Got me to thinking about an idea I've never pursued. I've always wanted to turn Pink Hollers into an actual online fanzine with interviews, music equipment, live shows and record reviews, guitar and recording tips, alongside my usual nonsense.
I'd interview musicians, engineers, producers, writers, poets, fashion designers, models, record label owners, directors, movie editors, screenwriters, painters and my neighbors.
The best fanzines to ever come out of Louisville are (in order of awesomeness):
1. Self Destruct (Brett Ralph)
2. Born To Lose (Rat)
3. Hit The Trail (David Grubbs)
4. Little Friend (Ned Oldham)
5. Big Enemy (Will Oldham)
6. Despair (Mike B & David Pajo)
7. License To Kill (Irv Ross & Bill Murphy)
8. King Kong (Ethan Buckler)
9. Pear Of Offensive Pages aka P.O.O.P. (?)
Everything else, and I mean everything, was AWFUL!
Santa, please give me books by Raymond Pettibon. Better yet, give me framed original art and I will burn candles in your honor every night.
My steer horns arrived and I hung them in the control room in between the monitors. Hail!
Got my first negative royalty check from Drag City. I've been inactive all year and I still lost money. If you're not a millionaire in 2008 you're in debt.
We held court. We laughed loudly. We lamented the failing music business. I told him what I wished-- to buy one recording with instant access to all formats.
Before I knew it I was surrounded by the Beautiful People and they were all calling me hero. I didn't protest as I normally would because I needed it. I was raw from home. Too many split open heads at home. As stupid as it sounds, I needed their attention. It made me feel good.
The drinks did flow as did the night. We hit the Nashville honky tonks and the blue-eyed blondes and the dancing geeks. I wanted it all.
Retired in the wee hours, thinking about the betrothed. Painting a picture in my mind
one color at a time, of what could have been.
My host was an amazing director and an old pal. His young wife was having contractions and was due any second. I threw a Febrized sweater over my Exmortus shirt and drove to the Hermitage Hotel for the reception.
Forgot about the time change.
The way I sleep.
The way I relax.
The way I cook.
The way I work.
Of the three generations of women, I adored the youngest and despised the oldest. The youngest loved me more in return.
I am aware of the inherent worth-- and worthlessness-- of what I do. That's why I place her above me.
These missives of love and hate are part of one package. It's not for you to cherry pick the preponderance of energy that you prefer
Love the totality or leave it, slag.
When I played at ATP in LA years ago I was accompanied by a cellist and violinist. It was the anniversary of a family member's passing so I made a dedication. I didn't care about being morbid, I've never fancied myself an entertainer.
It's always been about the moment, not some pre-meditated stage show.
It was a heavy, plodding set in a large seated theater. I wallowed in the dirge, I allowed myself to indulge in his honor. The strings improvised effortlessly around my simple chord progressions.
As I walked offstage Paz was there to give me a long hug. She said all the girls in the bathroom were clucking over me.
She says those things to make me smile.
I walked backstage looking for my guitar case. I was in some other time zone. It was a circus back there, all fake mustaches and tutus.
Someone shook my hand and told me they loved the set. I recognized him as Jeff Tweedy only because he'd just recorded with my pal Jim O' Rourke. I didn't know anything about Wilco and I still don't.
If I'm a poser it's because I act like I'm not terrified.
Over the years I have honed the act. There are imperceptible clues but who cares about a twitch of the eye? Or a long bathroom break? There is no part of me that likes all those lights on me, all those eyes on me.
I stand before you to scrutinize, not because I enjoy it but because someone wants to see me. I do it for them.
And for money.
Maybe I'll post it later today, I'm not sure.
I love this feeling of anticipation as my studio starts to take shape. I have never had this much space to builda workspace-- it's beautiful. I have a playground, a conduit between my mind and the world's ears. This pathway is named:
You will hear my feelings forever. Or at least until the ocean submerges our doomed planet.
This storage bunker that documents history. My history. However miniscule that history may be in the relative scheme of a world with a population of 6 billion... To me, its massive. It's everything.
That's because I'm me, so of course I think like that. What's bigger than me? What's bigger than you, anonymous reader in the ether?
Considering how HATEFUL the republicans are one would think that I could relate. I never got the impression that democrats were overflowing with hate. Except for maybe things like TYRANNY and WAR.
your heart opening
a little wider
with each repetition.