form follows function.

that last one was an especially good one.  the second i turned over the last page and closed the back cover i took it with both hands and held it close to my face and felt it touch my lips and nose, slightly thumbing the pages to usher their smell to me.  i wondered, what if this had been an old book?  what if the pages were musty and held mysteries within them past the text--coffee stains, dog ears, frayed edges...  what if they hadn't been so fresh, pristine due to my delicate care for them, turning them slightly so as not to disturb their integrity...  as if they were vulnerable vessels for the tale.  what if these pages had been given time to ferment and ripen.  would i have been left with the literary embodiment equivalent to a good chateau margot?  would the story have seemed richer? it seems that the actual body on which the prose is scribed should hold within it some ancient mystical quality.  instead, his matte cover holds the same dull sheen his bookshelf brothers reflected back towards him as he left the sterile and sanctimonious world he was familiar with for one of endless possibilities.  with any luck, this one, too, will have his chance to show his battle scars.

dry clean.

i feel one hundred percent justified in sleeping with all of my clothes on last night.  it's been a long week, damn it.

low

je me sens située au bas de l'oceán 

cornelius.

the most immaculate representation of incredible musicianship doubled with taste a penchant for a/v synchronization, subtract in ear monitors, and send out with flawless execution.

fuck.

progress.

today is day zero.

tomorrow will be day one.

"the haze clears from your eyes on a sunday"

today is day zero.

tomorrow will be day one.

vivre sa vie.

perseverance

sometimes, you just have to look at yourself and say, "do i follow the rhythm, or do i pick up the lead?"


and then you come to realize--the sweetest compromise is the perfect blend of the two.

le collectif.

quitter.

on second thought, fuck the moustache business. i will never be a proper frenchman. vive le clean face.

the beauty of music through the ages.

no country for old men.

i don't think there's anything more heartbreaking than to see a old people crying silently to themselves.  i don't really mind seeing the elderly openly weep or grieve--it's certainly moving to see emotionality coming from people of all makes and shapes regardless of their age.  to see, however, a person that's witnessed so much in the world squash their emotions down to a single tear dripping from a brimming eye without letting out a sound just doesn't seem right.  what horror can keep a mouth sealed tight while the life pours right out?

coming soon to a neighborhood near you

mikey russell in:  40 days and 40 nights.  

running january ninth through february eighteenth, two thousand eight. 

(warning:  performance may not continue for the full tenure.  you will not be refunded your ticket price.)

i get eaten by the worms / weird fishes

for whatever reason, i've always felt this incredible trepidation towards insects.  those small, seemingly harmless i remember a particular scene as a child

l'aventure du moustache commence!

day four.

now, for whatever reason i'm not quite sure, i thought it would be great to start off the new year by trying to grow a moustache (and, yes, i will use the french spelling of it from here on out...  because i feel the "o" adds a certain amount of european arrogance to my stupid little project).  while my facial hair tends to usually come in rather sparse and generally unattractive patches, i have at one point managed to grow a beard, albeit the creation more or less functioned as facsimile for an emaciated ferret glued to my chin and neck.  the bottom line goes as follows:  at twenty one years of age, how can i claim myself any sort of frenchman if i've never sported a proper moustache?  herein, the chronicling commences.  

day four exhibits the beginning phase of the moustache.  upon close inspection of this pale, pale... pale upper lip, one can faintly trace the outline of a blonde-ish follical explosion... like those first triumphant springtime blades of grass that fight their way up through the cold and break through their snowy prison to breathe in the chill, sunny air... or... what?  that doesn't happen.  grass doesn't grow through the snow.  what a horrible attempt at creating an epic metaphor.  regardless--the show is on the road here.  

i'm into it.

three things

1.  after being on tour and taking in little more than a steady diet of cheap tortilla chips and tostidos brand salsa provided by cheap promoters who have a very limited and weak understanding of what a proper vegan meal consists of, what used to be a simple late night snack has now turned into a somewhat maudlin recollection of the glory days.  

2.  walking down the street in the rain this morning, i closed my eyes and transported myself in true tralfamadorian fashion back to june of 2006.  i opened them back up and i was standing at the top of the hill in a small town in france, waiting with my father before the sunrise for the bus to pick us up, to start on yet another journey through the countryside.  everything was so silent and still that the mist in the air just seemed to hang, as if suspended in time.

3.  enjoy your worries; you may never have them again.

the sky is falling.

01.07.08.  64 degrees fahrenheit in chicago with a severe thunderstorm warning in effect.  never in my life did i believe i would be sitting on my front stoop playing guitar in a t-shirt on a chicago winter's day.  it boggles my mind that some people still believe that global warming is some sort of conspiratorial myth.  just now--pouring rain, lightning, and a thunderclap that resonated for what seemed like minutes.