yellow silver
Oh the things that summer brings
It's a love you'd kill for
And all the world is green
He is balancing a diamond
On a blade of grass
The dew will settle on our grave(s)
When all the world is green
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Blue Valentines (Tom Waits 1978)
She sends me blue valentines
All the way from Philadelphia
To mark the anniversary
Of someone that I used to be
And it feels like there's a warrant out for my arrest
Baby you got me checkin' in my rearview mirrror
That's why I'm always on the run
That's why I change my name
I didn't think you'd ever find me here
To send me blue valentines
Like half forgotten dreams
Like a pebble in my shoe
As I walk these streets
And the ghost of your memory
Baby is the thistle in the kiss
It's the burgler that that can break a roses neck
It's the tattooed broken promise
I gotta hide beneath my sleeve
I'm gonna see you every time I turn my back
She sends me blue valentines
Though I try to remain at large
They're insisting that our love
Must have a eulogy
Why do I save all of this madness
Here in the nightstand drawer
There to haunt upon my shoulders
Baby I know
I'd be luckier to walk around everywhere I go
With this blind and broken heart
That sleeps beneath my lapel
Still these blue valentines
To remind me of my cardinal sin
I can never wash the guilt
Or get these bloodstains off my hands
And it takes a whole lot of whiskey
To make these nightmares go away
And I cut my bleedin' heart out every night
And I'm gonna die just a little more on each St. Valentine's day
Don't you remember I promised I would write you
These blue valentines
Blue valentines
Blue valentines
All the way from Philadelphia
To mark the anniversary
Of someone that I used to be
And it feels like there's a warrant out for my arrest
Baby you got me checkin' in my rearview mirrror
That's why I'm always on the run
That's why I change my name
I didn't think you'd ever find me here
To send me blue valentines
Like half forgotten dreams
Like a pebble in my shoe
As I walk these streets
And the ghost of your memory
Baby is the thistle in the kiss
It's the burgler that that can break a roses neck
It's the tattooed broken promise
I gotta hide beneath my sleeve
I'm gonna see you every time I turn my back
She sends me blue valentines
Though I try to remain at large
They're insisting that our love
Must have a eulogy
Why do I save all of this madness
Here in the nightstand drawer
There to haunt upon my shoulders
Baby I know
I'd be luckier to walk around everywhere I go
With this blind and broken heart
That sleeps beneath my lapel
Still these blue valentines
To remind me of my cardinal sin
I can never wash the guilt
Or get these bloodstains off my hands
And it takes a whole lot of whiskey
To make these nightmares go away
And I cut my bleedin' heart out every night
And I'm gonna die just a little more on each St. Valentine's day
Don't you remember I promised I would write you
These blue valentines
Blue valentines
Blue valentines
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Something I think you should read
From the larger http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/10/magazine/10politics-t.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin
On the day in early July when Clyburn and I talked, Barack Obama, who is the same age as one of Clyburn’s three daughters, had recently clinched his party’s nomination for president. Clyburn, who as majority whip is the highest-ranking black elected official in Washington, told me that on the night of the final primaries he left the National Democratic Club down the street about 15 minutes before Obama was scheduled to speak and returned home to watch by himself. He feared he might lose hold of his emotions.
“Here we are, all of a sudden, in the 60th year after Strom Thurmond bolting the Democratic Party over a simple thing, something almost unheard of — because he did not want the armed forces to be integrated,” Clyburn said slowly. “Here we are 45 years after the ‘I have a dream’ speech. Forty years after the assassinations of Kennedy and King. And this party that I have been a part of for so long, this party that has been accused of taking black people for granted, is about to deliver the nomination for the nation’s highest office to an African-American. How do you describe that? All those days in jail cells, wondering if anything you were doing was even going to have an impact.” He shook his head silently.
This was just something that mattered a lot to me.
