September 28, 2004
Tiding the Impossible
While I'm completing the JRussell Labor Day Trio-logy and setting the Chris Higgins legend into the eternal burn of text, I have spent a lot of time here in college bored out of my skull. I've made mixtapes, well almost. Of the three tapes I delved in to, all three have complete side A's and none of them have side B's. The first is my 'Richmond' mix that begins with the Queers "This Place Sucks" and is set to end with Pg.99 "Richmond is a hole". It was songs of comfort (Kid Dynamite, Pixies, a Mannequin song that sounds a lot like Dinosaur Jr), frantic jittery songs (that Interpol song about couches, a Mannequin song that sounds like Born Against and old Nirvana, that Black Eyes song about heading south from Baltimore) and other songs with titles and lyrics to express the bipolar departure to the alcoholic education prison instituion that is college, not to dwell on the fucker, but it was on my mind. I put the Stooge's 'Dirt' on there because I had just bought Fun House a couple weeks before I came down here and its got that kind of bassline and guitar noise that really makes a person want smoke some pot, and has a kid wandering down the halls of the honors dorm looking for a stoner to no avail. I put Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash doing 'The Girl from the North Country' because its incredibly soothing and its two bad ass motherfuckers singing a sweet love song about a girl in the North Country (fair?), definitely a southern thing I told myself, and if my impressive sideburns and new western pearl snap shirts aren't loud enough, I'm slowly becoming a grits, CCR, pick up truck, and BBQ sammich man. I had My Bloody Valentine 'Loomer' on the tape because I really associate that with the dehydrated, unshaven, lightheaded good times in Europe. Wearing clothes that hadn't been washed, hadn't showered, listening to the wavering almost organ-like feedback in the background while I watched the sun rise in Spain on the train. I left the room in the train because it was too hot in there I wasn't sleeping anyways. I remember listening to that song at like four in the morning in bed at the hostel in Barcelona after a night out at assorted bars and clubs, the last club being the most electro-popular-shiny shirt-douchebag-grind-not as in grindcore-kind of lame ass clubs. But lots of kids like that scene, but it seems way too fake for me, and they have no room for me but I don't want in anyway, I was more comfortable at the Irish Pub across the pavillion, yelling for "Whiskey in a Jar", bring the Oi! to the table, singing along to "I Fought the Law" (The Bobby Fuller Fuckin' Four!, turns out weren't actually the original writers as I had pledged, actually writen by Sonny Curtis of the Crickets, I learned this oddly enough from a Grateful Dead site, you can learn all kinds of things from Deadheads; African percussion, falafel cooking, AP US Government.) Yeah, so My Bloody Valentine, Loveless is a really comforting album all together, Isn't Anything is growing on me, especially Lose My Breath and Sueisfine. So there's actually two Lungfish songs in a row on this tape which is a mixtape faux-pas unless the whole tape is doubles of every band (Read High Fidelity and learn more mixtape rules than the movie provide, although it is an excellent film, and in my series of comfort films that I may or may not discuss, I'd rather be getting laid, but we all know that works, more blog), but that's only because I wasn't lying nearby when the track ended and it went in to the next Lungfish song, but its not actually that bad, because Lungfish is awesome, and the first track was the instrumental Necrophones then in to the catchy and happy All Night and All Day (not the Kinks, although I could go for some Kinks on this tape), but its got Daniel Higgs doing this Johnny Rotten-esque slur of of I'll be here all not long, plus you have to break the rules to make progress, gotta put the knife in the ketchup bottle so to speak. There's some filler on that tape, I put a Fucking Champs song on it, because I had taken a Champs CD after seeing a band composed of Field School students and teacher play at a part with an apparent heavy influence from the Champs, so I put them on the tape, but I kinda wish I hadn't, I love riffs and I'll check out ex-Nation of Ulysses bands, but its not doing it for me.
