It's Been Too Long...

...but that doesn't mean I have forgotten about you. Or music. Or going to shows too much. June was overwhelming, and I could have dropped so much money up at those ticket counters, but I didn't. Just a few bucks here and there for the bands I was truly convinced I needed to be in the presence of. Boy Least Likely To had synchronized handclaps, which was a plus so definite it almost overwhelms everything else, but they are all-around good showmen, so of course there were other things, like their cover of George Michael's Faith.

And of course The Mountain Goats. But did you really need me to tell you about them again? I didn't quite think so.


It takes a strong man, baby, but I'm showing you the door.

And I Won At Tetris

Who are these kids anyway, I'm wondering. The one with the feather dangling in his left ear, so hypnotic I can't help but watch it sway and flutter over his near pefectly arched shoulder. Yeah, yeah, delicate wristbones and the like, yeah, he crosses his legs so neatly and his hair falls just so and jet black. When the rest of the band gets up on stage, he is only in the background with his little Casio. The lead singer is long haired like a woman but has the narrow waist of an anorexic teenage girl, and he's got the most expansive yet slim pair of close fit bellbottomed pants I think I've ever seen on a man in real life. The drummer has an Eastern European mustache and goes shirtless. The bassist has a gold sparkly top fitted under stripes with a classic collar, and tan canvas pants that hug everything.

Even with my penchant for guys who dress like they're still twelve year olds, and like it's still 1970 something, this is almost too cool for school. And when you look around of course it is. The pinball machines are ratcheting and dinging madly in the background, and every bleached and feathered girl has a dark brown bottle with her bright nails wrapped around it. There's alcohol and arcade games, and a band that plays about five songs but they're all super long and wailing with every drop of pent up energy the band can coax.

Hipster central, I got it, Ground Kontrol, yeah. I mean, these kids could rock but oh, the scene was almost too much for me. I have a nagging feeling my metal loving friends wouldn't be to fond of this place, even with the raging band. But then who's too cool for whom? The non-contrived scruffy sorts who wouldn't dig this polished up crowd of sleeksters? Or the shiny kids who put on their own show in this jam packed room? The crowd is still just bobbing their collective heads, except for a few interspersed more tattery sorts who full on flail shaggy haircuts in classic metal worshop. That's not really fair, is it? When the band is giving you so much? How ironic is all this, anyway?

Jinx Removing In The New Year

We have this thing, him and I, and it's only in wee mornings crack of dawn or just after midnight, some message on a cell phone or just the voice and a note saying there's something close we know.

Blew twelve and kissed the thirteenth finger.
"Rabbit, rabbit," on the first.
I hold my breath.
Did tricks I hoped you wouldn't notice.
A superstitious hyperrealist.
I'll make you mine.

And it happens only in important months, on the first of December where our birthdays are, and then in little minutes of January when we know there's some great and terrible year stepping big black boots our way, and what's it gonna be? But at least we have our shared nostalgia, lettered in mix tapes and extravagance , me in a parking lot with rain all around and the static in the tape, listening to Jawbreaker for the first time in a car now sure dead and gone.