It feels like Heaven, it's such a problem

RIP - Nike Air Max Burst 2001(?)-2008

Initially used for styling, later used for lifting and running. Right suffered from deflated air pocket. Left died of lonliness.

Apotheosis soundtrack: "Heaven" by Pere Ubu (from the Hearpen Singles Box)

shore shot

went down to the pier tonight, forgetting that the ocean looks even scarier at night. i started thinking about earthquakes and tsunamis and great whites.

one of those "fuck, dude" moments.

breakfast of champions

today seemed impossible. i put a thousand hurdles in my own way when i woke up at logan airport this morning sick and groggy. my ears wouldn't pop. i hated the guy sitting next to me, just for being there. i hated the way the stewerdess looked at me when i gave up my blanket. it did not seem like i'd be able to get myself in a good mood.

then, a literal turn around and i was able to completely start over.

it was when i craned my neck in time to hear the young eastern-european mother sitting in the row behind me ask her son "alex, did you dream about pancakes again?" that i felt like life wasn't so bad, if bad at all.





we are free to dream of pancakes, over and over and our mothers will never tire of the magnificence of our dreams. what a charmed life we lead!

bunny loops

there is this one unreleased shellac song that i have a live recording of. steve albini quotes "roadrunner" in it. its like tying a shoelace.

remnds me of seattle when i was at the junction of 405 (which takes me to/from LAX) and 90 (a portion of which is the Massachusetts Turnpike). a binding of my bi-coastal life.

and in san pedro a month ago, ren and i stood nervously in a kitchen, steps away from mike watt. the same mike watt i shook hands with some ten years earlier in boston, when ken and i went to see him play at avalon. ren and i, growing old, hanging out in southern california feeling the same nervous excitement ken and i, growing up, felt in boston. i'm a fucking corndog through and through.

i have no real conclusion, except that there's always a route home, whatever that means.

kids and their dreams; kids in their dreams

serious delirium. serious as cancer. we were. and i'd like to think we are now, more than ever, even though limits get together once, maybe twice a year.

serious as holidays.

...and i am not a superhero

rethinking staying in shape. what am i doing? am i trying to stay thin and pretty in a land of thin and prettys? we'll all be dead fat bald dead assholes anyway.

the business traveler: ashtray underpants

this photo is not a hoax! you can question this picture, but you cannot question my belief. this is real, and its in your town, torrance.




i myself have ashed on my underpants, but never imagined this as a possibility. the words "next level" come to mind. you may not be able to tell at first, but please take my word.

a pair of underpants. in an ashtray. god bless this hotel for encouraging this beauty and for housing me, a grateful guest!

the business traveler: stench of a mediocre man

the guy at the end of my row on the airplane had, like, five little bottles of vodka. he insisted we share the tray table in between us like he was my big brother or something. and dude was working hard under that overhead light. a dedicated employee...the polo shirt and suitcoat that set us apart are extra large, my friend. hope the wife back in manchester or braintree or wherever the fuck you're from really appreciates you. and i hope mine'll appreciate me when i take your place in those comfy, white, extra wide sneakers someday.

i had no airplane nap. ended up sleeping "rough" last night. passed out on the hotel room couch watching one of the japanese channels. no washing up took place before i got to work this morning as all my toiletries are kept in my desk drawer at work. its been, what? 8 or 9 years and i still smell like the Rat. b.o., cigarettes, the halitosis of a 17 year old armchair anarchist and an undefinable scent of third rate punk rock.

so, the status report: i'm somewhere between a drunk analysis of sales figures on excel and a recitation of crass lyrics in between hauls on basics.