There are people who simply never fail to blow me away. Granted there may be an easy win for folks who are incredibly talented, creative or beautiful but I’m not talking about people like that. I’m referring to folks with absolutely no sense of self awareness.

Morbidly obese women with shirts that say “naughty” or “princess” dragging filthy faced toddlers by the arm.

Old people who smoke.

Individuals whose lives are unequivocally unsatisfying yet make to move to change.

Now those people are tragic blind heroes, People who boldly continue a long pattern of stupidity in the face of a whole world that disputes their very lifestyle. There is no doubt you’ve seen these people, grown men with thin finely braided rat tails. At first blush these folks may appear to be clueless and yes, in a way they are. However the fact of the matter is these people are heroes. They are the Davies to realities Goliath.

Often times when I am graced by the presence of these types my reaction is much the same as most of society.

            “Good god what horrible timeless rock did this person crawl out from under so that I may avoid tripping over it and falling into the time rift?”

            However, there are occasions when I am able to swallow my repulsion and see them for what they are; freedom fighters.

            A few nights ago I was out in front of a club at about one in the morning and one such majestic creature brought his reality colliding with mine. I was sitting on the curb enjoying a smoke and a cup of coffee when said individual walked by. He was sporting the aforementioned rat tail and he was well past drunk. As he made his way past he eyed me and stopped to pose a query.

            “Hey bro, what’s up with you, just drinking coffee?”

            “Yeah well, I’ve got to drive later.”

He started to stagger away and here’s where the magic happened. Once he was about 10 feet away he whirled around and declared,

            “I gotta do drugs later”.

I have no doubt that he did have to do drugs later. He had to do drugs later, tomorrow and every moment for the rest of his life. In his mind I was the fool and perhaps the reality of the situation is that I am.

I love shopping for records with an unbridled passion that is usually reserved for such primal activities as sexual intercourse. Its speaks to a baser need that is buried somewhere deep in my core. Something left over from simpler more barbaric times. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes you get rabbits and sometimes you take down the fucking mammoth but you rarely come back empty handed. If you did you would somehow be less of a man, unable to provide aural sustenance for your tribe. There is a certain moment when you’re out on the field of battle when things can turn vicious. Consider this: Your flipping through a record bin which has been filled seemingly at random. You must weed out the unworthy game from the truly amazing kill. You look to your right and notice another hunter. Most of the time (for myself at least) this doesn’t pose a problem, yet occasionally you realize that this fellow primate is hunting the same game as yourself. You realize your working your way through fields, which were once rich with the type of game that you and your tribe thrive on. However this hunter has picked the fields bare. You are at odds. There have been occasions where I wondered if I could take this hunter out and hide the body before an employee realizes that Ive just killed a man over a Kinks or Standells record. Perhaps I was born too late maybe I’m a relic from a time I never lived in. However, know this: If you see me in a music store don’t touch my records or Ill fucking kill you!

I didn’t think that this stuff required qualifiers yet as of late I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong. It would seem that sarcasm does not telegraph in text as well as I had hoped. In regard to my previous post I received a few emails with varying degrees of eloquence essentially stating that the sender was disappointed in me. Allow me to clear this up right now. I was expressing my disdain for this way of life by presenting something written in the first person of one of these sad one-dimensional individuals. “A good hard fuck” is NOT the only thing that makes me feel alive……. Its just one of them.

There are hundreds of thousands of us stinking of desperation and cheap cologne, stuffed into hip little bars all over your town. Our inexplicable loneliness is matched only by our unending need for validation at the hands of the opposing sex. Look into our shallow vapid eyes. Do you honestly believe that anything but a “good hard fuck” will make us feel alive? Do you really think that intelligence or stimulating conversation has ever been on, or ever WILL make the list of requirements? Sure, It comes right after a huge set of tits and the four hour massive erection. The only thing that has EVER made us feel alive is the trading of poorly veiled sexual innuendos and the grinding of vile stinking flesh. We’ve dismissed the concept of cerebral stimuli to the realm of the glitterati intelligentsia. We are the culmination of the cultivation of the most base human instincts.

It’s a new year so I figured it may be time for a new blog. I hope your happy (Claire, I’m glaring in your general direction).
Ya see, I fight an ongoing battle with myself in regard to taking part in the “Blogosphere” (shoot me if I ever say that godawful word again). The problem is that I find the medium inherently caters to the self-serving and hackneyed kind of bullshit I hate. And don’t you feed me some shite about the blog being “The zine of the new world” because I don’t fucking care. I felt largely the same way about those fucking things. With the exception of precious few (Cometbus ect.) zines were nothing but trite and pretentious recycling bin fodder.
So, these days I find myself reacting to blogs in roughly the same way I reacted to zines in highschool. Spewing bile about how much they fucking suck and not having the balls and more imortantly the attention span to do it myself.
However, Life has gotten easier for the lazy and the stoner alike. Gone are the days of endless cutting and pasting, as are the late night trips to Kinkos. That, is what I DO like about this format: its easy. I can type out any kinda nonsensical bullshit that ruffles my feathers and…..CLICK…. Assholes everywhere get to see it.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s such a great idea. I really don’t feel all to passionately about my distaste for zines. I’ve got far more pressing things to worry about. I’m a very important guy. Yet I got to thinking about it on my short walk to get coffee and because its so damn easy…….Here it is.
The filter is now gone, destroyed by convenience and “user friendliness”. There was once a time……Long long ago, if you wanted to force your opinions on someone else you had to work for it. Late nights with your cutting edge electronic typewriter, the sickening sweet smell of rubber cement. Suffering for your craft.

So I say “Bring back the zine!!!”

….And get ME the FUCK out of here.