The next tape is a tape for my boy Willy J'Rot down in New Orleans, orginally he had asked for a carton of cigarettes because they cost too much down there, and they're cheap in here in Virginia, what with the slaves and all. He also wanted some of the Richmond staple, PBR. I was going to trade the cigarettes and cheap beer for records and a bottle of fine bourbon. I was intrigued by the the bourbon because its like "fine wine" right? Ladie's man style? I'm a boy who buys Courvoisier glasses at thrift stores every time I see em. I had a Georgia avenue funeral home glass but it shatter in my bathtub while I sipped a Slurpee in a Courvoisier glass in a hot bubble bath. We all learn the whole cold + hot = explosion! thing at some point. There's the legend of Sammy "the fork bending, sign spinner" Sklover throwing a cold rock from the river into the campfire, the stone explodes and breaks his trademark glasses. He goes on to become a "homo-flexible lesbian man" at Guilford College in the crustpunk oasis of Greensboro, NC. To find this boy's PBR, all I'd have to is walk down Cary St. and find some party where there is no doubt a 30 pack of the Blue Ribbon on someone's porch. Richmond's all about porches and PBR. But then the boy got caught up in frisbee and trumpet, so no cigarettes. So we ended up trading mixtapes, he just finished his and asked for my address, but I of course am stalled after completing side A. He had specifically requested "dirty punk like Born Against". In this current phase for me, dirty meant noisy and punk meant driven. I started the tape with Sonic Youth 'Nic Fit' which is a 59 second bouncy little fucker, noisy and fast. Then I put on the Born Against that he asked for. Put on beer-drinking, Karp-lovin', Bardcore champs, Charming Bastards' song 'Wasted Cerveza', which is what I wanted every song to sound like. Then I took a turn for the dirty and southern and stoner rock with Pentagram which is essentially the American counterpart to Black Sabbath, playing that groovy, heavy riff stuff in the early 70's, thick stoned-out pre-metal. Then I punked it out again, with Mannequin and the "long song" that we had po-go'd to at Mitchell Hall and the Warehouse Next Door and a some Bad Brains for good measure, can never have too much Bad Brains. The tape is good but I don't feel like listing the whole side A, but I like the blend of southern dirty heaviness (Eyehategod) with straight ahead stuff (old Black Flag, Slayer punk covers) with noisy punky stuff (Free Kitten, Destroyer) and I can't wait to actually finish that tape and do some bad ass layout for the cover and track listing. The third tape I'm caught up in is a tape for a girl named Kate who lives either in Maryland, Virginia, or Vermont, I'm not quite sure, but she's cool. I don't know if I've actually met her or not, but I saw her at that Queers show first night down in Richmond, or at least I think it was her based on the description (girl. daycare swindlers hoodie. check. check.) Either way, she got caught in me and Will discusiing our tape trade, so I offered to make her tape. Now from what I could tell she's in to catchy punky stuff (Ramones, Queers, Daycare Swindlers) and also like 60's, 70's stuff, the Dead, the Doors, the Beatles, so I had to keep that in mind, while expanding the musical horizon, but she seems mellow, often her online icon is a cartoon mushroom, other times its that pale bitch Amelie, so I don't want her freaking out with some spastic Dillinger Escape Plan knee jerk, breakneck His Hero is Gone or anything. So I started her Side A with Q and Not U - 'Soft Pyramids' because its catchy, and kind of calm, and kind of a dancer and its got that whole Dischord white kid with rythym and an awesome melodica. Next track is still DC Dischord, Fugazi's 'Great Cop' which is also catchy and punky and and it builds up and its not too heavy and its got a breakdown and you can picture a crowd at Fort Reno or in front of the Washington Monument getting caught in the sway of the groove. Next track: The Clash 'City of the Dead', she mentioned liking the Clash, am I talking about Richmond being the city of the dead? Do I want to go see Shaun of the Dead? Am I telling a fucking story with this tape? Am I that kind of mixtape duder? Next track goes further back in time to the pyschedelic sounds of the 13th Floor Elevators with 'You're going to miss', better known as the first song in High Fidelity, but its a rocker and it features a pyscho-tropic jug player in the background. She mentioned liking both the Zimmer-man and the Cash-man, so I threw in 'The Girl from the North Country' because its been on my playlist a lot recently. Put in some more Lungfish while the tape was getting chilled out some, but then clapped some life back in to with Soophie Nun Squad 'Exponent' which is essentially the sound of a high school pep rally band with the drums and the clapping and the crowd shouting in unison, if it were a bunch of political-art punks from Arkansas with a resemblence to Jesus Christ Superstar. I had wanted to put an Avail song on the tape, get some positive Richmond shit on there, but I didn't, so I went right in to Black Eye's Deformative (the one heading south from Baltimore, its their best song). Then Sonic Youth Kissability, I wanted to put their Madonna cover but for some reason I didn't. I already have the second side ready, just haven't recorded it yet. I figure one night I'll stay up late drinking coffee and I'll finish it.