On the day in early July when Clyburn and I talked, Barack Obama, who is the same age as one of Clyburn’s three daughters, had recently clinched his party’s nomination for president. Clyburn, who as majority whip is the highest-ranking black elected official in Washington, told me that on the night of the final primaries he left the National Democratic Club down the street about 15 minutes before Obama was scheduled to speak and returned home to watch by himself. He feared he might lose hold of his emotions.
“Here we are, all of a sudden, in the 60th year after Strom Thurmond bolting the Democratic Party over a simple thing, something almost unheard of — because he did not want the armed forces to be integrated,” Clyburn said slowly. “Here we are 45 years after the ‘I have a dream’ speech. Forty years after the assassinations of Kennedy and King. And this party that I have been a part of for so long, this party that has been accused of taking black people for granted, is about to deliver the nomination for the nation’s highest office to an African-American. How do you describe that? All those days in jail cells, wondering if anything you were doing was even going to have an impact.” He shook his head silently.
This was just something that mattered a lot to me.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
So maybe I’m a dog person.
I was looking at photos from a new book I was reading about in the NYT’s. For more on that go here http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/05/books/05squa.html?_r=1&oref=slogin
But there’s a photo in the slide show they offer where a guys sleeping on a cot in the street and on the cot next to him is this big dopey golden retriever and both of them are sacked out.
Back in high school I remember taking road trips with either nate or issel and a couple of times I’d realized we’d been just riding along in silence for somewhere over an hour. That’s kind of what I like about dogs, its like a silent understand because speaking is confusing.
I started thinking back to Cyclone which was my dogs name until his brother died. At that point we didn’t need words. There was no differentiating, he’d just follow us around the yard, generally my father who would usually survey the garden for what was selling and how things were growing. He never really grew old, he just sorta settled into his surroundings. They never told me but I think he was hit by a car, but until that time he never stopped leaving dead animals on our porch.
When he was younger, if you gave him three weeks, he’d figure out how to get out of whatever was holding him. He could jump about 3 feet vertically and if it didn’t scale fences, it would get him onto something that would allow him to hop over it. At the end of the day we’d sometimes decide our shoes were too muddy and we’d sit on the stairs to take them off. He’d come up and sit next to us, taking in the same view, and maybe it was just assumed, but you sorta felt like he was thinking about the same thing. How to pay the bills, and what did you feel like eating tonight. How your buddy from high school was doing and whether or not that girl really was interested in you. And you’d sigh deep and he’d lay down and look up at you in a manner that said he was comfortable, “don’t make me get up.”
And when you’d been exhausted with the weight of the world, he’d be a pain in the ass and come lick your face, but he generally understood. You didn’t need to explain anything to him, words would just be confusing. These days I wish he was still around, he scratched up the paint on my car and knocked shit out of my hands, but I think he was the only one who got me. We shared something, and the blues lost their sting when he was around.
But there’s a photo in the slide show they offer where a guys sleeping on a cot in the street and on the cot next to him is this big dopey golden retriever and both of them are sacked out.
Back in high school I remember taking road trips with either nate or issel and a couple of times I’d realized we’d been just riding along in silence for somewhere over an hour. That’s kind of what I like about dogs, its like a silent understand because speaking is confusing.
I started thinking back to Cyclone which was my dogs name until his brother died. At that point we didn’t need words. There was no differentiating, he’d just follow us around the yard, generally my father who would usually survey the garden for what was selling and how things were growing. He never really grew old, he just sorta settled into his surroundings. They never told me but I think he was hit by a car, but until that time he never stopped leaving dead animals on our porch.
When he was younger, if you gave him three weeks, he’d figure out how to get out of whatever was holding him. He could jump about 3 feet vertically and if it didn’t scale fences, it would get him onto something that would allow him to hop over it. At the end of the day we’d sometimes decide our shoes were too muddy and we’d sit on the stairs to take them off. He’d come up and sit next to us, taking in the same view, and maybe it was just assumed, but you sorta felt like he was thinking about the same thing. How to pay the bills, and what did you feel like eating tonight. How your buddy from high school was doing and whether or not that girl really was interested in you. And you’d sigh deep and he’d lay down and look up at you in a manner that said he was comfortable, “don’t make me get up.”
