088 Monday The Mess

I'm sick. Don't know what it is. I'm coughing up a storm. I do however know that one of my friends and soon-to-be bandmates is in the hospital at the moment with pneumonia, so that's not very encouraging. As we were practicing last Thursday she almost passed out! I'm not there yet, but I have been taking advantage of the temporary gruff voice to continuously sing the beginning "la la la" part of Bob Dylan's "The Man In Me," featured prominently in The Big Lebowski.

And speaking of Mr. Dylan, I have finally come around to being completely hooked. In particular, Blood On The Tracks. What a fucking incredible album. I don't know where to begin. Yes I do. "Idiot Wind." Arguably the most passionately sung, meanest old fuck you ever written. And at the same time, it's gorgeous. I can't stop listening.

I'm still in that anti-collections mood. I really just want to get rid of everything. When I see an item laying around that hasn't been used or appreciated for a year or more, I just want to take it and smash it... or burn it. I have this tub. This tupperware tub FULL of lyrics. And I guess they're not really lyrics per se. More like ramblings and writings dating back to 1991! I started to go back and read some of that stuff but then a book caught my eye. A book on my shelf that I read and hated. Why is it there? Goodbye.

I need to resist by packrat urges. I swear to you, in the corner of my closet at my parents' house, there is an enormous box chuck full of you'll never guess... NOTES. Notes passed to me in high school. All folded up in various origamirific patterns. For some reason, I saved every fucking one. Cards and presents from old girlfriends. I mean like my very first girlfriends. Why would I ever need this junk? The funny thing is... it's still there. I didn't throw it out. What a joke.

I read briefly today about a feud between The Killers and Fall Out Boy. I'll just stop now because i've stopped typing... in an attempt to find "nice ways" to say certain things. That's the inherent problem with blogs or interviews or what have you. It's just not right. You can't really speak your mind without sounding like a crybaby or something. And then again, isn't that what blogs, mine especially, are? A way to get stuff off of your chest? It helps. Even if no one reads, it helps.

And so, as Dylans before and Dylans to come, you keep on keeping on that high road, channeling impulses from every dark corner and every bright glorious expanse of the emotional rainbow and you make music.