Out of boredom I also got caught up in a little challenge on the Viva La Vinyl to "Photoshop Pete".
My first submisison was a quickie done in paint.
But then I got a little more in to it. Check out these other submissions:
*not necessarily work safe*
Enjoy.
September 21, 2004
Part II of the Labor Day Weekend in DC TRIO-LOGY
The Loitering Before the Storm
Labor Day weekend back in DC continued. Having woken up early for my 8:00 AM U.S. History class and spent the rest of the day traveling up to DC, combined with the early September heat and the dark side’s decision to turn off the air conditioning and open all the windows I was quite tired that Friday night. I had never seen my bedroom so clean before. There was nothing on the ground, no CD barcode stickers, no shattered glass leftover from the time I smashed a glass lamp while dancing to “If the kids are united”, no Orbit gum wrappers, no t-shirts on the floor laying their in the too-clean-to-wash-too-dirty-to-wear state. It was weird. It was sterile, but for once, the room was clean enough I could actually have brought a girl up there without shame, well the pictures of a monkey having a C-section were still there. There were no the crumpled up show flyers and the smooth backsides of promotional stickers with release dates in bold (Murray St. June 2002!). In a room so clean, with a stomach full of delicious comfortably homemade chili, I went to sleep. At 8:30, 9:00 maybe, I just fell asleep back in DC. Which is something I wish I hadn’t done; I could have hung out with the kids I know as juniors who are “the seniors”, but most of the kids are douchebags, and when I’m tired I ought to sleep. If I was asleep I wouldn’t have to talk to my parents about what I’ve done in college (nothing) and my friends (no one). So I slept through Friday night. Saturday I woke up like it was any weekend back at home, well maybe one of those “special weekends” back at home, because there were cinnamon buns for breakfast. The kind that come from a tube that my stepfather bought during his early morning run, something to have the whole family want to have breakfast together. So unbathed but well-slept I found one of the reject t-shirts I left in DC (possibly my GYROS shirt, I don’t recall) and I ate a delicious warm, fresh baked cinnamon roll and discussed with my parents my no-friends situation. As much as I claimed I was a huge fucking loser in high school, I did indeed have a fair amount of friends, and I wasn’t as lonely as I ever claimed to be (now I am) so my parents probably had some expectations that I would make some decent friends. My stepfather who had no social life at all throughout the 18 years he lived under the roof of his abusive mother and blind father, had a social explosion when he went to college. He reveled in disco and the type of college pranks that we associate with the “classic” 80’s college movie type stuff. I wonder if he did any blow, I mean, it was the 70’s, it was Florida, disco, he has a slight lisp. Either way, him and I are quite opposites. He wanted nothing more than to move out of his parent’s house and out of the state of New Jersey (who can blame him for that one, especially south Jersey) and go to college and meet these kids from all over the country and wave the USF pennant, whereas I had a great time in DC, and when it came down to leaving, I really didn’t want to leave, I wanted to stay in DC and keep this sand drawing as settled as possibly, but of course its impermanent. While in college, I made no attempts to garner a thick bucket of friends here in college, because I discovered that the majority of American youth (this generation) are worthless fucks that really create a situation where I’d rather be alone with my own poisonous thoughts than have to deal with them. Part of it is a system in college, the whole “Knock on my door if you’re cool”. I mean, I’m cool. I know that, motherfuckers don’t come built cool like me, I of course am a freak accident, I mean, surprise, or maybe I’m none of that and I’m totally bland and the stripes are made of sugar and I’ll never sing like Seal and I should just masturbate at sunrise and sunset, maybe work my way up the McDonalds management ladder, I could get so many pins, its so scene. Scene but not heard. Not that I said all of that to my parents. I told them I was having a hard time making friends, which was true, but I didn’t mention the whole hatred of American youth, tears did well up as it occurred to me that I was really in some type of social Singapore Sling, no matter what I said, I would still come back to Richmond (or it could be any college and the waterslide of the rest of my life) and the whole friends-thing will never the way it was, and I really have to get over it or I’ll end up like the 50-year old dudes with big beer bellies wearing sleeveless button down shirts with their coloring book arms of sleeves of tattoos, saggy rockabilly stars and girls, you can see their saggy lax man tits through the side of their shirts. These washed up fuckers with tattoos on their necks to their knuckles, sure it felt it all last a lifetime. You can picture them back in the day, skinny fuckers, topless in tight jeans with a thick fucking chain as a belt with razor blades in the pit, fuckers who knew Henry Rollins when he was Hank Garfield, and look at the sad fucks now. I see them at shows, saw them in back of the 9:30 Club at Mission of Burma, see them by the bar at the Black Cat, vein-y tattooed neck and all. Really makes you see what being “scene” accounts for.