And when you’d been exhausted with the weight of the world, he’d be a pain in the ass and come lick your face, but he generally understood. You didn’t need to explain anything to him, words would just be confusing. These days I wish he was still around, he scratched up the paint on my car and knocked shit out of my hands, but I think he was the only one who got me. We shared something, and the blues lost their sting when he was around.
Friday, August 1, 2008
How the blues sound played on a Typewriter
Too much happens too fast and the mistake is trying to analyze it all at once. The mistake is trying to avoid failure. I think my personality types clash like that, I want success so badly, and its so tangled up with work, that I can’t conceive of good results coming from nothing.
I hate not having answers. I’d like to know what I’ve done wrong, still all these women just loose interest with no warning or reasoning or rationale. The one good thing to come of it is that it tests the limits of my optimism. And I’m hoping should I reach the bottom one day and find that constant positivity will only fail, I have bitter wealth of experience to draw from.
I’m arrogant, but not yet arrogant enough to diagnose my entire generations psychological disposition. But down there at the core of it all, you can smell the fear of becoming their parents, a divorce ridden generation we either are running away from or seeking a solution to. I suspect it will only get worse; the two types clash and push one another away. One clings to the other for salvation, and the other runs from suffocation and each come away bitter from the experience. Maybe we need to just let go as a group and take what comes. My experience has always been that the runners feel their more well adjusted, the 90’s was such a time for “independence” that it became ingrained that anyone can go it alone.
What we need is a duo to continuously beat the loners; One with truly equitable relations. The problem I see is we’re still being run by a golden age group of couples. Politicians are running prostitute rings and making out in airport bathrooms and at every press conference we watch their wives “stand by their man.” That’s not balance. And this is what people are seeing, this is what they run from.
Someone somewhere once said that solitude without peace is loneliness.
I spend my time trying to constantly improve in small ways. Reading, Exercise, Socialization, I’ve started trying to do more manual labor if only to pick up some trade skills. I really want to sail. Still I’m not sure how one can reconcile the notion that we can always improve while being comfortable in our own skin.
If we accept what we are, why improve. If we accept there is room to improve, how could we be comfortable by sitting idle?
This isn’t rhetoric. I’m really asking.
you wave your hand and they scatter like crows, they have nothing that will ever capture your heart
I hate not having answers. I’d like to know what I’ve done wrong, still all these women just loose interest with no warning or reasoning or rationale. The one good thing to come of it is that it tests the limits of my optimism. And I’m hoping should I reach the bottom one day and find that constant positivity will only fail, I have bitter wealth of experience to draw from.
I’m arrogant, but not yet arrogant enough to diagnose my entire generations psychological disposition. But down there at the core of it all, you can smell the fear of becoming their parents, a divorce ridden generation we either are running away from or seeking a solution to. I suspect it will only get worse; the two types clash and push one another away. One clings to the other for salvation, and the other runs from suffocation and each come away bitter from the experience. Maybe we need to just let go as a group and take what comes. My experience has always been that the runners feel their more well adjusted, the 90’s was such a time for “independence” that it became ingrained that anyone can go it alone.
What we need is a duo to continuously beat the loners; One with truly equitable relations. The problem I see is we’re still being run by a golden age group of couples. Politicians are running prostitute rings and making out in airport bathrooms and at every press conference we watch their wives “stand by their man.” That’s not balance. And this is what people are seeing, this is what they run from.
Someone somewhere once said that solitude without peace is loneliness.
I spend my time trying to constantly improve in small ways. Reading, Exercise, Socialization, I’ve started trying to do more manual labor if only to pick up some trade skills. I really want to sail. Still I’m not sure how one can reconcile the notion that we can always improve while being comfortable in our own skin.
If we accept what we are, why improve. If we accept there is room to improve, how could we be comfortable by sitting idle?
This isn’t rhetoric. I’m really asking.
you wave your hand and they scatter like crows, they have nothing that will ever capture your heart
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