TWO THOUSAND AND NINE

It struck me a few weeks ago that I can no longer really tell 1995 from 2005. Time is starting to bend back around like a sled rail, and the years are beginning to loop.

So welcome 2009. Or 1999. Or 1989. Whatever.

FF 2008

So, Pitchfork gave album of the year to Fleet Foxes.

I like foxes. They're cute.

I like fleet. The adjective. Not the naval formation or the enema so much.

But Fleet Foxes kind of bore me. Like The Band or honking something.

I can't claim to have a cinemascopic view of 2008, but I'm going to stick with Nouns by No Age as my top pick...

TRAILER-LA-LA-LA

Um, yeah, OK. So it turns out the “dudes getting' facials” song was not actually Gay-Porn Country.

I had to do some digging to figure this out, though.

See, the singer's name is Brad Paisley. Which is really a perfect name for a Gay-Porn Country star, when you get right down to it.

The title of the song? “I'm Still a Guy.” Again, Gay-Porn Country gold.

But then the rest of the lyrics give it away. I mean, here's the opening couplet:

“When you see a deer you see Bambi,
And I see antlers up on the wall.”

So it appears this is from the more familiar Dumbfuck White-Trash Redneck Country genre.

Apologies for the mixup, y'all.

MINI PEARLS

I was one lane over from a white pickup truck yesterday, when I heard this blarin’ from a cracked window: “There’s dudes gettin’ facials…”

The light changed before I could hear any more than this g-droppin’ snippet.

But my wonderin’ ears were delighted to have happened upon a genre that I ain’t never encountered before: Gay-Porn Country.

I mean, I am got-dagblasted proud to be livin’ in a nation that is so all-fire inclusive and open-minded as to welcome this particular style of music into its Fords and Chevys. I’m wipin’ a tear from my eye.

Bravo, ‘Merica. Bra-feckin'-vo.

LISTEN TO THE SILENCE

I shitcanned the Sirius today, after three years of service.

The display on my car receiver bit the dust several months ago. I found out that my unit was obsolete, and if I wanted to replace it, I'd need to install new rigging along with the new radio.

This sealed the deal for me. I'm not about to get stuck on a hardware upgrade/replacement merry-go-round, particularly for the sake of a pay service.

Things I liked about Sirius:
-Initial exposure to some good bands: Arcade Fire, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, No Age, etc.
-Genre/era immersion. In a 70s mood? Got you covered.
-Lack of commercials.
-24-hour Rolling Stones channel.
-Andrew Loog Oldham, for that matter.
-The artist/title scroll.
-2008 Dolphins football.

Things I didn't like about Sirius:
-Crap bands like Klaxons.
-Classic rock immersion. In a Kansas mood? Seriously? Are you? What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?
-Heard Stereolab once in the entire three years. Neon Beanbag. Last week.
-24-hour AC/DC channel. That's 12 hours of AC, and 12 hours of DC. Sorry, the catalogue just does not warrant that kind of coverage.
-Bandwidth compression. They might as well be broadcasting in mono.
-2007 Dolphins football.

Things that left me nonplussed about Sirius:
-Mediocre bands, too numerous to mention.
-Disc jockeys. The discs don't need no jockeying when you got the artist/title scroll.
-24-hour Bruce Springsteen channel. I suppose.
-XM merger. Meh.

I'm enough of a milestone junkie to be a little saddened that it's over.

Good luck, satrad. I think you'll be needing it...

IN THIS EVER CHANGING WORLD IN WHICH WE LIVE IN

Why “I want to go to there” is not a catchphrase sweeping the nation, I just don’t know.

The asses who like to spout catchphrases should be exhausted by now with spouting this.

It’s like a prime-period Wings song: simpleminded and syntactically wobbly, but with an economical genius that will make it stick in your head for weeks on end.

Go to 4:15 here for an example...

D&D

Last week I downloaded the four Derek and the Dominoes songs that I like: Bell Bottom Blues, Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad, Little Wing, and Layla. That's a magisterially fecked up collection of tunes right there.

And as an added bonus, the iPod truncates the album title as follows: Layla and Other Ass.

Which might be a more accurate title, when you get right down to it...

HOLA

And forgive me if those 10 “chapter” entries were deca WTF. I was serializing the opening of my micro-novel, Halo.

The micro-novel is designed to be a quick jolt of a story-- maybe 50 to 75 chapters that you could take down in an hour-- with lots of silent spaces and nooks.

So, the disappearing telephone wires in Chapter 1 could bring to mind broken conversations. And the selected voice (“would stretch out”) could add to that sense of disconnectedness. And/or the scene could be meant to convey a dark, overcast early fall afternoon.

Mind you, I wouldn't argue with the position that the enterprise to date is a complete and abject failure.

But fuck, points for trying, right?

IT'S A MIGHTY LONG WAY DOWN ROCK AND ROLL

I just went from DC to Detroit, Detroit to South Bend, South Bend to Detroit, Detroit to Memphis, and Memphis to DC, with some driving from South Bend back into Michigan, and from Memphis into Mississippi. In the span of 36 hours.