“oh yeah, DCspace, cool”. (You can't get a job because you have tattoos on your face)
I mean, “I” don’t want sell out, you know, don’t grow up and don’t ask for more, and so on. Sure I’ll be down with “the movement”, but we’ve seen this shit happen before, my generation seen several waves (and their ends) so we’re all jaded and aware, or at least we should be. But this a story of a weekend, not another rant.
That Saturday I figured I should go up to the old Record Exchange and see what the deal with my final check was, they said they’d mail it, but it was taking awhile and baby needs new shoes and sundry vinyl. I figure I’d see the old crew and they be glad to see me but they’d say something sharp like “What, you’ve been gone two days and you’re already back?”, (I had only been gone two weeks at that point) with the same tone of disappointment they used when I showed up in my “prom suit”, which wasn’t really a suit, I believe suits have ties, but this fucker had a short vest and pair of Converse All-Stars. But I liked the staff, even though certain employee and some customers could be real bitchy, their other qualities and our entertaining banter was something I enjoyed. I wanted to see how my dad’s shirts were doing and see who was going to be the next high school jackass to replace me (Jack Black wannabe). I ended up working a four hour shift that Saturday. I got free thai food, a new copy of ‘Madvillany’, the Embrace CD, and a couple of VHS flicks. I felt good to be back in the store, getting to talk to strangers about movies and music, act goofy to children and foreigners. I felt pretty good back at the store. The same regular characters were back in the store doing the same old “Hey, hey [sic] Jash, lemme look at this Biggie and Tupac DVD”. Over the summer I pulled that DVD out at least four times for the same dude, the same fucker who tries to sell me socks, and I tell him every time, I’m not buying his cotton/polyester blend socks, I want it 100% pure, just like my cocaine. I probably where polyester blend socks, I don’t know, but I know that breathing is important in a pair of socks. My dad is man who knows his fabric contents, that’s for sure. He had gone legit with the Marion Barry shirts at the old Exchange in my absence rather than the table routine we had before, but I’m sure he got more cookies through the deal when I was working there. That night I ate dinner with my family because I promised them I would, although I had eaten at the Thai food. That night I went out for the first ever, armed like a real high school kid almost, with my parents car, a cell phone that I can’t legally use while I drive and no agenda just out there to see what is happening on the scene. I of course am no longer a high school kid, but hey I was early to finish, late to start, never forget I’m a minor at heart. There was of course nothing happening in the scene because pretty much everyone in my new cell phone’s phone book was in college, getting blown and doing kegstands and watching the Real World. I met up with a fellow who goes by Cortez who was leaving DC for Harvard the next day. We got donuts at the new Krispy Kreme store in Dupont Circle. I’m a man who thinks Krispy Kreme donuts are overrated and much rather prefers the World Ovens donuts at 7-11, or the wonder Montgomery Donut if any still exist, but I figured I’d give this DONUTE STORE a try because it sounded cool and I had nothing else to do. Of course, on a Saturday night, there was no place to park in Dupont Circle, so the plan was that Curtis would run in and get some donuts and milk while I drive around the circle in circles and it would be simple. I was in the inner circle which I figured was the one that kept you going around the circle, but that’s the one that spits you out on 16th St. maybe, either way, I eventually got lost in Downtown’s many one way streets. I ended up passing the infamous Mad Hatter bar where I hear there’s a cool part time bartender by way of the Wilson Social Studies department. Curtis and I ate the underwhelming Krispie Kreme donuts by his house in Georgetown. Apparently fresh hot Krispy Kremes are supposed to be the end-all of donuts, but they were about to close so we got the tepid ones. I got a message from Will Die Hard saying quickly and with appropriate tones of anger “callmebackASSMONGER!”