Before I left, I dropped a certain song on my iPod. It was like filling a canteen with water.

So as the bell rang on board my last leg this afternoon, I plugged in my earphones and listened to All the Way From Memphis by Mott the Hoople.

I was slaked, and I made it home alive...

CHAPTER 10

[They stood in the wide entryway for a brief moment, coronal silhouettes.

Kin peeked over the edge of the carriage, and pushed a silent puff of air past his lips.

They walked into the garage.

-Motherfucker. Stupid motherfucker!

-What? I told you.

-Yeah, you told me. And that makes it better somehow?

-We still have 120. We'll get two with 120. I called before I left.

-So he's going to meet us?

-Yeah, in like an hour. In the sump.

-OK.

They dropped their Marlboro red boxes on the narrow concrete shelf that jutted out where the plasterboard wall ended.

This was Kin's older brother Ray, and his friend Sarge from over on Brown.

Ray flipped the top of a Zippo open with one hand, dropped it down to his side, then scraped it up along his pant leg so that it lit. Then he closed the top and did it again.

Sarge pulled a shuriken out of the soft, camel-brown wall and stepped back five or six feet. He released it quickly, the action mostly from his wrist, and the shuriken entered the wall with a powdery thud.

-To Oz?

-To Oz.

They collected their cigarettes from the shelf and walked back outside, bringing the garage door down behind them.

And it was once again dark.]

CHAPTER 9

-Not the moors again.

-Yup.

-Fuck.

-Tell me about it. I always think you're going to turn into Kate Bush or something.

-Or Emily Bronte?

-Yeah, or Emily Bronte. You know, raven tressed, storm tossed, consumptive...

-What is consumption, anyway? TB?

-Christ, I'm not sure really. But yeah, I think it's TB. Personally I like it.

-You like it?

-Not the disease-- the name. The idea of being consumed by a disease.

-Well, you're a sick fuck.

-And thank you kindly, ma'am.

CHAPTER 8

His name was not really Kin, but she thought it fit, and it rhymed with hers.

Her name was Gin, but not like the juniper-berry drink. She'd say

-Gin, same as “gun” except with an I instead of a U.

She liked how the vowels would masquerade as pronouns. It felt confrontational, even if she was the only one who ever noticed. Especially if she was the only one who noticed...

CHAPTER 7

-We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.

-No, we're in the car.

-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors.

-We are in the car.

-We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors. We are out on the moors, Kin. We are out on the moors.

-No.

And then she returned.

CHAPTER 6

[There was a baby carriage in the back of the garage, dark blue and canopied, with 5” wheels and a wobbly suspension. It was empty by then, but for years it had been filled with bundles of old newspapers, wrapped portrait and landscape in twine.

They huddled together bottomless in that carriage in the dark garage. Inside the house his father drank Champale and groped his mother's tits at the kitchen table. His mother practiced a Chopin nocturne on her knee in an effort not to notice.

-It looks like a little apple.

The garage door opened and bathed every corner in late afternoon light, and they didn't dare move an inch.]

CHAPTER 5

-Shit.

CHAPTER 4

-Crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies, crackers, cookies...

She tried to keep her mind busy.

Then she saw him reach. He was probably in his late 30s. Underdressed for the weather.

He was reaching to pluck something from an aluminum display tree adjacent to the Fudge Stripes. A Hot Wheels car. He ran a finger over the clear plastic shell, and raised the package up slightly to look at the undercarriage.

She dropped the bottle of soda, and a quick surge ran through her upper back. She waited for everything to turn red, she waited for the densified concrete floor to open and swallow her whole. But instead she just cried, low and quiet and shuddery.

CHAPTER 3

She turned and walked down the soda aisle. Only a few people there, which was good. She wanted to move. She wanted to move.

There was a little girl dancing lightly from Pepsi to Sprite. The stock clerk had the black dead eyes of a shark or an alcoholic. This would be easy.

As the neck of the bottle pressed against her thenar eminence she grasped and lifted, barely breaking stride.

Done.

CHAPTER 2

-Parmesan Goldfish and Mr Pibb.

He reached into his right pocket until his leg was completely straight, and his foot strained against the floorboard.

-Here's 5. You sure you want to?

-Yes.

She grabbed the bill and stepped out of the car onto a two-foot tall orange E. FIRE LANE.

He muttered to himself-- Shit-- and fiddled with the knob on the car stereo...

CHAPTER 1

October 19, 1:01 PM. And the telephone wires would stretch out against the sky and disappear.

KOOKIE, KOOKIE, LEND ME YOUR COMB

I was explaining to Taeko why I didn't have a comb.

“I dropped it in the toilet by accident a few days ago.”

“So. You wash it.”

“No, sorry. Strict rule: If it falls in the toilet, game over.”

“You'd never survive in a war.”

“A war? Is there some global combat imminent that's going to involve dunking my personal-grooming products in the toilet?”

Silence

“Because I think I have a right to know, dammit.”

Additional silence.

“But yeah, if those are the rules of warfare, I'm pretty much a dead man...”