. Curtis, sitting shotgun manned my phone and we met up Will at another comforting DC landmark, Steak’n’Egg. While sitting at the outside patio, Cortez tried to call Discoe but ended up calling Claudia Barahona. I met a couple of Burke fellows, one of which was this dude Fred, he knew some guy down in Richmond at VCU, and more importantly knew of a place that served good Cuban sandwiches and Cuban coffee. It didn’t seem like there was anything happening that night so I drove Curtis back to his place and drove home listening to the Embrace CD. Embrace being one of Ian McKaye’s bands between Minor Threat and Fugazi, with a sound that is kind of in between the two bands. I drove up Wisconsin Avenue, turned by Guy Mason, over there by Friendly’s place, then took Reno back to Tenleytown. As I turned as was cruising over the speed limit by the Cathedral, it seemed like Ian was singing shit that I have said; “I can’t get what I want, I’m a failure, nothing seems to work out quite the way I planned, I can’t express the way I feel, without fucking up something else”. It was straightforward and a kick ass song. So two nights down in DC and nothing wild, but free Dischord CD and talking to Curtis was cool because I got to talk shit about people I hadn’t shit-talked about in like two weeks. Great. Will told me to call him on Sunday because he said he knew about “some stuff happening”. So Sunday was going to have to be the day that makes this weekend worthwhile. Three stars, two bars, man.
September 14, 2004
Part I of the Labor Day Weekend in DC TRIO-LOGY
The Rambling Extraneous Introduction
The night I left my fantastic hometown DC for the great unknown capital of the Confederacy two hours south was a night that I wanted to be a crazy night, full of explosions, landmarks, bare-breasted glory with strobe lights and slurpees and someone wearing a lampshade. That it wasn’t, although that last night in the city was pleasant. I stopped by the old Record Exchange, receiving my second to last check, which bore a note from boss (“Get out!!!!!”). I picked up a two-disc Pixies album and some tapes (Ride The Lighting, The Ramones Leave Home, a couple others, oh Spirit the Dr. Zardonicus one) and headed down to the Black Cat with the man behind You Arrogant Bastard, that’s a good pal right there. At the time he was fervent about his Midwest Funk CD, which indeed is a cool CD, had he collected those ‘45s himself and made a funk collection that way, I would have paid to dub a tape. We went to Ben’s Chili Bowl and the Black Cat, where we managed to use our connections (former Record Exchange/Steak & Egg employee, singer of Exosus) to get in the show for free. Originally the plan to get in for free lied in our sundry connections to the band, DC rockers, the Shakedowns; we’re down with Nick Popo, my dad printed shirts for the big show at 9:30 Club, Johnny Squid is the man. Since I waited til we got to the show to work out my plan to get in for free, the band couldn’t help us; their list was full of girls, gamma rays, and spoonboys. But we got in for free; saw the Shakedowns (Ramones + MC5 + Makers?) and the Five Maseratis (Zombies + Cars?). Due to drunken skinhead violence and an apparent party, we departed. The night ended calmly and uneventfully with a crew of us (Swest, Scorpion, some burke girls and I) drinking Slurpees on Fort Reno stage until a policeman drove up, shined his magnificent light on us and told us to “Do the right thing”. I went home, my room was barren. I listened to the Pixies in the morning, and drove down to the great RVA. We stopped at Ponderosa Steakhouse, which is a truly awful establishment. Now I’m a man who enjoys my greasy spoons and truckstops, but of all the all-you-can-eat buffets in this shithole highway consumer nation, this one takes the fucking sponge cake. Now maybe my parents will heed my warning when I say “There’s a Waffle House on this side of the road”.
So two weeks went by in Richmond, I didn’t make any real friends. My roommate and I silently set up some sort of relationship where we don’t talk to each other and we share appliances (my TV, his microwave). I spent most of my time in room. White walls, green sheets, it was a very cold room, but I’ll be glad I have some air conditioning come planting season (humid spring). There was a life of possibilities, but I soaked up the time, sleeping, embalming myself in frigid depression, drinking black coffee (staring at the wall). I ran out of cash pretty fast (the last four dollars I had I spent on a third pressing of the Pg,99/Circle Takes the Square split 7” and a red Ultra Dolphins tape). There was a void between when my ATM card came in the mail and when I ran out of money, so gone were plans of comfort spending and finally getting one of those surfboards with wheels. There was a hurricane. I spent that night drinking Brisk Iced Tea and dropping vicodin listening to a chilled out mix (Dead Meadow, My Bloody Valentine, some of the Slackers dub tracks, Dismemberment Plan’s cover of “Close to Me”, Augustus Pablo, Black Dice, Lungfish, King Tubby some Fugazi tracks off Instrument, “Lay Lady Lay”, “The Man in Me”, and some Sonic Youth) watching the lightning while I think a lot of the kids on my floor convened and watched ‘Sixteen Candles’, you know, eating popcorn and lounging on weird solid triangular bean bag seats.
“We’re going to kill all the California girls”
Labor Day weekend was the weekend I returned to home. I indeed, was homesick. I hadn’t given college my full effort, maybe I was expecting too much, maybe I had gone in there telling myself it was going to blow because it wasn’t Yale or even Michigan. Maybe I thought I was going to get blown as soon as some girl saw my impressive crate of records. Either way, I wanted to come home to DC, because it was DC, and I know DC. I had more records and CDs up there, my tube of posters is up there, there’s Chipotle up there (while there are Chipotles in Richmond, they are in no way accessible to me, plus their location sounds like a plastic contrived bullshit community, ‘Stony Pond’ or some vinyl sided shit like that). That Friday my dad came down to DC to pick me up. At the last minute I kind of wanted to stay in Richmond that night. Jerry Seinfeld was doing a night at the Landmark Theater a block from dorm (the former Mosque that Dizard describes in one of his entries), and Stop It! was playing at the Nanci Raygun that night, but no, I’d rather go back to DC. My dad and I got some Carytown Burgers & Fries and after stopping at a couple thrift stores we were out. My big catch at Diversity (homo) Thrift was a bunch of Cure bootlegs, and a bunch of unopened blank cassettes at a quarter apiece.
Later than sooner, I was back in DC, not in time to watch the Simpsons, but I got a money order from the liquor store on Mt. Pleasant St. with my dad. We got horchatas from Pollo Sabroso, like we’ve done many times before. I was wearing my pair of Dickies shorts, the one which the zipper is thoroughly destroyed and constantly comes unzipped, I find myself walking around with my hand on my crotch like I did all the time back in fourth grade. Walking around the schoolyard with my hand on balls (Al Bundy inspired) sure got me in to some confusion when I was ten.
(10-year old Josh holds balls, reads DuPont Registry)
Young Sklover – Josh, you’re masturbating!
Young Josh – What the hell is that?
Young Sklover – It means that you’re fucking yourself.
Young Josh – That’s what fucking is?
Young Sklover – Yup, you pervert. Oh. Sweet, my mom is here to read the class ‘Oliver Twist’
Mama Sklover (reading to class) So Oliver Twist made good friends with Master Bates in the whorehouse
(The class giggles)
Mama Sklover – What are they laughing at?
(Young Josh thinks to himself) – Oh no, I gotta stop grabbing my balls in public, don’t want to be fucking myself. All I care about is Ducatti motorcycles and Star Wars action figures and that’s all I’m ever going to care about.
Labor Day weekend back in DC is just beginning.
